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Chapter Text

Oxford, England, April 1962

The Oxford night was misty, a silver sheen coating the stone walls of Magdalen College. The city lay silent, its Gothic spires half-shrouded, as though the university itself were dreaming. Most students were either asleep or bent over their essays, writing under dim desk lamps in their dormitories. But not Charles Xavier.

A soft thud echoed through the vaulted stillness of the college library as a Birman cat dropped gracefully from a high shelf, the sound muffled by a thick Persian rug. His fur shimmered in the low light, pale cream touched with silver-grey. His bright blue eyes, intelligent and watchful, caught the sliver of moonlight streaming through the tall arched windows and reflected it with eerie luminescence.

He flicked his tail in contentment and stretched luxuriously, spine rippling. All around him, rows of ancient books loomed on their venerable shelves. The scent of parchment and leather, ink and dust, was as comforting as ever.

Being a cat allowed Charles certain privileges most humans could only dream of, like sneaking undetected into the closed library to savor its solitude, or wandering the rooftops, leaping effortlessly from one to the next, admiring the glittering city lights. Even better, the college night porter knew him by now (as a cat, of course) and had, for the past couple of years, been leaving him a saucer of warm milk at the entrance. 

And yes, in his cat form, Charles was slightly obsessed with warm milk. Just the thought of it made his mouth water.

He mewed softly, the sound barely a breath in the cavernous space, then leapt onto one of the long oak tables, pacing its length with the easy elegance only a feline could manage. His pads made no sound on the polished surface.

He loved the solitude the library provided him. Charles was naturally affectionate and sociable, curious about other people and gentle in nature. Much like the breed of cat he shifted into. But he also cherished his privacy, those rare moments when he could be entirely alone. And if he couldn't find that solitude at home, with Raven always there, then he had to look for it elsewhere.

He passed by the book he'd left on the table that afternoon: a treatise on genetic mutations, part of his doctoral research. He was close to completing his last PhD in genetics, with a thesis exploring the possibility that a mutated gene sequence could explain the rare phenomenon of human-to-animal shifting. The research was groundbreaking, even if many academics still didn't take him seriously.

He pressed his nose slightly to the open page, breathing in the faintly musty scent of paper, sharpened by his enhanced senses. It had been this desire to understand himself, to define the undefinable, that had drawn him into science in the first place. Was he a cat? A man? An abomination, or a miracle of nature?

He hadn't always known he was different. His father had been the one to notice, after finding a kitten curled up in the cradle where his son had been moments before. A scientist himself, the elder Xavier had begun researching the nature of Shifters in secret, hoping to understand what was happening to his child, and how to help him.

But it took Charles years to truly understand. Until then, he had only shifted in his sleep. The first time he transformed consciously, he was five. He remembered watching birds flit outside the open window when a sudden, tearing pain overtook him, like being ripped apart from within. He blacked out. When he came to, he was curled on the floor of his bedroom, claws still retracting into human fingernails, blood in his mouth, and feathers scattered around him.

The dead bird on the windowsill made his stomach churn. He vomited for minutes, sobbing with fear and shame.

From that moment on, his life split into two halves: the boy who was supposed to be normal, and the secret he carried like a weight chained to his chest. That part of himself he hated with every piece of his being.

It wasn't until Raven appeared – just as lost and extraordinary – that he realized he wasn't alone. She'd come to him in fear, a trembling tiger cub with fur like burnished copper, streaked in black. He'd coaxed her out from behind the pantry shelves with patience and bacon, watching with wonder as she shifted, cautiously, into a girl with big eyes and tousled blonde curls. From that day on, they'd been inseparable. 

And he'd slowly learned to love himself. 

But Raven didn't share his hunger for understanding. She embraced their difference with a kind of wild, unapologetic pride. She knew what she was, and that was enough for her. She believed they were gifted. Charles wasn't so sure. And sometimes, he envied her certainty.

He leapt down, landing softly, and padded toward the tall window where the moonlight streamed in. From this height, he could see the rooftops of Oxford stretching away like a quiet dream. Chimneys stood like sentinels in the fog. Somewhere out there, someone else might've been like him. Maybe hiding and afraid. 

His heart ached with the thought. 

Part of him longed to find them, to offer the one thing he had so desperately needed when he was younger: reassurance. Proof that being different wasn't the same as being broken. That there was more to them than secrecy and shame.

Charles sat on the windowsill, fluffy tail curled neatly around his paws. He let the stillness wrap around him like a warm embrace. This was the part he loved most, existing outside of time, of obligation. For now, he didn't have to be the brilliant researcher or the dutiful brother. He didn't have to carry the weight of questions no one else could answer. 

He could just be.

✤✤✤

Geneva, Switzerland, May 1962

A trail of blood stained the cold stones of a secluded alley in Geneva, faintly illuminated by the spill of streetlamp light from the main road. The man crawled – tried to, anyway – like the filthy worm he was, dragging himself away from Erik with a pitiful desperation. His face was blotched and twisted in a grotesque mask of pain, rage, and fear. One arm pulled him along while the other clutched at his wounded leg, the one Erik had shot moments before. Blood oozed through his fingers. Still, he hissed curses in German between sobs, his voice bubbling with spit and agony. 

Erik, by contrast, walked toward him slowly, almost casually, twirling a gun between his fingers. His eyes were locked onto the man's, and he smirked with something just shy of sadistic pleasure, like a predator savoring the moment. 

He loved watching them squirm. Loved the brittle moment when arrogance turned to fear. When the bravado crumbled and the begging began. It really was never about sadism – Erik didn't get off on the pain – but he needed to see, to know they were afraid. That they remembered.

The Nazis had exterminated his people and reveled in it. The deaths Erik gave them were mercy in comparison. 

"Jetzt beantworte meine Frage, du dreckiger Abschaum," Erik growled, low and venomous. "Ich will Schmidt, Klaus Schmidt. Wo ist er?" [Now answer my question, you filthy scum.] [I want Schmidt, Klaus Schmidt. Where is he?]

The man, a former SS officer who had served at Auschwitz, wept and mumbled prayers, insisting he knew nothing, begging to be spared. "Bitte," he stammered, "Bitte, ich habe Familie… eine Frau und eine Tochter…" [Please, I have a family… a wife and a daughter…] 

Erik snorted, unimpressed. As if that meant anything. His own family had been torn from him, slaughtered in front of his eyes by men just like this one. As if his mother hadn't been dragged away, still screaming his name. He clenched the gun tighter, the memory rising in his chest like smoke, bitter and suffocating.

If anything, this one should count himself lucky Erik hadn't already hunted down his family to return the favor.

"Sie haben für ihn gearbeitet," Erik cut him off, flatly. "Jetzt sagen Sie mir, wo er ist. Ich habe Sie schon langsam satt." [You worked for him.] [Now tell me where he is. I'm growing tired of you.]

The man whimpered like a beaten animal and tried once more to crawl. 

That was enough. Erik moved without hesitation. He slammed his free hand around the man's throat and lifted, just enough to make the leg twist beneath him. A wet, sickening sound came from the joint. The scream that followed was raw, inhuman.

Erik didn't blink. His eyes were like cold glass, reflecting back the horror they had seen too many times.

"Ich werde nicht noch einmal fragen." [I'm not asking again.] 

The man's body sagged against Erik's grip, coughing and gasping, his breath reduced to ragged wheezes. He wasn't far from passing out, or dying. Erik didn't care which came first, so long as he got what he needed.

Somewhere nearby, a church bell struck midnight. The sound reverberated between the alley walls, sharp and hollow. Like a death knell. 

Still, Erik's grip didn't waver, even if his spine straightened on alert. His hand stayed clenched around the man's throat, as steady as a vice. He was tired and hungry; he'd barely slept in days. But none of that dulled the cold, controlled rage simmering just beneath his skin.

"Erinnern Sie sich, was sie in diesen Lagern gemacht haben?" he asked, voice low, deadly calm. "Weil ich es tue." [You remember what they did in those camps?] [Because I do.]

A threat, stark reminder of just how far Erik was willing to go. 

He could still recall the stench of ash drifting from the crematorium ovens. The reek of mass graves, where naked corpses were carelessly piled on top of each other, stripped of any dignity. 

He remembered the corpses, the lifeless ones on the ground and those who still had little strength to walk and work until they dropped dead out of exhaustion. Just skin stretched tight over bones, hollow eyes, shaved heads and marked forearms. Starved shapes made uniform in their suffering. The individual vanished, stripped of appearance, name, anything that made one human. 

And then there were the guards. The ones who branded and beat them. The ones who lied, telling new arrivals they were headed to showers after days packed like cattle into the trains' cars without food or water. The ones who laughed while people died screaming, suffocated by toxic gas inside the Gaskammern. [Gas Chambers.]

And worst of all, the ones who played games, unleashing their dogs on children and elders, raping the womens and the boys, shoting them for sport. Sometimes even throwing the little ones in the air as if it were a clay pigeon shooting game. 

He remembered it all, every single atrocity. Even though he'd spent most of his life in the camps locked up in Schmidt's labs, he was aware of what was happening to others outside. He'd experienced it first hand before being turned into a lab rat.

And this gasping, sobbing excuse of a man was a fragment of it all still alive. A rot that had survived where others had perished. He didn't deserve Erik's mercy. He didn't even deserve Erik's hatred. He was a tool to an end. Nothing more.

Erik leaned in, their faces now only inches apart.

"Ich will einen Namen. Eine Adresse. Koordinaten. Irgendetwas. Wenn du mich anlügst, werde ich es wissen. Und ich werde zurückkommen und dich holen." [I want a name. An address. Coordinates. Something. If you lie to me, I will know. And I will come back for you.]

The man shook. His eyes fluttered and he broke down. Pathetic.  

"Da ist jemand," he finally choked out. "Ein– ein Mann, der in England lebt. Weiß mehr als ich." [There's someone.] [A– a man who lives in England. He knows more than me.]

That was all Erik needed. He released his grip on the man, and, as he was falling to the ground again, he raised the gun and fired.

The man dropped. His body twitched once, then went still. Blood pooled fast over the cobblestones, dark and glistening. The silence shattered; around him, the shutters of nearby homes began to creak open one by one, their inhabitants awakened by the sudden noise. Someone shouted, then a whistle pierced the night signaling the arrival of the police. 

Time to vanish.

Erik turned and ran, bolting toward the far end of the alley. Mid-stride, he shifted, muscle and bone bending and reshaping into his Dobermann form.

He tore through the streets, paws pounding the pavement with mechanical precision. His breath steamed in the cold air, curling from his muzzle in ghostly tendrils.

He'd been running since the moment he escaped the camp, he'd run blind until his legs gave out, until the world pitched sideways and he collapsed on a dirt road, still in his animal form. 

Running had meant survival then, and it still did. It meant freedom and power. Something he'd been denied for too long behind barbed wire and sterile labs. Locked in a cage, a collar on his neck, a prisoner stripped of his name, his humanity, his self.

Back there, he'd had no choice but to run. Now he did. Running was how he kept the fury from boiling over. Because killing them was never enough.

Killing didn't chase away the nightmares that kept him awake at night. Nor the ghosts that followed him everywhere, lurking in the shadows, even during the day. 

When he reached the quiet apartment building where he'd rented a room under a false name, he slipped inside and padded up the stairs. At the landing, he shifted back into human form and stepped into the dark room. 

Inside, the flat was cast in darkness. It was small and sparse, with just a mattress, his battered suitcase, and a corkboard with red thread connecting old photographs and reports. 

Erik stood there a moment, breath steadying, gaze fixed on the web he had spun. He would shower and get some rest. Then, tomorrow, he would leave for England. Klaus Schmidt was close. Closer now.

Chapter Text

Oxford, England, End of June 1962

The wind carried the scent of damp stone, and the heavy humidity of a rainy summer day as Charles leapt from the balcony of his flat, a pale blur against the dark. He landed neatly on the garden wall, flexing his paws to cushion the impact. Tail raised, whiskers twitching with contentment, he walked along the wall in perfect balance.

It'd been almost two weeks since he last indulged in his nighttime walks. He'd been buried in thesis work and lab deadlines; he'd started to feel like a caged animal. Literally.

He needed time in animal form. Without it, the prolonged suppression of his true nature left him weak, almost sick. But when he shifted into a cat, the need to roam outdoors was irresistible. He liked curling up on soft couches, sure, but he also craved the freedom to run, stalk, and chase. But when his human life took too much of his time, the only thing he could do was to sleep in cat form. Even if the fact that cats actually napped left him more agitated than rested, in the end. 

He wasn't sure if all Shifters felt this way. He'd never met anyone else like him, except Raven. But her situation was different. As a tiger, Charles had always forbidden her from venturing out in animal form. Back home, in their Westchester estate, it hadn't been a problem; there were acres of forest to explore there. But when Charles moved to Oxford for university, Raven – unwilling to remain behind with their family – had followed. Their apartment there was small, and the city was crowded. There was no way she could safely roam the streets as a predator. Someone could shoot her, or worse, capture her.

Charles' father had agreed to adopt her at Charles' own insistence. He was a good man with a kind heart, but he died only a few months later, leaving behind his son, his newly adopted daughter and a wife who didn't care for either of them. On the contrary, she preferred drowning in grief and wine, leaving the house staff to provide for them. Eventually, she remarried one of her late husband's colleagues, a man with a cruel streak and an even crueler son. 

And since it's always been the two of them, Charles wasn't willing to risk losing her. His sister had become his only anchor, the one who kept him afloat in his despair. And, above all, someone who was just like him. He'd grown fiercely protective, afraid that the wrong move would see her taken from him. 

He knew she was suffocating in the cramped flat, but what else could he do? Apart from considering going back to the States once he graduated, so that she could be free again in the Westchester manor. As much as he hated that place. 

That night, they'd fought again about the same thing. Raven wanted to go out, Charles said no. The argument ended in slammed doors and tear-streaked cheeks, both of them furious and heartbroken. 

Perhaps it was hypocritical of Charles, but in the end, after making sure she was asleep, he'd slipped out, desperate for fresh air, and to escape the crushing guilt gnawing at his chest. He'd tried to return to his thesis, he really did, but he couldn't focus; twenty minutes staring at the same sentence while his mind spiraled with self-loathing and worst-case scenarios. Every fight with Raven always led to this. 

If he could, he'd give her the whole world. But the only thing she truly wanted was freedom. And Charles – selfish, terrified bastard that he was – couldn't give it to her. He couldn't bear to be alone again.

Reaching the end of the garden wall, he jumped down to the street and padded toward Magdalen College, with half a mind to go back to the library or simply turn up at the night porter door for some warm milk. Now, that would have done wonders to cheer up his bad mood.

The night air ruffled his cream-colored fur as his sharp blue eyes scanned the moonlit streets. Midnight in Oxford was unusually quiet, as most students were probably inside, catching up on last-minute coursework before graduation. He'd already noticed several windows still lit as he walked.

But the calm didn't last.

From a dark alley ahead, his heightened senses caught the acrid stench of alcohol and the low murmur of slurred laughter. Charles hesitated, the only way forward was straight past it; he could head back, or he could go and hope to pass unnoticed. 

The problem was that, as a Birman cat, he rarely went unnoticed. With his plush cream coat and bright eyes, he looked far too polished to pass as a stray. One could practically see his pedigree written across his fur. And people had a – in his humble opinion – sick tendency to abuse small, cute creatures like him.

He scanned the nearby buildings, searching for a ledge or drainpipe, anything that could offer a safer path. Something that could give him the slightest advantage of height and more control over the situation. He wasn't reckless, he had a well trained feline survival instinct, sharpened by the human intellect. 

However, before he could move, a group stumbled out of the alley, tall shadows weaving through the dark, shouting and swearing. Charles pressed himself against a building's wall, trying to disappear into the narrow band of darkness between two street lamps. He barely dared to breathe.

It didn't work. The group spotted him almost immediately, and one of them – a broad-shouldered man with the swagger of a pack leader – lit up with drunken amusement.

"Look at the damn cat," he slurred, stumbling closer.  "What's it doing here? This ain't no pussy's playground."

Charles wanted to bolt out of the way and run to safety, but as soon as he turned his little head he saw the rest of them closing in, blocking any escape routes. There were twelve of them, maybe fifteen, rounding up on him. He was trapped.

He hissed, retreating toward the wall behind him, his back arched as he bared his claws and fangs. He still wasn't totally helpless, cats were predators after all. But prey too, came a little traitorous voice in his mind. His own damn voice. 

If he could dart between their legs, maybe he could try to escape. They were drunk and slow, it could work…

Unfortunately, he hadn't taken into account how cruel they were, and was surprised when pain exploded in his side. One of them had already kicked him. 

He hit the ground hard, claws scraping stone. His flank was already throbbing in pain, and it took him a second too much to get back on his paws. If those bastards hit him a little harder it could have become risky. Charles could have died. After all, it didn't take much for a grown-up adult to kill a cat.

Help, he screamed, letting out a frightened yowl. Maybe someone could hear him and come to his rescue. 

Meanwhile, one of the others was almost shouting excitedly, "There's a bridge nearby. We could–"

If cats could cry, Charles would've been sobbing by now. He saw no way out, no one to save him. He was completely, miserably alone. Helpless. 

