Archive of Our Own ^beta

The thick heat of summer was driving Erik mad.

He'd never liked summer; he hated the way clothes clung to his skin with sweat, the weight of the air pressing down on him, the fatigue that turned his bones to sand and made even the smallest tasks feel monumental. And worst of all, the short sleeves.

He couldn't wear long sleeves without suffering in the heat, which meant his forearm was exposed; the dark mark inked into his skin a permanent reminder of things he'd never be free of. Even now, in a quiet house in the countryside beside the man he loved, the past still found ways to touch him.

Yes, Erik hated summer.

But he didn't hate the way Charles looked when the sun caught his skin: kissed pink by sunlight, dusted with freckles like constellations drawn just for him to count at night. Or the way Charles would laugh with the children, letting them drag him outside and into their games. Erik loved watching Charles with them. He loved the way summer softened Charles even more, made him expansive, carefree.

He just wished it didn't make him feel so distant.

That midsummer night, however, was a small mercy. A rare, cool breeze slipped in through their open bedroom window, stirring the curtains and brushing across their skin. The heat of the day had broken, and the air was still and quiet, full of the chirping of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves.

Charles curled instinctively toward him, bare legs tangling with Erik's, his skin warm from the bath and smelling faintly of lavender soap. They sat propped up against the headboard, each with a book in hand, though Erik had long since stopped following the lines on the page. His arm rested around Charles' shoulders, as Charles was absentmindedly tracing invisible shapes on Erik's chest with his fingertip. Every time Charles' touch passed over his sternum, Erik had to close his eyes briefly to keep from shivering.

They hadn't seen much of each other that day. Charles had gone to town to meet with his lawyers, still tangled in the bureaucratic mess of converting the mansion into a school; and Erik had been busy with the renovations in the west wing. Now, at last, they had a few undisturbed moments to themselves before sleep.

Erik wanted to hold onto this moment with both hands, but exhaustion clawed at him. Using his powers all day had taken more out of him than he'd expected. He could feel it clung deep down in his bones. His vision blurred, and the words on the page wavered. Still, he kept his arm around Charles, holding on.

Gott, he missed him. Even when he was right here, in the same house, they both were always too busy to spend enough time with each other.

Charles turned a page, then looked up. His gaze was attentive, assessing. Blue eyes so deep and full it sometimes startled Erik, how easily they could see through him.

"You're tired," Charles decreed, matter-of-factly.

Erik blinked, brain slow to catch up. He started to protest – it didn't seem fair to end the evening just because his eyelids had a will of their own – but Charles was already closing his book, slipping a bookmark between the pages.

"Come on, Erik," he said gently, setting the book on the nightstand. "You've done enough for today. We both have. Let's sleep. I promise we'll have more time tomorrow."

Erik didn't move at first. He hated how fragile and ephemeral the moments between them were, but Charles looked at him with such certainty that he knew he could hold him to his promise. So he gave in. He closed his book and set it aside.

Charles shifted to turn off the lamp, and the room was plunged into gentle shadow, lit only by moonlight spilling through the window. Erik slid under the sheet, feeling it cool against his skin, and Charles followed, fitting perfectly against him, one arm draped across Erik's waist, their legs tangling together again beneath the linen. Erik turned slightly, pressing his forehead to Charles' chest, breathing him in.

He loved falling asleep like this, in a place that was safe, in arms that were steady. Ever since the camps, sleep had never come easily; it'd been a battleground haunted by nightmares, cold metal bunks, and too many threats. Safety had always been a distant memory, never a certainty.

Except here. In Charles' arms, the nightmares didn't reach him.

Charles shifted slightly, his lips brushing the hair at Erik's temple. "Good night, baby girl," he whispered.

The words made Erik's heart skip a beat. Charles had never called him that before. And maybe he should've said something, but he was already slipping under, the world softening, tension draining from his body as sleep took hold.

He let out a small, contented sigh, and then, finally, he slept, wrapped in the only peace he'd ever truly known.

✾

The next morning, Erik was already in the kitchen when Charles wandered downstairs.

Outside, the heat had begun its slow, merciless climb. It was barely past eight, and already the air shimmered with it. Somewhere in the garden, Alex and Sean were deep in some ill-advised mischief involving buckets of water, vague promises of a "treasure hunt," and a lot of running around. From the sound of it, it was more of a war zone than a scavenger game.

Inside, Erik stood at the stove wearing nothing but sleep pants and a black tank top, stirring eggs in a skillet with the kind of precision and focus he usually reserved for surveillance work during missions. Yet, there was something tugging at the edge of his thoughts, a half-formed feeling, or maybe a memory, just out of reach. It disrupted the peaceful rhythm of his morning, though he couldn't quite name what it was.

Above his head, a pan floated lazily through the air with two slices of bread toasted to the exact shade of golden brown he preferred. He tipped it delicately to slide them onto the plates already set out on the table.

Cooking with his powers had become one of Erik's quiet joys. It let him practice fine control without pressure, and kept him grounded. There was something meditative about the dance of metal around him, and – more practically – it meant breakfast took half the time. Which meant more time with Charles.

Charles shuffled into the kitchen with his hair a soft, sleep-mussed mess, still wearing pajamas. He clutched a half-full cup of tea – the one Erik had left for him on the nightstand – and yawned behind one hand as he collapsed gracelessly into a chair.

"Good morning, Charles," Erik said without turning, still focused on the eggs.

"Good morning, darling," came Charles' warm reply, his voice still rough from sleep but cheerful as always. "What are you making?"

