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Chapter Text

  Scott’s breath comes to him in panicked bursts as he regains consciousness. Flakes swirl in an icy dance around his prone form. Muscles tremble uncontrollably as the wind slices into him, permeating the thin fabric of his uniform and sending a chill running down his spine. The cold is suffocating, crushing his lungs and ripping at his throat with each breath.      

His glasses are gone, the memory of them being whipped off in the fight is still painful. He can feel warmth emitting from his cheek, where one of many fists had met its mark. Clenching his eyes shut, numb fingers travel along the snowy bank, but his search is futile. He’s well and truly blind and lost.      

He’s not sure how long he’s been left abandoned in the cold, or where his teammates have fled to. Between the freezing flakes of snow cascading down upon them, the hydra soldiers advancing and Magneto whisking guns and men alike off the floor and throwing them in various directions, he had quickly lost sight of them when they stepped off the plane into the chaos earlier that afternoon.      

With little time to dwell Scott had been engulfed in the fight. He’d been midway through blasting down a row of soldiers, lined up like bowling pins, before an unnaturally strong wind brushed past; grasping the soldiers it carried them away like leaves in a storm. Left sprawled across the snowy bank, Scott notes thankfully that their chests still move with each laboured breath. Caught by surprise Scott’s fingers skimmed over his visor, eyes scanned the horizon for any incoming threats. Faster than his reflexes could account for, it returned. A blur of movement, tinted red through his visor’s lens, signified it was more a creature than a mere breeze. As did the sharp pain radiating below his ribcage as it forced him back, stumbling but staying upright. A humanoid grip captured his arm, only releasing when a crack rang out, bone fractured and separating.      

Then the blur took human form, a young man of a similar age, with sharp, familiar features and dishevelled white curls, reaching past his ears. His alabaster shirt moved with each laboured breath, it had been without crease, though blood speckled the cuff of his sleeve. Despite his opponent’s open posture, one arm swinging loosely and the second dipping into his pocket, Scott kept his battle position, his injured arm held to his chest. Not that it did him any good, the strange mutant’s smirk grew a little sharper, straight white teeth on show, before he said ‘’Bet you didn’t see this coming.’’ The movement too fast for the naked eye to see, one second he stood there, the next Scott felt a heavy force colliding with his face repelling him into a bed of snow, his visor flying off in a tailspin.  

He clenched his eyes shut before any power could be released, grateful when the crunch of snow marked the other mutant’s departure. Numbness quickly turns to pain, neurons happy to pass the message along. As the world swam around him, darkness lapped at the edge of his mind, he welcomed it like an old friend.      

With the cold seeping into his bones, the faint sound of rustling and crunching footfall brings Cyclops out of the past. Panic flows over him, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’s exposed like this. Subconsciously he curls up tighter, his good hand covering his eyes resisting the urge to look. When the sound pauses by his head, he can feel the burn of the stranger’s gaze roaming over him. Without warning his hand is gripped by someone else’s and tugged away gently. The hands are callused and warm, so much so they almost seem to burn his icy skin, as they patiently wait for his struggles to cease. Scott contemplates opening his eyes but instinct tells him not to, to hold his beam-firing card to his chest until he knows what he’s dealing with. Instead, he clenches his eyes shut tighter, flinching when the too hot hands move to his cheek until he feels something being manipulated onto his face, a familiar weight resting on the bridge of his nose. His glasses.      

‘’Open your eyes.’’ The voice is firm, but not unkind, like Charles’ had been the first time they’d met. Obeying the order, Scott blinks open his eyes. Pink and orange bathed the northern sky, the colours reaching out from where the sun was sinking below the horizon, in the south an inky darkness crept along the sky. Scott recoils at the blinding brightness of the snow sodden landscape, still glowing despite night falling fast.      

His eyes take a moment to adjust, to turn the silhouette into a recognisable face. ‘’Magneto.’’ Exhaustion, fear and pain flutter around his head, collapsing any strategic part of his brain in the moment. In his mind’s eye, he pictures his own demise. Metal slicing into flesh, his bone crushed like cereal, the iron of his blood streaming out through any chasm. Red flowing out of him like a river once the dam had broken, merging into the white snow. Bringing colour to the barren landscape.      

