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Although it’s a rare occurrence, presently Professor Charles Xavier, Psy.D, Ph.D., is bored. His final class of the day— PSYCH 450: The Mutant Subconscious— ended thirty minutes ago. Since then, Charles has reviewed as many papers as he dares to without lapsing into providing bland or lackluster feedback. When he agreed to trim his schedule for this semester, Charles imagined he’d be more efficient, that he could pick up some departmental housekeeping duties. But he finds that the slower pace has actually been a relief.

At the same time, he does occasionally grow restless, and resents the change. This was especially true when he’d been freshly mourning Lilandra’s passing. During these times, he recalls Dr. Grey’s advice: “It’s alright not to be busy, Charles. Your worth doesn’t depend on your usefulness to others.” He’d initially been reluctant to meet with the young psychologist, but Charles has come to appreciate Jean— even if he’s been teaching since she was in diapers.

Sighing, he reaches out for Dr. Hank McCoy’s consciousness to gauge his willingness to accompany Charles on an outing. As he’s worked here his entire professional life— save for a misspent decade or two— the semi-retired Professor is able to divine his former graduate student’s location easily. Dr. McCoy is in the laboratories. Charles’ specialty is the ever-evolving field of mutant psychology. Hank’s is an exciting off shoot of that: mutant neurology. These days his focus is neuroplasticity and mutation’s effect on it.

Charles finds the young doctor’s mind whirring with equations and new, gossamer-thread revelations. That possibility dead-ended, he steels himself before turning to his next contact: Dr. Emma Frost. She’s a brilliant, if ruthless, academic— there’s long been muttering about her grant application tactics and admissions procedures for the department’s graduate program. As much as Charles dislikes disliking anyone, Dr. Frost has earned his animosity for an entirely different reason. She replaced Charles as the Department Chair while he was on bereavement leave. To be fair to Emma, she’s not the only one he holds responsible. The machination was only accomplished with the aid of Professor Essex and Jason Stryker, in accordance with Dean Farouk.

Dr. Frost, Charles floats out, politely ‘knocking’ on her mental shields.

Yes, Professor Xavier? she replies, with a cool sense of impatience. Though at this time of day— a little after 3:30 p.m.— Charles knows from past experience that there’s nothing pressing to attend to. He does his best to repress his resentment before responding.

I’m heading out for the day, just wanted to let you know.

Have a good evening, then, Professor. You’ll be in this coming Wednesday, yes?

That’s correct. Gritting his teeth, Charles civilly bids her a good afternoon. Then retreats into his own headspace. Not that I’m looking forward to having more time off. Heaven knows what he’ll do with himself around the apartment all day tomorrow. Never before has his domicile been so organized. For now, he sets aside his annoyance and focuses on more pleasant matters. It’s a warm, bright afternoon— the first of this year’s spring— and he’s free to wander where he pleases. Surely he’ll encounter something interesting.

. . .

While New York City’s subways are never empty, Charles concludes that the lighter pre-rush hour traffic is preferable to what he’s accustomed to. The diminished crowd allows him to settle on the train comfortably without suffering bystanders’ impatient glares, snide commentary, or put-out thoughts. It also means that he has an unobstructed view of the gorgeous stranger seated across from him. The man is around Charles’ age and wears it well. His thick, silver hair is swept back artfully, enhancing a striking jawline and sharp cheekbones. Due somewhat to his lingering paranoia triggered by ogling men, Charles glances away before he can be caught. Only to sense an intense interest directed at him.

Charles fidgets, attempting to ignore it. Despite some cultural advancements, many individuals still harbor biases toward or misunderstandings about people like him. Given the strength of his telepathy, others’ judgements of him are always available for Charles’ perusal. Frankly, it’s exhausting. As Charles decides to locate the source— if not speak to them— he realizes that the mind he senses is a mutant’s. At this, his mood brightens rapidly. Charles glances up with eagerness instead of irritation.

At first he overlooks the handsome silver-haired man— now hunched over his hands, as if holding a pager— but then Charles looks back, unintentionally meeting his gaze. He realizes then, with delight: it’s him. He’s the source. And the stranger isn’t holding a device, but a scrap of metal that looks like—

A man in a wheelchair. Him.