"Eggs, toast, and a fruit salad," Erik said simply. The skillet lifted itself off the heat and followed him to the table, where he plated its contents with precision.

Charles was watching him intently now, eyes soft with affection. That look always caught Erik off guard. He wouldn't have admitted it under torture, but he lived for that expression, eager for Charles' quiet praise like a flower turning to sunlight. It made him blush, and infuriatingly, Charles knew it.

When breakfast was ready, Erik handed Charles his plate and sat beside him, leaning in for a quick kiss. It was meant to be a casual gesture, but Charles' fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until Erik felt his breath catch.

It was a slow, consuming thing, full of heat and hunger despite the early hour. Erik clutched at Charles' arms, his fingers flexing against the solid strength beneath cotton sleeves. Charles might be smaller than him in stature, but his body was strong; his legs and arms could hold their own, and Erik – helplessly – loved that about him.

Charles pulled back just slightly, licking Erik's lips, swallowing the soft whine Erik made in protest.

"Thank you for the breakfast, baby girl," he murmured, voice low and fond, before releasing him and turning his attention to the food.

Erik sat still for a moment, the words echoing through his mind like a struck bell.

Baby girl. Again.

His thoughts flitted back to the night before, to the way Charles had whispered them into his hair as he drifted to sleep. And now, here they were again. A part of him thought he should bristle at it, reject the softness implied by the endearment, the vulnerability it acknowledged. But he didn't.

Instead, something in him settled. The words curled around his chest and sank in like they belonged there. They felt… right. But he couldn't yet explain why.

So he smiled, quietly, and picked up his fork.

✾

It became a habit, the way Charles called him baby girl as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He said it in passing, casually, when he asked Erik to hand him something, when they said goodnight, even when they were arguing during their chess games. At first, Erik had flinched at it, startled by the softness, unsure what to make of it. But over time, he began to treat it like he would love or darling, words that had long since found their place between them.

And yet, no matter how often it came, no matter how effortlessly Charles used it, something in Erik lit up each time, quietly, but undeniably. A warmth bloomed in his heart and spread to the tips of his ears, his cheeks flushed, and he felt, inexplicably, good.

Whole.

Three or four months after that first whisper of baby girl, Charles had picked up something strange with Cerebro. There was new activity near a covert facility outside Langley, Virginia. Since Hank had rebuilt Cerebro in the mansion's basement, with Erik's assistance, it had become a useful tool to check what was happening outside their little heaven.

It didn't take Charles long to read the minds of the staff inside and find out that the CIA was setting up a new secret lab designed for the study and containment of mutants. This, despite the X-Men's efforts to erase all traces of mutant involvement from CIA records after the Cuban Missile Crisis.

A full team meeting followed, and, after heated discussions about how and whether to proceed, they all agreed to act before the lab became operational.

Charles had made Erik promise that there wouldn't be unnecessary bloodshed, no more deaths unless absolutely necessary to protect themselves or their team. And Erik had agreed, because the memory of Cuba still haunted him. He had nearly lost Charles to his own rage back then, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

But the mission unraveled from the very beginning.

Not from poor planning; if anything, they had trained meticulously since their first mission. But what was meant to be a precise infiltration quickly spiraled into chaos. Shaw's old allies – now calling themselves the Brotherhood – showed up without warning, and everything descended into open combat.

The Blackbird landed in the woods. Raven had gone in first, disguised as a scientist, to map out the interior. Once Charles had telepathically transmitted her intel to the rest of the team, Charles, Hank, and Erik were to slip in undetected, destroy any data, retrieve anything of value, and rescue eventual captives.

Alex and Sean waited outside, ready to cover them during their exit if things went wrong.

They did.

Azazel, Janos, Emma Frost, and Angel appeared in a cloud of sulfur, tearing the plan to pieces. Charles immediately turned his focus to evacuating civilians – his mind sweeping through the area, isolating humans and urging them to flee – but Emma met him head-on, matching his power with her own and blocking him at every turn.

Erik took command. He ordered the others to distract the Brotherhood while he completed the mission alone. He didn't know if Charles would agree, but there was no time to ask. The team had grown in strength since Cuba and he trusted them.

But he trusted himself more to do this. With his powers, he could finish the job faster and cleaner than Alex's explosive energy ever could.

He moved quickly, crushing machines, bending steel into ruin, melting archive servers into slag. In the records room, he retrieved hard drives and set the rest ablaze, heating the metal shelving until it ignited the paper, fire swallowing classified documents whole.

Then, suddenly, his powers vanished. In a single, terrifying instant, everything went silent. The magnetic pulse he lived by, the hum of metal in his mind was gone. He was in a long, sterile hallway, and the map he'd been following – his own internal compass – flickered and died.

Panic gripped him, as the memories surged like a tide. The camps, the endless nights in a cold cell, the injections. Herr Doktor's voice whispering "wunderbar, meine kleine Maus" in his ear while forcibly inserting a syringe into his forearm, the one with the serum that would strip him of his powers for weeks. The confusion, the fear. He remembered curling up on the floor, crying in the dark, being beaten unconscious by the guards when he made too much noise.

He started down one corridor, then stopped. Turned back. Took a few steps, then hesitated again. He couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in. His vision tunneled.

A part of him wanted – shamefully and desperately– to curl up on the floor and disappear. To cry his eyes out and forget where he was and how much pain he was in.

Disgust flooded him, threatening to suffocate him. He wasn't a stupid, scared boy anymore. He was a trained weapon, the damned Master of Magnetism! He couldn't weep like a child right in the middle of a mission, putting himself and his team in danger.