‘’Don’t look so scared. If I was here to hurt you rest assured I would have done so already. ’’ In a swift motion, the powerful mutant scoops Scott up into his arms, with more strength than his greying hair and lines carved into his face would suggest. The movement is so sudden Scott doesn’t get the chance to protest. As he’s lifted a flurry of snow ambushes him, blinding him once more. Until Magneto raises a wrist, a blue magnetic force field bursting to life around them, shielding him from the onslaught of the cold.      

When Magneto begins to rise, magnetic forces lifting him, Scott clings a little tighter. The thought of being dropped in his bruised state feels worse than the thought of staying with the mutant terrorist. Pain hums under his skin, as bruises blossom, his cracked wrist throbs as he holds it to his chest like a broken wing.      

‘’Are you hurt?’’      

‘’No...’’      

‘’Why don’t we try answering with the truth this time.’’      

‘’I think my wrist is broken. There were other mutants there.’’      

‘’I know that’s what brought the brotherhood here.’’ From their vantage point, Scott gets a bird's eye view of the bodies spewed over the bank. White snow turned red. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles like broken dolls. Seeing the corpses Scott lets an embarrassing gasp slip, it comes out more of a broken sound, scared and weak. ‘’I repelled the bullets they chose to fire. I didn’t start this war.’’ Cyclops chooses not to argue with the older mutant, instead remaining silent. But he’s grateful when Magneto purposefully tilts him away, so the corpses fall out of sight. ‘’Don’t look at them. Look forward.’’      

Not focusing on where he’s being taken Scott lets his head sag back, supported by the jut of Magneto’s shoulder, and doesn’t fight when his eyelids start to droop. So, he doesn’t notice the plane until the colossal piece of machinery is upon them, its wings stretched out and engine humming ready for flight. Warm, yellow light spills onto the open ramp, illuminating the bustling activity there. Mutants roam about, brotherhood members and a few unfamiliar faces alike, carting about filing cabinets, computers and a variety of anti-mutant tech. A line of them trails from the hydra base they’d raided, walking in single file like an ant colony returning home. Scott shudders as he views a jade-skinned woman trudging up the ramp, metallic shock collars clutched in all six arms whilst a winged man follows closely behind, rolling a human sized tube, drops of whatever yellowish liquid was in it leaking out.      

At the bottom of the ram, stand two familiar faces, Toad and Sabretooth. The former is unsuccessfully trying to restore order in the chaos, undeterred by the lack of interest his words hold in the group. Whilst the latter leans against a couple of stacked crates, his body poised perfectly in an unconcerned mannner, as amber eyes drift over the nearest mutants, his claws embedding into his palm, specks of blood surging to the surface before they’re smudged away. Scott knows them both well, the faded claw marks on his abdomen prove his ties to Sabretooth whilst he knows Toad from their adolescence.      

Magneto’s presence rolls over the mutants in waves, their boisterous conversations fading to murmurs whilst work speeds up. As each mutant walks past their gazes flicker over to Scott, garnering even more attention than their leader, exposed in Magneto’s arm, noticeably an X-man from just his yellow suit. He’d asked to be set down if his limbs didn’t tremble at the thought.      

Despite Scott’s internal pleading for them to bypass the two Brotherhood members, Magneto strides up to them. This close to Sabretooth the distinct odour of wet dog permeates the air, Scott scrunches up his nose as it assaults him. He clings a little tighter to Magneto as Sabretooth stands to attention like a bloodhound on a scent, yellow eyes drinking in Scott’s uniform and battered appearance. Magneto's words resonate with authority when he says, "Toad, Sabretooth, this young mutant is under my protection. No harm will come to him aboard this plane."      

‘’He’s an X-man.’’      

‘’He’s barely older than a child. And is no threat to us tonight.’’ Scott’s grateful when neither of them points out he’s the same age as Toad, if he needs the reputation of being a child out of his depth to survive the night then he’s willing to embrace that image.        

