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After his collapse came the indeterminable time spent moving earth. He couldn’t have said how long it took— Erik physically dug the graves, calloused hands gripping the shovel instead of his mind. By the time the work was done it was dark, he felt chilled from the sheen of sweat on his skin, and was covered in grime and dust, as well as other substances.
Erik was tired. Ached really. But the graves were the best he could manage under such circumstances. While they were far from what his family deserved, it was better than what so many others had gotten— quickly, he averted his thoughts. That way lay nothing but terror and bleak, eternal night. He hoped, however, that his child and his wife would’ve been satisfied with their final resting places. Had there been some way for spirits to feel such things. He didn’t think there was.
However, the humans who had so violently stolen from him, Erik left to rot. He hoped, half-heartedly, that some of the animals who were once Nina’s friends would see to them.
Trembling faintly, Erik returned his focus to the task at hand: cleaning the locket with the photos of his family inside it. Soon he would be leaving here. Where he was planning to go, there was no room for much more than memories. Unbidden, he recalled that fateful arrow, was again unable to stop its deadly flight. In his mind’s eye, he watched it wreak destruction.
“Is this what you want from me?” he’d shouted at a God he didn’t believe in, not anymore.
After all, this was the third time fate had launched such a projectile in his direction, the third time he’d evaded a blow if not its repercussions. Schmidt threatening, “Eins, zwei, drei…” and his mother’s subsequent death would forever haunt him, even though the bastard was dead now. That was the first instance he had— unintentionally or not— allowed another to face his consequences. The beach in Cuba was another.
Erik shuddered, swallowing hard. The third stemmed from a simple act of kindness. Fool me once, shame on you… looking down, Erik realized that he’d finished polishing the locket and slid it over his neck with trembling hands. His cheeks were wet and his vision blurry. That was when he went for the mostly empty bottle he and Magda had kept around for the times they wanted to celebrate.
Sometime later, Erik was half-sprawled against the sink cupboard, swirling his nearly empty glass, one of many he’d imbibed, absently using his metalkinesis to flip a knife around. Through the warm fog of alcohol was the threatening sea of cold numbness. He shuddered and downed the last gulp of whiskey. The room pulsed slightly in dizzying, nonsensical waves and he felt decidedly unbalanced. Erik squeezed his eyes shut. In the air, the knife wavered.
“Scheiße!” he spat, leaning backwards and accidentally thumping his head against the wood behind him. It hurt. None too gently, Erik batted away the tears dotting his eyes. A moment later, he closed them, breathing harshly. He grimaced at the difficulty of that simple act, then smacked his lips together, thirsty. More than likely, he’d become dehydrated. His head ached now too— whether the cause was the beginnings of a hangover, his overexertion, or the fault of his intense emotions, Erik could neither say nor cared.
Lurching to his feet was difficult; if nothing else, the unpleasant tingling sensation that shot through his legs confirmed that Erik had been here for a while. The tap was turned on shakily and in the window, he caught a flash of his reflection. It was not early enough yet for the sun to have risen, but he’d left the kitchen fixture on. For a moment, Erik did not recognize the person he saw, ghost-like, in the glass. He looked like he’d aged several decades, expression as drawn and exhausted as it was. Max. Magnus. Magneto. Erik— I hardly know anymore which one, if any, was real.
Closing his eyes erased the disturbing image but not the concern. Erik had spent so long running, fighting, that he’d never been able to take the time and decide which version he wanted to be. Charles had once instructed him to find the place between rage and serenity in order to master his gift— rage, of course, being the more familiar method to him. But after Washington D.C., and Charles showing him the mercy Erik still couldn’t say he deserved, he reevaluated. For a time, he’d allowed himself to believe that this, this could be the serenity his old friend spoke so highly of. Love. Safety. A home. Family.
Despite the circumstances, Erik laughed. You cannot say now that I never tried, old friend.
In retrospect, it was obvious that Charles had always misunderstood him— or, rather, that the telepath understood Erik to such a degree that it made it easy to overlook the numerous, subtle ways he did not. Charles actually understood Erik better than almost anyone. Schmidt had understood him, once, but it did not take a genius to recognize that fear was an effective motivator, especially to a vulnerable child. Charles, however, had often gone to extremes in the opposite direction. He’d assigned to Erik rather more… benevolent intentions than he had. This frustrated him to no end as it set them both up for disappointment. Erik had tried to warn Charles he wasn’t the man he thought Erik to be. Repeatedly.
