Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It isn’t so hard, the hunger.

Day after day, lying in his cell, leaving the trays of food they send down to him completely untouched, hunger is his constant companion. Down here, in the Pentagon, miles beneath the surface of the Earth, Erik has nothing to his name besides the clothes on his back, the rough canvas pallet beneath him, and the dull ache in his stomach that ebbs and flows as the time passes, never assuaged.

It’s become comforting, in a way.

It’s the only power Erik has left.

It didn’t used to be like this. Everything sterile around him, the room holding its breath in peaceful expectation of his death.

Before this, before Erik began refusing meals, there was filth.

When he sought escape through a different means of disobedience, another refusal to conform to the inhumane conditions he’d been placed in. Coating the white walls and floor in his own excrement, grimy and sticky and reeking with the stench of hopelessness, of anger. The room became a breeding ground for maggots, writhing on the floor and crawling in his bed as flies threw themselves at the glass windows like they, too, were seeking freedom. And among it all, for hours, he would sit. Curling up in a corner of the cell, touching as little as he could, his hands perpetually stained brown.

The guards didn’t like that. When Erik was taken out to be bathed, they would periodically hose the room down, scraping at the accumulated mess on every available surface. Back then, he had the strength to kick and struggle when they forcibly removed him from his cell, desperately seeking the telltale nudge of metal nearby, anything that would help him fight back. There never was. They would scrub him down in a plastic bucket, holding him underwater as he violently thrashed, and then when he was clean they would cut his hair with ceramic scissors, raggedly chopping and slicing his scalp more often than not. When it was all over, he’d be shoved back into his cell, bleeding, bruised, panting heavily, seething with anger, and completely helpless.

It didn’t stop Erik from repeating the process. from fighting back with the only tool left available to him—his own body.

But all of that was behind him, now. He’d realized with a painful clarity that the filth would never be enough to stop them. They’d be repeating the cycle for years and years, caught in a perpetual battle of grime and cleaning, and nothing would change.

After careful consideration, Erik had given that up. Let them hose and scrape down the cell one last time, didn’t make a move to ruin it again.

Instead, he’d stopped eating.

There was a beautiful simplicity to a hunger strike. The power was no longer in the affirmative choices made, but rather, the refusal; abstinence. By doing nothing, Erik was exerting more power than he ever otherwise could have sought out. And as furious as it made the guards, they were forced to let this play out.

They couldn’t scrub away starvation. Carry Erik away from the consequences of his choices. Save his life.

There was nothing they could do.

Erik wasn’t sure how long it had been. The perpetual lighting in his cell made it difficult to count the passing of the days, and more and more often, time was drifting in strange swaths and clumps as his awareness faded in and out.

If there were other people to do this with, things might be different. The strategy, the hunger strike, would set the ball in motion for change, get things rolling, make a statement. As it is, just him and untelevised like this, his death will be the end. The culmination of the fight between Erik and his captors; the grand finale of his lifelong struggle against those who misuse their authority.

He’s not going to give in. He’s going to see things to that bitter end, and with every day that passes, it seems like more of an eventuality than a possibility.

By this point, he was no longer hungry, not really, just aching. The pain burned with intensity beyond anything he’d known, enveloping him in its powerful grasp. It coiled in the pit of his stomach, reminding him of his anger, at the government, for doing this, at himself, for letting things reach this point, at Charles—

He didn’t like thinking about Charles, but these days, as he laid in bed, half-aware and floating between the past and the present, it always came back to him, the memory of their time together.

“There’s so much more to you than you know,” Charles would say, his gaze insistent but kind, peering down at Erik, almost like he was really there in the room. “Not just pain and anger.”

At one time, in another life, Erik had almost believed it. Had thought there really might be a way out of the torturous existence he’d led; that striving for mutant rights could be done peacefully, with the support of those he loved.

Now, he knew the truth. Pain and anger was all that was left.

That, and hunger.

…

Peter wasn’t really sure what to expect as he walked down the corridor of the Pentagon, dressed in a stolen guard’s uniform with a tray of food in his hands. Subduing the guard in the elevator and usurping his position had been easy—a bit of a laugh, really, when he’d decided to go all out with the duct tape—but with every step down the hall, Peter was reminded exactly why he was really here.

This wasn’t about messing around, causing chaos, or even stealing something. Peter was highly familiar with all three of those objectives, having often needed to find some way to blow off steam after five days tapping his foot in a tiny classroom and being scolded by his teachers. It was why his basement was chock full with items he didn’t really want anyway; things he didn’t need and which accumulated as proof of his crimes.

But this was different, because it was all about the prisoner. The men who’d asked Peter to do this—Charles, Logan, and Hank—hadn’t given Peter much to go off of. All he knew was that the man’s name was Erik, and he’d been locked up for just about ten years now.

When Peter had asked why, Hank had opened his mouth to reply, but Charles had shot him a warning glare, and Peter had decided maybe it was better that he didn’t know. It would make the knowledge of what he was about to do that much easier.

Because this didn’t have to be all depressing or nerve-wracking, right? There was no need to think about this in terms of the reason this guy was here or the consequences of letting him out. It was enough that it was a breakout, from one of the most highly secured facilities in the world, which was pretty kick ass.

Peter wasn’t going to get caught up worrying about who the guy was. His focus was on getting him the hell out of dodge.

As Peter took slow steps down the corridor, his heart firmly lodged in his throat as he kept a shaky grip on the tray of food, he found himself surprised by the lack of guards keeping watch.

With such a high-profile, likely powerful prisoner, Peter would have expected a row of guards on each side of the hallway, armed and ready in case of a potential breakout. Instead, there were only two men—one on each end of the long hallway—and Peter couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t seem to be worried that Erik might find a way to overpower them.

After what felt like ages, Peter finally reached the door at the end of the hallway, and when he looked back at the first guard, the man pressed the button that would open the door to the room where Erik was kept.