‘’Want me to take him in?.’’ Scott’s stomach drops at Sabretooth’s offer. He wasn’t likely to make it inside without the older mutant gutting him like a fish.      

‘’That won’t be necessary. Toad if you will.’’ As Magneto takes a moment to hike Scott further up in his arm Scott is reminded he's not young enough to be carried for so long. His frame might still be lanky, but the year of training has built strong compact muscles. Still, Magneto’s gait suggests he’s not under any strain as he walks them forward, straight into the belly of the metallic beast.      

‘’Won’t his professor be able to find him if we take him on board,’’ asks Toad.      

His tone is dipped in impatience when Magneto responds, but it’s hardly that of a raging madman like Scott had been led to believe. ‘’This plane is shielded from telepathic interference. As is the base. Charles will have no presence here.’’ Scott wonders if his team had made it home yet. They’d lost contact, both telepathic and radio, on their mission tailing The Brotherhood, around ten miles away from the Hydra base both teams had landed at. He wonders if they know he was picked up by The Brotherhood, or if they think he was left at the mercy of Hydra. Like a corpse left for a vulture.  Which would the X-man think is worse?     

The interior of the plane is similar to the outside, all sleek metal plating and cutting-edge machinery. The guts of the plane are an open room, more tech and crates are stacked up, meticulously labelled and numbered. Most of the mutants have made their way to one of the back rooms, the blue mutant Scott saw earlier has settled into the cockpit, six hands running over a symphony of screens, switches, and controls.      

There are three rooms at the back of the plane. Mutants stream into the first, where seats and food are visible through the parted door. Bars lined the third door, and a fingerprint scanner sat on its left. Unlike the other two doors this one had no windows, straining his ears Scott thinks he can hear a continuous thudding echoing from inside.      

They breeze into the second, Toad’s prodigious tongue swinging the door wide for them. In the back of his mind Scott had been half expecting to be taken to a torture dungeon, helpfully fitted into the plane’s interior, equipped with a range of pain inflecting devices from breaking wheels to an iron maiden sat in the corner. Instead, he’s greeted by a Med room, similar to the one at home, with white cupboards lining the wall and the walls painted a reassuring shade of blue. The last detail admittedly lost on Scott. Magneto settles him onto one of the beds, letting him struggle out of the uniform himself. Despite knowing escape is futile, he still grimaces as the door shuts with a quiet click, blocking him from the outside world.      

Scott’s surprised when Magneto lifts off his helmet, settling it down upon the side before routing through one of the draws. When the older mutant pulls out a needle, the arm of Scott’s visor is already clutched in his hand before the cupboard can be slammed closed. ‘’What are you doing with that.’’      

Whilst Toad flinches back, all too familiar with the painful force of Scott’s optic beams, Magneto barely reacts, not even turning from his task. ‘’I always thought those goggles were attached to the suit.’’      

Scott answers, clearly unsure where the conversation was going. ‘’They broke.’’      

‘’On your mission to South Dakota?’’ Magneto asks.     

‘’How do you know about-’’      

‘’We’ve been observing you too. And before you could get them fixed. Charles saw it fit to send you after my brotherhood, wearing glasses that could get knocked off by a heavy breeze. Not very responsible of him, was it?’’      

Scott’s brow furrows at the barb towards Xhavier. Right now all he wants in life is to be back at the school. ‘’I asked what was in the needle.’’      

‘’It’s a sedative it's going to reduce the pain and help you sleep whilst I get someone to fix that wrist of yours.’’ Magneto has finally turned, the needle floating surreally before him, the sight spikes Scott’s anxiety higher.     

Interrupting Scott cuts in, ‘’I don’t want to sleep.’’      

‘’Because you're not tired or because you don’t trust me?’’ Scott’s silence speaks louder than any words could. Unconsciously he grips the edge of the blanket, uselessly twisting it till his knuckles turn white. To his surprise, Magneto's expression softens, "Let me help you, Scott. You are among allies now," His voice carries a hint of sincerity that catches Scott off guard. "You may not trust me fully, but for the moment, I have no ill will toward you."     

