Chapter Text
In the glistening
Of the lost and open sky
Tiny piece of you sits
Simple wish waits for reply
Where have you gone my feather-light heart?
You mustn't forget what love can see.
("Where", Lisbeth Scott)
1945.
You are five years old; the world is big and scary, but your house is warm and safe and you don’t quite understand what your mother means when she speaks of wars fought on the other side of the world; you don’t quite understand the emotion flicking through her eyes when you sit on her knees and she tells you of lost men fighting them. You are happy and sure of everything you know, your family is your mother, grandmother and grandfather, and Mo, the fat cat who lives in the attic. There’s no place there for a father you don’t even remember.
You are five years old; you don’t think it’s unusual that you know the cat’s name not because you gave it to him but because he introduced himself to you, and that you are friends with all the birds that live in your garden, and that you steal all the mouse traps your grandfather sets up around the house because the mice who live here are great-great-grandchildren of Tilly who was your best friend when you were two. You don’t tell your mother or grandparents that you talk to animals and they talk to you, because you think it’s something everyone does.
You are five years old; you are a happy, ordinary child – until you are not.
One morning you wake up, and everything is so loud and bright and just so, so intense. The world explodes in sounds and smells around you, making you want to cover your ears and scream, but your ears – they’re not where they’re supposed to be. You’re overwhelmed and scared and you do what any five-year-old does in such situation – you go to your mother. She’s making breakfast in the kitchen and you expect her to hug you like she does every morning, to tell you it’s okay and that you will be fine – but when she turns around and sees you, she screams.
You are five years old; there’s a lot of things you don’t understand, but you can tell when somebody - somebody who is your whole world - is scared of you.
Later, you don’t remember much of that morning. Impressions and emotions are the only memories you have, really. Your mother collects herself and does hug you, after all, although you can still see the fear in her eyes. You remember her whispering “my baby, oh, my poor baby, I was praying that you wouldn’t be like that too” repeatedly; you remember your grandparents' sullen expressions, and most of all you remember how you looked in the mirror and did not see yourself.
1953.
You are thirteen years old; your house is as warm and safe as ever, your mother and grandparents as loving and accepting as they’ve always been – you can see that they never feel quite at ease around you, though at least they try – but you are a freak.
You now know that your late father was like you – well, not exactly, but he, too, was different. He could see more than others, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could make thing move, your mother says. That’s why he decided to fight in the war that killed him – he thought he could finally find use for his powers, that he could finally feel at peace with being what he was.
Over the years you’ve managed to get some semblance of control over your thing, as your family calls it. You’ve discovered that you can will yourself into looking like, well, yourself. You do, most of the time, but your canines are always slightly too pointed and your eyes can never quite go back to their original color. Some nights you wake up with paws instead of hands and legs, and your senses sharpened beyond human imagination. Some nights you just can’t help it and you sneak out into the woods behind your house, to talk to the wild animals that live there because only they seem to understand you.
You try to live a normal life, you go to school and you read books and you help your grandmother in the garden. But you don’t have friends. Other children fear your pointed teeth and your inhuman eyes. The meeker ones simply avoid you, bowing their heads when they pass you by and whispering sharp, harmful words when they think they’re out of hearing range. The braver ones tease you openly, they call you a wild thing, a freak. The bravest steal your bag and hide it in places hard to reach, they push you in the school corridors and throw rocks at you when you cycle by their houses.
You are thirteen years old; your house is warm and safe, but the rest of the world is not. Your best friends are the birds that live in your garden. You are thirteen, and sometimes, you are more wolf than human.
1956.
You are sixteen years old; your house is warm and safe - until it is not.
It’s a lovely spring afternoon, and you’re eating lunch on your school’s yard when Plato, a raven you’ve practically raised from hatchling, flies over to you, cawing your name frantically.
He doesn’t have to say anything more, you immediately know something is very wrong.
You run to your house as fast as your human legs can carry you, Plato flying close on your heel. About a mile away you start to smell smoke and hear a commotion, and your heart almost stops in your chest. You can feel anxious tears gathering in your eyes, and a feeling of pure terror is starting to overwhelm you, growing heavier with every step you take towards the house. You can see smoke as well now, and when you finally reach your street and your house comes into view, it's like you just got punched in the abdomen.