Peter took a shallow breath, his steps echoing as he entered the room. The door slid shut behind him, leaving him alone with nothing but the glass windows of the cell and the small opening of the chute where he would be expected to deposit the food.

Moving in superspeed, Peter retrieved the slip of paper he’d been instructed to bring from his pocket, sliding it into the food tray for the prisoner to find. Charles had told him to keep things simple—no description of the breakout, why they were doing this, or who was involved; instead, the paper read, “Mind the glass.” Easy enough to understand, even for someone who’d spent the last decade alone.

Dropping out of superspeed, Peter approached the windows of the cell, peering in and getting his first look at the prisoner. Erik was lying peacefully on what seemed to be a makeshift little bed, his arms crossed over his stomach. He was clothed in a gray prison uniform which swamped his figure, and it struck Peter how painfully thin the man was. Peter himself was a lanky guy—it came with the speed and his black hole of a stomach—but this was different. The man’s skin stretched tightly over his face, and beneath his uniform, his limbs were uncannily small, like twigs. If Peter hadn’t been holding the tray of food intended for the guy, he’d have been concerned whether they were even feeding him down here.

Shaking off his thoughts, Peter dropped the tray of food into the chute, watching as it slid toward the man, bumping into his shoulder. Peter waited a beat for Erik to look over at it, to see the message, but instead, there was no reaction, the man’s eyes remaining tightly shut. He must have been exhausted.

For lack of anything better to do, Peter knocked on the window, biting his lip as the noise came out louder than he’d intended, echoing off the walls. The loud noise was at least good for one thing—Erik’s eyes snapped open, darting around and coming to rest on Peter.

The man looked disoriented, probably startled to see a teenager in a guard’s uniform, and Peter smiled down at him, starting to feel excited about the plan. Peter tried to motion to the tray, but when Erik did nothing but blink up at him dazedly, he gave up on the note, deciding instead to motion with his hands toward the glass and then miming covering his eyes.

Erik’s gaze sharpened a little at that, but he remained still, watching as Peter set upon the task of vibrating the glass. It was a little difficult to concentrate the speed into his hands, but after a few seconds of channeling the energy, the glass shattered beneath Peter’s grip, raining down into the white room below.

Erik finally reacted, his hands flying up to protect his face, and when the glass had stopped falling, he lowered his hands, slowly pushing himself upright with shaking arms.

Peter frowned. Maybe the man’s appearance was indicative of something bigger going on. Was Erik sick or something?

“Time to get out of here, man,” Peter said, his gaze jumping between the closed door and Erik, sitting on the pallet, his face pale as though he was exerting some great effort. “The guards are going to be here soon.”

“I—” Erik managed. His voice was hoarse and quiet, and Peter leaned down, straining to hear him. “Cannot.”

“Okay,” Peter said warily, eyeing the man as he wondered if this was some kind of weird trick. They didn’t have time for this kind of thing, and it didn’t make sense that Erik would refuse to escape. Peter had to assume the man meant that he wasn’t physically able to get out of the cell, which wasn’t hard to believe, considering the way he looked barely able to keep himself sitting upright. Making a split second decision, Peter lowered himself down into the cell, hesitantly approaching Erik. Up close, the man looked even worse, his skin sallow and his eyes tortured. “I can help support you.”

He leaned down, wrapping one of Erik’s arms around his shoulders and lifting the man upright until they were both standing. Erik’s body was startlingly light, and even through the clothes, Peter could feel the sharp indentations of the man’s ribs as he steadied his back.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked, noticing that Erik’s eyelids were blinking weirdly, fluttering up and down like Erik didn’t know where to look.

Erik opened his mouth to reply, but he suddenly went completely slack, his head lolling back. Peter staggered under the unexpected extra weight, grimacing as he realized that Erik had lost consciousness.

“Shit,” Peter whispered, and as the guards burst into the room, their footsteps pounding overhead, he slipped into superspeed, readjusting his grip on Erik to be able to carry the man out. The breakout may have taken a surprising turn, but there was no way in hell Peter was leaving Erik down here to die.

…

Upstairs, in the kitchen, Charles winced as he watched Logan take out the two guards, slamming them with a frying pan and effortlessly rendering them both unconscious. He felt keyed up, anxious, in part from the thought that more guards may be on their way but also because he knew that any second the elevator doors would open, revealing Erik…

“I’m sorry, I’m just not very good with violence,” Charles gasped out to Logan, distracted, his mind firmly fixed on the idea that he’d be landing eyes on his old friend for the first time in ten years. His skin felt like it was vibrating in anticipation, almost as if he was excited, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He hadn’t forgiven Erik, not by a long shot, and the only reason they were retrieving the man was to save Raven’s life.

If it were up to Charles, Erik would stay locked away indefinitely, for what he’d done to—to Kennedy. And to humankind.

But Charles couldn’t completely deny the truth—that he was looking forward to this, in a perverse sort of way. Looking forward to arguing with Erik again, irritation and fondness battling in his heart as he rolled his eyes at the other man, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a game of chess sitting between them. In spite of everything that had happened between them, he’d missed Erik.

Charles shoved the elevator key roughly in the door, his heart picking up in pace as it began to open. He readied himself to see Erik. What would he say? Who would speak first? How would it feel to lock eyes after all this time?

But when the door opened, Charles’ heart dropped, because the scene was nothing like he’d expected. Peter was standing there, with Erik draped in his arms in a bridal carry, unconscious.

“What—what did they do to him?” Charles found himself saying, taking several stumbling steps forward. Horror was welling up within him as he looked at Erik.

Because the problem wasn’t just the unconsciousness; Erik looked—wrong. His skin was yellowed and waxy, and he looked fragile and small in Peter’s arms, visibly emaciated.