"Shut the fuck up," the leader snapped. "Someone might hear you. Idiot."

"Here, kitty kitty," cooed another with mock sweetness, his hand outstretched, eyes gleaming with cruelty. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Yes, of course.

Just as the man's hand was about to grab him, Charles lunged, claws slashing deep into flesh. They came out stained in blood. The guy howled in pain, jerking back and lifting his other hand to clutch his arm. Blood was already pouring down onto the cobblestone. 

"You little shit!" he roared, face twisting into something almost inhuman with rage. "You're dead now!"

They rushed him. A blur of fists and boots and adrenaline surging too fast for him to think straight.

Shitshitshit–

Charles braced himself, limbs tensing instinctively, preparing to fight back even though he knew it wouldn't be enough. Not with the bruised ribs. Not when there were twelve, fifteen of them and only one of him. 

He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he wasn't going down quietly either.

Then, everything happened in a blur. A growl resounded in the air and, from the shadows beyond the alley's mouth, a hulking figure materialized. A Dobermann – pitch-black, sleek, huge – barreled out from the darkness with a deep, resonant bark that cut through the night. His teeth were bared in a furious snarl, foam catching on his gums, breath heavy. His glowing eyes gleamed like twin coals in the dark, filled with icy rage.

Charles froze. 

It was a haunting sight. This creature came out of the mist like something conjured from a nightmare. An avenging hound, a hellbeast made real. The swirling fog along the curb seemed to part for him, ghostly tendrils wrapping around his legs as he approached with a menacingly pace.

The boys stood paralyzed and wide-eyed. One of them muttered something under his breath, something between a prayer and a curse. The leader flinched. Even the drunkest of them could sense that this was no ordinary dog.

The growl that rumbled from deep in its chest was low and steady, like distant thunder or the earth itself groaning underfoot. The bone-deep rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath Charles' paws.

Charles stared, heart pounding, legs still trembling from the earlier blows.

Is this really happening?

And then, clear as a bell, a voice echoed inside his mind. 

Back off. The voice didn't sound English. No, it was something more continental… Dutch or maybe German.

Charles blinked, stunned. It took a second for his brain to process the implication. In front of him, came to his rescue, was a Shifter. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry or purr in relief. All these years, it had just been him and Raven. No one else. No proof that they weren't freak accidents of evolution; just theories, daydreams and hopes. But now, here he was. Proof, standing four-legged and furious between him and a group of would-be murderers.

The students hesitated. They weren't laughing anymore. Their cocky bravado wavered. Some of them were already backing up, slowly, unsure if they should bolt or play it cool. But the leader wasn't smart enough to take the warning.

He squared up with a lopsided grin, fists clenched like he was still in control of the situation. "What're you gonna do, doggie?" he sneered. "Bite us?"

Wrong move.

With terrifying speed, the Dobermann lunged.

A blur of black muscle and bared teeth slammed the man flat on his back. He hit the pavement hard with a thud and a choked yelp, air knocked from his lungs. The dog stood over him, jaws bared, muzzle pressed inches from his face. The growl now was deafening, close enough that the man's hair fluttered in the breath of it. 

The others scattered, panic erupting between them. Their shoes slipped on damp pavement, as they tripped over themselves. One of them fell and skidded into a trash bin with a shout, another ran headfirst into the alley wall before scrambling away again.

Charles watched, blinking slowly. The leader's bravado had vanished, and he was now whimpering, trembling beneath the Shifter's weight, muttering apologies and pleas. 

How quickly they broke when their own fear was reflected back at them.

Charles limped closer. Pain radiated from his side with every breath, but he forced himself forward anyway. He looked at the boy on the ground – this dumb, angry kid who, just a minute ago, was ready to stomp him into unconsciousness – and felt no anger, no satisfaction. Just… exhaustion.

He didn't believe in retaliation. Not for something like this. Not even now. 

The Dobermann's snarl continued, low and guttural, vibrating in the air between them. Charles took a breath.

Please, he said to the dog. Let him go.

The Dobermann glanced at him, as if checking whether he was serious – or just mad – then looked back at the boy beneath his paws. With a final snarl in the student's face, he stepped aside. The guy didn't waste a second. He scrambled to his feet and bolted, not daring to look back.

You're lucky I'm in a good mood, the dog called after him. But only Charles heard the words; to anyone else, it was just a sharp bark echoing down the now-empty street.

Then the Dobermann turned to Charles, eyes keen and calculating. He was studying him, assessing. Like a chess master looking over the board before the opening move.

Neither of them moved. They stood there, opponents in a ring circling around each other before the round began. It felt absurd that he, a skinny, scuffed-up cat, was trying to hold the gaze of this looming, muscular Dobermann who looked like he'd walked straight out of some warzone. 

Even in the dim light, Charles could make out the scars scattered across the dog's body. They crisscrossed the dog's shoulders and flanks, thin and white, like old reminders of brutal encounters. Some had healed ragged and deep. They gave him a grim, worn-in look. He'd clearly fought before, maybe often. Charles thought he might've been a soldier. He seemed young, though – at least by dog standards – so likely not from the last War.

Still, there was something striking about him. His coat was inky black, almost unnaturally so, gleaming in the streetlight. Every movement revealed a ripple of taut muscle beneath it. But it was those eyes that held Charles in place. They were of an intense, piercing green-grey that seemed to see right through Charles. There was no softness in them, as they peeled back Charles' skin, looking for weakness.

He was beautiful, Charles realized. Disturbingly so.

Which was an entirely unwelcome revelation, because Charles didn't like dogs. Charles especially didn't like dogs who were tall, dangerous, and smug. And, God forbid, handsome. 

Dogs were loud and impulsive. Messy. Always sniffing things, barking at leaves, wagging those ridiculous tails like their hearts were going to explode from joy over a stick. They had no self-respect, all it took was a high-pitched voice and a scrap of food, and they'd throw themselves on their backs, tongue lolling like idiots.

One couldn't reason with a dog, they were either trying to lick your face or chew your shoes.

And cats – it was well known – didn't like dogs. He'd met enough of them to confirm it with certainty.

Which made the flutter in his stomach all the more frustrating.

You can talk, the Dobermann said at last, circling him like a predator sizing up prey. Charles grimaced. God, please don't.

He straightened as much as he could, trying to reclaim some dignity, doing his best to stand tall; though "tall" was generous. Every inch of him ached. Tomorrow, he'd be wearing a bruise the size of a teacup.

You too, he retorted, with a flick of his tail that he hoped read as confident rather than pissy. It probably didn't. But at least his voice was steadier than he felt.

Anyway, he added, voice tight with restrained annoyance, thank you, I suppose.

The words were bitter in his mouth. He hated thanking people. Hated needing anyone. He'd grown up more or less alone, raising another child along with him. Help had never come when he needed it, so he'd learned to stop expecting it. Being saved didn't sit right, being indebted even worse.

The Dobermann stopped pacing and planted himself directly in front of Charles. Looming. Just enough to make his presence felt.

You're a little thing, he said, flatly. You should be careful, Kätzchen.

Kitten.

That, he knew the meaning of.

Charles' ears flattened instinctively. His tail lashed once, betraying his irritation before he could catch it. Kätzchen? Seriously? Who the hell did this guy think he was? Just because he'd swooped in like some mangy, four-legged vigilante didn't give him the right to mock him. Charles hadn't been that helpless. He'd just been caught off guard, that was all. It could have happened to anyone.

I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, he replied sharply, posture stiff with wounded pride. Thank you very much.

The Dobermann almost laughed. It was a deep, amused sound reverberating inside Charles' skull. There was something infuriatingly smug about it. 

Oh yes, he said, with the faintest trace of irony. I could see that.

Charles hissed. 

For a moment, it looked like the Dobermann might have walked away. His body shifted, head tilting slightly toward the shadows as if he were ready to melt back into them. And that… that shouldn't have bothered Charles. But it did, as the adrenaline of the past few minutes began to ebb, Charles' excitement surged back with renewed force. He didn't want to let him go. 

Charles took a step forward, careful not to show how much it hurt. He forced his voice into casual neutrality, even though everything inside him was buzzing with exhilaration. 

You've got a long way to go, he added casually, his voice laced with poorly masked curiosity. As if he didn't desperately want this stranger to stay.

The dog looked down – literally – at him. A flicker of disdain passed through his eyes. Or maybe it was just irritation. I am, he conceded. 

What are you doing here? Charles asked, before he could stop himself.

The Dobermann growled low, a dangerous warning to drop the questioning. It's none of your business, Kätzchen.

Then he cast Charles one final glance and turned to walk away, heading back the way he came. Be more careful next time, Kätzchen, he called over his shoulder. 

And he was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.

Charles decided to call it a night and head home. He needed sleep, needed to rest and let the pain dull with time. But as he made his way back, he couldn't shake thoughts of the other Shifter. He wished he'd had the chance to talk to him longer; maybe even make a connection, despite the Dobermann's aloof demeanor and prickly nature. The missed opportunity stung. He should've asked for his name. Idiot.

Back at his building, he jumped on the balcony with a pained mew. Once inside, he collapsed on the bed, shifting to human form again but not even bothering to cover himself. He was too tired and sore. But sleep didn't come.

The image of those piercing green-grey eyes flashed in his mind. There was something about the other Shifter that pulled at him, something in the raw strength he carried, in the mystery and danger that clung to him.

Charles tossed and turned all night, his thoughts too entangled in the encounter to find peace. When he finally drifted off, he dreamed of a tall, dark, and handsome stranger with green-grey eyes who whispered his name, holding him close against a warm, bare chest. A wave of pleasure spread through his body as he purred in contentment.

When morning came, bruises painting his ribs and shoulder in painful colors, Charles awoke smiling. And that smile stayed with him for days.

✤✤✤

London, England, June 1962

The room was stale with the smell of smoke, sweat and blood. Dust hung thick in the air, disturbed only by the ragged breaths of the man slumped in the chair. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barked, making his ears automatically perk in response. Otherwise, the world was silent.

They were on the outskirts of London, in a rotting house left to ruin. Erik had drawn the man here with a well-placed whisper about an international money network. A half-truth, just convincing enough for a man like him, a man with secrets and too much arrogance to hide them well. He knew what strings to pull on such a man. After all, he'd been the head of the lab in which Erik had been tortured for years. 

A single bulb swayed overhead, the light flickering as it cut through the dimness. It cast long, nervous shadows across the cracked plaster. Erik stood still, arms crossed, a silhouette against the far wall. He was waiting for a single answer, always the same one.

"Wo ist Schmidt?" he said again, voice calm but carrying an edge of annoyance now. [Where is Schmidt?]

The repetition was starting to wear thin.

The man coughed, a hoarse rattle that became a wince. He twitched as the pain surged through his battered frame. Blood had dried in thick, rust-colored lines along his collar, but fresh trails still seeped from the gash at his temple. "Ich weiß es nicht," he rasped. [I don't know.]

Erik stepped forward, his boots whispering through the dust. From his pocket, he drew a coin – a German Reichsmark that had belonged to Schmidt himself – and he made it twist between his fingers. 

"Ich glaube, Sie wissen es," Erik said coolly. "Und ich glaube, Sie glauben, dass jemand kommen wird, um Sie zu retten." [I think you do.] [And I think you believe that someone will come to save you.]

He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him forward. Their faces were inches apart now, breath to breath.

"Ich sag dir was… niemand wird dich holen kommen," he murmured, lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. [Let me tell you what… nobody will come for you.]

The man's expression twisted, his fear momentarily overtaken by hate. "Du bist verrückt, Judensau" he spat. [You're insane, Jew pig.]

Erik froze, for just a split second.

How many times had he heard those words in the camps? How many other insults they'd forged to degrade his people and make fun of them, while they died of starvation and exhaustion. It made him angry, and it made him cruel to hear it again after that many years. 

His hand stilled. The coin slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete with a soft, metallic click.

That was the only warning.

He drew the gun and struck the man again on the head, then he pressed the barrel between his eyes. The steel sank easily into the thick layer of fat covering his forehead, already slick with sweat. The man whimpered, and his face crumpled as sobs overtook him. Small, pitiful sounds. But Erik wasn't finished, he lifted a foot and pressed it on the already broken kneecap of the scientist, eliciting a loud, pained scream. 

"Wo ist Schmidt?" Erik said again, leaning closer. [Where is Schmidt?]

The man shook his head violently, the movement almost childish, as the flesh of his cheeks swayed back and forth. "USA, New York, Las Vegas. Ich weiß es nicht genau, bitte." [USA, New York, Las Vegas. I don't know exactly, please.]

Erik exhaled through his nose. Coward.

These men were always brave in white coats, dissecting lives and souls like insects under a microscope. But take away the protections, strip them bare, and they shriveled.

He said nothing for a long, terrifying moment. Just watched the man squirm under his silence. Then he stepped back and turned his back on him.

"Sie werden alles aufschreiben, woran Sie sich erinnern. Namen, Orte, alles," he said. "Wenn Sie lügen, werde ich es wissen. Und ich werde dich und deine Familie holen." [You're going to write down everything you remember. Names, places, anything.] [If you lie, I'll know. And I'll come for you and your family.]

When Erik turned again, he saw the man nodding frantically, nearly choking on the relief. Idiot. Maybe he thought cooperation would earn him mercy. 

He wouldn't live long enough to be disappointed.

"Links oder rechts?" Erik asked, motioning lazily from one of the man's hands to the other with the barrel of the gun. [Left or right?]

"Rechts," came the trembling reply. [Right.]

Erik holstered the weapon and drew a pocket knife, slicing the rope binding the right hand. The man flexed his fingers, barely able to hold the pencil Erik placed between them. Then he began to clumsily write on a scrap of paper balanced on his thigh.

When he was done, Erik took the paper and read it in silence. Then, without a word, he raised the gun again and fired once; the shot was clean and efficient. The body sagged in the chair, still.

Erik turned, stepped over the threshold, and disappeared into the night. 

Outside, the rain had started again, draping the world in silver streaks and the sour smell of wet stone. The street shimmered under the amber glow of the lamps, puddles catching reflections like broken glass. Erik moved through the narrow alleys of East London, his coat catching the wind and fluttering behind his back. He walked steadily, but with no rush. The paper in his pocket already told him where he was going next.

USA. He needed to search both New York and Las Vegas. Schmidt's – or Shaw, as he called himself in America – business apparently extended from the West to the East Coast.

But first, Italy. He needed supplies, and a safe passage. 

Schmidt was close now. He could feel it in his bones, like a storm approaching behind his ribs. The thought twisted sharply in his chest, and his jaw clenched so hard it sent a pulse of pain into his temple. Every step forward made the hunt feel more real. Inevitable.

The adrenaline was wearing off. As he neared the hotel – a shabby place tucked into a forgotten side street – he felt the weight of his body settle. A heaviness that went deeper than exhaustion.

Still, the coppery tang of blood clung beneath one fingernail, a tiny reminder of what he'd done. What he'd become. He needed to clean up, pack, and disappear.

And yet… 

His thoughts kept circling back. Not to the man he'd killed, but the one he'd saved. He wondered what that said about him. Was he just a vicious murderer, or was there still something good, pure, that had survived the camps?

He didn't know it, but that damn cat was making him rethink his entire existence.

Damned cat!

The image surfaced uninvited in his mind again: those blue eyes – the bluest he'd ever seen – staring up at him, wary and defiant; the shiny, fluffy cream-white fur with a splash of grey on the muzzle, ears, paws and tail. Cute was the right word to describe him; but Erik wasn't the kind of person who used such words. 

Even bruised and trembling, the Kätzchen had stood tall, dignity intact. Seemingly unbothered by the danger he'd just dodged. Rather, he'd fought back bravely, even though a little thing like him would've had no chance against fifteen grown humans.

Erik had seen plenty of strays before, and he was sure that he wasn't one. His fur was too well-kept, his body too plump, he looked like a house cat. A rich one, too. And well, he was no ordinary cat. He'd spoken to him, they'd been able to communicate while in animal form. 

That cat was like him.  

Die Wechselnden, Schmidt called them. Shifters. 

Schmidt had always claimed there were more, even whole populations of them, scattered and hidden. An entire species who could transform from humans into animals at will. In ancient times, they'd been treated as myths, stories about cursed souls who could take the shape of beasts told to scare the kids. 

Erik had dismissed it all as another manipulation. He'd never met another, and he'd learned long ago not to believe anything Schmidt told him.

But now… 

The realization felt like vertigo. And beneath it – buried in the place he tried never to reach – was a strange, aching hope. What if there were more? What if he wasn't alone?

What if…

No. He shut the thought down. There was no room for fantasy in war. He had a mission. Schmidt had to die. And Erik couldn't afford distractions, especially ones with soft paws and stubborn blue eyes.

Still, there had been something about him. That Kätzchen had fire. Even in pain and terrified, he'd stood his ground. Probably it was just instinct, perhaps arrogance. Or maybe something else, pride, something that Erik recognized too well. 

He'd known the Kätzchen was trouble the moment he'd heard those cries for help in the alley. Knew it the second his feet moved toward them. An unknown variable in a plan that had no room for error, and encompassed his entire life. 