Despite his powers, Charles had never realized. And while he had often acted naïvely during those short, glorious months they’d spent together, Charles was no incompetent. But, apparently, Erik was. For he had also made assumptions about his friend’s character that weren’t true. Much to the dissatisfaction of them both.
Shame on me. He would not allow himself to be so foolish a third time. Any chance at peace Erik had had was gone. The locket vibrated against his chest, disconcertingly warm save to a man who was used to the varying wonderous and terrible properties of metal. Then the knife he’d been spinning began to shake in the air, followed by the silverware in the drawer, the light, pipes— Erik?
Later he’d fiercely deny yelping, even to himself, as the knife fell with a resounding thud. Suddenly, he was warm for an entirely different reason. The world felt as if it had lurched several degrees to the side as Erik spun around stupidly, having forgotten, if only momentarily, that he was still alone. More or less. “Charles?” he called aloud, before realizing his mistake.
Erik suppressed his initial rush of disappointment upon realizing that he was still alone. At least physically. His eyes stung and only the pressure of the sink against his fingertips kept a fresh batch of tears from falling. You’re not alone.
He shook his head, not entirely certain whether that was a memory or a reminder. “But I am.” Erik’s breath caught in his throat at the blunt honesty of those words and the threat of the cold numbness, suppressed by the drink, swelled. He could almost see himself drowning. Because for all that Charles had once optimistically claimed that he wasn’t, not even his friend’s sunny outlook could allow him to say the same now.
What’s going on? You’re scaring me, my friend.
Ah, that was undoubtedly Charles. Erik’s lips quirked upwards in a mirthless smile momentarily before he swallowed thickly again. “I—” His grip on the sink tightened and all the metal in his vicinity began to tremble. They’re dead, Charles. And it’s my fault. I tried so hard to live a fucking normal life. But it was nothing more than a house of cards. One little bump and— with some obvious, if gentle, prying, the memories flashed before his eyes. The accident. His momentary indecision, then quick rescue. Nina. Magda. The mob. Nein! Bitte nicht mehr— “No. Please, no more.”
Abruptly, a wave of calm passed over him and Erik staggered, sinking onto the floor once more. His shoulders moved rapidly up and down, though air still didn’t come readily. For a moment his stomach churned violently, and he heaved, though nothing came up except for some spittle. It had been a while since Erik’s last meal. Then he realized that the strange groaning sound had been the sink, as an invisible force compressed it. That hardly mattered now. He wasn’t going to stay here much longer anyway. Someone was bound to come looking for the missing officers soon. Erik didn’t bother to wipe his face this time.
There was a vague, gentle brush against the surface of his thoughts and then the impression of a sigh and a blip of some deep, bitter feeling before it was gone. Another wave of comfort and comradery replaced it. Oh, Erik… I am so sorry. Suddenly, he was shaking again, and Erik’s hands pressed against his temples, fingers twisting none too gently in his hair. A surge of rage roiled through him. It was… good, comforting, that Charles meant it, but once again words did nothing to fix the situation. His wife, their child, were still dead.
With that, a new sort of resolve filled him, cooling and hardening in place like molten steel. He was already leaving, no longer welcome here. The beginnings of a plan flowed into place in Erik’s head. He would go to the factory— No, don’t! You can crave vengeance to your heart’s content, but this time I will not allow you to barrel towards self-destruction. Please, Erik, don’t force my hand.
“I thought you were above using such ‘tricks’ on your supposed allies, Charles,” Erik murmured aloud, sending a spiteful wave of resentment and determination alongside it. Though he did not fight quite as hard as he could have against the wave of tiredness which crashed artificially over him. Within moments, he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Thousands of miles and an ocean away a certain telepath began speaking frantically to his estranged sister and her newfound blue, teleporting companion.
***
An unknown period later, he stirred awake to the faint sensation of fingers brushing gently through his hair. Erik stiffened, body protesting as he sat up jerkily, gritting his teeth to hold back a hiss. Charles had lost none of his strength, at least not since he’d recovered the use of his powers. The ‘hand’ withdrew as soon as he was fully conscious.
Blinking to clear his hazy vision, Erik peered upwards to confirm the identity of his interloper. As anticipated, the kind, if slightly more worn than remembered, eyes of one Charles Xavier stared back. This time his face was clean-shaven and his hair— while still longer than how he’d worn it in the 60’s— was freshly washed and combed back neatly. Absurdly, this made Erik more acutely aware of his own disheveled state. But that was hardly Charles’ fault and despite the lingering justified irritation he felt toward the telepath for the earlier abuse of his powers, Erik was undeniably glad that Charles was here.