The house you grew up in is – was – rather small, but it was cozy and had a huge garden, with the woods starting right at its edge. It was all you and your family needed. You can remember every detail of the facade, the way windows reflect light depending on the time of the day. The distinct smell of every room. Every fragment of the floor that creaks louder than others. The weight of every door. The sound of every key on your father’s old piano standing in the middle of the living room. It was built from sturdy, aged wood and you could swear you felt it breathe whenever you touched the wooden walls covered in colorful floral wallpapers.
Now it’s burnt to the ground.
There is a thick crowd of people surrounding the ruin – the fire brigade, the police, almost all your neighbors. You look around frantically, but you can’t see your family anywhere. You can’t see your mother.
You can see, however, the pitying looks your neighbors give you. An elderly lady who lives across the street puts her hand on your shoulder tentatively, the people around you are whispering between themselves, the birds who live in the garden are screaming and you know.
A policemen approaches you, a look of deep sorrow on his face, and he opens his mouth to talk, but before he can say anything you notice three bodies covered completely with cloth laid out on the sidewalk.
The last thing you hear before fainting is your own scream. It sounds like a wolf’s howl.
You are only sixteen years old; your world shatters.
1956-1961.
The following years are a blur, really.
First there are investigations and hearings and talking, talking, talking to the authorities. The police find out that the fire was not an accident, and manage to catch the arsonist. He is proud of what he did – the only regret he has is that he did not check if his real target – “the freak”, you – was in the house.
You have no living relatives left so you are put in foster family after foster family, but you can never quite find a place in any of them. You are more wolf than human, after all, and even though you try your goddamn best, you can never quit fit in with people. So you are dragged around the country, never staying in one place for more than a few months, and the only constant in your life is Plato, and having a raven follow you around does not exactly help.
As soon as you turn eighteen, the government stops being concerned with you. You are handed the money your mother kept in bank - just enough to survive for a few months - and sent on your merry way. You’re supposed to take care of yourself on your own now, and you are happy to do so. You take up odd jobs to pay for shitty food and even shittier apartments – a waitress here, a bartender there- but you can never find a place where you fit in. You never quite manage to gain people's trust, to build real relationships. Your teeth are too pointed, your eyes too inhuman. Sometimes you wake up with paws instead of hands and legs.
Wolves rarely live alone, and neither do humans. But you are not either, not really. You live on the outskirts of society, praying to God that one day you will find a place where you’ll belong.
You are eighteen, twenty, twenty one; you are neither wolf nor human; and you are alone.
***
now. (1962)
To be completely honest, you fucking hate Georgia. It’s hot and humid, and really, you knew you despised that kind of weather so what the goddamn hell was six-months-ago-you thinking when she decided to come here?
Okay, you need to give your six-months-ago-self a break. Climate was not exactly a priority when you had to get as far away from Stryker as possible.
You had spent four months in his captivity before breaking out, and even though it wasn’t that long, you know it was enough to haunt you for the rest of your life. It started innocent enough – he showed up at the bar you were working at the time, and lured you in with forged kindness and fake acceptance. To be honest, your instincts were screaming at you to get the hell away from this man from day one, but he was just so kind and interested in you, aware of but not at all scared of your otherness. He promised he would help you understand yourself, and he said there were others like you. You finally knew what you were, and maybe the word “mutant” does not sound very pleasant, but being a mutant is better than being nothing. You were tired of being alone and you wanted to believe him so badly that you chose to ignore both your instincts and Plato’s worried cawing.
Well, at least now you know to always, always listen to your gut and your raven.
As soon as you arrived at Stryker’s facility, he dropped the mask and all illusions of acceptance and the fragile sense of belonging you were starting to feel were shattered. The next four months are a blur of violence, verbal abuse and odd, cruel experiments that made you hurt so bad you could barely move or even think for days afterwards. You’re not even sure how you managed to escape, exactly. All you remember is that somehow they forgot to lock you up properly, and your wolf part took over as soon as you noticed a chance to escape. You vaguely remember people trying to stop you and the taste of blood in our mouth, and then getting outside and running like hell for God knows how long before Plato found you somehow, bless his bird soul, and managed to pull you out of your trance.