Suddenly, a voice crackled through the comm. "Love, turn around and take the corridor on your left," it said softly, if a little strained. "I'll wait for you downstairs, baby girl."

Charles. Charles was there. Waiting. If he could just reach him, he'd be safe again.

He moved with urgency, renewed hope driving his limbs. When he reached the stairwell, his powers returned suddenly, and he could feel Charles' watch, warm and familiar, pulsing in the dark like a beacon. He flew down the stairs and straight into Charles' waiting arms.

"I've got you, baby girl," Charles murmured, pulling him close. "You're safe now."

Erik clung to him like a lifeline, burying his face in Charles' neck, breathing him in. His scent like home, grounding, and able to ease the thunder in his chest. Charles, Charles, Charles, his mind whispered.

The battle still raged around them. The comms buzzed with chatter. Alex's laughter, Raven's shocked spluttering, Sean's confused stammering.

"…Did you just–"

"Who's–?"

Then Hank's voice came through, firm and unusually sharp: "Focus."

The channel went silent. And Erik, wrapped in Charles' arms, barely noticed.

Later, with Emma defeated and still recovering from Charles' mental onslaught, the Brotherhood retreated. The X-Men gathered back at the mansion, all miraculously unharmed. The high of victory had them loud, laughing, wild with the thrill of it. They swapped stories, boasted about close calls, and relived the chaos with the gleeful swagger of winners.

Charles mingled among them, smiling, laughing, but his eyes always found Erik's.

And as Erik leaned down to grab a beer from the coffee table, Charles looked up from his seat in the armchair, eyes twinkling.

"Nice work, baby girl," he said with quiet pride.

Erik flushed, smiling despite himself. He sat on the floor between Charles' legs, resting his head against his thigh. Charles' hand moved to his hair, stroking gently, possessively.And Erik let himself glow in the safety of it.

✾

The teasing started the next evening.

They were all gathered in the living room again, post-dinner, half-sprawled across couches and cushions. The exhaustion from a long day of training hung heavy over them, mixing with the thick summer heat. Sean had cooked – a mistake in and of itself – and the room still reeked of over-fried, spicy food that made Erik's nose itch and his stomach curl. A vintage record played softly in the background, something Charles had chosen, no doubt trying to infuse the air with elegance it stubbornly refused to adopt.

Erik sat curled in an armchair by the window, a half-warm beer in hand, trying to unwind. It had been a rough day, starting with a splitting headache and ending with a bruised side from tripping in the gym. Charles had gone into town again, and Erik had barely seen him until right before dinner. Even then, he'd disappeared into their shared bathroom for a shower, leaving Erik with a vague ache and the feeling of being left behind.

He'd hoped they'd steal a quiet moment together before bed, maybe a game of chess, something small and familiar. But Charles had been swept into the drawing room by the others, and Erik, of course, had followed. There'd be no quiet tonight.

So he stayed in the corner, still and silent, hoping to be left alone.

Charles' presence hovered gently in the back of his mind; not intrusive, just… there. A soft tether of concern and comfort that Erik didn't push away.

But then Alex turned to him.

"Sooo, Erik,"he drawled in that sing-song tone that always meant trouble. He leaned over the back of the couch, wearing a grin that should have come with a warning label. "You and Charles got a thing going on with the pet names, huh?"

Erik didn't reply. His first instinct was irritation, followed swiftly by a familiar scowl and the raise of a brow sharp enough to slice a conversation in half. It usually worked.

Not tonight.

Alex only grinned wider. "Don't look at me like that. We all heard it. ‘Turn left, baby girl.'" He pitched his voice higher, in a terrible impression of Charles.

Raven, sitting cross-legged on the floor, covered her mouth with one hand, badly hiding a laugh. Too interested for her own good in the conversation. And Erik winced internally, because if there was one person who wouldn't let such a topic slide, that was Raven. Worse, she was also the only one who didn't fear his temper.

"Oh, come on," she said, eyes gleaming. "Sean looked like he was going to choke on his own tongue."

"It was kinda sweet," Sean offered from the other side of the room, half a shrug in his voice. "Unexpected. But, y'know… cute."

Erik's jaw clenched. The metal fixtures around the room gave an ominous hum. "Shut the fuck up," he growled, voice low and cold as steel, before turning his gaze firmly back to the window.

He felt Charles' attention sharpen instantly. His presence in Erik's mind flared with concern, offering him a wave of affection. But Erik didn't want that comfort right now. He needed to think, and he couldn't do it with Charles watching. So, with effort and a whispered mental apology, he raised his shields and closed his mind.

Charles withdrew, gentle as always. But the absence stung.

He finished his beer in one long swallow, then stood and slipped out of the room. No one stopped him. No one dared. He moved barefoot through the quiet corridors of the mansion, the coolness of the floor easing the heat still simmering under his skin.

By the time he reached their bedroom, the ache in his side had dulled, but something deeper throbbed quietly inside him.

Baby girl.

The name echoed in his mind as he slipped beneath the sheets. At first, it'd been strange, unfamiliar. Intimate in a way nothing else was. And despite himself, he'd accepted it almost immediately.

He wasn't embarrassed of it. The teasing hadn't stung the way it might have once. No, what startled him most was how right the name felt. How much he wanted it. Craved it, even. And not just because it came from Charles.

When Charles called him baby girl, something inside Erik softened; something old and raw and long-neglected, something he'd always deemed weak and shameful, that instead stirred like a half-buried memory of safety and love. Everytime he said it outloud or inside his head, a part of Erik healed a little bit more. And he felt seen. All of him. He felt whole.