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted, his eyes darting between Charles and Logan. He appeared just as unsettled by the situation. “He stood up and just passed out, man. I hardly even got to speak to him. And he’s so light. It’s like he’s sick.”

“More guards are on their way,” Logan interjected, stepping forward. “Hand him to me, kid. Let’s get him to the plane.”

Peter nodded, looking relieved as he clumsily passed Erik off to Logan, the man’s head lolling.

Bile rose in Charles’ throat at the sight, and he tore his eyes away, attempting to regain control of himself. “We’ll let Hank take a look at him. He’ll know what to do.”

But the damage was clearly done, and the words just felt like too little, too late. How had Charles never once thought to check up on Erik, telepathically or otherwise? How had Charles allowed this to get so far?

…

When Erik awoke, the first thing he noticed was how comfortable the bed beneath him was. His body was gently cushioned by a mattress softer than anything he’d felt in the past decade, a far cry from the rough canvas pallet and the bruises he’d wake up to on his shoulder blades and tailbone from digging into the hard surface all night. Despite the comfort, something in Erik’s mind rebelled at the softness; after so many years of deprivation it was too luxurious, feeling wrong, like he was floating.

Erik forced his eyes open, squinting at the brightness of the lights in the room. Light was shining in through—was that a window? With a metal-lined pane? Was that the unfamiliar tugging he felt deep within him?

Lightning raced through Erik’s veins, and his awareness sharpened as it struck him that he’d been moved out of his cell. There were no windows so deep in the earth, and the guards had been so careful to deprive him of all metal. Was this because they thought he was too infirm to do anything with his mutation? That they were expecting these to be his last days? Perhaps to fit him for a coffin? Or was this just a vivid dream?

Frantically, he looked around the room, desperately seeking context. The room’s walls were wood-paneled and stately, nothing Erik would expect from a building such as the Pentagon. Erik twisted, trying to get a view out of the window, but the movement proved too much strain, leaving him panting and frustrated.

Erik angrily locked his eyes on the ceiling above him, a silent promise. If this was real, and they thought he was powerless, they’d made a big mistake, assuming anything about him. He was stronger than they knew.

And strangely, Erik did feel physically better than he had in a long time. The fogginess in his head had receded, allowing him to think clearly, and though there was a deep heaviness in his bones, there was no pain aside from his ever-present abdominal discomfort.

Except…Erik felt another tugging, alien and so slight he hadn’t noticed it—there was metal, a sliver of metal in his arm. His eyes immediately darted to the area, and he realized with a rush of fury that there was a tube attached to the crook of his elbow.

The tube led to an IV bag attached to a pole, hanging at the bedside, and upon seeing it, a sharp emotion burst in Erik’s chest.

They—they—they—

They weren’t letting him die.

They were stripping him of the single thing, the one shred of autonomy he had left, keeping him alive just to prolong his suffering, to revel in his helplessness, to—

The door opened, and Erik tensed, prepared to call upon the metal in the windows; to send it hurtling at the guard who had dared to hook him up to this blasted bag.

But before he could, Erik’s eyes fell on the person who’d entered, and the fight dropped out of him.

It was Charles.

“You’re awake,” Charles said, walking into the room. It wasn’t the first time Erik had hallucinated Charles’ face, but never before had the man looked so worn—long hair, beard, and bloodshot eyes. Perhaps the contents of the IV bag contained drugs of some sort, warping his memories.

Erik stared at Charles as the man came to sit in the chair at his bedside, mentally willing for the hallucination to shift, to bring back the boyish, rosy-cheeked Charles whose eyes brimmed with hope. Not this depressed shell of a man. It didn’t work, but then again, the hallucination of Charles never conceded to what Erik wanted.

“You were wrong, Charles,” Erik said. Though his voice was rough and scratchy, the strain of speaking had lessened, and he attributed it to the nutrients from the IV. Speaking of which—Erik clumsily reached a hand over to his elbow, moving to rip it out. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop the guards from replacing it when they next returned to check on him, but until then, he wasn’t going to let them win.

“Don’t,” Charles said, and the raw pain in his voice was enough to still Erik’s hand. Even if this wasn’t real. “There isn’t anything untoward in there. It’s just glucose. Hank set it up for you.” Just glucose? Was that so? That was helpful information, if it was true, and Erik was still pondering it when Charles spoke again. “What was I wrong about?”

Oh. Back to that. They’d replayed this same argument over and over again, but the Charles hallucination never was able to let it go; to admit that he’d misjudged the kindness of the world. Of Erik.

“Pain. And anger,” Erik murmured. He didn’t have to speak aloud to communicate with the hallucination, but it felt right to say the words. More powerful. “It’s all that’s left.”

“Oh, Erik,” Charles gasped, his lips parting in shock. Tears were welling up in his eyes. “No one is perfect, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re just human. We’re all trying our best in this cruel world. So I…I understand.”

That was new, and Erik stared at him, unsure if he liked this version of Charles. Charles never deviated from the usual script, always so idealistic and rooted in his optimistic worldview that it was beautifully frustrating. So this acknowledgement of the darkness in the world, as a means of absolving Erik from his actions, was strange to hear.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I did to you, Charles,” Erik managed roughly, feeling his own eyes well up with tears he wouldn’t allow himself to shed.

Charles tilted his head, looking slightly taken aback. “If I—if I knew?” he parroted.

“What I did in Cuba,” Erik said. Even now, completely alone, he couldn’t bring himself to actually say the words. “He would never forgive me for that.”

“He?” Charles said the word cautiously. His eyes were wide, and bluer than Erik usually remembered them.

“Charles,” Erik whispered. The name was heavy, a burden, the remembrance of all he’d lost.

“Erik, you’re scaring me,” Charles said sharply. “What is the meaning of this?”

Erik decided not to reply to that, not a fan of the direction the conversation had taken. If he ignored Charles for long enough, the hallucination would fade. In the meantime, Erik needed to stop living in the past and find a way out of here—assuming the room around him wasn’t also false. It was highly possible, given how much resemblance the room had to Erik’s memories of Charles’ family home.