You try not to think about the people you must have killed with your bare teeth in the process.
After that you spent two or three weeks in the woods, quite literally licking your wounds and not transforming back into your human form. When you notices that you started to forget what it felt like to walk on two legs instead of four you decided it’s time to get yourself together and try to pick up the pieces of your life.
So, on second thought, maybe Georgia’s heat isn’t so bad.
It’s a quiet, lazy afternoon and the diner you’re currently hired at is empty. You’ve only worked here for a little over a month but you already know the names of most the clients. They’re a bit apprehensive of you – not uncommon in a small town like this – but you’ve learned to smile with your mouth closed, and in the sunny weather no one is surprised when sometimes you work in shades. The apartment you’re renting is run-down and small, but with your limited income it’s to be expected, really. The woods here smell different than the ones where you spent most of your childhood and youth, but when it’s really dark you can almost pretend you are back home. Surprisingly enough, Plato is doing well in the heat despite his thick black feathers, and the local magpies like you enough to share some of the trinkets they find with you, so all in all you can’t complain.
Still, that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy being here. You doubt much more time will pass before you snap and go back north. Maybe this time you’ll go to Canada. Crossing the border should not be too much trouble, you could just transform and travel through some wild terrain, far from any human settlements-
The sound of the door opening abruptly ends your musings. A sleepy small town in the dead center of Georgia is not exactly tourist magnet, so you expect another regular. The two men who enter, however, are strangers.
You can immediately tell they’re not from Georgia. You can also immediately tell that there is something unusual about them, but you can’t quite put a finger on what it is. It’s not bad unusual like with Stryker though, or at least you’re not getting any dangerous vibes right away, so when they chose a window booth and sit down you put on your Trademark Customer Service Smile and head over to them.
“’Evening fellas, can I get you something to drink?”
The taller man gives you a look you can’t quite decipher, but his friend greets you with a warm smile.
“Oh yes, definitely. We’re not used to this kind of weather, are we, Erik?” the other man – Erik, apparently – merely hums in reply, and his friend continues. “What would you recommend?”
You’ve always had a good ear for accents, and his is very pleasant – New York, you think, but with a bit of a British influence, as if he had spent time in England. Combined with his polite smile and the aura of kindness he seems to emit, it makes you like the man immediately. Which is odd, because you don’t like people you have literally just met, especially clients. Huh.
“Well, I am known to make killer coffee. But if you’re hot, I’d suggest sweet tea, or a Coke? Or just plain water, I’m not exactly a fan of this heat myself and honestly, only water helps.”
“I’ll have a glass of sweet tea, please. Erik?”
“Just water, please.”
“Alright. Be right back with your drinks”, you leave the menus on the table and head for the fridge behind the counter where the cold drinks are kept. You’re in the middle of pouring water when you hear something that almost makes you drop the glass.
“Is this the girl we’re looking for, Charles?”
Erik whispers, and hadn’t it been for your enhanced hearing, you wouldn’t have heard him. You feel your heart drop and try your best to keep your hands from shaking. They’re looking for you? Are they Stryker’s people? You were so careful to leave no trace to follow, could they really have found you?
“I’m pretty sure it is. You know Cerebro is quite accurate with this stuff. Have you noticed how she smiled without showing her teeth? It made me pay attention to them when she spoke, and she obviously tries to hide it but her canines definitely don’t look normal. And there’s something about her- she seems so out of place, and not just in the sense of a Northerner struck in the deep South. It’s her, Eric.”
Well, shit.
You consider your options on your way back to their booth, barely managing to keep your hands steady enough to not splash their drinks all around. To be honest, you don’t have many ideas, and they all include getting the hell out of here as soon as you can, possibly using the kitchen window.
“Have you decided if you want something to eat as well?”, you ask, trying to keep cool. Okay, so the plan is to get their order, go to the kitchen as if you are actually going to prepare it, and before they figure out what’s going on, run like hell.