Lying in bed, head nestled into Charles' pillow, Erik let himself feel it fully for the first time.

There had always been a part of him that leaned into softness in secret. That ached for nurture, for warmth, for safety. As a child, that part had been starved. As a teenager, he had been ashamed of himself. In the camps, it had been beaten into silence, crushed with violence and suffering.

And yet, it had survived. Somehow. Scarred, weathered, buried beneath layers of steel, but still alive.

He thought of how he'd run to Charles when his powers vanished during the mission. How natural – right – it'd felt to be held and comforted. Not because he was helpless, but because he, too, was allowed to need. He'd spent so long fearing that softness. Fearing what it meant. Fearing that giving it a name would destroy him. Terrified of what would happen if someone else saw it.

But now, he wondered: what if he could have that part of himself back?

He curled tighter into the sheets, breathing in Charles' scent, the clean linen and lavender that smelled like home. Maybe, he dared to think under the shelter of darkness, there is a part of me that's more her than him.

He realized that the thought didn't disgust him as much as he'd expected. Deep down, he'd known it all along. He remembered the games with his sister Ruth, playing with dolls, dressing up, that strange but wonderful flutter of belonging. He remembered how he'd always been out of place among the boys, as well as among the girls. Floating in the in-between.

He'd never found the courage to name that space. But Charles had.

When Charles called him baby girl, he wasn't mocking him. He wasn't playing with power or roles. He was telling the truth.

And Erik – finally, painfully, beautifully – was ready to accept it.

✾

Erik waited three days to speak to Charles. Three long days of silence, of rehearsing words only to abandon them the moment they formed. Each day, he'd stood at the edge of confession, unable to leap. And Charles – maddeningly kind, impossibly patient – never pushed. He just waited, the way he always did, with open hands and gentle eyes.

They sat across from each other in Charles' study, a chessboard between them. Midnight had long since passed; the rest of the mansion had fallen into sleep. Outside, the rain came down in sheets, the wind lashing at the windows, making them shudder in their frames. The storm's fury brought Erik an unexpected calm; it reminded him of himself. And, tonight, it steadied him.

Erik rolled the stem of an empty martini glass between his fingers. They were trembling, though he didn't want Charles to notice, even if he knew he already had.

"I need to tell you something," he said, voice barely louder than the wind outside. He leaned forward to place the glass on the table, just to do something with his hands.

Charles looked up at once, concern softening the lines around his mouth. "Of course."

Erik didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he stared at the edge of the chessboard, at the delicate silver crown atop his queen. He hesitated, drawing in a slow breath, trying to gather words that felt too fragile to speak aloud.

"There's a part of me I never talk about," he began. "Not because I'm ashamed– though I was. I think… I still am. Sometimes."

He winced as he said it. It felt wrong, even now, to admit. It felt like peeling back raw skin.

"But mostly because I never had… the words for her."

Charles leaned forward, his elbows resting gently on his knees. His whole attention was on Erik. "Her?" he asked in the softest voice.

Erik nodded, throat tight. He gestured vaguely toward his chest. "She's always been there, since I was a boy. Or rather… not quite a boy. Something in between. Something… undefined."

His gaze dropped to his hands, that could tear steel apart but shook now with the weight of truth. "I thought she was weakness. I buried her so deep that she forgot how to speak. I told myself she didn't belong in a world like this. And when she did try to surface…" His voice cracked. "I punished her for it. I turned cruel."

Then he looked up. Eyes wide, glassy, terrified.

"And then you started calling me ‘baby girl.'"

Charles smiled faintly. "I did."

"Gott, I should have hated it." Erik gave a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. "I was trained to kill softness before someone else could. And yet… when you said it–" he swallowed, blinking rapidly "... it felt like coming home."

Charles rose and moved toward him, slowly, as though crossing sacred ground. He didn't reach out, leaving Erik time to decide.

"I didn't know how much I missed her," Erik whispered, "until you gave her a name."

He paused, breath hitching. The pain of memory rose like floodwater: the dolls he wasn't allowed to want for himself, the dresses his sister and his mother wore while he stood in clothes that felt wrong, the strange detachment from every group he was supposed to belong to. A lifetime of being misplaced in his own skin.

"She's part of me. And I think…" he gasped in another breath, shuddering. "I think she deserves to be loved, too."

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. He raised a hand to his mouth, trying to keep the sob from escaping, ashamed of the sound, of the vulnerability spilling out after years of silence. But it broke anyway, raw and ugly.

Charles was there in a heartbeat. Hands cupping Erik's face with reverence, thumbs gently catching his tears. His touch was firm but tender, grounding.

"I've loved every version of you since the moment I met you," Charles murmured, his voice stripped of anything but truth. "But I would be honored – truly honored – to know her."

Erik closed his eyes, a silent flood of feeling rushing through him. It was the first time in his life someone had spoken to her. Seen her. Accepted her without question.

"She doesn't have a name yet," Erik admitted, eyes still shut. "I've never– I've never had the courage to give her one."

Charles kissed him then. The touch was almost as feeble as a breath, but it was laced with tenderness. A tenderness Erik had never thought he would be worthy of, and that he desired more than anything.

In that moment, Erik felt her clearly, as though she'd stepped forward from some long-buried place inside him. She melted into Charles' arms. Into his warmth, into his certainty, into the place that had always been hers, if only she'd believed it.