As their eye contact lengthens, the man’s eyes narrow. His surface thoughts darken and grow sharper with wariness. One hand slowly closes over his creation. Oh, Charles realizes, still caught between indignation and interest, he thinks I’m afraid of him. Suddenly, Charles is rather desperate to speak to this stranger. But the man beats him to it. “Is there a problem?” his fellow mutant asks gruffly. His deep voice is lightly accented— European.

Charles realizes he’s still staring and desperately hopes that he hasn’t begun blushing. Wanting to reach out and doing so are different beasts entirely. He feels caught off guard. “Ah, no— it’s just that” I’m a telepath, you see, and I couldn’t help but notice your attention on me while you were sculpting that figurine.

“Model,” the man corrects automatically, before blinking. Charles feels when his mind makes the connection between their spoken conversation and the telepathic exchange. Charles’ new acquaintance unclenches his fist abruptly and leans forward, palm up. His expression is calm, but uncertainty and chagrin color his psyche. “I didn’t mean to cause you discomfort; this piece is for a project I’m working on.”

“May I take a closer look?” Charles asks.

The man hesitates for a moment before standing swiftly— giving him an eyeful of graceful, long legs— and crosses over to sit at his side. “Sure.”

Charles turns slightly and, helpfully, the small model floats upward for easier inspection. Despite his initial uncertainty, Charles is charmed and impressed by the work. He has not been depicted as impatient and weary like most New Yorker commuters, or as frail and pitiable as many unfortunately view a man of Charles’ age and ability. Instead, in metal Charles is dignified and serene. Without intending to, he grasps the man’s hand and lifts it. Only when he catches a sudden unease does Charles comprehend what he’s done and release his fellow mutant.

“I’m sorry about that,” he apologizes, smiling to emphasize his sincerity, “but this is marvelous work! I feel quite flattered…”

“Erik Lehnsherr,” the man provides quietly, straightening. With another gesture, the small model floats downward into his palm. Erik closes his fingers over it carefully. “And thank you—”

“Charles Xavier.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Erik flashes his teeth and offers Charles his free hand. They shake quickly. Looking far more relaxed, Erik leans back in his seat and crosses his legs at the ankle. “So, Charles, what is it that you do?”

“I’m a professor at Colombia University. Though I’m semi-retired, these days.”

Erik raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “I take it this is a recent development. That would explain why I haven’t noticed you before.”

Is he… flirting? Charles wonders, definitely flushing. He’s tempted to peek into Erik’s mind to confirm his suspicion. There’s an awkward pause before he clears his throat. “Yes, it is. As of this semester, actually. And you— still working?”

“More or less. I own a gallery in Brooklyn. While my youngest daughter would be happy to take it over, I’m not ready to give it up quite yet.”

Charles smiles sympathetically. “I know the feeling— except it’s my former students and younger colleagues… If I may ask, what is your mutation? I’ve never seen a telekinetic exert such precise control before.”

Erik preens. “That’s because I’m not one. My mutation gives me control over magnetic fields and metal.”

Charles’ eyebrows rise in surprise. “How fascinating! I’ve never heard of such an ability before.”

Erik nods thoughtfully. “Save for myself and my daughter, Lorna, neither have I. It was quite an experience when she manifested. Do you have children?” Erik’s gaze flicks to his left hand, where Charles’ wedding band is still on display. The telepath senses faint disappointment before hastily retreating behind his shields.

“Yes, two: David and Xandra. They’re both mutants. One from a former marriage, the other from my wife, Lilandra.” He feels a brief sting of guilt at the misdirection but also no need to correct it.

They lapse into silence for a few moments before Erik looks up sharply. Charles feels the train beginning to slow. Erik opens his hand. “If you’d like, you can keep this.”

Although he’s flattered, Charles hesitates. “Are you sure? I’d hate to interfere with your project.”

Erik grins and waves him off. “It’s no bother, really.” He fishes a business card from his jacket pocket as he stands. “Presuming you regularly take this line around this time, I’ll have plenty of opportunity to do another one. And you’re welcome to stop by the gallery as well.”

“In that case, I’d love to have it,” Charles says, reaching out to accept the card and model. “I take this line every other Tuesday. And I’d enjoy seeing more of your work, Erik.” The train comes to a complete stop— not that Erik is moved by it— and both items are placed in his waiting palm.