But he had rushed forward anyway, as if he'd been pushed in the direction of the kitten by an inevitable superior force.

Gott, if he focused hard enough, Erik could still smell him. A strange, comforting scent of floral soap, Earl Grey, and something like paper. It stirred something he'd long since buried with his childhood. It smelled like… home. Or something close enough to hurt. 

Maybe once he completed his mission – assuming he survived, of course – he could return to Oxford and look for that cat. Wishful thinking, really. But the thought clung to him all the same.

He stopped just outside the hotel entrance, and exhaled slowly, trying to shake it off.

He's a distraction. Irrelevant. No one. And I'll never see him again.

But the memory lingered. That moment of hesitation, like the kitten didn't want him to go. As if Erik was someone interesting worth knowing, instead of a rotting monster who knew nothing but evil.

And Erik – damn him – had almost stayed. Drawn by the promise of... a connection. Maybe even friendship. Something of which he certainly wasn't worth. 

A bitter curse hissed out in German under his breath. No. That part of him – the soft, foolish, weak part – had gotten people killed. He knew better. He'd always known better. Dreams like that were luxuries he couldn't afford.

He slipped into the building, as quiet as a shadow in a city that didn't care who lived or died. The concierge didn't even look up. Upstairs, the room was dark and damp. He didn't bother with the lights. 

He peeled off the coat, set the gun on the dresser, and headed into the tiny bathroom. He turned on the tap and pushed his hands under the ice cold water. Blood swirled into the sink, diluted pink at first, then clear. He scrubbed until his hands stung.

He had work to do. There was no time for ghosts that already belonged to the past. No time for guilt. No time for… him.

He dried his hands slowly, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The man staring back looked older than he remembered. Tired. Harsher. But behind the eyes, something had shifted. A sliver of... longing?

"Dumme kleine Katze," he muttered, the words brittle, bitter on his tongue. [Stupid little cat.]

He should've kept walking, should've let the thugs finish it. That would've been simpler. Yes, but then the kitten would've died, a treacherous voice whispered in his head. And he certainly wouldn't have wanted to see the little thing beaten to death by drunken imbeciles. 

Again, he wondered what this said about him, who had killed dozens of Nazis in cold blood and melted at the thought of a Kätzchen ​​in danger. 

Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe he was just unraveling at the edges. He told himself a good night's sleep would help. Push the kitten back into the past where he belonged.

He couldn't be getting attached. Not to the first spoiled, arrogant, too-pretty cat to cross his path.

He hated cats. Arrogant little bastards. Aloof and smug, walking around like they owned the world. Pedigreed ones like Kätzchen? Even worse. Erik was a respectable animal, not some pampered house pet chasing attention like a prince in fur.

He stared into the mirror a moment longer, something restless moving behind his eyes. Then he clicked off the bathroom light.

Rome, tomorrow. 

And, hopefully, no more kittens.

Chapter Text

Idlewild Airport, New York, USA, August 1962

Charles hadn't been home in nearly a decade. 

When he'd left, his mother was still alive, and the shadow of his step-family still loomed large. He'd been running from a house of neglect and abuse. At seventeen, he'd been bruised, penniless save for the money to pay his Oxford tuition, and desperately hopeful that the world on the other side of the Atlantic would be kinder.

Now, he was returning a billionaire. The entirety of the Xavier fortune rested in his name, left untouched by Kurt's greedy hands. His stepfather had died without ever managing to steal a single cent. It should have felt like a victory. Instead, it just felt silly. A petty war with a petty man.

Funny how time twisted things. What once had been an insurmountable mountain of rage and fear was now just a distant memory. 

He didn't even know what to do with that much money. Didn't want it, if he were being honest. But it had followed him anyway, with the name and the house. And his past.

"Come on," Raven's voice cut through the haze. "We have to go get our luggage."

They'd called the housekeeper three weeks ago to prepare the estate for their return. Most of their belongings from Oxford had already arrived. Now it was just a matter of clearing customs and collecting what was left.

She was already pulling on his arm before he could reply, even if she knew that he hated being touched without his permission. He barely managed to grab his carry-on before she had him crossing the jet bridge, her heels clicking in a fast march. Charles knew she couldn't wait to get to Westchester. There, at least, she could breathe again and shift into her animal form without fear. 

Charles, on the other hand, wasn't sure he was ready. The mansion loomed austere in his memory, he was afraid that each hallway still echoed with the ghosts of his childhood, every creaking floorboard a reminder of something he'd rather forget. He feared the moment he'd step over the threshold and find himself, somehow, seventeen and bruised again.

The terminal air was warmer than he remembered, sharp with diesel. Idlewild buzzed with the kinetic hum of a rising empire. People everywhere: travelers, diplomats, tourists, children tugging at their mothers' skirts. Languages tangled midair in a cacophony of greetings and instructions. This was New York. Loud, fast, alive. A meeting port for the entire world.

At customs, they queued among the other passengers. Raven fidgeted with the hem of her sleeveless turtleneck, clearly agitated. Charles stood still, his jacket draped over one arm, posture composed but tight, just like Sharon – his mother – had taught him. There were too many people around him for his liking, and he soon started to subtly flick a finger in the air slightly, in a rhythmic swish. 

"Dear, it'll be over in no time," he murmured, leaning toward his sister but not quite touching her. "We'll be home in less than two hours."

Raven gave him a flat look. "Home?"

He blinked, confused. Oh. 

"I suppose I still think of it that way," he admitted, eyes flicking away. A rueful smile touched his lips. "Habit, perhaps."

Raven stilled, her fidgeting ceasing. She placed a steady hand on his arm, and this time he appreciated the gesture. "It is home," she said. "You were born there."

He smiled faintly, though his gaze drifted. "I suppose it is."

He slid an arm around her waist and pressed a kiss to her temple, grateful she was here. He didn't have to face the mansion alone. Not the locked doors or the quiet rooms where his mother once wept, or the corridors where Kurt's voice had thundered. 

An uniformed officer beckoned them forward at the customs desk; a bulky man with a weary expression and a beard that probably barely passed inspection regulations.

Charles stepped up first and offered his passport. The officer took it silently; the U.S. seal caught the light of the desk lamp as he flipped through the pages with the disinterested precision of someone who had stamped a thousand names before breakfast.

"Purpose of travel?" he asked, not looking up.

"Returning home," Charles answered evenly, resisting the urge to add after ten long years of exile.

"Residence?"

"Westchester County. 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem."

That earned him a glance. The officer frowned slightly, sizing him up. Maybe it was the accent, too crisp and British – not unusual, but perhaps unexpected for someone holding a U.S. passport. Despite being born and raised in America, Charles had retained his mother's accent; and the years spent in England had only strengthened it. 

He said nothing more, just shifted his attention to Raven's documents.

Charles' thoughts slipped sideways, back in time. Again to his own self, ten years younger, bruised, terrified, dragging a little Raven through this very airport with one bag between them. He hadn't known if Oxford would even take him. But he'd boarded the plane anyway. Anything had to be better than staying.

"Anything to declare?" the officer asked, snapping Charles back to the present.

He blinked. "Just a few books and clothes. Personal effects."

The man scanned the declaration card, then flicked a glance toward Raven. "You two traveling together?"

"We are," Raven said before Charles could answer, tapping her surname in her passport with a pointed finger.

The officer raised an eyebrow. "Wife?" he asked, already smirking.

Charles gave him a flat look. "Sister."

It wasn't the first time someone had asked. Apparently traveling with a woman who wasn't elderly or a child meant you had to be married. The lack of resemblance between them didn't help; not that it would anyway, Raven was adopted, and besides, people always saw what they expected to see.

The officer said nothing more. He stamped their documents with a mechanical thud. 

"Bags?"

Charles pointed toward two battered trunks stacked near the back wall. They'd come in on the same flight and had thankfully reached their destination intact.

The officer nodded. "Go ahead and claim them, then you're free to go."

Relief pooled in Charles' chest. He hadn't expected trouble, but customs always felt like a test he might unknowingly fail. And he always feared that someone, if they looked long enough, could find out about his secret. 

He smiled politely, in true Xavier fashion. "Thank you, officer. Have a good day."

The man didn't respond. He was already waving forward the next traveler.

As Charles turned toward the baggage area, he spotted a man in a Columbia University T-shirt and felt a ripple of nerves. He was scheduled to meet the head of the genetics department that same week; a meeting that might have determined whether he would have begun his career as a professor there. 

It was the right step, the logical step. And it should've felt exciting. Instead, it felt like something was missing. Something he couldn't name. 

Just then a sharp, accented voice cut through the background noise. 

A dispute had erupted a few desks down. One of the officers was speaking louder now, his tone clipped, edging into hostility, as he flicked his eyes suspiciously over what Charles supposed was the passenger's passport. 

He turned his head just in time to catch a tall man standing stiffly at the counter, broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones and a weighted expression on his handsome face. German, clearly. His accent unmistakable, even with how carefully he tried to contain it.

Something about him felt strangely familiar, a ghost tugging at the edges of Charles' memory. He couldn't place it, yet there was an odd recognition, like the echo of a shadow he'd seen before. 

The officer was rifling through his papers, scowling. "No contacts in the United States? Traveling alone? What's the purpose of your visit, exactly?"

The man answered, evenly, "I'm here for work."

Too vague and defensive. Charles winced internally, that wouldn't satisfy an already suspicious customs officer. Indeed, the officer's eyes narrowed. Another stepped closer, one hand straying toward his belt in a silent warning.

The German man stood his ground, jaw locked, tension visible along his neck and shoulders. He didn't raise his voice, nor did he flinch, but his eyes flicked impatiently across the room as if he was looking for an escape route, catching Charles' for a second. They were of a peculiar green-grey color, that Charles was sure to have seen before. It was like a hook catching in his ribs. A spark of recognition lit inside his mind, disappearing as quickly as he came, before he could grasp it. 

Charles' heart thudded. He'd never been particularly brave in confrontations, but something about this man stirred a protective impulse he couldn't ignore. And, before he could stop himself, he was already nearing them. 

"Excuse me," Charles said smoothly, inserting himself with well-bred calm. "I'm Doctor Charles Xavier. Is there a problem here?"

Both officers turned, startled by the sudden interruption, and by the air of confidence Charles wore like a tailored coat. The other man, instead, took a step to the side to put more space between them. 

He held up his American passport again, and flashed the same polite, pristine smile he once used when charming his mother's friends at her galas. The officer glanced at him, a glint of impatience in his tired eyes. 

"I know this gentleman," Charles added, brushing a hand through his perfectly combed hair. "He's traveling here to work with me."

The man stiffened as the officer's eyes swept over them, gesturing for Charles to hand over his passport. Charles kept his composure, not daring to look at Raven, who was watching him bewildered from where he'd left her in his haste. 

"You know him?"

Charles smiled. "Yes. Lehnsherr, correct?" he turned slightly to him with a hand outstretched, thanking God he'd caught a name from all the documents on the desk as he was taking back his passport. "Charles Xavier. We spoke by letter about the Westchester position."

The German's expression shifted smoothly, now all business, no trace of confusion on his handsome face. He took Charles' hand in his solid grip and shook it, lingering maybe a second too long before releasing him.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Doctor Xavier," he added with a smile. 

Charles noted, with some distraction, that his accent really was attractive. As was the man himself.

Turning back to the officer, Charles added, "We're establishing a private institute. Research into rare genetic anomalies. I offered him a temporary position while we arrange sponsorship."

"You've got paperwork?"

"Not on me, I've only just landed from London," Charles said, tone never wavering. "But I can provide my legal counsel's contact information. He can confirm that I'm authorized to hire private researchers, foreign nationals included."

The officer held his gaze for a beat. Charles didn't blink. Then, with an irritated grunt, the officer stamped the passport. Thud.

"He needs to file paperwork within the week. No extensions. Got it?"

"Crystal," Charles said smoothly.

When he turned around to the man, he saw the tension drain a little from his shoulders, as the faintest flicker of relief softened his features. He caught his eye for a brief moment and offered a small, reassuring smile that the man didn't return. 

They walked away together toward Raven, who had already retrieved their luggage and was watching them approach with a mixture of concern and bafflement. Standing by the man's side, that sense of recognition returned, stronger than before. That odd, unnamable pulse just under his skin.

The other man was looking at him, guarded. But his expression wasn't angry or ungrateful, he was studying him with the same keen attention of–

No. Charles, keep that damn dog out of your mind. You promised. 

"You didn't have to step in," the German said quietly, once they were clear of the checkpoint. "But thank you."

Charles shook his head. "It was my pleasure."

Then came a well-aimed jab in the chest. 

"What the hell was that?" Raven demanded, cheeks flushed pink with agitation.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Charles said quickly, flashing his most charming smile. "I was assisting our friend here. Let me introduce you…"

"Erik," the man said simply. Erik.

"Erik," Charles repeated, trying out how the name tasted on his tongue. "This is my sister, Raven."

She eyed him suspiciously, but extended her hand politely. Erik took it and bowed his head slightly, making Raven flush deeper and look away.

Charles watched with mild amusement. Erik knew how to charm, apparently. Perhaps even better than Charles himself. Though Charles was never particularly adept when it came to women. Or interested. Especially not when standing beside a man as striking as this one.

A wheel cart bumped close and they shifted out of the way.

Apparently, Erik had no luggage apart from his small carry-on. So, they turned directly toward the exit together, Charles pushing the suitcase cart between them.

They didn't speak much. And once outside, with sunlight gleaming against glass and metal and the world stretching wide ahead of them, Charles hesitated, reluctant to let Erik go. He didn't know why, but he was sure that, if they said goodbye now, he would've never seen the man again. 

Charles shaded his too-clear eyes against the sunlight, then turned to Erik. 

"If you've got nowhere else to be," he said, keeping his tone deliberately casual, "Westchester's only about an hour away. There's plenty of space."

Erik blinked at him, his expression unreadable. Raven, standing just behind Charles, sucked in a breath as if preparing to launch a protest. But Charles pressed on, before either of them could say anything.

"You could stay for a week," he added, a little more uncertain now, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. "At least until we get your papers sorted."

It sounded perfectly reasonable in his head. But the moment the words left his mouth, he felt warmth flood his cheeks. He didn't know why it mattered so much to him. 

Erik offered a small, perfunctory smile. "You trust strangers?" he asked in a low voice. As if it were obvious that no one would.

The question took Charles aback. It wasn't the immediate rejection he was expecting. So he smiled back, meeting the other man's startling green-grey eyes. 

"Not usually," he said. "But I tend to listen to my instincts."

And it was true. His animal senses might have been dulled in this form, but they still worked just fine. Cats were good at that. They picked up on things others missed. A glance, a shift in body tension, the tone hidden beneath a word. They understood when someone was pretending to be calm but was actually a breath away from unraveling. And Charles had seen enough men like that in his life to know the difference between a threat and a wound.

Erik, clearly, had wounds. Many. And underneath all that steel there was something that almost felt like loyalty. The man was complex. And clearly had secrets. But if there was one thing Charles was sure of, it was that Erik wouldn't hurt him or his sister. And that was enough for him.

Surprisingly, the man nodded. Even if the motion was wary and controlled.

Charles let out a breath, tension bleeding away from his shoulders. 

He hailed a cab, and within minutes they were sliding inside, their luggage awkwardly crammed into the boot. Raven, muttering something under her breath about strays and bleeding hearts, claimed the front seat. Charles and Erik sat in the back, with an entire seat between them, for which Charles was grateful. Neither spoke.

Outside, New York rolled past in bright flashes and jagged shapes. Billboards, brick buildings, the sprawl of endless movement. Charles let his head fall back against the seat for a moment and closed his eyes. He was back on American soil. And for the first time since he'd left, he wasn't running. He was returning, walking into the past by choice.

Still, something coiled tight in his chest. 

Beyond this city, the mansion waited. Every creaking stair and dark-paneled hallway. The lab where his father died. The basement where Kurt once locked him in for three days without food. The library where Raven once shifted and cried for hours under the desk, unable to change back.

That house knew too many ghosts. And too much silence.

His gaze drifted forward to Raven, visible in the rearview mirror, watching him with quiet worry. She didn't say anything, but he already knew what she wanted to ask him. 

He offered her a small smile. He wasn't yet all right, but if they were able to make new memories in that dreadful place, he was sure he would be. 

✤✤✤

Westchester county, Salem, New York, USA, August 1962

Once they escaped the traffic, the skyline vanished behind them, swallowed by rolling green hills and dense woods. The drive stretched long and silent. Only the car's steady rumble, the low buzz of the radio, and the slow rhythm of breathing filled the quiet.

Erik sat stiffly in the back seat, his posture rigid, giving nothing away. Still on high alert. He didn't trust the man, even though his intervention at the airport had been nothing short of providential. Without him, Erik would've been detained, maybe even deported back to Europe without ceremony. And by the time he returned – if he returned – Schmidt would have long since vanished.

Now, he was likely stuck with two strangers for a week. But he was on American soil, and the man had even offered help with his paperwork. All things considered, it wasn't a bad deal.

Still, he couldn't afford to relax. Whatever this Xavier wanted, Erik would find out soon enough. And if it turned out to be a trap – or some twisted game – he'd walk away. Or fight. He was good at both.