When they broke apart, Erik rested his forehead against Charles' shoulder, body trembling as the storm pressed against the windows.

A terrible thought whispered through him. "What if I never find the right name?" he asked quietly, almost ashamed again.

Charles didn't hesitate. "You will," he said with quiet certainty. "And until then… I'll just keep calling her baby girl, if that's all right."

A small, broken laugh escaped Erik's throat. "She likes that," he whispered. "I like that."

Charles smiled, and kissed his temple. "Then it's settled, my lovely, strong and beautiful baby girl."

Erik broke then, just a little. Letting the words wash over him. Letting himself be truly held for maybe the first time in his life. He pressed his face into Charles' shoulder, arms wrapped around him tightly. And Charles rocked him, softly, wordlessly, the way one might comfort a child who's been brave far too long.

And they – he and she – didn't need anything more.

They sat there like that for a while, still and quiet, while the storm carried on outside. And for the first time in a long time, Erik didn't feel like a man torn in two.

✾

Erik went to town the week after. He went alone, needing to spend some time with himself. To be with her. To be with the version of himself he was just beginning to recognize, beginning to allow in the light.

He took one of Charles' sleek, over-indulgent cars. Charles always said there were too many, and Erik was welcome to any of them. It made Erik roll his eyes every time, but today, he was grateful for the freedom. He left a note on Charles' pillow to tell him not to worry, and then drove off just after sunrise, the light soft and golden through the trees.

His first stop was a roadside diner, all chrome and neon and syrup-sticky counters. He sat in a corner booth and ordered a milkshake and a muffin. Sweet. Typically American. She'd wanted to try it and so he indulged her. That was the goal of the day, after all: to make space for her. To finally listen.

After breakfast, he walked downtown. The small shops of Westchester glimmered under the morning sun, their windows dressed in bright summer displays. Sundresses and light blazers, heels and handbags, swaths of silk and shimmer.

Then he saw it. In the window of a boutique, standing regal on a mannequin, was a black satin gown. Off-the-shoulder, hugging the body like a second skin, silver beading dripping down the sides like stardust. Elegant, daring, devastatingly sexy.

Erik froze. The sight of it sent a ripple through his spine, a thrill of wonder and want that seized him whole. This time he didn't fight it. He didn't shove it down or shame it away, as he might have once. Instead, he leaned into it, welcomed it. Let the image settle in his mind: the dress clinging to his frame, catching light with every movement. And this time, the thought didn't hurt. It felt like freedom.

The peace that followed was so deep, it startled him. Not even Charles, for all his love, had yet brought him quite to this feeling.

He nearly ran into the shop.

Inside, the world smelled of perfume and new fabric. Cool jazz played softly overhead. A saleswoman looked up from behind the counter and smiled at him. "Looking for something special?" she asked kindly.

"I…" Erik started, then faltered.

The clerk followed his gaze to the dress. "A gift for your wife?" she asked cheerfully, trying to pull him out of what she thought was embarrassment.

The words struck like a slap, and they pulled the ground out from under his feet. Heat flared across his cheeks, panic tightening his lungs. The quiet confidence he'd been building all week trembled, threatened to collapse. Stupidly, he hadn't taken into account that, in the world outside the Xavier Mansion, people like him weren't normal.

But then he remembered Charles' soft voice when he called him "baby girl", and he found the strength to draw in a breath and square his shoulders confidently. He would've had to lie anyway – it was still America in the sixties – but doing so no longer felt like a betrayal.

"Yes," he said, calmly, clearly. "For my wife."

The woman beamed. "Oh, she's so lucky."

Erik only gave her a polite nod, selecting the dress in his size and pairing it with a sleek set of black heels. And then, with a new boldness rising in his chest, he added a second dress – a long, satin-red number with a daring slit – and a charcoal pencil skirt that was all sharp lines and severe elegance.

The clerk gushed over his fashion sense. But Erik barely heard her, all he could think about was showing everything to Charles, watching his reaction, waiting for his smile.

He hoped he would call him baby girl again. He hoped, fiercely, that he'd love every piece.

Three shopping bags in hand, he stepped outside and turned toward the car, heart buoyant, lighter than he could ever remember. But then he saw a small boutique tucked between two bookstores, its sign painted in cursive pink letters: Lizzie's Makeup & More.

He hesitated.

She wanted to go in. Curiosity tugged at his chest, still, a part of him balked. This felt like a line he hadn't yet dared to cross. Dresses were one thing, they had a precedent. Ruth used to dress him up when they were children, laugh and twirl with him through the hallways. But makeup… that had always been a bridge too far. Until now.

Charles' smile surfaced again in his mind. And that was all the encouragement he needed.

He squared his shoulders and stepped inside. The shop was cozy and bright, filled with mirrored counters and dainty displays. Women bustled about, trying shades and whispering over palettes. Erik ignored the curious glances and walked straight to the nearest display. Lipsticks, eyeshadows and blushes were all neatly lined. He ran the pads of his fingers over the packaging, then began testing colors on the back of his hand.

A saleswoman approached, arms crossed, brow lifted in an annoyed expression. "Can I help you with something?"

Erik glanced at her. "It's for my wife," he said smoothly, same as before.

That was all it took. She lit up like a switch had flipped and launched into recommendations, her tone suddenly conspiratorial, delighted to assist. By the end of it, he had a modest but carefully curated collection: a peachy blush, a black kohl pencil, red lipstick, a shimmery gloss, a bold eyeshadow palette, and a dark, lengthening mascara. He paid with steady hands and walked out into the sunlight with a grin threatening the edges of his mouth.