But regardless of whether Erik was going to try to escape or whether death was still his primary objective in the face of captivity, removing the IV from his arm was the first course of action.

He reached out again, forcing shaking fingers over to the tape on his elbow.

However, before Erik could rip the thing out, Charles’ hand shot out, landing on Erik’s to still the motion. As their hands made contact, a full-body flinch tore through Erik, the sensation of the light touch exploding on his skin.

Charles withdrew his hand immediately, like he’d been burned, but the impact of that split-second contact still reverberated through Erik, who let his arm drop back to his side, the IV forgotten for the moment in the face of a frightening possibility.

“You’re…real?” Erik forced out, his words a hushed whisper. Hallucinations were not capable of physical contact. Hallucinations didn’t age or deviate from the script. Hallucinations didn’t reel back in their seats, their chests heaving with suppressed emotion as they stared in fear at Erik.

But that was exactly what Charles was doing.

“Where am I?” Erik pressed when Charles didn’t immediately reply.

“Relax, Erik,” Charles said, and Erik realized that his hands were gripped tightly into fists. He attempted to take a slow breath, refusing to completely calm himself until Charles gave a satisfactory explanation. “We went to the Pentagon to free you, and Hank determined that you needed serious medical attention, so we brought you here. Back to my home.”

Erik sent the room another searching glance, to verify that Charles was telling the truth, and new details sprung out at him. The bookshelf in the corner, filled with old, dusty books. The lamp on the nightstand with its bulbous glass base. Even the chair Charles was seated in was reminiscent of Charles’ family money, with its velvet cushions and wooden legs. It was true. He was no longer in the Pentagon.

At the realization, Erik’s throat tightened with emotion. “I’m out?”

“You’re out,” Charles confirmed, looking tired and sad. “And I’m not going to let them lock you up again.” He leaned forward, resting a hand on Erik’s arm. “You have my word on that, old friend.”

An unidentifiable emotion, some sort of conflicted relief, rose up in Erik, and as his tension lessened, his body felt like it was sinking into the soft mattress, his limbs suddenly heavy. Against his will, Erik’s eyes began to close as a wave of exhaustion swept over him.

“Rest now, Erik,” was the last thing Erik heard as he was swept away by unconsciousness. “You’re safe here.”

Chapter Text

When Erik next woke, he was unsure how much time had passed, but the rest and the IV must have done their job, because he was feeling alert and strengthened. The conversation with Charles was prominent in his mind, its validity confirmed by something Erik had previously forgotten—the memory of a teenager smiling down at him in his cell, his world exploding into glass, and strong arms supporting him. The young man must have been working with Charles, helping Erik escape the Pentagon while he’d been unconscious.

Erik cracked his eyes open hesitantly, feeling relieved despite himself as the room in the Xavier mansion materialized around him. He startled slightly as he realized that Charles was still there, too, asleep at Erik’s bedside, his head at an awkward angle against the back of his chair.

Erik blinked at him for several minutes, taking in the details of the other man. Now that he knew Charles was real, the difference in his appearance from what Erik remembered was startling. It seemed as though self care had taken a backseat in Charles’ life, judging by the unkempt hair, gaunt cheekbones, and even the fact that Charles hadn’t immediately woken when Erik had. Typically, Charles’ mutation was attentively honed in on those around him, to the point that Erik waking up would have jolted Charles awake, too.

Erik was still staring at Charles, lost in thought, when the door opened. Erik’s heart jumped in his chest, and he relaxed only marginally as he realized that it was Hank.

In his lab coat, with a stethoscope around his neck and his glasses perched on his face, the man looked just as Erik remembered him—as a human, that was, for his blueness was entirely gone. That was a disappointing realization.

“Hi, Erik,” Hank said awkwardly, averting his gaze to the clipboard in his hands as Erik’s eyes landed on him. “Charles.”

“Morning, Hank,” Charles said in a tired voice, and Erik’s eyes darted to him, not having noticed him waking up.

As Hank approached Erik’s bedside, Erik stiffened. Though he logically knew Hank had no reason to do anything to him, he disliked being so vulnerable on his back in the presence of the man, but he didn’t dare attempt to sit up, knowing there was a very real risk he would be unable to hold himself upright.

Hank seemed to notice Erik’s discomfort, grimacing before reaching down at the side of Erik’s bed and pressing a button, slowly raising Erik to a sitting position.

“Don’t worry; I’m just here to check your vitals and make sure you’re stable,” Hank said with some discomfort once Erik was upright, shrugging as he looked at him. “Should only take a moment.”

Erik stayed silent, not having anything to say to that and not feeling particularly enthusiastic to be invasively studied. He didn’t protest, though, dutifully allowing Hank to listen to his heart with the stethoscope and then take his blood pressure with a pump around his bicep.

“Looking good—or, as good as can be expected. We’ll keep you on the IV and start you on some light food tomorrow,” Hank said when he’d finished, giving Erik a pinched smile before marking something down on his clipboard. His eyes briefly flickered over to Charles, who had been silent throughout the whole endeavor, and Erik wondered if they were speaking telepathically. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

Contradicting his own words, Hank paused before he reached the door. “And Erik, I—” Hank began, locking eyes with Erik. “I’m sorry they did this to you. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Erik frowned, the comment sparking something like anger inside of him. Who was Hank, to be saying such things, after tucking his tail and submitting to Charles like a frightened puppy? “I liked you better when you were blue,” Erik replied flatly, in lieu of a proper response.

Just as Erik had expected, all of the goodwill immediately flooded out of Hank’s face, his expression hovering between irritation and self-consciousness as he dropped eye contact. “I’ll…be back to check on you later,” Hank mumbled, hastily making his way to the door and shutting it sharply behind himself.