“Excellent. It was a pleasure meeting you, Charles.”

“You too. Have a good afternoon, Erik.” He spends the rest of the ride smiling.

. . .

When Charles arrives home, he sticks Erik’s card on the fridge and carefully transfers the model to his pants pocket, so it won’t be lost. Then he takes the lift to his bedroom to change. Once he’s acquired a new outfit, Charles moves back downstairs. He makes a cup of tea, carries his beverage to the computer room, and powers up the desktop (a belated birthday present from David) to do some reading. Alright, so he can cyber-stalk Erik. Charles has another brief flare of guilt, before another of Jean’s sayings: “You know your wife best, Charles. Wouldn’t she want you to be happy” floats through his head. He fiddles with the ring, a bit, but doesn’t remove it. Not yet.

Erik’s gallery is named Magnetic Images and its website is cleanly professional. On the homepage is a slideshow of both Erik’s work and that displayed in the gallery. Beneath this is a small calendar listing upcoming events. On the about tab is a mouthwatering portrait of Erik. In it, he leans against a glass wall, wearing a dark burgundy turtleneck and white slacks. Erik’s arms are crossed, and he stares contemplatively into the distance. Under the photograph is a succinct biography:

“Erik Magnus Lehnsherr née Max Eisenhardt, is a modern miniaturist sculptor whose career has focused on installation pieces and dioramas. Mutant Today has deemed his work “evocative and innovative.” Similarly, The New York Times has called Mr. Lehnsherr’s art “[d]aring, even at times startling…” Mr. Lehnsherr incorporates themes from his life and observations about human (and mutant) nature into his work. He rose to prominence as a forerunner of the Mutantist movement, whose political counterpart Mr. Lehnsherr also participated in. For commissions and other inquiries, please reach out via the provided email or phone number.”

Well. Charles feels suitably impressed by that summary, though he imagines the full version is even more interesting. So, he turns to the search engines to uncover more. Naturally, for someone with such a long (and apparently storied) career, there are a variety of articles. Mostly about Erik’s artwork, exhibitions, or the gallery.

Out of curiosity, Charles clicks on a longer piece that’s titled, We Remember: An Overview of Modern Jewish Artists Reflecting on the Shoah. After reading the introduction, he scrolls until the name ‘Max Eisenhardt’ pops up. There is a pair of photos— one sepia of a young boy in shorts, button-up shirt, cap, and long socks, the other in full color of Erik and a woman whose appearance is strikingly similar. The caption reads, “Max Eisenhardt, in Nuremburg, Germany, 1934 (left). Erik (Max) and Ruth Lehnsherr, in New York, United States, 1949 (right).” Beneath is a summary of Erik’s projects (helpfully hyperlinked for the audience’s perusal) and then another close-up photo.

In the frame is a paperclip for size reference next to two connected figures: one man, one woman. They’re incredibly detailed, even more so than the one Erik gifted him earlier. The next photo is of a tabletop, apparently covered in gray shag carpet. Except it’s actually metal, and Charles concludes that each textured bump must be a figure. Here the caption reads: “Jakob and Edie Eisenhardt, Mr. Lehnsherr’s parents (left). Archival images for Sea of Loss (1980) provided by the MOMA.”

Charles reads on: “Sea of Loss was the artist’s first major instillation dealing with the murder of his parents. It both commemorates individuals and reminds viewers of the scale of the atrocity committed by the Nazi Regime. At its unveiling, Mr. Lehnsherr said, “‘I was comparatively fortunate. My elder sister, Ruth, had already relocated to America in the early 1930s for university. As the situation in Germany worsened, my mother was eventually able to persuade my father to send me abroad. I was only permitted entry to the United States because I was a small boy, and Ruth lied about being my mother. Several years later, my parents attempted to join us but were denied asylum. My sister and I became citizens when she married an American, who also adopted me.’”

Charles presses the back button, exhaling deeply. After taking a moment to settle himself, he finds another article. This one is dedicated to Erik’s participation in the Mutantist movement. Apparently he’d met its other founding members after being evicted from his sister’s house by her (soon-to-be ex-)husband. Ruth and Erik later reconnected, but that event strained their relationship. Meeting other mutants provided Erik with a sense of community that he’d been missing. Through the 1950s and 60s, he gained prominence among mutant circles and with the authorities. Several years later, Erik garnered mainstream attention.