The drive back was quiet, his thoughts danced with color and fabric and what it might feel like to finally see himself as she saw herself. As Charles saw her.

Back at the mansion, he paused in the garage, to sweep his powers around and sense where everyone was. The lawn was crowded. Good. He didn't want to explain, didn't want the day's joy to shrink under someone else's judgemental eyes.

He climbed the stairs with his shopping bags in hand and retreated to the safety of his and Charles' bedroom. There, with the door closed, he placed each item carefully on the bed. One by one. Like sacred artifacts.

He'd just finished sorting through his purchases, arranging them inside the closet, when Raven barged in without knocking.

"Erik," she exclaimed, surprised. "You're back."

He turned, slightly annoyed by the interruption. "I went into town," he said vaguely, knowing far too well that he should've given her something if he wanted to avoid being bombarded with questions. "Ran a few errands."

Raven studied him for a moment, "Charles asked me to let you know he'll be back by dinner," she added, already halfway out the door.

"Raven," he called, pausing. "Did he say what he was doing?"

She shook her head. "He's in New York, apparently."

New York? The answer sat uneasily in his gut. Why hadn't Charles told him?

Half-concerned by the unexpected news, he resumed what he was doing. Trying to suppress the disappointment that had settled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having to wait almost a whole day before he could see Charles again. He was probably meeting with the lawyersagain.

But when his eyes landed on the make-up bag, his smile returned as brightly as before. He could use the time to experiment with the new products. After all, he'd never tried before.

✾

That night, Erik remained alone in the bedroom while the rest of the house gathered in the kitchen. Laughter echoed down the hallways, mingled with the clatter of dishes and familiar voices. But none of it reached him. He wasn't hungry. His stomach was tight with nerves, anxiety curling inward until even the thought of food made him nauseous.

Instead, he ran a bath – hot enough to steam the mirror and flush his skin – and sank into it. He stayed there a long time, breathing slowly, letting the heat soothe the trembling in his fingers. And then, methodically, he began to prepare.

It felt like a ritual. He shaved with care, handling the razor with his powers. Then came the makeup; much more difficult than he'd imagined. The eyeliner smudged every time, and he had to start over twice. But with each attempt, he got better. He felt more confident. Both in his abilities and in his own skin.

Finally, he slipped into the black dress. It hugged his body like it had been waiting for him. The satin shimmered when he moved, the off-shoulder cut exposing the delicate shape of his collarbones. He stepped into the heels and wobbled unsteadily in front of the mirror to look at himself. And stopped.

He looked… beautiful. In a way that felt powerful. True.

He ran his hands down his waist and hips, watching the silk crease and catch the light. His glossed lips curved into a shy smile. His eyes, outlined in a smoky violet and black pencil, stared back at him, gleaming with unexpected joy.

He liked it all.

Then, a knock came from the door.

His breath caught. Fear surged for a heartbeat. Instinctively, he reached out with his power and felt the weight of Charles' watch, a familiar presence just beyond the door, so he relaxed a bit.

"Erik?" came the soft voice. "Can I come in?"

His hands were shaking as he flicked the lock open with his powers. He stood still, heart pounding, and waited.

Charles stepped inside carefully and closed the door behind him. And Erik fused the lock behind him, just in case.

A sharp, startled gasp broke the silence. Erik's gaze snapped up from where he was keeping it locked to the ground. Charles stood frozen, hands covering his mouth, eyes wide and wet. He looked like he'd been struck breathless. A hundred emotions poured off him in a wave. Desire, tenderness, awe, pride, affection, and above all, love. Love so fierce and overwhelming Erik could hardly stand beneath the weight of it.

"Charles…" Erik began, but the words dissolved the moment Charles moved forward.

He stopped just inches away, visibly holding himself back from touching, kissing, and ruining what Erik had so carefully constructed.

"Hey," Charles whispered, looking up at him like he was witnessing a miracle. With the heels, Erik stood far taller than him now.

In Charles' voice, Erik could hear something close to reverence. It made his spine tingle.

"You're late," Erik muttered, trying to mask his fear behind irritation. The old defenses flared up, sharp-edged and automatic.

Charles gave a crooked grin, completely unaffected by his harsh tone. "Am I?"

"I was… debating taking it off," Erik admitted, voice now small.

Charles' smile faltered. Without a word, he turned away, and walked toward the closet, his back to Erik. The rejection landed like a punch. Cold, unexpected, almost unbearable.

Erik's throat tightened. "Do you–" He swallowed hard, fighting tears. "Do you like it?"

He didn't want to cry. He didn't want to ruin his make-up.

But then Charles turned around again. His hands were behind his back, eyes shining with mischief and something soft. He crossed the room and stood behind Erik, guiding him gently to face the mirror again.

Then, slowly, Charles lifted a necklace into view. It dangled in the air, light cathinch in pearls and emeralds. And Erik froze, as Charles brought the necklace around his throat, his fingers working carefully at the clasp. The cold kiss of the stones settled against Erik's skin, delicate and cool on his collarbones. He stared at it, wide-eyed.

With a soft click, the clasp fastened shut. Charles' fingers lingered, drifting down the bare skin of Erik's spine in a feather-light touch that made Erik shiver. His breath hitched; and when Charles' hands settled on his hips, and his lips brushed over the slope of Erik's shoulder, a quiet sob of pleasure escaped him.

"I love it," Charles whispered into his skin. "And I love you. My beautiful baby girl."

Erik opened his eyes, staring into the mirror again.