Charles let out a loud huff, and Erik turned his head to look at him, keeping his stare stony to hide the mild guilt he was feeling.

“You should be more grateful to him,” Charles said, quiet anger simmering in his voice. If Erik pretended he couldn’t see Charles’ new appearance, it felt almost like the old days. “Hank saved your life.”

The words made Erik bristle, his mood swinging back to anger. “And now I’m forever indebted to him, am I?” he replied, his tone sharp and challenging. “My apologies. Next time I’ll supplicate myself in front of him and kiss his feet.”

“Erik, that’s not what I—” Charles began, but Erik cut him off.

“It is only because of mutants like you and Hank, those who bend over backwards to please the humans, that I needed ‘saving’,” Erik spat. “That I would be indefinitely imprisoned for a crime I did not commit.”

Charles’ eyes widened. “You did not?” he asked, a detectable waver in his tone. “The bullet curved, Erik.”

Erik scoffed. He felt tired and irritable, not having the energy to get into the details to defend himself. That day, and the following months of trial, felt like a lifetime ago. “It’s irrelevant now.” He frowned. “Shouldn’t you already know, with your mutation?”

Charles hesitated, gripping the armrest of his chair tightly. “Hank’s serum—the one that reduced his blueness—I…have been taking it myself. It’s the reason that I can walk again.”

Erik took a moment to process that, disbelief warring with confusion. Hank, who had always had problems with self-confidence, rejecting his mutation—he could understand that. But why would Charles give up something so dear to him, and integral to who he was? “You gave up your powers so you could walk?”

“I gave up my powers so that I could sl—” Charles cut himself off, looking away from Erik.

Erik’s brow furrowed at the rawness of the words, concerned despite himself. “I suppose we both have plenty to catch up on.”

“I suppose we do.” Charles nodded, clearly recognizing the olive branch for what it was. “And regardless of what happened between us…” He took a deep breath, scooting the chair closer to the bed, a pained expression crossing his face as he looked at Erik. “You must understand that if I had known they were starving you in there, I would have done something,” Charles exclaimed, not seeming to notice the way Erik stiffened at the words. “Erik, I never would have let them—”

“They weren’t starving me, Charles.” Erik’s tone was sharp and cold, relaying none of the emotions that were surging within him, the anger and the shame.

Charles froze, obviously not having expected that response. “What?” he asked carefully.

“They weren’t starving me,” Erik repeated, tearing his eyes from Charles’ and staring down at his hands, which he was displeased to find were trembling. “The guards provided me with adequate nutrition.”

“Erik, what are you implying?” Charles snapped after a pause, completely aghast, as if he thought Erik was lying.

“They left me no other option,” Erik ground out, avoiding the answer Charles clearly already knew and clenching his hands into fists. “I had to send a message somehow.” He shot a challenging stare toward Charles, refusing to be cowed by the other man’s visible judgment.

Charles gritted his teeth. “You’re telling me you—you—stopped eating just to prove a point?!” he exclaimed, his face growing red with anger. “To satisfy some petty grudge?”

Erik’s chest tightened, a roaring overtaking his ears.

“You can never do anything peacefully, can you, Erik?” Charles continued, his tone rising to a shout. “It’s always about the greater goal, the end justifying the means, with no consideration of the people you hurt along the way! And you’ve done it again, haven’t you!” Panting, Charles rose from his seat, pointing a finger at Erik, in a complete frenzy. “A few more days of that fast, and you would have died, Erik! Hank said in all likelihood, your heart would have given out! Well, are you proud of yourself? Do you finally feel like you’ve succeeded?”

Erik swallowed. “No,” he managed, his tone brimming with fury. “Because, once again, you got in my way.”

Charles’ mouth snapped shut, and he stared at Erik for a long moment, his chest heaving with angry breaths. “I’m not going to do this with you, Erik, not today,” Charles spat, an expression of pure hatred on his face. “I thought you’d changed, but clearly, I was wrong.”

Not waiting for a reply, Charles stormed out of the room, leaving Erik staring after him, an angry retort on his lips and hollowness in his chest.

…

Erik didn’t see Charles again for the rest of the day, and as furious as their argument had left him, the solitude was even more disquieting, uncomfortably similar to Erik’s time in the Pentagon. At one point, tired of his incessantly swirling thoughts, Erik tested out his mobility, easing himself out of the bed while remaining mindful of the IV in his arm. He conceded defeat after several shaky steps, returning to the bed and resolving to try again the next day.

In the meantime, Erik’s only entertainment came in the form of Hank, who, true to his word, returned in the evening to check Erik’s vitals and replace his glucose bag.

When Hank entered the room, Erik was lost in thought staring up at the ceiling, and he flinched, covering up the reaction with a raised eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re back, after what I said,” Erik commented snarkily. Though he knew it was a bad idea to push Hank away like he had Charles, part of him was itching to get into another argument.

But Hank didn’t react negatively to the words, instead shrugging and pulling out his stethoscope. “No matter what you say to me, I’m not going to risk letting you die,” he said in a level tone, pressing the stethoscope to Erik’s chest. “You’re in a very precarious medical position.”

“And did Charles not tell you whose fault that was?” Erik asked, and even he wasn’t sure if he intended the words to be an acknowledgment of guilt or a criticism of Charles.

Hank winced. “He…may have mentioned that this was the result of a…decision on your part, yes,” he said as he removed the stethoscope, tucking it back around his neck.

Erik nodded, crossing his arms. “And what is your opinion on it?” he pressed. Though he had no doubt that Hank had sided with Charles, he wanted to force the man to admit it aloud.

“Ah…well…” Hank prevaricated, his eyes darting around the room as if he’d find the answer there.

Erik huffed out a laugh devoid of any real mirth. Of course Hank was too cowardly to make a stand.

Hank’s eyes narrowed, and he bristled. “You want my real thoughts on this?” Hank said crossly. “I don’t think it’s about the starving at all. You abandoned Charles a long time ago, and he’s still bothered.”