He'd learned long ago how to read people. And there was nothing ordinary about these two. They seemed harmless, yes, but often those were the ones who proved most dangerous.

As he watched the man now, more calmly, a strange sense of recognition stirred in him. He couldn't quite place it. Perhaps something in the scent of him… though the cologne was so strong it irritated his sensitive, canine nose, covering everything else.

Charles sat across from him, upright and composed, eyes on the window. His body tensed incrementally with every passing mile. Occasionally, his gaze moved toward the rear view mirror, then toward Erik. He seemed to have a habit of flicking his index finger in the air in a hypnotic way that was keeping Erik on edge, aware as he always was of everything around him. 

His sister, Raven, sat up front. She fidgeted restlessly, fingers tapping the car door in a rhythm that had no tune. She had greeted Erik with almost icy civility, and hostility simmered just beneath her polished manners.

She reminded Erik of himself, a person who didn't trust easily. But there had been something else in her eyes when Charles offered him shelter, something sharp, almost venomous. As if she already saw him as a threat. As if Erik was... an enemy. 

It was odd to feel so unwelcome in the company of strangers. Even if he knew already that he wasn't a nice person to be around. Yet he didn't feel like he'd said or done anything wrong so far.

Suddenly, Charles broke the hour-long silence. "Sir, take this right, and then two lefts," he said to the driver. 

A few minutes later, the cab turned onto a long, tree-lined road that curled through tall iron gates and along a manicured lawn that stretched as far as the eye could see. At its end stood a grand mansion of stone and ivy. It rose like a fortress, its countless windows gleaming like Argus' eyes. Erik couldn't help but wonder if it was haunted.

The estate was massive. Like nothing he'd ever seen before. And certainly beyond anything he'd ever dared to dream. He turned to Charles, expecting to find smug satisfaction in his expression, but saw none. Charles, too, was looking at the house, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

The cab slowed to a stop. Charles leaned forward, handed the driver two ten-dollar bills, and said softly, "One's for the trouble."

Erik blinked. Twice the fare? But looking at the house again, it made sense. Charles probably didn't think twice about it. He had to be a millionaire, maybe more.

They stepped out into the late afternoon light. The gravel crunched beneath Erik's shoes, as a gust of wind washed over him. The air was cooler here, fresher, and smelled faintly of pine instead of smog. The silence was filled with the sweet chirping of crickets and the rustling of treetops. A world away from the city.

If things were different – if his mission was done – this might've been the kind of place Erik could disappear to. Somewhere untouched, peaceful. A natural heaven, secluded from civilization. 

He retrieved his small bag while the Xaviers unloaded their mountain of luggage. Everything he owned was in that carry-on. Essentials were bought or stolen wherever he ended up. Often left behind the moment he had to run again. He never stayed long enough to grow attached.

What he did keep was precious. His father's diary, and his mother's locket with tiny portraits inside – his parents, his sister, and himself – were the only things that have survived the war with him. Most of their belongings had been lost when they had to leave first the house in Germany and then the one in Poland. And, worse still, when the camp guards had stripped them of the little they had been forced to take with them. 

And then, of course, the maps and intel he'd gathered on Schmidt.

Still, looking at the wealth surrounding him now, Erik couldn't help but wonder, what would his life have looked like if he'd had even a sliver of this fortune? The thought twisted in his gut like a knife.

All of it – the estate, the money, Charles' easy generosity, his calm and measured kindness – made it nearly impossible to pin the man down. At a glance, Charles seemed every bit the privileged heir. But his actions – some obvious, others subtle – told a more complicated story. Someone who carried his pedigree with quiet defiance. Someone who'd stood his ground against a dozen drunk students and never once recoiled, not even in front of a Doberman more than three times bigger.

Damn it! That cat again! 

How had a month passed, and Erik still couldn't get that damn Kätzchen out of his head? After years of single-minded purpose, now he was haunted by a kitten of all things. And worse, he'd started comparing everyone he met to him. 

How desperate could he be?

"Come," Charles said, gesturing toward the steps. "Let me show you inside."

Raven made a noise, like a half-swallowed protest, but followed anyway. Her expression was tight. Erik trailed after them, feeling more like an intruder than a guest, like he was entering a mausoleum uninvited. 

Inside, the mansion was even larger than it looked from the outside. The foyer was high-ceilinged, flanked by marble columns and echoing with their footsteps. A wide staircase curved up in two directions toward the second floor, and the air smelled of lemon oil and old wood. 

Everything was immaculate. Maybe someone had come ahead to prepare it. Or maybe they lived here regularly, though something in the eerie silence and undercurrent of abandonment suggested otherwise.

Erik's eyes scanned over every surface and nook on the walls, decorated with portraits of what he imagined were ancestors. When they passed by the library, he peeked inside, catching sight of bookshelves filled with hardbound volumes, a grand piano near the fireplace, and a sword mounted above the mantle. 

Charles' family was clearly old money.

He didn't belong here. Poor as he'd always been. His father was a civil servant and his mother a homemaker, although from time to time she took care of tailoring work for the wealthy women of the city. And after the War… well, there was nothing left of the Lehnsherr-Eisenhardt. 

The thought struck him hard in the gut, but before he could retreat into it, Charles' voice cut in gently.

"You can choose any of the bedrooms on this floor. I'll be in that one. Raven's across the hall," he said, gesturing toward the end of the corridor.

"Thanks," Erik said. "This one okay?"

He opened the first door on his left. It creaked slightly, revealing a modest, neatly kept room: bed, desk, wardrobe, en suite bathroom. A window overlooking the woods.

"Of course!"

In the meantime, Raven had already disappeared into her room with a curt nod. She wanted distance. Erik didn't blame her. She clearly didn't seem to like him.

"She's not usually this… prickly," Charles offered after a moment, as if reading his thoughts. "She just doesn't like surprises."

"I don't either," Erik said.

A brief, knowing smile passed between them. And for a heartbeat, Erik felt… less alone. Chasing the thought away, he stepped inside and set his bag down. The room smelled of lavender and dust. Clean, but clearly unused for a long time.

"You can rest. Or explore. Whatever you prefer," Charles said from the doorway. "There's food in the kitchen. I'll give you the full tour tomorrow, if you'd like."

Erik nodded.

Charles lingered. His gaze flicked across the room, then returned to Erik. "If you need anything, I'll be in my study. Ground floor. First door on the left."

Another nod. Then, with a gentle "welcome," that actually warmed Erik's heart, Charles stepped out and pulled the door softly closed behind him.

For a long moment, Erik stood there, unmoving, still basking in the softness that poured from Charles and touched everyone around him. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and pressed his hands together, elbows on his knees. He wasn't used to this. A clean room with hot water, a soft bed, nature singing all around him instead of sirens, shoutings or the sound of boots pounding down corridors.

He lay back anyway, staring at the ceiling. His body felt heavy, still coiling tight, ready for its next fight. He wasn't yet sure if this was Eden or a well-built trap, but either way, he wouldn't stay long. He'd take what he needed and disappear.

But the thought of leaving left an ache in his chest. In just a few hours, Charles had shown him more warmth than anyone had in a lifetime. That flicker of connection – of the possibility of it – was enough to stir something long buried.

He'd felt it once before. At Oxford, with the kitten. And now he regretted having left him behind every single day. 

It'd been then that, for the first time in a long long time, Erik had felt the desire to get close to someone else. And as much as he'd tried to push it away, in the weeks that had followed that fateful meeting, the feeling had only grown. The agonizing sense of loneliness closed his throat every night, making him choke on his own breaths, while memories of happier times and tears piled like lead on his heart.

And now that he'd met Charles – charming, kind and attractive – Erik could no longer escape that longing, heavier than it ever had been before. Even when he was in the camps. 

Back then, he'd lost every hope of making out alive, of course he couldn't worry about nonsense like friendship or his damned demons that seemed to follow him everywhere as shadows.

Afterward, he'd cut people out of his life like tumors. It had kept him alive. But now, that same old yearning returned. Stronger than ever, almost in a vindictive way. A voice whispering that maybe… he didn't want to be alone anymore.

He turned his face to the window, though his mind was elsewhere, fixed on the last moments before his mother died. She'd been smiling, murmuring words of comfort to him like she wasn't the one with a gun pointed to her head. 

"Alles ist gut, Erik," she had whispered, again and again, until the gun fired and she fell lifeless to the floor.

She would've loved this place. She would've adored Charles. 

And once again, Erik wondered what the hell he was doing here, feeling like an impostor in someone else's life. Even if it was only for a week.

He shut his eyes, trying to quiet the storm in his head. And before he even noticed, sleep took him. No nightmares came this time. Only a dream of a small kitten, its eyes as blue as the ocean, purring gently as it curled up in the crook of his neck.

Chapter Text

When Charles woke up the day after, he felt for a moment as if he was stuck in a bad dream, one of those lingering, suffocating ones that clings to your skin even after you're awake. 

He recognised almost immediately the familiar features of his bedroom at the mansion. The tall, arched windows that filtered pale morning light through gauzy curtains; the polished oak furniture and the dark blues of his walls. His heart stopped dead for a moment when he understood where he was.

A wave of cold panic washed over him. He scrambled out of bed, the sheets tangling around his legs as he staggered upright, hands trembling furiously. His eyes darted across the room, half-wild, searching for shadows that weren't there. His breath hitched as he stood frozen, every muscle in his body coiled, alert.

Then a dull thud echoed from the corridor outside. Nothing violent, probably just a door closing. But it might as well have been a thunderclap. His instincts kicked in, and without a second thought, he shifted into his cat form and darted under the bed. His hackles rose, stiff and bristling. In the shadows, his long, fluffy tail banged rhythmically against the wood floor, like a frustrated metronome of fear.

The silence returned. Sheltered by darkness, he allowed his other senses to unfurl. His nose twitched, as the scents of the house, now heightened, washed over him. He catalogued them like a careful archivist: familiar, unfamiliar; safe, dangerous. Only then did the realization begin to sink in. 

Yes, he was back at the mansion. But the demons that once haunted this place were truly gone now.

And yet, it still took him nearly half an hour before he found the courage to slink out from beneath the bed. Limbs stiff from tension and breath shallow. Eventually, he shifted back into human form, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

In that liminal half-hour, the events of the past twenty-four hours had returned in chaotic, patchwork flashes. And he spent the time composing a list in his head of what needed to be done.

Number one: get dressed. 

The day before, he hadn't had the chance to unpack properly. His bags still lay scattered in the corner where he'd left them. Only one suitcase had been opened, the one containing his essentials. The rest, he suspected, would take the better part of the week to sort through. As it would take just as long, if not longer, to reacclimate to life in Westchester. 

For now, he took his sweet time getting ready, deliberately slow in his movements, more to delay the inevitable than anything else. He wasn't quite ready to face his guest just yet.

Number two: attempt breakfast (while trying to prevent an attempt on someone's life).

As Charles left his room, a dry smile tugged at his mouth. He was toying with the idea of cooking breakfast for himself, Raven, and their guest. Even though he was, by all accounts, a terrible, hopeless cook. Still, he couldn't let Erik go without something edible, especially since the man had skipped dinner the night before.

When Charles had gone to call him – warn him, really – about Raven's haphazard culinary attempt, he'd found Erik already asleep. Fully dressed, sprawled on the bed, snoring softly. He hadn't had the heart to wake him. The flight from Europe must have worn him down. The drawn lines on his face had made him look like he hadn't slept in weeks.

He padded quietly down the hallway, feeling like an intruder in his own home. A habit of sneaking around he had acquired over time to avoid the attention of Kurt or Cain. As he passed familiar paintings on the walls – dusty with disuse, just like the mansion itself – he heaved a sigh of relief. They were gone. He just needed to convince himself of it.

The clink of metal reached him before he reached the kitchen. Then the smell of fried eggs, cheese, and the faint tang of toasted bread. The kitchen, long cold and silent, had come back to life.

Erik stood at the stove, tall and oddly at ease, a wood spoon in one hand as he stirred something in a pan. He wore a black sleeveless polo and khakis that clung to him in a way that made Charles want to look away and not at all. A kettle babbled on another burner. He hadn't noticed Charles yet, too focused on his tak. There was a quiet purpose to the way he moved, like everything he did had weight behind it.

Charles paused in the doorway, suddenly unsure whether to interrupt or retreat. Damn it, it was his house. But Erik fit here better than he ever had.

Whatever Charles had been expecting from him, it hadn't been this. Not Erik making breakfast in his kitchen, not this glimpse of something relaxed, almost domestic. If he'd found Erik inappropriately attractive before, now he was dancing the edges of decency trying to tamp down the sudden flare of desire.

"Good morning," Charles said at last, voice still scratchy with sleep.

Erik tensed and looked over his shoulder. His eyes met Charles', unreadable for a long moment, before he gave a curt nod.

"Morning," he replied, almost shyly. "I hope you don't mind. I figured I could make something to– to thank you. For the hospitality."

Charles huffed a soft laugh and stepped fully inside. "I should say you shouldn't have bothered," he said. "But I'm grateful you did. The alternative would've been an attempt on your life."

Erik didn't smile, but his eyes glinted with faint amusement. "Then I may have just saved us all."

Charles chuckled and leaned against the sink, arms loosely crossed. He watched Erik cook, hoping he wouldn't mind the scrutiny. There was something disarming about it, this scene. It didn't align with the cold, formidable man he'd met yesterday.

As Erik reached to turn off the stove, Charles caught sight of the numbers tattooed on his forearm, a dark smear of ink against pale skin. It struck him for a second. He knew what they meant, he'd heard the stories back in England, seen similar marks on a colleague at Oxford. But seeing them on Erik made his skin crawl. 

Maybe it was because Erik looked so young, despite the permanent strain on his face. Or maybe it was because since the moment they met, Charles had smelled a grief in him so vast, it seemed to bleed into everything he said and did. And now, he had an explanation as to why.

Part of him felt the strange, rare urge to curl up on him and purr right above his heart. It was something he'd only ever felt with Raven, usually after her nightmares, when neither of them could quite fall back asleep. It was something extremely intimate for Charles, that implied his complete trust in the other person. And not something he ever offered lightly. And yet. 

Before Erik could catch him staring and misconstrue the reason, Raven burst in, as grumpy as ever and still in her pajamas. She stopped short, taking in the scene with a scowl.

Erik had tensed upon her arrival, and she shot him a look of thinly veiled contempt. The day before, she'd refused to talk about their unexpected guest at all, knowing full well that, by preventing Charles from talking things through, she would've only made him feel even more guilty. 

"I wasn't expecting to find the kitchen still intact this morning," she said flatly.

"Good morning to you too, sister dear," Charles muttered. He glanced at her, unimpressed, as she stuck out her tongue. He should've been grateful she hadn't flipped him off in front of a guest.

Erik arched an eyebrow. "Apparently, neither of you are capable."

Charles shrugged, brushing off the comment, though a small part of him winced. He defaulted to the polished, vaguely condescending tone he'd inherited from his mother. "The last time I tried, I nearly burned the place down. The cook banned me from the kitchen after that."

Raven rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. "He's always been an idiot."

Charles noticed the flicker in Erik's expression, half envy, half disgust. It wasn't new. People often reacted that way. Charles had long since stopped apologizing for his wealth; it had never protected him from violence or made his pain any less real. But that didn't mean he was blind to what others saw: the mansion, the name, the money. Nothing else. 

He wasn't oblivious, nor ungrateful. He knew he was lucky. But that had never stopped him from empathizing with those who weren't. He'd never been the sort to hide behind privilege and pretend not to see.

As Erik poured hot water into three cups, Charles and Raven set the table and plated the food. They sat down together and ate in a silence that, to Charles' surprise, felt comfortable.

Between the soft clink of forks and the near-silent act of eating, Charles found himself struggling with the quiet. It wasn't that he couldn't appreciate silence – quite the contrary – but in this house, silence carried ghosts. And Charles had long ago made it his job to keep them at bay.

He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat lightly. "So, Erik. You're from Europe, right?"

The man looked up, visibly startled, tension returning to his posture as he gripped his cutlery a little too tightly. "Yes."

Disappointing. Charles had been hoping for a fuller answer, perhaps even a scrap of openness, but Erik seemed pretty closed-off. Still, Charles had always been too curious – and too stubborn – to be discouraged so easily.

"Anywhere in particular?" he tried again with a kind smile. 

"Germany," Erik muttered, his tone clipped, his eyes already drifting back to his plate as if that closed the subject.

Charles nodded as if the word didn't press a thousand other questions against the back of his teeth, resisting the urge to sigh. "I spent years in England," he said instead, feigning lightness. "Actually, we've just come back from Oxford."

At that, Erik made a sound somewhere between a choke and a cough. His gaze flickered up, just briefly, and he took a long sip of coffee. He suddenly seemed nervous. Something about that reaction stuck with Charles. Had he been to Oxford too?  

Encouraged – or perhaps just unable to stop himself – Charles pressed on. "And have you been to the States before? Or is this your first time?"

"First," Erik replied, terser than before.