He blinked again, then offered a small nod, unable to summon the energy for a proper greeting. Or even a lecture. Briefly, a soft and understanding smile crossed Charles’ lips before his brow furrowed slightly and he sighed. In the quiet, the sound of birdsong became disconcertingly noticeable. Erik swallowed again.
“Do you have any injuries?”
Erik blinked stupidly at the question for a moment, then pursed his lips. “No.” Why are you here, Charles? How are you here?
“Because, my friend, I need to be. Ra— Mystique has made the acquaintance of a wonderful young man by the name of Kurt. He’s a teleporter.” Erik blinked, a distorted, tiredness-induced sense of gratitude overwhelming him. He did not deserve such kindness, not when he had left Charles so cruelly in his own moment of need. No, Erik, no. It doesn’t work like that. This time, Charles’ mental voice sounded horrified. I will admit to us having had our fair share of… disagreements, but I would never abandon you. Nor, I suspect, would you me. But that is a discussion for another time. Now tell me what you need.
And that, on top of everything else and with how unbalanced he currently felt, proved too much.
Without any forethought, Erik lurched forward and dragged himself up onto his knees. Ignoring the pain caused by lingering stiffness as well as the discomfort of the hard wooden floor, he invaded Charles’ personal space and wrapped his arms around the telepath. Awkwardly, Charles leaned forward, holding himself still for a second or two before he relaxed, freeing one hand which he pressed gently to the back of Erik’s head. “I know it seems impossible at the moment, but you will get through this, Erik,” he said.
A laugh which was more of a sob forced its way out at this statement. Perhaps, like Frost, I have a secondary mutation: to survive where no one else would— or should. And suddenly, he couldn’t stop laughing. Erik did not like the idea of fate but with every year, it was harder and harder to deny that something seemed to be working against him. As he sobbed, Charles’ fingers did not stop stroking through his hair and while Erik went to pieces, his friend murmured soft meaningless things to him.
If nothing else, at least I have you. It was not meant to be projected, per se, but given the ample amounts of fondness and affection which were returned, Charles had picked up on the thought. Erik merely focused on regaining control of his breathing, but continued to grip his friend firmly— more than he realized for Charles suddenly huffed and then there was a telepathic nudge: the wheelchair, too tight, metal constricting around the two of them, almost like a hug itself, Erik, please, a little more control. He pulled away, closed his eyes, exhaled, and deliberately reshaped the metal to its original configuration. Thank you.
With that final act, he seemed to have regained some composure. The process of standing was a painstaking one as the night of drinking followed by a lack of food or water, and sleeping on a hard, cold floor, had done him no favors. Once he was up, Erik hesitated. His gaze swept over the small living area of what had so recently been home. What now? The thought as well as the doubt were all his. Though Charles seemed invested in both all the same.
“Before I make my offer, let me reiterate something: whatever you do next will be your choice. However, as I said earlier, I cannot promise non-interference should you decide to self-destruct, or do something that will cause others harm.” Reluctantly, Erik nodded, though he avoided the piercing blue of Charles’ gaze. After a brief silence, his friend continued, “It’s not the same as— ahem. It’s not the same as before, but it is, dare I say, getting there. We’ve several new students, with some more prospective ones too. But there will always be room for more. Come to the mansion. At least for a while. Please.” Give yourself the chance to heal.
This time, Erik sought out Charles’ eyes deliberately. They regarded one another seriously for a moment. Then Erik nodded slightly. “Very well. I make no promises as to how long I’ll stay, but— I’ll come with you, Charles.”
The telepath smiled and was clearly relieved. “Thank you.”
Erik ignored the unintentional burst of delight which Charles broadcast. Instead, he shrugged awkwardly then cleared his throat. “I need to gather my things. I—” His heart clenched. I don’t believe I’ll be able to return here. At least not for a while.
“Of course, my friend. Take all the time you need. I’ll wait for you on the porch.”
Uncertain as to what he wanted, or even should, say to that, Erik merely nodded again before spinning around and picking his way through the destruction. Thank you, Charles, for being here. For not giving up… someday, I’ll find a way to repay it. If his friend heard these saccharine thoughts, he did not comment upon them.
Erik cleared them from his head and gathered the few items he wished to take with him. Soon enough he was done. After a brief greeting to Mystique, an introduction between himself and Kurt, the four mutants were gone. Nothing but memories and the debris of a once-happy life remained in the house. And outside it, two fresh graves.