Unfortunately the plan falls apart immediately, as instead of placing an order the man called Charles raises from his seat.
“Actually, no, but there’s something we want to talk to you about. My name is Charles Xavier and this is my friend, Erik Lensherr and we-“
Before he can finish sudden panic washes over and you bolt for the door.
You hear a “Christ, Charles, why do they always have to run?” followed by a “Shut up, Erik” behind you, and then-
Wait, it’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you. Please don’t run!
You stop dead in your tracks with one hand on the doorknob, completely shocked. You’ve witnessed a whole lot of weird things in your life, but a voice in your head? That’s a first.
“Please, it’s okay. We have no intention of hurting you, we just want to talk.” Charles speaks out loud this time, and you swallow hard, wondering if you were hallucinating a moment ago. Slowly, you turn around to face them, your hand never leaving the doorknob.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
You cringe upon hearing how much your voice shakes.
“Because,” says Erik, “we are mutants, like you.”
Your right hand clenches around the knob and you bite your lip so hard that you taste blood, trying to calm your breathing.
“That doesn’t prove that you have good intentions.”
“No, I guess it does not. But as you’ve probably noticed, I’m a telepath. If we wanted to hurt you, I could have just taken control over your thoughts right away. Why would I wait?’
You have to admit he’s right. And you did promise to always trust your gut, right? Right now you’re scared out of your mind, but you have to admit it’s mostly because you first thought they were Stryker's men. Beneath all that panic, your instincts are silent.
You let go of the doorknob and exhale slowly.
“Okay. Okay, I suppose we can talk.”
Both men smile in obvious relief and you can’t help but wonder why they seem to care so much. Charles points to the booth they were occupying a few minutes ago.
“Shall we sit down?” he asks, and as soon as you nod and take a seat across from him he picks up where started before you panicked.
“As I was saying, my name is Charles Xavier and this it Erik Lensherr. We are mutants like you – you are familiar with the term, aren’t you? – and we are here because we believe we can help you understand and develop your powers.”
“How do you even know I have… powers?”
“Our friend, who by the way is a mutant too, built a machine that allows me to find mutants using my telepathy.”
“Okay, so we’ve established that you are a telepath.” Charles nods, and you look at Erik. “And you?”
He smirks before replying.
“How about a deal? I’ll show you what I can do, but you tell us about your mutation first. And you tell us your name. That alright with you?”
You stare at him for a moment, considering, before letting out a slow breath and introducing yourself.
"There. Nice to meet you, I guess?” Charles chuckles and Erik smiles at your slightly sarcastic tone, and you feel yourself relax a little bit. ‘As for my… powers, well. You see how sharp my canines are, right? That’s because I kind of, uh, have two forms? I suppose the closest thing I can think of to call myself is, well, a werewolf.”
For your whole life you’ve been taught to keep quiet about your power so talking about it makes you feel slightly weird. You struggle to find the right words to describe it and your discomfort must be obvious, as Chares nods his head encouragingly. You run your hand through your hair before continuing.
“I used to have no control over when I transformed and how much of a wolf I was, but I got a hang of it growing up. Sometimes I still wake up in a different body than the one I went to sleep in, though, and on some days I can’t get my eyes to look… well, normal. And I’ve never been able to fix my teeth, my canines are always like this. I remember some kids used to call me a vampire because of them.” You force a little smile, trying to make it seem like a funny anecdote, but you can see it doesn’t quite work. A flicker of sadness crosses through Charles’ face, and Erik’s eyes seem to flash with anger.
Seriously, why do they seem to care so much?
“And besides that, my senses are very sharp – hearing and smell, especially – and I suppose I’m more agile and resilient than most people? Most likely thanks to the wolf thing. Oh, and I can talk to animals. No, that’s not right, everyone can talk to animals if they want to. I mean, uh, I can actually talk to them, and I understand them. The wolf thing started when I was five or so, but animals spoke to me ever since I can remember. Um, that’s about it.”
“That sounds absolutely brilliant!” Charles exclaims, and you are slightly taken aback by his enthusiasm. “Could you show us how you do it?”
Frankly, you would rather not, the memories of Stryker making you transform with blunt force and pain still fresh in your mind, but you suppose it can’t be avoided.