“And yet how easily he abandoned us all,” Erik said flatly. “You know what they say about people in glass houses.”

“They shouldn’t be assholes?” Hank said, only half-joking, but he clamped his mouth shut when Erik shot him a sharp glare. “Right. I’ll be back in the morning with some solid food for you. Night, Erik.”

Erik silently watched Hank leave the room.

…

Erik was stewing over the conversation with Hank long after the man had gone, and he spent most of the night lying awake, staring up at the ceiling with burning eyes. It was only in the early hours of the morning that he was able to slip into sleep, but it was restless and disturbed, filled with flashes of Charles’ furious expression.

When Erik finally woke, it was to the smell of meat, and he cracked his eyes open to see a steaming bowl of broth on the nightstand. Next to it was a note reading, “Try to eat as much as you can! Reminder: don’t eat too fast. From, Hank”

The room was otherwise empty, thankfully allowing Erik to avoid having to navigate yet another conversation with Hank, but something sharp stabbed his chest at the idea that Charles was still avoiding him. Yet—it would have been foolish of Erik to expect that Charles would have returned to watch over Erik, especially after the way their last conversation had ended. It was clear that Erik was not wanted here.

The realization soured his stomach, but Erik forced himself to reach over for the soup, knowing he needed the nutrition.

Up close, the smell of the broth was even more cloying, and Erik swallowed thickly, gazing down at the murky liquid as his mind raged, suddenly furious by what the soup represented.

If Erik wanted to keep the peace at the mansion, the only option would be to reach an agreement with Charles, and he suddenly felt very certain that Charles would never be able to understand why he had stopped eating.

Though the surface of the soup was opaque, Erik felt as if he was looking down at his own reflection, and he could see it so clearly—what would happen to him if he remained here and submitted to Charles’ perspective. The intense fury in his eyes dampened by complacency; the tight, angry set to his jaw melted away; the hungry sharpness of his cheekbones softened into domesticity. If Erik stayed at the mansion, what would he become but a dull knife, powerless and stupid?

With shaking hands, Erik hastily returned the bowl of soup to the nightstand, hardly caring as the broth messily spilled over the edges.

This offer of peace was not for Erik, and taking it would mean submitting. Erik knew better than that. He’d outstayed his welcome.

Besides, this whole act of caretaking by Hank was ridiculous. Erik was no stranger to malnutrition, and though he had to admit that the glucose had helped, he also knew it was unnecessary at this point. When Erik left the mansion, he would be able to build himself back up to eating solid food, without all of the ridiculous fanfare as though he were some rescue animal needing to be rehabilitated.

Erik waved a hand, using his mutation to rip the IV from his elbow and relishing in the spark of pain that resulted. A bead of blood bubbled up from the area. With a lack of anything else to use, Erik leaned over and grabbed the note Hank had left for him, pressing it to the area. When he removed the piece of paper, it was smudged with blood. He returned it to its place on the nightstand beside the bowl of soup.

Erik took care sliding out of bed, mindful of his remaining physical weakness. Once he was standing upright, it took a moment of time for the room to stop spinning, and another for him to feel steady enough to walk.

Thankfully, real clothing had been left, neatly folded, on the armchair. Erik slid out of the flimsy pajamas he was wearing, slowly and shakily putting on the blue button-up, maroon trousers, and accompanying ascot. The articles of clothing had obviously been purchased with his old physique in mind; they were baggy and ill-fitting, and even the tightest notch of the belt was too loose. But Erik was relieved to be wearing something that would allow him to assimilate into society easily—to escape unhindered.

Once dressed, adrenaline was pulsing through his body, and with each step he took through the room, Erik felt stronger and more confident in his plan. He eased the door open quietly, holding his breath as he slipped out into the empty corridor. It would not do to alert Charles or Hank as he left, and Erik found himself absurdly grateful that Charles didn’t have access to his mutation. Without his helmet, Erik would have been unable to keep anything from the other man, but as it was, he would be able to escape unbothered.

Erik crept down the hallway, his boots sinking soundlessly into the plush carpet. He headed for the stairs, alert for any noises that would indicate someone was coming his way. However, there was nothing, and the reason why became immediately apparent when Erik began easing himself down the steps and the faint sound of raised voices emanating from the first floor became audible.

The words only became decipherable once Erik had reached the final step. They were coming from behind a closed door—Charles’ study—and it was obvious that neither Charles nor Hank had anticipated that they might be overheard.

“—standing there and defending him, as if you don’t remember exactly the kind of person he is,” Charles was snarling, his voice dripping with anger. “What he’s capable of.”

“He’s been through a traumatic event,” Hank’s voice replied, more cajoling than annoyed. “Prolonged periods of isolation are no joke, and that’s not even taking into account the lack of nutrients to his brain. I know he’s been abrasive, but consider giving him some understanding.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. Hank was willingly advocating for him? After everything the man had said the night before, Erik would have thought Hank was perfectly aligned with Charles.

“I’ll give him all the understanding he deserves,” Charles spat. “Erik doesn’t have a free pass to my forgiveness simply because he’s been self-harming for attention.” He audibly scoffed. “It’s always about large shows of destruction, with him.”

Erik looked down, realizing his hands were curled into fists. He took a long, slow breath, setting his jaw. He had heard enough. It was time to go.

Not bothering to listen to Hank’s reply, Erik stormed off, walking as quickly as he dared on his unsteady legs through the foyer in the direction of one of the mansion’s back exits. He’d been right in leaving the mansion. Charles didn’t want him here, and for all of Hank’s ridiculous protestations, Erik knew that the man would be relieved by Erik’s absence. He and Charles would be able to get back to—what had they been up to all these years? Holing up in this mansion as their mutant brothers and sisters were tortured and killed? What had become of Charles’ dream to provide a safe place for mutants?