From across the table, Raven looked up and raised a dry eyebrow. Charles ignored her. He knew perfectly well he was being pushy. But there was something about Erik that kept pulling him in. Charles had already deduced plenty from the tattoo on his arm, and a combination of other things he'd said and done in the few hours of their acquaintance. But it wasn't enough. He wanted to understand him entirely. To know everything about him. 

And there was something else, too: the nagging feeling that they'd met before. It did nothing but encourage him further.  

Charles kept smiling, and trailed a fingertip along the rim of his teacup. "Well, I hope the welcome hasn't been entirely unpleasant."

Erik didn't answer right away. He chewed slowly, with the sullen expression of someone already dreading the day ahead, then finally muttered, "It's... fine."

The polite finality in his voice should have told Charles to stop. His mother's withering stare flashed in his mind, the kind that used to reduce him to silence and shame in an instant. He knew better. But he kept going anyway.

"And before you arrived," he continued, with a bit of hesitance in his voice, "where were you living, exactly?"

"A few places."

There it was again, that unmistakable look in Erik's eyes. A quiet, wordless "please stop." Charles could very well see it, even if it was covered under layer after layer of well-constructed annoyance. It wasn't something born of irritation, but from a place of vulnerability, of hiding. Erik was protecting himself, because he didn't trust Charles enough to tell him his story, even if he maybe wanted to. 

He was like an abused dog who struggled to trust its new owners, but deep down it just wanted to be loved by them. Skittish, guarded, and yet deeply hungry for a kindness he no longer trusted.

When they were children, Raven used to call him a "mind reader." She meant it playfully, but she hadn't been far off. Charles had always been good at understanding people. 

"Not fond of settling, then?" he asked gently.

"I don't settle."

Ah. Now, there it was. A wall, firm and unapologetic. 

But Charles didn't believe it for a second. He remembered how Erik had looked around the mansion when they'd arrived, like someone seeing the spectre of a life he'd once imagined but never had. Longing and want clear in his gaze. 

He gave a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and reached for his cup, basking in the comforting warmth of his tea. Silence curling around them again, like a too thick blanket. 

Raven stood, having finished her toast, and – praise Heaven – actually placed her crockery in the sink. She even took theirs with her. Small miracles. She didn't say a word as she left, just flicked another eyebrow at Charles that said, "don't be an idiot."

Once alone, Charles glanced across the table and watched Erik closely. He noticed the way Erik tensed at every small sound; not like someone afraid, but like someone perpetually scanning the room for danger. And he didn't quite relax around Charles, either. His eyes kept flicking over to him, as if trying to measure him, focusing on the small movements Charles unconsciously did with his hands. 

"I'm sorry," Charles said at last, his voice softening. "I tend to talk too much when I'm nervous."

Erik turned to him, surprise flickering across his face. "Why would you be nervous?"

Charles gave a sheepish smile. "It's not every day I lie to the federal government on someone else's behalf."

That, at least, earned him a real response: a twitch at the corner of Erik's mouth. Not quite a smile. But closer than anything so far. Charles resisted the ridiculous urge to grin back like a schoolboy. God, he's probably even more beautiful when he smiles. 

He looked away, taking a calming sip of tea.

He shook his head before memories of that fucking Dobermann remerged and set his cup down with a sigh. 

"Which, unfortunately," he said with a sigh, "brings us to the business part of the morning."

Number three: find a way to get Erik's papers. 

Erik stiffened visibly, if that was even possible for how coiled he already was. He was like a man bracing for a bomb to drop on his head, or, worse, someone expecting to be betrayed. And somehow, the lack of trust hurt Charles, even though he was coming from a stranger who had every right to be this guarded.

"You'll need proper documents," Charles said, tone matter-of-fact now. "Identification, a work permit at the very least. I managed to talk our way through customs, but I doubt I can bluff my way through the next layer of bureaucracy."

Erik said nothing, but the way his body was fully angled toward Charles told him that he was listening attentively. So he went on, drummed his fingers lightly against the rim of his cup. 

"Ordinarily, you'd need a sponsor and a formal work contract. A real one. Plus clearance from Immigration, which, in nineteen-sixty-two, I regret to say, is still… wildly inefficient and deeply suspicious of anyone not born on this side of the Atlantic."

Erik raised an eyebrow in amusement, as an European he must be appalled by how America worked. Or rather, how it didn't. 

Charles smiled faintly. "Yes, you may laugh. It's deserved."

He pushed the cup back and forth with one paw– with one hand. "We'll need an academic record. Fake if that's an issue," Charles went on. "Something that makes you look useful enough to justify your presence here. I'll forge the institute letterhead and draft the research proposal. And there's an affidavit of support I'll need to sign, to say I'm personally vouching for you."

It was a heavy responsibility, the one that he was taking, something not to be done lightly. Falsification of documents was a federal crime that was worth at least five years in prison. Not to mention the consequences it would have had on a personal and professional level. And Erik would've been deported. 

Oddly enough, he found himself willing to take the risk for Erik.

He was already mapping out the letter in his mind when Erik leaned forward and gently laid a hand over his. The point of contact burning hot and making him blush. "Charles," he said quietly. "It's a big risk. I... I'll understand if you want out."

Charles looked at him, at the guarded eyes, the scars buried deep. Then he smiled and placed his other hand on top of Erik's, a warm squeeze of reassurance. "It's alright, my friend."

He'd already made his choice.

"Congratulations," he added with a dry smile to ease the tension. "You're now a poorly paid private researcher on rare genetic anomalies."

Erik's lips twitched again, just a hint, but something like warmth flickered in his eyes. Then, after a long pause, he looked Charles straight in the eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, genuinely, voice touched with something that might have been awe.

Charles stood, placing his teacup down in the sink, and rested a hand on Erik's shoulder as he passed. 

"Come find me in the study," he said. "We've got a bit of forgery to do."

✤✤✤

Charles' study was gracious. Comfortable, even. A fireplace stood along one wall, flanked by large windows that overlooked a vast rose garden. Light filtered in, softening the dark tones of the furniture and countering the claustrophobia imposed by shelves crammed with books.

Two armchairs and a sofa – plush enough to sleep on – sat facing the unlit hearth. Between them rested a coffee table, and on it, an expensive chess set that made Erik's fingers twitch with the urge to touch the wooden and metal pieces. He hadn't played in years, and now, confronted with it, he missed it desperately.

He wondered if Charles knew how to play. And whether he would be a worthy opponent.

The desk in the middle of the room was large and meticulously organized; at least until Charles touched it. Within moments, it transformed into controlled chaos. Apparently, he wasn't as tidy as he first appeared. And he realized that something about the room felt too austere, at odds with Charles himself. 

The reason became clear soon enough. 

"It was my father's study," Charles had explained when he noticed Erik looking around. "No one touched anything after he died. A long time ago."

Now Erik sat rigidly in front of that same desk, on a chair that reeked too much of old leather for his sensitive nose. Across from him, Charles was hunched over a piece of paper, sleeves rolled to the elbow, pale forearms exposed, brow furrowed in concentration.

"All right," Charles murmured, tapping a pen against his chin. "Let's start simple. I need your full name."

That part was easy. "Erik Magnus Lensherr," he said quietly. 

Charles studied him for a long moment, index finger twitching like a cat's tail; a gesture Erik had already noticed he used often, and that always distracted him. It seemed that Charles was searching Erik's face for the lie, unwilling to continue until he was satisfied.

So Erik exhaled through his nose and admitted, "It's a false name."

Charles hummed thoughtfully, like he was fitting puzzle pieces together in hope that they would create a truthful image of Erik. "Is it?"

"The original was lost a long time ago."

Charles didn't press further, for which Erik was grateful. He didn't want to revisit those memories, not of his family, nor of the camps, nor the people who once shared his real name. When he'd fled Schmidt, he'd chosen a new one, keeping Lensherr in honour of his mother. His hands, already tight on his thighs, curled into fists to stop the unease rising in his chest.

"Date of birth?" 

"January thirtieth, nineteen-thirty-two." 

Charles paused mid-scribble, blinked, then looked up. "That makes you hardly older than me…"

The expression that passed over his face was hard to define. Not pity… something deeper, more personal. As though he knew something about Erik that Erik himself did not. It was maddening not being able to read him. Erik was usually a good judge of character, but Charles defied his instincts. Most of the time, he was all control and polish. But when surprised, he became raw and open; and still, somehow, remained a mystery.

After a beat, Charles cleared his throat and reached for a folder of blank forms. "We'll need a place of birth. Something… inconspicuous."

"I was born in Düsseldorf, but–"

"That might raise questions," Charles finished for him.

Erik shrugged. "That's what my passport says."

Charles gave a low chuckle and glanced back at the form. "Well, we certainly can't lie about it," he muttered, amused, as he jotted the answer down.

"You'll need a degree of some kind," Charles continued. "We could go with biology, but that might be risky if someone tries to test your knowledge."

"Physics," Erik said before thinking.

As a child, he'd dreamt of studying it at university. The little he'd learned – before he was no longer allowed to attend school – had fascinated him. Physics had rules, structure. In a world ruled by cruelty and chaos, it was absolute and certain. It didn't care about race or religion, but applied to everyone. He'd always been drawn especially to magnetism, the invisible force that pulled bodies toward each other, even across distance. A force strong enough to alter everything it touched.

He'd never said it aloud, but to him, it had always sounded a little like love.

"Really?" Charles asked, without even trying to hide his curiosity.

Erik shrugged. "I studied it. A long time ago."

Erik had studied it alone, stealing books from public libraries, spending nights scribbling notes, solving equations. When he could – taking a break from his quest or to release tension when he reached a dead end – he'd sneak into university lectures, blending in with students who had the luxury of formal education. He had never even finished primary school.

That detail seemed to intrigue Charles. His posture shifted slightly, leaning in with genuine interest. "At university?"

"No." Erik looked away, ashamed. "I didn't get that far."

He didn't want Charles' pity. Charles, who had surely studied at the most prestigious institutions–

Oxford. 

Charles had said before that he'd spent a long time in Oxford, what if he… Erik shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as the possibility that… fleshed through his mind, now restless to find out more. 

"If you can hold your ground in physics without a degree," Charles said gently, "I'd have nothing but respect for you."

There was no condescension in his tone, only honest admiration and quiet respect. Had he been in canine form, Erik might have found it difficult to resist the urge to roll over at Charles' inviting praise. That was the effect Charles had. His voice was silk, his kindness like spring sunlight or the warm embrace of a mother.

"Please, Charles," Erik scoffed. "You've gone to Oxford!"

Charles laughed, shaking his head, loose curls falling into his face. "And here's all I have to show for it." He gestured toward an open cardboard box in the corner, labeled thesis in black marker.

Still smiling, he returned to his paperwork. 

Silence fell. Erik's grip tightened on the arms of the chair. His eyes drifted restlessly around the room, unable to settle. He didn't want Charles to see how on edge he was. So he stood, wandered to the box, and peered inside without touching anything.

"You can read them," Charles offered without looking up, catching him off guard. "Get a sense of what I do. In case anyone asks."

Erik hesitated, then pulled the top thesis from the pile. Its blue cover was pristine, stiff beneath his fingers. He turned it over and read the title.

Oxford University Thesis, by Charles Xavier: Human Genetic Mutation and the Theory of Shifting – How Humans Interacted with Animals Throughout Evolution.

He froze. 

The words blazed on the page, almost mocking in their golden clarity. His breath hitched and he felt as if the entire world was being shifted on its axis. In the back of his mind a cruel voice was laughing at him. He'd allowed himself to trust this man against his better judgement and here he was, betrayed. Idiot. 

Charles was a scientist. And he studied Shifters. 

His grip tightened painfully, as he found it hard to swallow properly. The air felt thinner, now pregnant with the overwhelming scent of antiseptic and burning chemicals. For a moment, he wasn't in Charles' study anymore. He was back in the lab. Back in the grey corridors that stank of death and ammonia. A pup again, strapped to a cold metal table, whimpering beneath blinding lights. The glint of surgical steel. A gloved hand tightening restraints. The electric hum of something waiting to hurt him.

What if Charles was like Herr Doktor?

The thought was so appalling that it suffocated him, as his mind went down spiraling. Did Charles know about him? Was this why Charles had been so kind? So curious? Had he been already cataloguing him? Studying him? 

His heart pounded loudly in his ears, as panic crawled up his spine. He took a staggering step back. Someone – Charles – was saying something behind him, but Erik couldn't hear him, too caught up inside his own mind and fears and memories and terror and–

Had he been tricked again?

But no – no – Charles had been kind. Genuinely kind. In a way Erik hadn't felt in years. Decades, even. But how could he know it was real? He didn't know this man. Not truly. He was going on instinct, and what if he was wrong? 

Herr Doktor had said he wanted to help him the first time, that he would've found his Mama and brought her back to him. He'd been kind, too. Only once Erik had trusted him he'd turned into a monster. Like the ones they warn the children to stay away from. 

A wave of nausea twisted through him. The walls of the study seemed to blur, melting into those sterile, inhuman corridors. He couldn't tell what was real anymore. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He was stuck there and he was sure he was about to die. 

And just when his vision was going black from lack of oxygen, a warm, solid hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice, soft as honey, touched his ears. 

"Erik? Are you all right?" 

Soft purrs filled the air, the vibrations seeped into his bones. It was like being surrounded by dozens of cats; he distantly considered if he was still hallucinating. And slowly, focusing on his breathing, and Charles' grounding hand and the purrs, Erik began to calm down. 

Charles stood beside him. His eyes impossibly blue, his expression calm but full of quiet concern. He offered a small smile, soft enough to feel like a blanket draped around Erik's shoulders.

"What happened?" he asked again, voice barely above a whisper. As if afraid of startling him further.

"I– I remember– I thought–" Erik stammered, incapable of coming up with a valid excuse for his behaviour. 

He didn't know what he believed anymore. Didn't know if he should've run and disappeared or waited for the papers and walked away for good, leaving Charles and his soft voice and everything he represented behind.

Charles didn't push. He simply gave Erik's shoulder a gentle squeeze, then bent down to pick up the thesis Erik had dropped and returned it to the box. Then he turned and sat down again as if nothing had happened.

"I'll have the papers ready by tomorrow," he said, his tone unchanged. "Thank you for your time. If you'd like, you can rest now."

And Erik, too stunned to speak, complied.

Chapter Text

The city was always louder than Westchester or Oxford. It wasn't just the noise – though the endless churn of traffic and impatient honking made his head ache – but also the sheer density of people. 

It was too crowded with people and tourists, too trafficked and too chaotic. Just… too much.

Charles had never liked leaving the quiet sanctuary of the estate for New York. But that morning, he had an interview with the head of Columbia's Department of Genetics. So he'd taken one of his father's old cars – an overpriced machine he barely knew how to operate – and endured the hour-long crawl into Manhattan. He didn't even like driving, and was honestly terrible at it.

The interview had gone well. At least, he thought it had.

They had asked the usual questions about his field, his theories, the ethical applications of his research, the awards and publications he'd racked up during his Oxford years. There had been the usual raised eyebrows when he'd brought up his work on Shifters, but also flickers of interest. One professor had even taken notes.

On paper, at least, he was a strong candidate. His academic record spoke for itself, and his references were unimpeachable.

But even as he shook hands and offered polite smiles, Charles couldn't ignore a gnawing hollowness in his chest. 

A teaching position? Was that really all he wanted?

It wasn't that he thought himself too good for Columbia. Hardly. But standing before those old professors – potential colleagues – all he could think was: Is this it? Was this how he would use everything he'd learned? Teaching Genetics 101 to undergraduates who would forget him by midterms? It felt like a step sideways. Maybe even backward.

There was still so much he could – should – do for his kind.

On the drive back, his thoughts circled again to the Dobermann he'd encountered in Oxford. The first Shifter he'd ever met outside of Raven or himself. He should've gone after him that night, should've asked his name. 

It probably wouldn't have changed anything. And yet… maybe it could have. At the very least, Charles wouldn't have to carry the regret of having let one of his own walk away. Without even trying to make a connection.

The worst part was that he couldn't even say what he'd hoped to gain. A friend? An ally? Proof that he wasn't imagining a future where Shifters could stand side by side?

But of course, he hadn't stopped him. And now the trail was gone.

And there was Erik.

The memory of how he'd reacted when he saw the thesis still hovered in Charles' mind, unwilling to fade. One second he'd been curious, the next he completely shut down, eyes vacant with panic, and body frozen like prey caught in a trap. And the stench – Charles could still remember it – primal, animalistic feral.

But what exactly had set him off? Something to do with the Shifters, that much was obvious. Was it the idea of Shifters that terrified him… or the fact that he knew one?

Charles tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, tension coiling in his gut. Could Erik be…? The thought came reluctantly, as if even his mind didn't want to finish it. Could Erik be one of us?

It was impossible. But if he was, no wonder he panicked. To see that thesis, in the home of a stranger, and assume– God, what must he think of me?

Charles winced. He should've said something. Told him the truth, that he was a Shifter, and Raven was too. That this was their home, not a lab. A bad idea actually, but the guilt wasn't letting him think straight.

He only hoped Erik was still at the estate. That he hadn't run away.

Please still be there, Charles thought as the trees of Westchester began to rise around him again. Please let me explain. Please let me find out who you really are.