In lieu of an answer, Scott stretches out his arm, casting his eyes down.      

‘’Lean back’’ Magneto’s instructions are paired with one hand pressing gently on his shoulder, urging him down till his head is engulfed by the pillow. Scott lets his arm be gently manipulated, until the crook of his elbow is laid bare. His eyes are screwed shut as the needle slips under his skin. The effects are near instantaneous, the tension rolling off his frame as his muscles reluctantly relax, the agitated lines in his forehead smoothing out. Tugging the blanket up to Scott’s chin Magneto barks at Toad to find the Doctor. Before floating the nearest chair closer and settling onto it. With one hand curled around the bars of Scott’s bed, he keeps his mind in the room, on the young mutant leader before him, refusing to let it wander to the inhabitants of the adjoining room.    

Chapter Text

The storm didn’t brew darkly in the distant horizon, looming at a comfortable enough distance for the X-men to outrun its fury. Instead, it bursts to life amidst the battlefield, engulfing mutants and Hydra agents alike within a matter of seconds. From the way the edges of the grey clouds are smooth and curved inwards the storm is manmade, constructed by some kind of high-tech weather machine Hank guesses, uncertified by the CSA clearly. With snow blinding them and bullets ricocheting in all directions they’re forced to retreat back onto the blackbird. When Jean arrives, shedding globs of snow from her amber hair as she moves, Bobby and Hank are already strapped in, the latter currently powering up the jet, green lights illuminating them.

Angel is the last to arrive, stumbling on moments after Jean, one wing bunched up to his side. Feathers have been ripped out, leaving a shallow gash visible in their wake. As blood fell to the jet’s pseudo plastic, never metal, decking, from Angel’s mouth words fall faster. So fast Jean is forced to pluck the thoughts from his head to understand. Diving through his mind is difficult, like swimming in a tsunami, panic suffocating her like water would. Then without warning an image is thrust at her, the intensity of it making her wince, Scott facing down a line of Hydra soldiers. The imagery is from a bird’s eye view, Angel must have been hovering above in the moment, close enough to see through the thick snow. Scott is weaving in and around them with grace before they’re gone, left crumbled in the snow by a silver streak. Stomach sinking Jean watches the streak return in the form of a human, his features achingly familiar although she can’t pin down why, before he runs at Scott, the X-man's glasses flying off.

Pain interrupts the memory, as images filter past Jean’s eyes, land and sky as she relives Warren’s unexpected descent, the agony she feels from a bullet skimming a phantom wing that’s never belonged to her is consuming, her teeth grind together as she pulls herself out of Warren’s head.

When she returns to the room, horror adorns each of their faces, Warren having repeated himself whilst she was lost in his head. Their leader not here Jean takes charge, ‘’Warren, Hank will attend to your wing whilst I go get Scott.’’

Any disputes are cut off by the jet tilting violently, sending Warren crashing to the floor whilst Jean’s skull is smacked off the back of her seat. White spots dance in her vision she looks up to the window, tendrils of crimson are creeping into view, wrapping the plane in its embrace. The storm is weaker now, the downpour of snow has thinned enough to see the figure standing before them. A young woman, eyes and hands glowing scarlet, fingers moving and her mouth muttering silent words.

‘'We need to move. Now.’’ Without waiting for affirmation Hank’s hands are gripping the wheel, his knuckles white, the engine’s loud in their ears as it powers up.

‘'Scott’s still out there.’’

''Jean, she is going to tear up this jet if we don’t go right now.’’ The jet groaning cuts off her reply, screws and bolts loosening and panels starting to cave in. The jet has begun to hover, the woman now out of view. Pulling the accelerator Hank winces as the jet swings north, its tail high whilst its nose sinks to the floor.

‘’Hasn’t Scott ever taught you how to fly this thing?’’ Bobby asks.