Clearly it had never materialized, because the mansion was desolate and empty as Erik passed room after room. The place was far more dingy than Erik remembered, everything clearly having fallen into disrepair. Even the chandelier in the foyer had been ripped out of the ceiling, dangling haphazardly as though someone had been swinging from it.

Erik was still distracted, pondering the state of the mansion, when he took a step forward and promptly crashed into someone, his body colliding with theirs and reeling back as he attempted to maintain his balance.

Upon steadying himself, Erik blinked at the person who had appeared as if out of nowhere in the corridor, somewhat caught off guard at the thought of having to face Charles or Hank in the middle of his exit. However, he was surprised to find himself face-to-face with a gray-haired teenager who was immediately recognizable—the one who’d come to break him out of the Pentagon.

“I’m so sorry, man,” the young man was babbling, nervously tugging at his sleeve as he shifted his weight back and forth. “I was running, and I didn’t see you there. I guess I got a little careless because I’m so bored. I’m usually good at checking where I’m going, but this mansion’s been so empty I didn’t think anyone would be walking around.”

“It’s fine,” Erik said shortly, taken aback by the speed at which the young man was speaking. He was still feeling unsteady from the collision, and he took a deep breath, only just resisting the urge to lean against the wall.

The young man’s eyes snapped to Erik’s barely perceptible movement, and his concern seemed to deepen. “Hey, how about we go sit down,” the young man offered.

Erik was about to resist; to let the young man know that he was actually in the middle of leaving, but he blinked and was suddenly already being ushered into a nearby living room and gently pushed down into an armchair.

“This is where I’ve been hanging out a lot,” the young man said, flopping down on the couch across from Erik’s armchair. He waved an arm around the room, and Erik noted the nearby TV and the empty soda cans and sweets wrappers scattered on top of the coffee table between them. “Anyway, sorry again for running into you. I’m not really supposed to be here, but I’ve been wanting to make sure you’re okay ever since the breakout. Charles said I could stay when I asked him, probably because he knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m Peter.” The words rushed out in an anxious babble, but Erik was able to follow it slightly better, now that he knew what to expect from the young man.

Still, it was a beat of time before he realized that Peter was waiting for a response. “Erik,” Erik said, remaining seated tensely in the armchair as he debated his next move. Though his first priority was still leaving the mansion, he found that he was truly curious about the young man who’d broken him out of prison. “How do you know Charles?” His first thought would have been that Peter was the latest student the man had recruited, but that wasn’t likely given the visible disrepair of the mansion.

“I don’t know him, not really,” Peter admitted with a grin, picking up the couch cushion beside him and fiddling with it. “I’m still not sure how he found me—Charles said something about using the yellow pages, but I figured that was just a joke. He, Logan, and Hank all came to me asking for my help breaking you out of the Pentagon.”

Erik frowned. “Why?”

Peter seemed to think about it for a moment before shrugging. “They wanted me to come along because of my power, but if you’re asking why they wanted to break you out, I dunno, they didn’t say,” he said, before his eyes landed on Erik and he winced. “Maybe they wanted to get you some help.”

Erik didn’t have anything to say to that, flatly blinking at Peter as the young man picked at the couch cushion. Though he was still curious why Charles had cared to get him out, it was clear Peter did not have the answers he sought. Because it had been obvious that Charles had not factored in Erik’s health whatsoever into his decision.

“Are you okay, man?” Peter finally burst out, visibly wincing at the words. “I know it’s not exactly cool to ask, but—the way you fainted—I—”

“Charles didn’t tell you what happened,” Erik observed, interested but not surprised. As much as Charles enjoyed pouring his heart out to Hank, he thankfully didn’t partake in gossiping with those he was not familiar with, and it appeared that included this young man.

Peter shrugged. “He and Hank have been making themselves scarce, and they told me not to go and bother you about it. It’s not like they’d be interested in answering my questions,” he said quickly, before leaning forward, lowering his voice. “Do you…have cancer, man?”

“Excuse me?” Erik repeated, completely thrown off guard by the guess.

“I was just thinking because of the—the weight, and how sick you look…” Peter said, trailing off at the sharp look Erik was sending him.

“I am not sick,” Erik ground out. Though he’d been intending upon holding out the true explanation, he found that he could no longer hold back, not with the rage and indignation swirling within him at Peter’s incorrect assumption. “My captors were holding me indefinitely in that infernal cell. I grew to realize that if I did not die on my own terms, down there, I would end up dying on theirs.”

Peter’s eyes grew wide, and he stilled, staring at Erik.

Erik gazed back, hardening his stare. He refused to be cowed by the judgment of a teenager, and he waited tensely for the criticism that was about to come. It would be just like how Charles and Hank reacted—disapproval, judgment; the belief that Erik was at fault, with no understanding of just how broken the system was, or the lengths it took to subvert its all-encompassing suffocation—

But then, completely unexpectedly, Peter grinned. “I guess I got it all wrong,” he exclaimed. “That’s far out, man. Super hardcore.”

Erik blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“Sticking it to the man like that?” Peter shook his head in amazement, sounding entirely genuine. “I always hear about people doing that kind of thing, y’know, like, in the news, but I didn’t think I’d ever meet someone like that face-to-face. You’d be a legend at my school if people found out about what you did.”

Erik would have doubted the claim if the young man hadn’t been speaking so earnestly. The words completely clashed with Erik’s expectation of teenagers. To his knowledge, only university students tended to be open with their dislike of the government, and even that was a rarity, but it seemed that things must have changed in the past decade. He crossed his arms, leaning back casually in his seat. “I was unaware that the youth would support efforts to undermine the government.”

“Dude, where have you been living? Under a ro—” Peter said, but he was already switching tracks, embarrassment flickering over his face and disappearing quickly. “Yeah, no, ever since the war and stuff, we’ve had a lot to dislike. I mean, take what happened to the professor’s school.” When Erik’s expression didn’t change, remaining one of empty stoicism, Peter cocked his head. “He did tell you, right?”