The morning before, there had been a moment when Charles had truly believed a friendship might blossom between them – it didn't help that the real reason behind it all was likely the overwhelming crush Charles was quietly nursing for his guest – and to throw it all away over a silly misunderstanding…

Yes, he had to find Erik and set things right, before it was too late. And if Erik was like him, then maybe Charles had been given a second chance, a chance to do what he hadn't done with the Dobermann in Oxford.

However, as Charles turned onto the long, winding drive leading up to the estate, he spotted a figure standing near the gates. The closer he got, the clearer the silhouette became.

A woman stood there; shoulder-length auburn hair, perfect posture, and dressed in crisp, formal attire. She looked like someone here strictly on business. She tapped her heels impatiently against the gravel, glancing around now and then before peering through the iron bars of the gate.

Charles slowed the car and pulled up beside her just as she reached for the buzzer again. He rolled down the window and leaned out.

"It's broken," he said.

The woman jumped and turned sharply toward him. "I'm sorry," he added quickly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She was strikingly pretty, in her mid-thirties, slender and poised. Her sharp brown eyes scanned him with calculation, missing nothing. There was a restrained confidence in the way she moved, that suggested she was the kind of woman who could've walked into a room full of secrets and left with answers no one meant to give.

She studied him warily, then glanced at the car, and finally toward the house. "I'm looking for a Professor Charles Xavier?" she said, her tone questioning, but still brisk and professional. "I was told he lived here."

Charles stiffened slightly, suddenly more alert. It was… convenient. Too convenient. Just days after his return to America, a woman who looked very much like a federal Agent turned up on his doorstep asking for him. Especially given the lie he'd told at the airport, and what he was planning to do to help Erik.

He considered turning her away immediately. But that would be rude. And leaving her outside the gates sent the wrong message, especially if she was who he suspected.

"In person," he said pleasantly, offering his most charming smile, playing all of his better cards. "If you like, you can ride up with me and we'll talk over a cup of tea."

She didn't answer right away. Though her expression remained composed, a small twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her inner hesitation. Charles stepped out of the car and began opening the gates himself, still smiling with practiced ease.

After a moment, she set her mind. Probably deciding he wasn't a threat, she circled the car and slid into the passenger seat.

"Moira MacTaggert," she said, extending a slender, impeccably manicured hand when he returned inside.

"Charles Xavier," he replied, taking it with a mild smile.

The drive to the mansion passed in near-total silence. Miss MacTaggert seemed more taken with the sweeping estate than with making conversation. Her gaze lingered on the old oaks and stone walls with a kind of quiet scrutiny.

He parked by the main entrance and stepped out first, circling around to open her door. She gave him a brief nod, formal, almost curt, before following him up the wide stone steps.

At the threshold, Charles hesitated, glancing instinctively toward the woods. Raven had vanished into the trees that morning, into what they'd agreed would be her safe space. They were speaking again, finally. Now that she was allowed to shift, burn off energy, be herself… as long as she stayed hidden, far from Erik's gaze. 

The front door groaned open under his hand. Charles gestured politely. "After you, Miss MacTaggert."

She paused at the threshold, her posture wary. Her eyes swept the grand foyer like she expected an ambush. Then, stiffly, she stepped inside.

Only when Charles shut the door behind them did he notice the cause of her unease. Erik stood at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, eyes cold, watching her the way a wolf watches a hunter.

"Hello, my friend," Charles said lightly, feigning obliviousness. "I'll be in the sitting room with Miss MacTaggert. Come find me if you need anything."

He could only imagine what Erik thought, that Charles had betrayed him despite his promise to help, that this woman was here for him. Perhaps Erik believed the government had finally come knocking. Or that Miss MacTaggert was here to study him. Charles cursed himself for not having spoken to him after yesterday, before going to his interview. But there'd been no time to explain.

"Please," he said, guiding the woman down the hall, "this way."

They passed through tall double doors into the sitting room, where warm wood paneling and soft upholstery glowed in the afternoon light. Sunlight streamed through high windows, drawing long shadows on the carpet.

Miss MacTaggert remained standing near the unlit fireplace, not yet sitting. She looked ready to flee, or fight.

Charles started toward the kitchen, pausing to look back at her. "I'll just prepare some tea–"

"Please, Dr. Xavier," she interrupted, voice firm, "I'd rather we speak first."

Surprised, he turned back and took a seat, his expression thoughtful. Something urgent, then. Maybe even dangerous. Was she bringing trouble? Had he really been found out that easily? If they'd uncovered his bluff at the airport...

She sat across from him, her spine straight, hands tightly folded. Just as he began to focus on her, Charles sensed something – someone – just beyond the door. Erik. Silent as a shadow, but unmistakably him. He hadn't even heard him coming, despite the enhanced hearing. What had given him away was the smell. A sour, sharp tang that clung to the air. Like… wet dog?

Charles blinked. What was a dog doing–? And why did Erik smelt like–? 

His thoughts were cut off by Miss MacTaggert's voice. "Dr. Xavier," she said. "I read your thesis."

Oh. Not what he expected.

But it was comforting to know he wasn't about to be arrested by a federal Agent. So he decided he would've gone with it, and see what the woman was looking for. 

"Did you?"

She nodded, clipped and direct. "Yes. And I'm here on business," she continued. "I really need your help." 

His curiosity stirred. She had his attention now. He leaned forward slightly, idly tracing patterns on the chair arm.

From the hallway, the acrid scent of Erik's tension thickened with fear. And Charles… part of him wanted to send him away, afraid that whatever he was about to discuss with Miss MacTaggert could've been misinterpreted and be a cause of harm. But Miss MacTaggert was already speaking again.

"The kind of mutations that you were talking about in your thesis," she said, her voice dipping low, serious now. "I need to know if they may have already happened, in people… Shifters alive today." 

Charles stilled, every muscle frozen in place. His fingers, which had been still absentmindedly tracing patterns into the armrest, halted mid-circle. Only his pupils moved, dilating slightly.

From beyond the wooden door, another spike of fear seeped inside, making Charles' nostrils flare. Erik seemed even more alarmed now, and Charles thought he knew him enough to be certain to a fault that Erik was about to do something reckless. He seemed the type. 

But Charles had other concerns, too. From the way Miss MacTaggert had spoken, he had had the impression that she was asking just to have a confirmation of what she already knew. That she'd seen – possibly experienced it up close – someone shifting. And she seemed terrified by it. Even if she was masking it well. 

There was no other way she could have spoken with that kind of clarity and dread otherwise. 

So what was she doing here? Who was she really? And how much did she know?

Charles' fingers resumed their idle motion, but this time slower. A small, unconscious kneading of the fabric beneath his fingers. Like claws working a favored spot. His tailbone twitched with tension he couldn't express, his weight subtly shifting forward in the chair. He was beginning to pace internally, that restless, caged energy curling at the edges of his control.

His voice, when it came, was still soft but edged. "I'm sorry, Miss MacTaggert." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous sweep that didn't quite conceal the bristle beneath his skin. "I think I've lost a step or two. Who are you?"

She leaned back a fraction, enough to suggest she sensed the change in him. Her eyes darted away, never fully meeting his now-sharpened gaze.

"I work for the CIA," she said at last. The admission was quiet but firm.

Charles arched his brows slowly. A dull pressure built in his jaw from how tightly he was holding it shut. A CIA Agent. In his sitting room. Investigating Shifters. He didn't like this. He didn't like it at all. 

"And, pray tell," Charles said, his voice silk-lined steel, cooler than he'd meant. "What does the CIA want from me?"

Moira didn't flinch, but she shifted slightly in her seat, her spine straightening as her gaze turned defensive and calculating all at once. "I thought you were the expert on Shifters," she replied, tone edged now, probing him in return.

"I am," he said smoothly, though the tip of his tongue flicked briefly across his bottom lip in a cleansing gesture, barely noticeable, but distinctly feline. "But I don't understand why the CIA suddenly cares."

She hesitated just for a heartbeat. Then the mask slipped.

"Listen, Dr Xavier, I will be honest to you," her voice came rough now, thinner at the edges. "I'm working almost entirely on my own at this point. No backup, no official files, no superiors who even believe me."

Charles blinked slowly. He could feel her tension circling her like a scent-cloud. The adrenaline in the room was unmistakable, so dense it hit the roof of his mouth like an unwelcome taste.

"How so?"

"I was undercover. Embedded in a large-scale criminal operation, headed by a man called Sebastian Shaw," she confessed. 

Miss MacTaggert seemed like a very tenacious and professional woman. Perhaps even ambitious, but at least determined enough to always achieve her goals. To see defeat settling on her like a death sentence was disheartening even for him, a complete stranger. 

Charles tilted his head in the most minute of motions. He'd never heard that name, but he must've had confusion written all over his face, because Miss MacTaggert was quick to clarify. "It's an alias. In Nazi Germany, he was known as Klaus Schmidt."

"I'm sorry," he admitted. "It still doesn't ring any bells."

But from beyond the closed door, Charles felt something changing again. Erik's – because it must've been his – scent slammed into Charles like a wall of smoke, pungent with fury and unmistakable notes of sheer terror. 

And then his ears caught something that didn't make sense. A low sound, nearly inaudible for human hearing, that vibrated faintly through the floorboards. A growl barely suppressed, but not quite human. His ears strained, as he leaned almost imperceptibly toward the sound, head cocking slightly in that way that made strangers uncomfortable. A twitch passed through his jaw. It'd been something almost canine . Like a big dog. A German Shepherd? A… Dobermann? No, that was absurd. Erik wasn't–

"Dr. Xavier," Miss MacTaggert interrupted his thoughts, and her voice trembled with exhaustion. "I saw them. Shaw and his people. They shifted into… into animals. They almost killed a man, a Colonel. I– I saw it with my own eyes."

Charles leaned back slowly into his chair, limbs still loose, deceptively casual. He looked at her again: crisp blouse now slightly wrinkled, knuckles pale where they clenched each other, her face, smooth and composed minutes ago, was tight around the mouth, the corners of her lips pulled down with weariness. He took an instant to listen with his senses. The tension in her scent, barely masked by a cheap floral perfume.

Miss MacTaggert was telling the truth. That much, he was sure of. And she was terrified. 

"How do you believe I can help?"

The woman gave a small shake of her head, sighing in relief. "I'm not sure, Dr. Xavier," she said quietly. "But I do know that Shaw must be stopped."

He nodded slowly, a thought taking root: perhaps what Mrs MacTaggert was really offering him was a chance. The chance to finally do something for his people, something good. Something that mattered.

"Then tell me everything, Miss MacTaggert."

✤✤✤

Erik paced in front of the closed door, restless, like a caged animal. 

He'd known the moment he caught her scent – that volatile mix of flowers, oranges, and gunpowder – that the woman spelled trouble. At first he'd thought she'd come for him, that Charles had somehow decided to betray him. 

It wasn't impossible. Charles was a scientist. A scientist who studied Shifters. 

Last night, Erik had snuck into Charles' study while he and Raven slept. He'd read everything; or what he could understand of it anyway. And the work was too intimate, too precise. It felt like a lived experience. Like Charles had experimented on one of them. 

Erik didn't know why he hadn't just fled. It would've been the logical thing. But some part of him had wanted to face Charles. To see the truth in his eyes. Because no matter how cautious he tried to be, he still didn't want to believe Charles could be a monster like Schmidt.

And now a CIA Agent was here, sniffing around for none other than Klaus Schmidt himself. What were the odds?

His stomach twisted as he strained to hear through the door, but the rush in his ears drowned everything out. All he could feel were the cuffs that had once cut into his wrists, the cold metal table beneath him, the sharp tang of antiseptic. And the screams. The endless screams.

His nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

He didn't need to shift to feel the Dobermann pacing under his skin. Ears flat, hackles raised, teeth bared. His body betrayed him, as he stood too stiff, flinching at every minute noise, and growling under his breath like the animal he was.

"There are people going missing," the woman was saying. "Mostly teenagers. And I believe their disappearance is linked to Shaw's activity."

"Teenagers?" Charles sounded horrified.

No. No, this couldn't be happening. Not again.

He'd seen children torn apart by that man's hands. Watched others – humans – forced to shift after injections meant to twist them into something else. Most didn't survive. The few that did weren't themselves anymore. He knew what it meant to be strapped to one of Schmidt's tables. He still felt the ghost of those restraints on his skin.

Not again. Not again. Not again. Please…

"This is very important to me," Charles said, "and if I can help you I will do my utmost."

After a long moment, the woman spoke again. "Thank you Professor Xavier. I'll need all the help I can get to bring Shaw down."

No! Why was Charles siding with them? With the CIA? Was he really such a different person than Erik thought?

A growl rumbled from Erik's throat, deep and feral. Everything inside him snapped taut. If he didn't act now, he'd lose his chance to get to Schmidt. 

The door slammed open with a crack like a rifle shot.

Erik stormed in, heart pounding against his ribs. He didn't remember crossing the threshold, just the jolt of the latch hitting the wall, the startled jump of the woman's shoulders, and the way Charles rose like a startled cat, with his back arched and eyes wide. Erik could've sworn he heard a hiss.

He made a beeline for the woman, ready to pin her down and shake out every scrap of intel she had. But she was fast, faster than he expected. Her gun was out in a flash, halting him mid-step.

Charles' scent spiked with panic. This time, Erik was sure of it, the hiss came from him.

"We all calm down. Right now," Charles said, voice tight and pitched high.

But neither Erik nor the woman moved. Once again he growled low, darkly, teeth bared and shoulders coiled. The woman didn't flinch. Her weapon remained raised, her eyes locked on his like a predator facing another.

"Miss MacTaggert, please," Charles said gently, lifting his hands in a placating gesture, "put the gun down."

Then he turned to Erik, approaching slowly, tension etched into every line of his face. Surprisingly, he reached out and stroked Erik's arm. "Please, Erik. Why don't we sit and talk?" his voice purred, low and soothing.

Erik blinked. Why the hell was he purring?

Charles' hands landed on his shoulders, warm and firm, guiding him toward the couch. Erik wanted to resist, every muscle screamed to leap at the woman and tear her apart. But the calming vibration coming off of Charles' short-circuited the rage. It made him… pliant.

He held himself still by sheer will, snarling under his breath.

Only once he was seated did Erik look up at Charles. Bathed in the soft glow of backlight, he looked ethereal. Beautiful. Close enough for Erik to catch his scent: rich cologne, layered over something softer, clean linen and something else… wild, animalistic.

Charles turned to the woman, voice suddenly glacial. "Miss MacTaggert, I'm asking you one last time. Put the gun away and sit down."

She hesitated, eyes flicking between them, before lowering the weapon and taking a slow, cautious seat.

Once everyone had settled, Charles curled briefly into the armchair before remembering himself and straightening his posture.

"What do you know about him?" Erik growled.

The woman shook her head. "Not much. Just that some of his associates can shift. Into animals. And some educated guesses about his business."

"Meaning?"

"Human trafficking," she said flatly. "And I think experimentation, too."

So, nothing new. Only now, it wasn't legalized like it had been under the Nazis.

"Animals, you said?" Erik asked, tone purposely neutral. Testing her.

He needed to know how much she really understood about his kind. Whether she was dangerous. And, most importantly, why she had come looking for Charles.

He'd heard her saying that Charles was the expert on Shifters. And now Erik was toying with the possibility that Charles wasn't just an experienced scientist, that maybe he was one of them. From how he'd acted the idea wasn't that far from the realm of possibilities. 

"Yes," the woman said. "I saw one shift into a snow leopard. Another turned into a bat…"

Erik filed the details away. If Schmidt had allies with gifts, he needed to readjust his plans. But this wasn't the time.

He leaned forward, predatory. "And what do you intend to do, Agent?"

She met his gaze squarely. "I'm going to stop this madness."

Conviction rang in her voice, enough that Erik, despite himself, felt a flicker of respect. But there was no way to stop that madman, if not by killing him. Erik knew it all too well.

"Erik," Charles interjected softly, tentative. "Do you know this man? Schmidt?"

Erik turned to him, studying the quiet determination in his eyes, the way he held his chin up despite the tremor in his voice. Charles was a remarkable man. And – God help him – a kind one too. So Erik offered a fragment of the truth.

"Yes. I do," Erik said, locking eyes with Charles. For a fleeting second, confusion flickered across Charles' face, then vanished just as quickly. "I've been looking for him for a long time."

"Oh." Charles looked taken aback. But then he nodded, steadying himself. "Well, my friend… I don't know what he did to you, but you'll have all the help I can give."

Just like that, something softened in Erik's chest. The iron shell he wore so tightly cracked just a little at the thought of someone truly being on his side. Maybe even… a friend. Someone who not only understood, but didn't ask for anything in return. Someone who helped without hesitation, without demand.

Before Charles Xavier, Erik wouldn't have believed kindness like that could exist. Not in this world. Certainly not from someone who gave it so freely. Not to him of all people. Charles, instead, had already risked his life for a complete stranger. Not just once, but twice. And each time, without a moment of hesitation.

Charles Xavier was something else entirely.

And, for once, Erik was grateful their paths had crossed. Even if it terrified him how much Charles had already begun to get under his skin.