Deciding that he’s done enough reading for the night, Charles shuts down the computer and prepares for bed. For once, he’s grateful for his semi-retirement. Otherwise we wouldn’t have met. His research has made him even more eager to speak with Erik. Carefully not thinking about what he’s doing (“No one is better at self-delusion than a telepath, Dr. Xavier,” Jean once observed knowingly), Charles slips off his wedding band. He places it on the side table. Then he turns over, sets his alarm, and goes to sleep.

. . .

Despite having had few stable, long-term romances in his life, Erik’s not above wanting one. But his self-awareness is enough that he understands why few previous partners could tolerate him. And so far, aging has done nothing to mellow him out. “Dad,” Lorna scolds, interrupting his musing. Erik feels a jolt as her powers join his in supporting the five hundred-pound sculpture. “I thought we talked about this! You don’t need to install everything by yourself anymore. What would Auntie Ruth say?”

The piece is called Arch Angel. It’s an enormous and ghastly overwrought thing; one side feathered and the other built of knife-like blades. Although the message is cliche, its construction, he’s forced to admit, is exceptionally fine. The younger Worthington’s money is also good, and he’d been willing to offer a generous fee for a space in Magnetic Images. These days, Erik’s far more willing to compromise in that regard.

He eases his grip on the sculpture, looking sideways at his daughter until she nods: I have it. With a sigh, Erik relinquishes his hold, trying not to read anything more into it than momentary practicality. His lips twitch, despite an attempt to remain stern. “Ruthie would probably call me ein stur Arschloch,” Erik concedes, “but Warren had very specific instructions for the instillation, my dear.” Not that this will change Lorna’s mind. Unfortunately, she inherited his temper. Dear Wanda got the temper, but also Magda’s steady demeanor. Pietro inherited even fewer positive traits. And Anya—

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t trust my judgement,” Lorna mutters, shooting him a look. Then, grinning, she steps back until she’s at his side. “What do you think about that?” Using the excuse of getting a better view, he rests an arm lightly across her shoulders, peering critically at their work. Alright, so he’s not entirely resentful of his youngest daughter’s efforts around the gallery. It’s gratifying that at least one of his children has taken an interest.

“Perfect,” Erik pronounces, smiling warmly.

. . .

Over the years Erik has learned that life passes in moments instead of linearly. Today he visited his doctor— she’s concerned about his cholesterol, and has been trying to get him to take pills for it. Their back-and-forth exchange prolonged the appointment. But he knows from friends’ experiences that once you start such a routine it never ends. So it takes a burst of speed and use of his powers to hold the train doors open long enough to board. Erik steadies himself by latching onto one of the handrails as the train starts up. Then, he looks for Charles.

Here, Erik, I saved you a seat, though you’ll have to hurry. Some of my neighbors are beginning to look mutinous. The greeting is colored with a mix of humor and gentle urgency. Erik chuckles, and follows the projected directions to Charles’ location. When he’s spotted, the telepath beams, waving Erik over impatiently. He tries not to broadcast his pleasure at having someone so clearly desire his company.

“Good afternoon, Charles,” Erik greets easily. He settles in the spot Charles clears for him by moving his briefcase. “How was your day?”

Charles sobers somewhat, although his mood remains cheerier than Erik is accustomed to. Despite himself, he thinks: I could get used to this. “Hello, Erik! Despite a somewhat hectic office hour— we’re nearing mid-terms— it was good. And yours?”

“Better now,” he replies succinctly, smiling.

. . .

Somehow, they move onto the topic of families. This has always been a difficult one for Erik. While he’ll tell Charles whatever he wishes to know (within reason), Erik doesn’t speak as freely about his relations as he does other things. “You mentioned you have children,” Charles voices uncertainly. The ‘are you married’ is heavily implied. And the absence of Charles’ wedding band this afternoon is intriguing.

It’s far less discomfiting to speak of his present life, so Erik begins there. “Yes. I have three living children, whom my sister helped raise. Wanda and Pietro were given to me by my late wife, Magda. Lorna was the result of a premature attempt at dating some years later. Pietro works for S.H.I.E.L.D. and Wanda oversees the Department of Education’s Mutant Outreach Program. Lorna is an artist, like myself. I believe you mentioned having children before as well?”