“We had more important topics at hand,” Erik said drily, subtly clenching one of his fists as he shoved away the reminder of their argument. He took a deep breath, waving a hand at the empty living room. “However, I can obviously glean that he was not able to get the school up and running.”

“He actually was,” Peter replied with a wince. The young man glanced around the room, like he was worried he’d be overheard, before continuing, speaking at a lower tone. “Apparently, this place was a totally successful school for people with powers, to hide out and learn. Until…”

“Until what?” Erik asked, dread pooling in his gut.

“Until his students got sent to Nam,” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands up in defeat. “And they didn’t come back, man.”

Erik’s eyes widened as horror flooded him. It all suddenly made sense—Charles’ defeated demeanor, the obvious disrepair of the mansion, the heaviness and neglect lingering in the air. “How do you know this?” he asked sharply.

“I found the school card in his wallet,” Peter shrugged, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “So I pestered Hank about it until he fessed up. He didn’t want to say anything, but trust me, I’m good at being annoying. You’ve probably figured that out just from this conversation. Most people do.” He averted his gaze from Erik, tapping his fingers nervously on the arm of the couch.

Erik frowned. “I don’t find you ann—”

Before the word was out of his mouth, they were interrupted by a shout. “Erik?! Where’s Erik?!”

Hank burst into the room, skidding to a stop in front of them, visibly panicked as his eyes landed first on Peter and then his jaw dropping as he met eyes with Erik.

“I am right here,” Erik said flatly. Though he wasn’t thrilled to have been found by Hank, the news of Charles’ school had left him shaken, upsetting his plan to slip out of the mansion and not look back. He owed Charles at least one more conversation, he supposed.

“Good,” Hank said faintly, still panting but looking marginally more calm. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “You do know that when you’re on bedrest and you leave behind an uneaten meal and a note smudged with blood, it’s statistically very likely that people will subsequently worry about your safety?”

“I hadn’t intended to cause alarm,” Erik said drily. In his rush of anger and drive to leave, he hadn’t considered how the blood on Hank’s note might have appeared—or, a small part of him thought, panic was the reaction he’d been hoping to incite by leaving it—and though he disliked Hank treating him like a fragile thing, some slight contrition rose up in him at his behavior. “I have been speaking with Peter.”

Peter smiled nervously as Hank briefly turned his disapproving gaze on him.

“Well, I would have liked some warning, and stairs really aren’t great for you right now, but I suppose it’s alright if you get up and move around, at least around the house,” Hank conceded. Hank might not have known it, but his acceptance was a lucky thing, because if the man had decided to argue for Erik’s confinement, whether to a bed or even just to that room, Erik knew that nothing would be enough to make him stay at the mansion. Hank grimaced, crossing his arms. “But, Erik, you shouldn’t be skipping meals, even one as small as something like the broth I made. If you really want to be off of the glucose IV—which you shouldn’t—this behavior isn’t helping.”

Erik didn’t outwardly react to Hank’s pointed stare as the man looked him up and down, but internally, he suddenly felt uncomfortably exposed, like a bug on display under a microscope. The effects of starvation were painted all over him, he knew, in the thinness of his limbs; the disproportional largeness of his head compared to his body; every divot where his flesh stretched tightly against bone where there should have been fat or muscle mass.

In his cell, under the sharp gaze of the guards, it had been victory, evidence of the power he could exert; the battle he was winning.

Now, back in the real world, where no one was keeping him captive and Erik was not limited to a canvas pallet in a single room, it was just visible proof that Erik was unwell; incapable of functioning properly. Despite his arguments to Peter that he was not sick, was that claim not undermined by his inescapable physical weakness?

And he had to admit, despite Hank’s faults, the man was a competent doctor. If Erik’s priority was to be regaining his health, perhaps he should accept the assistance that was being offered, as loath as he was to do so. Because for all of the good the hunger and the promise of death had done in his cell, if he passed away now, it would be a triumph for the government. It was a thought that made him uneasy.

“How about I reheat it and bring it to you here?” Hank offered when Erik didn’t speak, smiling awkwardly at him in a clear attempt to be conciliatory.

“Where’s Charles?” Erik asked instead, unable to voice his complicated thoughts around consuming food, especially in front of Peter, who was looking between him and Hank curiously.

Hank sighed, giving in to the topic change despite his obvious disapproval. “In his study,” he said. “And before you ask, he doesn’t know about the blood on the note or anything. I’d just left him when I went to check on you.”

“He must be in an extra bad mood today,” Peter remarked, picking up one of the couch cushions and twirling it in his hands. Compared to Erik, whose body felt drained at all times and who would be content sitting like a stone statue for hours (and had, in his cell), it seemed the young man was constantly in motion, buzzing with energy. “I haven’t seen him at all. I don’t think he even came down for breakfast this morning.”

Erik’s jaw clenched as he thought of all the reasons that Charles was in a bad mood, but Hank brightened at the words. “You’re right,” Hank said to Peter with slightly forced cheer. “He hasn’t eaten, either. How about I make breakfast for everyone?”

Peter grinned. “Now you’re talking. I’m in.”

Hank turned to Erik pointedly. “Erik?”

Erik stared flatly at Hank, hoping to convey just how bad of an idea he thought it was. However, compared to the option of sitting in a silent room being stared at by Hank as he attempted to eat soup, it was certainly preferable. And though he hated to admit it while still under Hank’s patronizing attempts at care, Erik knew that he would need to begin building up his strength as soon as possible. He could not let himself die now, not like this. Not now that he was free. So as much as it pained him to submit to the doctoring, Erik gave Hank a sharp nod. “Fine.”

Now if only he could bring himself to believe that the meal with Charles would turn out better than their last conversation.