Charles' gaze flicked between him and the Agent, his jaw tightening in thought. Then, with the same poise he always seemed to summon, he stood. "Perhaps we should discuss this over a cup of tea," he said, already heading toward the door, clearly expecting them to agree.

Erik and the woman exchanged a look – hers guarded, his cold – and both gave reluctant nods. Charles disappeared behind the door, and Erik's eyes locked onto the woman's, unblinking. Coiled, ready to react at the first sign of danger.

Suddenly came a high-pitched sound – like an ultrasonic whistle – cutting through the house like a blade. Erik flinched violently, hands flying to cover his ears. He doubled over, eyes clenched shut, face twisted in pain.

It was unbearable.

His mind split under the sensory overload, his human and animal instincts tearing in opposite directions. Buried memories surged to the surface. Schmidt had used this exact sound as torture, blasting it until Erik passed out from the pain, blood leaking from his ears and his nose.

For one breathless, harrowing moment that lasted an eternity, he wasn't in the drawing room anymore. He was back in the camps. The woman's face swam into view distorted and concerned, only to dissolve again in a swirl of panic and pain.

Then the door creaked open, and Charles entered with a silver tray, balancing cups, a teapot, sugar, milk. Raven followed, slipping into the armchair Charles had just vacated.

Charles paused mid-step, catching sight of Erik still hunched over, breath ragged, hands half-lifted to his ears. His expression tightened with immediate concern. "Erik?" he said gently, setting the tray down with care. "You're not well."

Erik straightened slowly, sweat beading at his temples, face pale. He didn't answer, too shaken by tremors.

Raven glanced over, her brow furrowing. "Was it the whistle?" she whispered. 

Charles gave a soft, regretful sound. "Oh Erik. I'm so sorry, I was calling Raven over…" 

"It felt like my brain was being carved open," Erik rasped, voice still raw, crawling out of his throat in a painful effort. 

Charles crouched beside him, careful not to touch. "I'm sorry. That was never my intention. If I'd known you had such sensitivity…" he trailed off, searching Erik's face. "You need a moment, don't you?"

Erik nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

"Take your time," Charles said quietly. "You're safe here."

Raven shifted slightly in her seat but didn't speak. Charles rose and poured the tea with deliberate slowness, as though offering Erik space without drawing attention to it.

Erik focused on his breath. In, out. Slow. Controlled. Bit by bit, the sharp ache in his skull began to fade, and his vision steadied. His hands still trembled faintly, but he could feel his body pulling itself back from the edge. 

He glanced at Raven, now curled in the armchair, legs tucked beneath her like a lounging tiger. She didn't seem frazzled by the sound, nor did Charles. 

Which was at odds with the image Erik had begun to form of him. In human form, a sound like that would have reduced any Shifter to the same state Erik was in. So why didn't Charles seem to be bothered by it? Maybe Erik was wrong and Charles wasn't one of them? What about Raven? Was she a Shifter?

All those questions were overwhelming him. And Erik was almost grateful to Charles when his hands appeared in his vision, offering him a cup of steaming tea. 

He took it with trembling hands. His fingers brushed Charles', and both men stilled, exhaling at the contact.

"I'll make this quick," interjected Miss MacTaggert, urgency creeping into her voice. 

Charles nodded and rushed to sit beside Erik, teacup in hand, ready to focus on the woman again. 

"These are the names of everyone who's gone missing so far," she said, passing Charles a folder.

He set his cup aside to take it, shifting closer to Erik to allow him to see too. Their shoulders nearly touched, Charles' warmth a quiet comfort, yet somehow unsettling. Erik stiffened, caught between ingrained tension and a strange pull toward the man beside him.

Then Charles began to flip through the folder, and they both recoiled in horror. Inside were page after page of profiles: names, photographs, data. Most were teenagers, barely more than children. 

He smelt Charles' scent shift, thickening with sorrow, and felt the soft vibration of purring again, deep and low, coming from him. If his original assumption was correct and Charles was a Shifter, then he was definitely a cat. 

The image of that cat came to him, unbidden. No. Focus. He couldn't let something so stupid distract him now.

"Miss MacTaggert," Charles said suddenly, voice taut with emotion. "We can't leave them in the hands of a madman. What can we do?"

Raven leaned over to glance at the file. She immediately flinched back, eyes wide and welling with tears. Charles reached over and rested a hand gently on her knee. She clutched it, anchoring herself to his calm.

"That's why I came," MacTaggert said. "One of our researchers has developed a prototype, a device that could track Shifters using their DNA."

Charles frowned. "Their DNA?"

She nodded. "It's not complete. We don't yet know how to map their DNA patterns... not exactly."

Whatever they were discussing, Erik only half understood. But Charles was nodding, clearly grasping the implications. Erik decided that could be enough for him. After all, Charles was the one who'd gone to Oxford.

"Is there anything else you can tell us about it?" Charles asked.

The woman shook her head. "I'd rather you speak directly with our researcher."

Charles hummed in thought, his gaze distant. Erik watched him, equally lost in thought. On one side was his mission; the lifelong goal of destroying Schmidt. The promise he had silently made to his dying mother. On the other, now, for the first time, there was a different path. One that might lead to Shaw, yes, but that didn't require him to do it alone. 

The idea of relying on someone else… of needing someone… it sent ice through his veins. That kind of dependence was dangerous. It could make him vulnerable, and get people killed. So how could he possibly put any faith in Charles?

And yet... Charles had seen him in trouble and hadn't turned away. He'd helped him, without even asking him for anything in return, be it money or information or favors. He'd treated him as if Erik was a friend, someone worth protecting.

It was unfamiliar and disorienting. And Erik didn't trust it. But maybe accepting help could've gotten him closer to his goal than vengeance alone ever had.

He just had to be careful. He just had to make sure not to get attached.

At last, Charles shifted and sat straighter beside him, chin up and defiant gaze. As usual, his fingers tapped absentmindedly against his knee. "All right, Miss MacTaggert," he said. "But on my terms."

"Yes, anything you need, Professor," she replied.

"First, I need papers for Erik. He stays here legally."

Erik blinked. The first thing Charles asked for... was for him? 

Charles, who had no reason to care – who had every reason to hand him off – had just put him first. A stranger who had been nothing but a burden for him since the moment they met. He felt an odd, foreign warmth spreading through his body, starting from his chest. It was an unexpected sensation and, surprisingly, not unwelcomed. 

When before had anyone thought of him? Since his mother had died and Erik Lehnsherr had been born from the ashes of the child he had once been, no one had ever shown anything but hatred, disgust or fear towards him.

"I can't give you that, Professor Xavier," MacTaggert cut in. "I don't know this man. I can't allow him to enter the U.S. legally–"

Charles' expression hardened. His voice turned to cold, unyielding steel. "Then good luck using your machine without me."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Raven looked slightly stunned by her brother's sudden shift in tone.

"I want Erik to work with me," Charles continued. "No Erik, no me."

He hadn't asked Erik, hadn't checked if he agreed, as if it were already decided. And strangely, that didn't fill Erik with rage. Instead, Charles reminded him once again of Kätzchen, with his fierce courage and determination. 

Charles looked young and ancient in that moment; grief-stricken, yes, but also suddenly dangerous in his resolve. 

MacTaggert stared at him, then finally gave a resigned nod.

"Thank you, Miss MacTaggert," Charles said, a hint of triumph in his voice. "Second, I don't want the CIA too involved."

She hesitated, but nodded again. "Fine."

Erik, who had taken an instant dislike to the woman, allowed himself a flicker of smug satisfaction.

"Lastly," Charles added, "I want access to everything. Every sample, every report, all field data. I won't operate blind."

"You'll have it," MacTaggert said at once.

The finality in her tone struck Erik like a slap. This was real. Charles was committing to this, but he didn't know what he was getting himself into.

Feeling an unusual sense of protectiveness towards Charles, Erik leaned in to whisper, "Charles, this is dangerous. Schmidt – Shaw – you don't know him. You're going to get yourself killed."

Charles turned to look at him with such tenderness that Erik almost felt like recoiling from it, for how unfamiliar it was for him. "My friend," Charles said softly, "I know. But I can't let him hurt them."

He glanced briefly at Raven, then back to Erik. One hand landed on Erik's knee, in an intimate gesture that made Erik shudder.

"I've always known I wasn't the only one," Charles confessed. "That there were more of us… more than me and Raven. Now I can help our kind. I won't turn away."

And there it was, the confirmation Erik had been waiting for. Charles was like him. 

He swallowed hard. For years, he'd believed he was an anomaly, a genetic mistake twisted into something monstrous by Schmidt's hands. He'd carried that secret alone, a scar he'd worn, convinced it set him apart from the world. Until Oxford. Until the cat. Even then, it had felt like a hallucination, a whisper of something he didn't dare believe.

Then he'd met Charles. And here, with the Xaviers, if he let himself sink into it – just for a moment – it almost felt like home.

A strange flicker of hope stirred in his chest, fragile and trembling against the jagged walls he'd spent years building. Maybe… maybe this could be more than an alliance. Maybe it could be family.

But no. This hope was dangerous. A vulnerability that could make him weak. Getting attached meant leaving his enemies a clear path to hurt him, exposing people to danger. It meant giving Schamidt a new weapon to use against him.  

No. He couldn't afford that. Not again.

The softness blooming inside him – the desperate, aching want for connection – startled him. He'd survived this long by staying alone. He couldn't let himself believe in something so breakable. 

And still, when Charles looked at him, Erik knew one thing with brutal clarity: this wasn't just his mission anymore. It was a war for their kind. A kind he hadn't even known existed a few months ago, but for whom he would now, without question, give his life.

Chapter Text

The morning after, they were on the road before the sun had even stirred. Charles, groggy and grumpy, leaned against Raven's shoulder, wedged between her and Erik in the back seat.

Erik shifted restlessly beside him, tension thrumming beneath his skin like an electric current. The sensation made Charles' hackles rise, unease prickling down his spine. Sleep was impossible with that kind of energy so close. If only he could curl up in his cat form and tune the world out…

They'd taken a cab from Westchester into Manhattan, where Moira had been waiting in a sleek black car. She wasn't alone; beside her sat a man she introduced as her partner, Agent Levine. Now they were headed deep into the countryside, toward a secret lab Moira had mentioned the night before.

Resigned to wakefulness, Charles sat up straighter, still pressed against Raven, and let his gaze trail out the window at the scenery rushing past.

The meeting with Moira had been intense, filled with revelations that had left his mind reeling. Yet beneath the fear and uncertainty, he felt a rare and anchoring sense of purpose. For the first time, he'd felt like he was where he needed to be, doing what he was meant to do. The emptiness that had shadowed him for so long was shrinking, replaced by a fragile but luminous hope. Hope that he could make a difference. That they weren't alone. That things could change.

And here he was, on the verge of something dangerous, maybe even deadly, with a CIA Agent, a stranger who was fast becoming something more, and Raven, the only constant in his life.

Erik.

Charles was certain now that Erik was a Shifter like them. But even after last night's confirmation, none of them had shifted in front of Moira. Ironic. He'd spent years yearning to meet others like him, and now, with fellow Shifters beside him, none dared reveal their true form.

Still, he couldn't stop wondering. What was Erik's form? Charles had a hunch it was canine; maybe a wolf, or a dog. It was strange, though, how alike the first two Shifters he'd met – besides Raven – seemed to be.

His thoughts scattered as the car jolted to a stop. Raven's hand closed around his thigh in a silent cue. He looked up, blinking away the daze of thoughts, and braced himself for whatever came next.

They stepped out of the car in silence. Before them stood a concrete structure crouched at the edge of a sparse woodland. It was squat and square, like an abandoned bunker. The weather-worn façade was featureless and windowless, devoid of signage. If you didn't already know what it was, you'd never guess it was a lab.

Which, he supposed, was exactly the point.

Moira took the lead – leaving her partner behind – followed by Erik, then Raven and Charles. The three of them moved with caution, muscles tight, eyes scanning their surroundings.

Charles observed them as they approached a security panel. Moira punched in a code, and the door slid open to reveal a narrow corridor, lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. The interior walls were the same dull concrete, interrupted only by heavy doors and ancient-looking pipes.

Raven drifted behind him, her stride graceful, confident and unhurried. Chin high as she subtly scanned the place, posture relaxed. But only to the untrained eye. She moved with the poised silence of someone always ready to fight.

Erik walked half a step ahead of them, clearly placing himself as the first line of defense. His body was all sharp angles and tension: jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes constantly sweeping. His fingers twitched now and then, clenching into fists before loosening again, like he was aching for an excuse to strike.

Subtlety didn't seem to be in his vocabulary.

Every few steps, he glanced back at them, eyes always lingering on Charles, as if checking he was still there, still safe. It was sweet in its own way, but it made Charles feel things he wasn't quite ready to name.

For his part, Charles stayed close to the others, keeping out of the direct line of danger. He observed, mapped exits, strategized. His fingers tapped absently against his leg, tension coiling in his shoulders. Still, he was the only one making conversation with Moira.

They passed several locked, unmarked doors. Moira talked as they walked, filling them in on the compound and the man they were about to meet.

"He's young. Graduated Harvard at fifteen. One of the CIA's most valuable assets. I think you'll like him, Professor."

Charles caught another glance from Erik, who had drifted closer once they'd started descending into the underground levels.

A short flight of stairs gave way to metal flooring. The air grew colder, the walls narrowing. Another door – this one requiring Moira's badge – groaned open, revealing a bright, sterile room. Monitors blinked softly, machines lined the walls, and at the center stood a man in a lab coat.

He was tall and gangly, with a tangle of brown hair and thick glasses that nearly swallowed his pale blue eyes. He looked like a boy playing dress-up in a scientist's clothes. But there was intelligence in his gaze, a quiet, eager brightness.

"This is Hank McCoy," Moira said, gesturing. "Hank, these are the people I told you about."

As soon as his eyes landed on Charles, Hank lit up, smiling wide. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and shy but tinged with excitement.

"You must be Doctor Xavier!" he said, extending a hand. "I've read all your work, it's brilliant! I'd love to discuss it sometime."

Charles blinked, startled that someone had recognized him so easily.

"Oh– thank you, I'm honored," he said, blushing as he shook Hank's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor McCoy. I'd love to talk more."

"Please," Hank said quickly, "just Hank."

"Charles."

Only then did Hank glance at the others. His eyes landed on Erik – standing close to Charles, radiating protective hostility – and he visibly flinched. Charles had to bite back a smile at the effect Erik had, equal parts intimidating and... endearing.

They'd known each other only a few days, and already Erik had decided Charles needed guarding. If it weren't so charming, he might have been annoyed.

"Right," Charles said smoothly, drawing Hank's attention away. "Hank, this is Erik Lehnsherr, a friend from Europe. And my sister, Raven."

Hank shifted his gaze to Raven, and promptly turned beet red. She, in contrast, was all warmth and poise, smiling with curiosity. They stared at each other for a beat too long, until Charles had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Hank stood transfixed, mouth ajar, blinking rapidly and swallowing twice.

Charles didn't blame him. His little sister had that effect on people.

Raven offered Hank a slow, flirtatious smile, her posture softening just enough to suggest openness, without a hint of vulnerability. She'd picked her target, and her eyes sparkled with amusement and interest. Charles could only pray Hank wouldn't get hurt. He knew what became of those poor souls who mistook Raven's attention for something more than a game. They didn't so much fall in love as get devoured.

Hank's blush deepened to a startling crimson, crawling up to his ears. He dropped his gaze to the clipboard, pretending to check something that clearly didn't need checking.

Charles bit back a grin.

Moira finally broke the silence, her tone edged with impatience. "Hank. I'd like you to show the Professor your project."

Still flushed, Hank cleared his throat and turned to a nearby console. "If you'll follow me… I can show you the core of the system."

Charles exchanged a glance with Raven, who gave a tiny shrug of interest, and stepped forward. Erik followed behind, silent and wary, his eyes scanning every blinking monitor like they might’ve attacked him.

Since entering the lab, Erik had seemed more unsettled than ever. He hadn't spoken, but Charles could feel his unease humming like static all around him. He smelt of acrid discomfort. Almost dread. He stood rigid at Charles' side, arms crossed tightly, gaze darting as though he expected someone to jump out of the shadows and hurt him. 

Erik looked both like an abused violent dog and a scared puppy. Like he wanted to bolt or destroy everything in sight. And Charles wondered, again, what exactly Shaw had done to him. Whatever it was, it must have been horrific. More than even Charles – who was no stranger to violence – could fathom.

Hank came to a stop before a sleek, domed machine that thrummed with low, steady energy. Thick cables snaked into the floor. Nearby, a panel blinked with streams of cascading data.

Charles took the opportunity to lean subtly toward Erik. "You all right?" he asked softly.

Erik's eyes flicked to him, the hardness there softening by a fraction. "I don't like labs," he muttered.

Charles nodded, and gently brushed his fingers against Erik's elbow. Erik flinched, but didn't pull away.

"This," Hank announced, resting a hand almost reverently on the machine's cool metal shell, "is Cerebro."

Raven blinked, caught between awe and confusion. "Cerebro?"

"It means ‘brain' in Spanish," Hank said, blushing again, but standing straighter now, pride stirring in him. "It's still a prototype, but it works."