The necklace glittered at his throat, like it belonged there. He raised a hand to touch it; then paused, fingers hovering just above it, too afraid to ruin something so precious and expensive.

"Charles…" he whispered. "Where did you get this?"

"It was my mother's," Charles said softly. "A gift from my father on their wedding day. I kept some of her jewellery, the rest is Raven's now."

Erik stared at the reflection, imagining her. Blonde, blue-eyed. A woman with lips like Charles', but a colder smile. He could almost see her in the mirror projected by Charles' telepathy. But there was something sad in the image, something hollow.

She wasn't a good person, Charles' voice came gently, brushing against Erik's thoughts. Or a good mother. But she was still my mother.

Erik blinked back sudden emotion. "Charles, I can't… I can't accept this."

Charles only pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. "Yes, you can," he murmured. "Because I want you to have it."

Something inside Erik broke loose. He turned suddenly, wrapping Charles in his arms and pressing him against the nearest surface. The kiss came fast, hungry, aching, desperate, as all the fear and longing spilled out at once. Desire pooled low in his belly.

They kissed like they were starved for it. And Erik poured inside that touch the weight of years, of an entire lifetime, spent burying himself beneath armor and silence. Charles yielded to it willingly, his back hitting the wardrobe with a soft thud, arms wrapping around Erik without hesitation. There was nothing tentative in the way he touched him, only a reverent urgency, like he knew exactly what this meant, what it had taken for Erik to stand before him like this.

The dress rustled as Erik shifted, one hand cradling Charles' jaw, the other fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt. Charles cupped Erik's cheek in turn, fingertips brushing the edge of his eyeliner-smudged temple.

"You're shaking," Charles whispered, his breath warm against Erik's lips.

"I'm terrified," Erik admitted, voice hoarse.

Charles pressed their foreheads together, leaving soft kisses on the tip of his nose. "Don't be. Not here with me."

They kissed again, all tongue and teeth. All love and despair. Charles' hands moved with care, fingers skimming the soft silk hugging Erik's waist, sliding up to the hollow of his back. And then tentatively under the hem of the dress, up his soft hairless thighs. Erik arched mindlessly into the touch.

The air between them shifted, full of quiet need and gentle reverence. Charles slowed down a bit, kissing and licking down Erik's neck, leaving warmth in his wake. Erik gasped, gripping Charles tighter, barely breathing. Every touch felt different from before, when Erik hadn't been this open and true version of himself.

Charles pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes again. "You're beautiful," he said, as if he hadn't said it a thousand times already.

A tear escaped Erik before he could stop it, catching on the curve of his cheek. "I love you, Charles."

"I love you too, Erik."

Take me to bed libeling, please, he projected desperately, tugging at Charles' shirt and unfastening his belt with his powers. He needed Charles to make love with him and her. He needed to let her experience that too. To have Charles worship his body, and love him in the most intimate of ways.

Charles nodded, then reached down and laced their fingers together. "Come on, love."

He guided Erik to the bed and when he sat down at the edge, smoothing the hem of his dress with slightly trembling fingers, Charles knelt in front of him and began sliding his heels off one at a time.

"Thank you," Erik murmured, almost shy.

"For what?"

"For accepting– loving me even like this."

Charles looked up, eyes soft. "How could I not?"

That night they made love. And it felt different. Erik was different, this time he was whole, no longer repressing the best part of himself. No longer afraid of being seen.

And Charles was tender, caring, as he held him with unflagging reverence, whispering prayers into his skin. He made him cry out, until his voice was hoarse and his mind numb with pleasure. He called him baby girl again, and every time she trembled inside him, reaching out to Charles' mind to let him curl around her, as they moved together, chasing their orgasms.

She felt safe in Charles' mind, just as much as Erik felt safe in Charles' arms.

Later, they lay back, limbs intertwined, face to face. Charles had cleaned them both and meticulously placed the dress back on a hanger, so that it wouldn't get ruined.

"Sleep, baby girl," he whispered into Erik's hair.

And Erik did, with a content smile on his lips and happiness oozing from his mind.

✾

The next morning, Erik woke before the sun, as per usual. Since the camp, his body had always been stubborn about rest, always disciplined.

But that morning felt different. The usual tightness in his shoulders had vanished; so had the ache in his chest that often greeted him before memory fully returned. In its place lingered a strange, unfamiliar calm. As though some long and violent storm had passed, leaving behind still water.

The room remained dark, the world outside still clinging to shadow. Beside him, Charles lay sleeping, breath soft and steady. One of his hands twitched in a small, searching motion, reaching for Erik. For a moment, Erik was tempted to give in. To crawl back beneath the covers and let himself be held, to rest in that space of warmth and quiet where the world asked nothing of him.

But he resisted.

He rose carefully, not waking Charles, and padded barefoot down the silent halls to the study. The door creaked softly behind him as he stepped into the familiar darkness, only barely touched by the soft blue glow of pre-dawn.

He made a cup of black coffee with the kettle Charles kept in the corner, and carried it to his usual seat by the window. Outside, the mist clung to the lawn in thin curls. The sky hadn't yet decided whether it would be kind.

He was wearing one of Charles' sleeveless T-shirts – too tight across the chest, slightly too short at the hem – and the bottom half of his own pajamas. It smelled like Charles. Like home.

There he was. Erik again.

And, as if on cue, a thought crept quietly, treacherous inside his mind. She's gone.

For one, agonizing moment, his breath faltered in panic. But when he reached for her in the silence, half-afraid of what he wouldn't find, she was still there. Still part of him, right where she'd always been. And he relaxed again, breathing out in a shaky exhale.