Charles accepts the change of conversational direction easily. “You’re correct. My son is a screenwriter in LA and my daughter is completing her Master’s in political science at Brown. They’re both telepathic…” his expression shifts between grief and deliberate dispassion then. “My wife— I misspoke last time. It’s an unfortunate side-effect of telepathy, you see, that we don’t handle loss well. Lilandra passed a little over a year ago.”

Hesitant— because he has harbored his own griefs for many years, grown used to their burden— Erik places a hand on Charles’ armrest. He also doesn’t want to accidentally overstep, as this friendship is so new. “I understand. They say we should ‘move on’ but I find that advice unhelpful. It implies forgetting. The departed will never cease to have an important role in your life, but you cannot dwell on what was, or it consumes you.” I am sorry for your loss.

“Thank you.” Charles offers a weak smile. “I suggest we move onto more cheerful things before I bring everyone else’s mood down.”

. . .

As always, Erik senses the train slowing, and stands in preparation for his departure. After their more serious conversation concluded, they shared tales of their travels, favorite places in the city. Erik feels lighter than he has in a while. “I’ll see you later?”

Charles looks wryly amused. “Unless I have a late life crisis and decide to move to Florida, I should think so.”

Erik snorts. “Perish the thought. Good afternoon, Charles.”

. . .

Even if he isn’t very technologically proficient, Erik does well for someone his age. It helps that he feels kinship with metallic things. This fuels his resolve to master computers. So he ventures into the internet’s labyrinth and types: ‘Charles Xavier.’ The first result is an obituary for one Lilandra Xavier. While Charles hasn’t demurred Erik’s attention he’s clearly still grieving. Hmm. Definitely something to consider, but it’s not like he isn’t also damaged goods. Even if Charles isn’t looking for romance, he’s interesting. Erik could use more friends. All his children agree on that point.

He reads on, grimacing sympathetically as he does. Telepathic dementia is brutal. Not all develop it— on the whole, psychics tend to be immune to that sort of thing— but the more powerful ones, when they fall apart, do so dramatically. Xavier, being a telepath himself, would have felt her suffering. How awful. Unsettled, Erik backs out of the obituary and skims over other results until he finds an article pertaining to Charles’ work.

The first paragraph provides an extensive list of accolades and degrees. Erik is by no means unintelligent, but his experiences with academia have been haphazard and his education is patchy. We definitely operate in different circles, he thinks wryly. According to the article, Charles specializes in mutant psychology, and studies how it might differ from baselines.’ In recent years, he’s collaborated with graduate and Ph.D. students to uncover physical differences as well.

This makes something in Erik’s gut tremble, but he pushes it down. Charles is a mutant, in a mutant-dominated department, in one of the most mutant-friendly cities in this country. That doesn’t necessarily guarantee anything, but Erik is familiar enough with his own paranoid tendencies to dismiss the concern as extremely unlikely. He takes a breath and glances down at the built-in computer clock, eyes widening with alarm. I’ll be late.

. . .

As Charles boards the train, he tries to dismiss his nerves. This is hardly even a date, so there’s no reason for them. Erik certainly seemed flirtatious during their previous encounters, but theirs is still a new acquaintance. Perhaps that’s just how he acts (even if this seems unlikely).

Evidently, there was a concert earlier, so the train is filled with Young People. He normally wouldn’t mind— Charles finds their mindscapes invigorating— but youth often coincides with self-absorption. He should know; that flaw contributed to his two divorces. This is all to say that after Charles boards, he’s immediately swallowed by the crowd. It’s stressful enough that his pulse races, and his breathing comes quicker until— “Move. Weren’t you lot taught basic decency?” Ah, Erik. He looks less an artist and more an aloof executive, given his briefcase and suit. There’s a ripple of confusion and chagrined realization as people spot Charles. Hastily, the crowd clears the way. Charles nods gratefully to Erik and secures his position.

Seconds later, the train jolts into movement. Erik slumps into the seat next to him. “Charles,” he greets, sounding weary. His mind fills with uncertainty for a moment before he clears his throat. “Sorry if I overstepped—”

“I could have handled it, but I appreciate your… effectiveness.” He smiles, and, feeling bold, places a hand over Erik’s briefcase-laden fist. Erik grins, surface thoughts going warm and relieved. Charles sucks in a breath to steady himself. “Is there something I should know,” he inquires teasingly, gesturing at Erik’s suit, “I feel under-dressed.”