Charles stepped closer as Hank tapped the controls. A nearby monitor lit up, lines of data streaming across it. The technology was unlike anything Charles had seen, but, being a scientist, he was fascinated. Instinctively, he leaned in. Without waiting for questions, Hank launched into explanation. His voice was still shy, but now threaded with confidence. He was in his element. 

"It's based on your work, Charles," he said, looking directly at him. "That article with your theories on vibrational signatures in Shifter DNA… that's what gave me the idea. If each Shifter emits a unique quantum frequency–"

Charles felt a spark of recognition ignite in his chest. That had been his theory, though he'd been forced to couch it in academic language to avoid scrutiny. He'd proven that certain mutations could be identified through vibrational resonance. His supervisor had scoffed at first, until the data had forced him to concede and let him publish.

"–we can trace them," Charles said, finishing the thought.

Hank nodded, smiling. "Exactly. We call it Quantum Resonance Tuning. Cerebro 'tunes in' to the frequency of a specific Shifter, using a DNA sample. We can isolate the signature and scan for it. Like tuning a radio to a specific station, no matter how faint the signal."

Raven leaned in, intrigued. "You can track us?"

"Only with a sample," Hank said quickly, almost apologetically. "But if a Shifter is alive and within range of our satellite network, Cerebro can locate them."

Charles' mind was racing. So that was why Moira had come to him. It was his job to isolate the frequency of each DNA; only then could Hank insert it into Cerebro and allow his machine to track the Shifter.

This was what Charles had worked toward his entire life. All the theories, the papers, the long nights spent defending ideas no one believed. Every sleepless hour, every academic battle… it had all led to this moment.

And what he felt now was indescribable.

It wasn't just the thrill of seeing his research applied. It was something much deeper. It was the feeling of belonging, of purpose, of finally working with, and for, others like him. The sense of belonging he had sought and longed for his entire life. For once, he wasn't an outsider theorizing in isolation. He was part of something real. Something important. A smile broke across his face, unbidden. His vision blurred with tears.

Raven was watching him, smiling too. She understood, of course she did. She knew how much this meant to him. And she was happy for him.

"I can help you," he murmured, voice rough with emotion.

Hank lit up, beaming. Moira sagged with relief. "I knew you were the right person," she said.

But then Erik's voice cut through the room, low and sharp. "You're working for the CIA."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, loaded with quiet fury. He stared Hank down like he was aiming to break him with his eyes alone.

Hank wilted. "I am," he said softly.

The tension thickened instantly. Charles felt it tightening in the air, dense and dangerous. He stepped forward, trying to defuse it. "Erik, I know it's not ideal," he said carefully, "but there are people out there who need our help. Right now. And if the CIA is giving us the tools–"

"I'm not saying we walk away from them," Erik snapped. "I'm saying we can't trust the CIA to have our backs."

"I'm sure Hank is–"

"He's what?" Erik growled, eyes flashing with anger. "He's a scientist. What do you think he'll do when we find them?"

Charles took a step back, stung. "I'm a scientist too," he hissed. "And I would never hurt one of us."

Erik's expression turned glacial. "You're a Shifter, Charles. He's–"

"I am too."

The words were soft, barely above a whisper, but they cut through the rising tension like a knife. All eyes turned to Hank. He wasn't looking at them, only at the floor, his hands twisting nervously at his sides.

"I'm a Shifter," he said, almost apologetically.

Raven blinked. Moira looked like she'd been punched in the gut. And for a moment, the room fell into stunned silence, thick as fog.

Then Charles smiled, slowly, but genuinely. A flicker of something warm and bright lit his eyes. Even Erik seemed to thaw, his shoulders relaxing just slightly, his stance shifting from aggression to wary acceptance. In a single breath, Hank had gone from enemy to kin in the span of a sentence.

"I… I didn't know," Moira said, visibly shaken. Her voice cracked on the words.

Hank offered a shy, crooked smile, cheeks darkening to a vivid purple. "You never asked," he mumbled, eyes downcast. "So I never told you."

Erik watched Moira sharply, his expression unreadable but dangerous. It was clear: one wrong word, and he'd be on her in a heartbeat. That was all it had taken – just a few quiet words – for Hank to go from suspect to someone Erik was ready to protect with tooth and claw.

But Moira surprised them all. She met Hank's gaze, steady and sure, and gave a single nod. No questions. Just quiet acceptance.

"What kind?" Raven asked gently, stepping forward.

Hank's eyes lifted, flicking to hers. For a heartbeat, everyone else seemed to disappear from his focus. He looked unsure, like he was about to shrink back, but Raven's tone had been soft, curious, entirely without mockery.

Charles shot her a warning glance, silently urging her not to press. But she ignored him. This wasn't one of her games. She truly wanted to know.

Blushing furiously, Hank rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. "An... elephant," he muttered. "Not exactly subtle."

He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh; the sound awkward and unsure, like he expected to be laughed at.

But Raven's smile came instantly. Not her usual flirtatious grin, but something warmer. Genuine. "That sounds badass."

Hank blinked, surprised, like he wasn't used to that kind of reaction. "R– really?"

"Of course!" Raven beamed. "You could probably overpower even me in a fight. I respect that."

A breath of laughter escaped him, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. "Thanks," he murmured. Then, hesitantly but with growing interest, he looked to the others. "So... what about you?"

Raven's grin widened, her posture shifting with playful pride. "Tiger."

Hank's eyes widened. "That tracks," he said, and the room let out a collective chuckle.

Charles noticed the flicker of admiration in Erik's expression as he looked at Raven. And he felt, somewhat unwillingly, the burn of jealousy. He'd always thought her form was stunning: powerful, magnetic. And while Charles had grown comfortable with his own form – had even come to be proud of it – there were moments, like this, when he couldn't help but feel... small. Soft. Too easily dismissed. Mostly when compared to her.

"What about you, Charles?" Hank asked, turning to him with open curiosity.

All eyes landed on him; Erik's most of all, keen with interest just barely concealed. Charles felt a twinge of self-consciousness crawl up his spine. Part of him hesitated, worried that his form would seem unimpressive, especially to Erik.

He tilted his head and gave a light chuckle, deflecting with humor, trying to stay ahead of the creeping unease. "Go on," he prompted. "Guess."

Hank squinted at him thoughtfully, lips pursed. "Something clever, but elegant," he mused. "Maybe an owl? Or… a fox?"

Charles let out a laugh, and Raven joined in, already shaking her head.

"Cat," he said, the word landing softly – almost tentatively – in the space between them.

Hank lit up. "Oh, that's great. Cats are kind of a masterpiece, evolution-wise. Sleek, precise… basically engineered perfection, right?"

Charles inclined his head, accepting the compliment with a nod. Yes, genetically speaking, cats had long been held up as a near-perfect species. But he hardly felt like a model of evolutionary success. Most days, he felt like a small bundle of nervous instincts in a very fluffy suit. 

Not at all a predator. Not self-sufficient in the way people liked to imagine cats were. Cute, maybe, but far from intimidating. His form wasn't made for battle. It didn't command respect, didn't fill a room with power the way Raven's tiger did. That had never really bothered him. Not until a thousand quiet humiliations at the hands of his stepfamily, when not even his claws were enough to spare him the abuse. Not until that night at Oxford. He'd spent years trying to make peace with what he was. Telling himself there was strength in subtlety. That he didn't need to be fierce to be valuable. But still, some part of him had always wished he could be something bigger. Stronger. The kind of animal no one dared to underestimate or dismiss. The kind Erik might see and instinctively respect.

He felt someone's eyes on him. Erik was staring, studying him. His gaze was intense, almost dissecting, as if he were trying to decode something Charles had only just revealed. Not judgmental, but... unnervingly focused.

Charles blinked, caught off guard by the heat behind it. For a moment, he thought Erik was about to say something. But then Erik looked quickly away, his jaw tightening. A flicker of something like longing and regret passed through his eyes before he masked it behind his usual cold composure.

Charles' smile dimmed slightly. Something about the exchange left him unsettled. Had he said something wrong? Was Erik that disappointed by his revelation?

Before he could unpack it, Raven, still aglow with curiosity, turned toward Erik. "What about you?"

Charles watched him for a moment longer, curious. There was something he was missing. But the moment to investigate more had already passed.

Erik met her gaze evenly. "Dog."

Charles blinked. And then, a slow smile broke across his face, the final piece falling quietly into place. "I knew it! You just act like one," he said, unable to stop the note of excitement in his voice, making the others laugh.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to that dog. But he reeled them in before they could carry him too far. If Erik really was that dog – if they had already met before – he'd have to see him shift to be sure. Until then, it was just a hope. And hopes, he knew, could be dangerous things.

✤✤✤

Charles' mansion, it turned out, had an underground lab. A real one. The kind pulled straight from Erik's nightmares.

He'd done his best to avoid it for the last five days, leaving Raven to handle her brother and McCoy, who were both so consumed by their work they rarely came up for air. She was the one ferrying them meals, making sure they remembered to sleep. 

If he was honest, Erik actually admired their dedication. They were throwing themselves into the project, pouring in every ounce of energy to make the machine work as soon as possible and trace the missing Shifters.

Erik, meanwhile, had never stayed in one place for so long. He didn't know how to idle. Restlessness was part of his wiring; the stillness made him edgy.

Each morning he went running; it didn't matter if he was in human form or not. Then, more often than not, he took refuge in the library – to which Charles had given him free access – and let himself get lost. There must've been a thousand books there, some so old their pages crumbled at the corners.

There were also many scientific tomes – which Charles had explained had belonged to the elder Xavier, a scientist too – and Erik had already set aside a sizable stack of physics manuals, eager to dedicate his free time to his education. 

In five days, he'd read more than in the past twelve years combined. It was a strange thing, having time. Caring for himself. A part of him felt guilty for indulging in it, especially with Schmidt being out there, doing God-knows-what. But every night at dinner, when Raven dragged Charles and Hank out of the lab, their updates were promising. They were making progress. They were getting close. And that was reassuring.

So Erik idled. He ran. He read. And he trained, often sparring with Raven. She, too, bored of having to wait for the unknown. 

Their sessions were exhausting and satisfying. Raven was a born warrior, with a hunter's instinct and uncanny skill. A tiger, through and through.

Soon, they grew closer in their quiet way, saying little, preferring to run the woods in animal form rather than share stories. It became a kind of routine, settled and steady; one no one – not Moira, not Hank, not even Charles – could shake.

Then there was the one missing piece. Charles.

Aside from dinner, they barely saw each other. Though Erik clung to those few evenings when Charles joined him in the library, and they played chess for hours, and talked.

Charles, as he’d hoped the first time he’d entered the study, was a worthy opponent; he was a skilled strategist, cautious, but unafraid to seize an opening. He countered Erik's aggression with unflappable calm, often beating him with quiet grace. Erik didn't mind losing. Not when he got to sit across from someone so clever, so quick-witted, so disarmingly funny. Someone Erik had begun to see – begrudgingly, but undeniably – as an equal. Maybe even… a friend.

It was strange, after years of being alone, to have someone who seemed to care. So strange that Erik didn't trust it. A cruel little voice inside reminded him constantly that this was temporary. Charles was only kind because it suited him. Eventually, he'd see Erik for what he truly was, for the broken monster he had become, and walk away like everyone else.

Still, Erik cherished every smile Charles gave him like a starving man at the edge of a feast. Pathetic. And every night, alone in that too-soft bed, he berated himself for falling for a smile and two impossibly blue eyes.

Anyone else would've recognized it by now, what he was feeling. A stupid, obvious crush. But Erik… Erik was good at a lot of things; emotions weren't one of them. He mistook the tight knot in his gut when he saw Moira laughing with Charles for hatred. The desire to spend more time with him for obsession. The fluttering heat that came when their fingers brushed for weakness.

He didn't know what to call everything he'd felt in the past few weeks. Only that it scared him. Made him feel vulnerable. Exposed.

And then there was the worst part, the guilt. Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop comparing Charles to that Oxford cat. And now that he knew Charles was a cat too, the resemblance was impossible to ignore.

Every day, the memory of Kätzchen pressed in tighter. And it was unfair. Charles had done nothing but show him kindness, and Erik was still pining after a shadow. Still too broken to let go of the past. Worse was when Raven had called him out – blunt as ever – during a morning run. He didn't even remember how the topic came up. “Charles likes you, idiot,” she'd said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world and he was just being dull for not noticing it.

Maybe she was right. That was the problem.

Because Charles was everything anyone could ever desire. Brilliant, kind, patient. He'd shown Erik nothing but gentleness. He was perfect. And he was real. And maybe he even wanted him back, like no one had ever done before. And Erik… Erik was still longing for a ghost. A fleeting presence from what seemed to be a lifetime ago. A stranger in a dark alley with blue eyes and soft fur and a strong, impossible courage. Someone he'd probably never see again. Someone he'd barely known at all.

So yeah. In the end, he'd caught feelings. And, in true Erik Lehnsherr fashion, they were for the one person he couldn't have. Not the man who stood in front of him now, open and willing.

Fuck.

Everything changed the day Erik returned from his run through the gardens and decided to detour through the library before heading to his room for a shower. The sky was overcast, and he planned to lock himself in with a book for the rest of the gloomy afternoon.

He made a beeline to the shelf where he already knew he would find what he was looking for, having spotted it days earlier. A copy – surprisingly in the original German language – of the Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse. 

Book in hand, he was just turning to leave when he heard a faint, sleepy mew. He turned around, taken by surprise, but saw nothing. He would’ve brushed it off as a figment of his imagination if not for a second sound, this time accompanied by the soft rustle of paper.

Frowning, Erik stepped around the couch, and stopped dead. There, curled atop a dusty tome left open on the cushions, lay a sleeping cat.

A Birman cat. With cream fluffy fur, sprinkled with grey-ish tones. 

His heart stuttered. He stumbled back, hand catching the armchair behind him to stay upright.

No. It wasn’t possible. 

He must be imagining it.

The book slipped from his hand and hit the rug with a muffled thud, loud enough to wake the cat. The creature startled, fur puffing up, muscles tensing, readying to defend itself.

Then two impossible blue eyes met his, and Erik's breath hitched. His heart thundered furiously in his chest. 

"Kätzchen…?" he whispered, barely able to get the word out.

It couldn't be. He had to be losing his mind.

The cat tilted its head on the right, as if expecting him to explain. But Erik couldn’t speak. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

"Kätzchen…" he repeated, caught in a loop.

This time, the cat's eyes sparkled with something akin to recognition, they widened impossibly in a too-human expression. And then a soft, tentative voice entered his head. Even though he was still in human form, Erik heard it clearly. A voice he'd heard many times by now. 

Erik?  

His brain ground to a halt. No way. No way–

"... Charles?"  

The cat nodded, sheepishly. Looking up at him with those same unmistakable blue eyes. Of course. How hadn’t he seen it before? The same eyes, the same voice, the same scent. That fierce will. That courage. More than once, Erik had noticed the resemblance, and brushed it off.

Now it hit him all at once. The truth sat so plainly in front of him, he felt like a fool. It had been Charles all along. Charles, returning from Oxford. Charles with the eyes of a cat. Charles with the quiet bravery to fight battles he might not win. Charles who moved with feline grace, who hissed and purred when annoyed or pleased. Charles, whose scent had haunted Erik's memory from the first time they'd met.

Charles, who was everything Erik desired. 

Even Kätzchen.

"It was you…" Erik breathed, dazed.

Charles straightened on the cushions, spine long and regal. His front legs extended, paws set neatly. Tail curled in front of them, and ears upright. He held his head high, facing Erik with a serene and focused expression, looking composed and proud. Like a little god. 

You were there, Erik? Charles asked quietly. In Oxford?

Erik didn’t answer. He couldn’t, the words jammed in his throat. So he shifted.

A ripple ran beneath his skin. The familiar, now almost comforting signal. His shoulders hunched, spine arched, vertebrae stretching with soft pops. Nails lengthened into claws, as his hands flattened into broad, padded paws. His jaw elongated, teeth sharpened, lips pulled back as his muzzle pushed forward. His ears moved, reshaping into upright points – the same ones Schmidt had mutilated, to remind Erik he owned him. As if Erik were his personal pet dog, and not a human being. 

Seconds later, Erik stood on all fours before Charles. They were nearly eye-level now, though Charles had the advantage of the sofa’s height.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Silently mapping one another with sharper senses. And Erik knew, without a doubt, that he could find Charles’ scent anywhere. Even in a city as chaotic as New York. It had imprinted itself on him, something warm and eccentric and inescapably his.

Then Charles leaned forward, gently brushing his dry little nose to Erik’s.

You saved my life, Charles said softly, gratitude humming in every syllable. I never had the chance to thank you properly.

Erik let out a quiet whine and lowered his muzzle to rest on the cushions. Charles immediately began to purr. Then, eyes half-lidded in contentment, he leaned in and pressed his forehead to Erik, rubbing against him in a slow, affectionate glide. With no fear at all for the fearful monster in front of him.

Erik’s heart stuttered again, with unexpected affection. If he’d been in human form, he would’ve been blushing. 

We’re even, Charles, he murmured back, just as softly. You saved my life, too.