“I guess… but I still don’t know what you do. So why don’t you go first?” you say, nodding at Erik.
“Fair enough. A deal’s a deal, after all.” He smiles, and looks around the diner. After a few seconds of scanning their surroundings, his eyes settle on a stack of metal trays on the far end of the counter. He raises his hand, and you jump a little in surprise when the trays start floating, forming a perfect, moving circle in the air.
“Wow. So like, telekinesis?”
“Close, but not quite. I control metal.”
“Neat”, you say, shaking your head disbelievingly. “A telepath and a guy who bends metal to his will. I’m starting to feel lame.”
“Don’t say that, from what we’ve heard your mutation sounds incredible!” Charles says, and you have to admit that his enthusiasm is starting to get to you. At this point you feel completely calm – you’re still a bit apprehensive of these two strange men, but your gut is telling you that you can trust them. And you want to trust them, you realize, a bit surprised.
You sigh at the expecting look they give you.
“Right, it’s my turn. God, I feel so weird doing this in front of people…” you raise from the booth, close your eyes and in your thoughts you call for the wild part of yourself.
You’ve transformed in front of a mirror once or twice in the past, so you know that the moment of change is not particularly spectacular. It’s like reality around you distorts for a moment, and before you can blink there’s a wolf standing in the place of a woman. So when you open your eyes, you are taken aback by the looks on Charles’ and Erik’s faces.
Charles grins ear to ear, absolutely delighted. Erik seems to be in utter awe.
You wag your tail a bit, feeling slightly uneasy under their combined gaze, and after a few seconds you go back to your human form. You shrug your shoulders and smile sheepishly as Charles begins to clap his hands.
“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!” he laughs. “Are you sure you’re a wolf though? Cause frankly I’ve never seen one like you.”
You shrug again. He does have a point. You’ve never seen a wolf quite this big, or with fur as perfectly white as yours. Still, it’s the only name you for your other form you could ever think of. It feels right, and that’s all that matters to you.
You clear your throat and you speak again.
“So. You said you could help me gain better control of my powers. How?”
They tell you all about the team they’re building, about the other mutants they’ve found so far, their goals and hopes for the future, and how they think they can help. Charles uses his power to show you his mansion, his adopted sister Raven, the machine he mentioned, Cerebro, and the man who built it, Hank. Over an hour later, he drops the question.
“So, [name]. Would you like to come with us?”
You ponder over the question for a minute, biting your lip in concentration. You study their faces in concentration, cataloguing the different emotions you can see on them. Above all, they both seem – hopeful?
Almost as hopeful as you find yourself feeling.
After a few moments you break into a grin. Charles mirrors your expression, and Erik lets out a breath.
“Yeah. I think so, I- yeah. It’s not like I have much else to do, right?”
“I’m truly delighted to hear that. When can we-“
“Aah, not so fast!” You hold up your hands, interrupting him. “I do want to come with you, but there’s someone I have to consult it with. In fact, why don’t I go and do it immediately…”
They stare at you, dumbfounded, but when you raise from the booth and head for the diner’s door they follow you. Outside, you put two fingers to your mouth and whistle loudly. After a few seconds a black shape raises from the tree a few buildings over, and Plato lands on your extended shoulder.
“Erik, Charles, this is Plato. His parents abandoned him in the garden of my old house when I was fourteen, and he’s been with me ever since. I hope you don’t have a “no pets” policy, because if he’s not coming, neither am I.”
Charles laughs, and Erik shakes his head with a small smile.
“I think we’ll be fine. I’m sure we’ll find some place for him.”
You smile and turn to the raven.
“Do you think I should trust them and go?” you ask after giving him a shortened version of Charles’ and Erik’s story. Plato studies the men intently for a minute or so, and then he pecks at a strand of your hair affectionately.
They seem okay to me. What do we have to lose?
When you turn back to the men, both are staring at you and Plato expectantly. You grin widely, not bothering to hide your sharp teeth.
“Well. I think we’re ready to go.”
You are twenty two years old; you are neither wolf nor human. You are a mutant, and for the first time in years you dare to think that you are not alone.