Erik scowls. “I came straight from a meeting. I was getting a piece authenticated in preparation for auction.” He looks consideringly at Charles. You can see it if you’d like. As if that weren’t enough permission, Erik taps a finger against his temple and glances significantly at the briefcase. Oh, how marvelous. If Erik hadn’t already charm Charles, he would now. If the afterlife exists, surely Lilandra is content that he’s found someone who so readily accepts his telepathy. Not that he and Erik are anywhere near those sorts of declarations yet.

“Thank you, Erik. I don’t know how well acquainted you are with telepathy, but I won’t look at anything aside from what you’ve given me permission to see. If you’re uncomfortable—”

Erik holds up a hand, smirking. “I don’t know how much research you did on me, Charles, but I’m assuming you did some. Mutant and proud should apply to us all.” Well, that’s answer enough. Charles nods. He shows off a bit by slipping into Erik’s recent memories without bringing a finger to his temples.

As he finds the memory, he has to refrain from gasping in delight. The piece is a chessboard, replete with all the pieces. It’s made out of two different metals, one dark and gleaming, the other appearing silver to his inexpert eye. The crafting is both intricate and beautiful. But all he can think is: he plays chess too. Grinning, Charles pulls out of Erik’s headspace.

Erik looks excited. “You play?”

“I do. While I can’t identify the materials your board is made of, I’ll hazard they’re far too precious for us to use. But I’d love to have a game some time.”

Erik nods, fingers drumming over the briefcase. “It’s silver. And adamantium.”

Charles gapes. “How? I thought—”

“That the government possessed all the world’s adamantium stock? This piece is courtesy of my… wilder days. There was a fellow I met for whom I did a favor.” Charles blinks at Erik’s words. His concern over the advisableness of carrying such a valuable item so openly must show on his face, or else his telepathy is leaking. “Wanda has the ability to manipulate reality. She put some security measures in place. I am capable of self-defense as well,” Erik reassures him.

Uncertain of what else can be said, Charles changes topics. “I’d hate to be a bother, but as you’re already heading there… I’d love to see your gallery.”

“It’s not a bother at all, Charles. I quite enjoy showing it off. Now tell me: how was your day?”

. . .

The rest of the ride passes swiftly, even if they’re on the train for almost another half-hour. Once they reach Brooklyn, they stop by Erik’s favorite mutant-owned coffee shop, Beans & Genes. All the staff know him well and provide discounts (not that they’re necessary). Erik orders his regular espresso and Charles gets an oolong tea. “Is it alright if I bring this into the gallery?” he asks, winning himself more points in Erik’s book.

“So long as you’re not clumsy. Although even if you are, most of the pieces on display are metal, so it wouldn’t be entirely catastrophic.”

Charles laughs. “How fortunate. But don’t worry, I’m actually more graceful now than I ever was before.”

That startles a chuckle out of Erik.

. . .

Their luck runs out when they reach Magnetic Images— instead of it being closed as expected, the lights are on and faint strains of music float through the doorway. Damn, Erik thinks, grimacing. It wasn’t like he was going to put a move on Charles here, but this precludes all other possibilities. Also, Lorna, like the rest of his children, is a busy-body. She’ll be extremely interested in meeting Charles. Erik supposes it’s payback for him vetting Lorna’s dates during her teenage years. Not that this is a date. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

“Something the matter?” Charles asks. Ah yes, they’re still stalled just outside the gallery.

“Not exactly. I closed shop before my meeting, but apparently my daughter had other ideas…” Erik hesitates. He’s about to find out what Charles’ intentions with him are. How should I introduce you?

Charles glances through the open doorway, then down at his lap. Despite himself, Erik’s heart sinks a little. But then Charles looks up, gaze warm if still apprehensive. “As… friends.” Though I wouldn’t mind trying for something more, Erik. The foreign thought floats through his head with a sense of intent and growing fondness. His airways loosen. Erik finds himself grinning like a fool, but doesn’t bother to suppress it. The verdict is too good. Besides, Charles would realize how he feels regardless of whether the expression on his face corresponds.

“Very well, Charles. Friends it is.” I’d like that, too.