Behind him, a floorboard creaked.

"Hey," Charles said gently.

Erik didn't turn. "I thought she was gone," he whispered. "But I can still feel her. She's still with me."

A pause, and then he added, "I woke up this morning, and I was just... me again. Him again. And I thought I'd feel empty. But I didn't."

He finally turned, and there was Charles, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze open and patient. Always the listener. Erik gave a small, uncertain smile, that Charles returned, full of light.

"I think," Erik said slowly, "I needed to know she wasn't a threat. That she wouldn't take me over. That I wouldn't disappear."

"You never could," Charles said, pushing off the wall and walking toward him without hesitation. "Not for a second."

His voice wrapped around Erik like a warm coat, settling something deep inside him. He didn't flinch when Charles stepped into his space, didn't resist when warm fingers brushed against his cheek, thumb trailing gently beneath the tired line of his eye, in a soft caress.

Erik closed his eyes for a beat, savoring the touch.

"I think," he began again, voice low, "I can be him. And still know she's there. Not hidden. Just... quiet."

Charles leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to his cheek. It anchored him in a way nothing else could.

"You don't have to choose," he said. "You never did."

And Erik believed him. He believed that he could carry both parts of himself. That he could love her – love himself – without fear of erasure. He believed that Charles saw him. All of him.

He felt free and fearless.

✾

The sun was already sinking low, casting warm amber light across the wide windows of the mansion's main hall, now transformed, for the evening, into a relaxed lounge space. The armchairs had been rearranged into a casual semicircle, music played softly from the record player, and candles flickered on side tables in pools of gold.

It had been Raven's idea, something about team bonding and "not always being in uniform." But Erik suspected – no, knew – Charles had gently orchestrated things behind the scenes. Especially given Raven's very specific request: "Everyone dress nice tonight. Not tuxedo nice. Just... put some effort in."

He hadn't minded. Not anymore.

He stood behind the velvet curtain at the top of the grand staircase, breath even, spine straight. The panic that used to flutter beneath his ribs was gone. So was the instinct to run, or shrink, or steel himself for rejection. His reflection no longer unsettled him.

He was wearing his charcoal black pencil skirt that ended just above the knee and one of his trusted black turtlenecks, a soft, fine-knit piece that hugged his frame just right. The evenings had cooled by now, and the outfit felt both comfortable and elegant. He wore a pair of black heels, but no makeup; he'd chosen a more understated look. The only accessory of note was a silver Cartier band glinting on his right wrist, simple, but impossibly precious.

Charles had insisted on buying it for him during a quiet weekend in New York, as a gift. Being spoiled by his boyfriend had annoyed and exhilarated him in equal measure. He still hadn't decided which emotion he resented more, or enjoyed most.

He took one last, steady breath, and stepped forward.

The murmurs in the hall dulled the moment his heels touched the marble of the main hall. Hank paused mid-sentence. Alex's brow twitched into a faint frown of confusion. Sean blinked, sat a little straighter. Raven's lips parted, her expression both sharp and soft, like she'd been expecting him all along, but was still caught by the impact of seeing him like this.

And Charles, seated casually on a couch by the fireplace, was already smiling a satisfied smile, as he gave him an appreciative once-over.

Sexy, he purred in his mind, making his cheeks turn a hot shade of pink.

No one spoke right away. Which suited Erik just fine. He'd never liked the attention. He walked slowly but confidently, each click of his heels deliberate. His chin was high, eyes steady. He didn't flinch under their stares. He reached the couch and sat beside Charles, legs folding to one side with practiced grace, skirt skipping up just so.

There was a beat of silence, and then everyone spoke at once.

"You look…" Hank ventured, blinking behind his glasses. "Wow."

Sean grinned, leaning forward with boyish awe. "You look incredible, man."

"Girl," Raven corrected smoothly, not unkindly, her tone edged with approval. Erik smiled at her, the kind of private smile that passed between two people who'd suffered the same. Raven understood. Of course she did.

"Thank you," Erik said, and this time his voice didn't even tremble.

Charles shifted closer, hand slipping to rest lightly at the small of his back. "May I?" he asked under his breath, not needing to clarify what he meant.

Erik nodded. And Charles leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, soft and warm.

"I'm so proud of you, baby girl," he whispered.

There, with the love of his life and his newfound family, he felt serene. The quiet admiration from Hank. Sean's open delight. Alex's thoughtful but accepting gaze. Raven's protective smile. The comfort of Charles beside him. None of it felt like pity. None of it felt like judgment. There was no scrutiny, no surprise. Just respect. Affection. Recognition. They weren't judging him, but seeing him for who he was, with no mask on.

He lifted his head, gaze sweeping the room. "This is me," he said, voice clear. "All of me. And I'm not hiding anymore."

There was a heavy, pregnant pause. Then Raven grinned wide and proud.

"About damn time," she declared, and in a shimmering flicker, she shifted into her true form under the prideful gaze of her brother, the deep midnight blue of her skin gleaming under the dim lights.

The others laughed, the tension cracking like ice beneath a thaw. Glasses were raised, and the night began, just as Raven had intended. They drank, and played, and made dumb jokes and told stories half-forgotten and half-made up at the moment.

And through it all, Charles stayed beside him, hand never once leaving his back.

Erik laughed, for real. Unforced and unbothered. He let himself be. In the company of the people he trusted. In a home that had, finally, become his. He felt like part of something.

He felt whole. And he felt loved.