‘’The right thruster is damaged. We don’t have enough power to get in the air with her holding us down. And the left thruster is sending us tail spinning. Jean, I need you to use your powers to get us out of her reach.‘’

Reaching out with her telekinesis, Jean quickly meets resistance, her grasp on the ship dissipating as soon as it touches. The young woman’s power was telekinetic in nature, similar to Jean’s but somehow darker, her gift more primal and cunning. The red tendrils, twisting and turning violently, the body of red contorting like a dying animal, eat away at Jean’s power as soon as they come face to face, their owner's grip increasing by the second. The jet still screaming, web-like cracks begin to spiral across the window, threatening to crave in on the group.

Straining harder, sweat trickling down her brow, Jean focuses and lets a brief memory of a danger room session flitter past her mind. She recalls Scott leaning down to her ear, already towering over her even as young teenagers, one hand on her shoulder, reminding her when brunt force didn’t work, good strategy never fails. There’s no need to smash a jar when you can just unscrew the lid.

The battle between them was a fight of fire against fire, their jet burning in the flames. Pulling back Jean lets the jet rattle, as the boys swear in panic, she lets the girl think she’s the one in control. The stranger distracted by her sudden free reign to pull the jet apart like cotton candy, doesn’t notice Jean sharpening her telekinesis into hooks, not until it’s embedded in the crimson tendrils yanking them out one by one till the yet is free. Without restraint it soars into the clouds.

---------------

Now miles from where Scott has slipped into the world of unconscious, the blackbird glides through the grey clouds, its black hull gleaming in the moonlight. Undeterred by the labyrinth of roads and grassland below they would have reached the school hours prior, had the plane not been implementing defensive maneuvers devised by the one teammate not there. Scott had spent many nights in the library, bathed in the flickering light of an old lamp, mapping out a journey in case they needed to shake off any unwanted pursuers after their mission. The map he had spent hours leant over, rests upon Jean’s knees, her thumb tracing over the controlled scrawl of directions.

At the back of the plane, Angel is sitting, his eyes closed and his head tilted back. Jean’s not sure if he’s awake or not. Usually, a small nudge of her telepathy would let her know if her teammate was in the land of consciousness but the gift remains cut off from her, it’s like trying to see in a thick fog, frustrating and useless. A neat row of stitches snakes along the edge of his wing, the skin around is a painful pink, Jean was uncomfortably reminded of an uncooked turkey wing.

Bobby sits beside her, still in his ice form, tendrils of cold reach out raising goosebumps on her arm. ‘'Do you think he’ll be ok? With Hydra and Magneto there.’’ A collective shudder rolls through the group at the name. Though they’d been pursuing The Brotherhood, intel they obtained had put the Master of Magnetism miles away, deep in the belly of Madripoor. They had been unaware he was in The Brotherhood’s jet until wasn’t, until he was midair ripping the roof off the Hydra base with a flick of his wrist, causing soldiers to swarm out like an army of ants.

‘’He’ll have found a place to lay low, Bobby.’’ Jean murmurs, the writing on the map has smudged, her fingertips turned grey.

‘’But you heard Angel. He didn’t even have his glasses.’’

‘’It’s Scott.’' The words come out sharper than they were meant to, they’re short verbal daggers that she spits at him, for pulling her own worries out of her head like he’s the telepath instead. Without the reproachful look from Henry or seeing Bobby’s muted flinch she knew she’d gone too far. ‘'Sorry. It’s Scott. He’ll have found a way to stay safe.’’ One of her hands finds his shoulder, ignoring the icy chill it squeezes reassuringly. ‘'I promise.’’

‘’We shouldn’t have got off the jet,’’ says Bobby. Stepping off the jet had been ill-advised, they had been little more than bloody meat floating in shark-infested water, their plans crumpling like paper.

Red lights above their heads, blinking on and off, shows the radio is still down like the buzzing static filling the air doesn’t already let them know. Still, Hank feels the need to point out, ‘’The radio is still down.’' One hairy hand taps it like it’s not the only thing Jean has been watching this flight. ‘’Have you any telepathic contact yet, Jean?’’

‘'I’ve been trying to reach Professor Xavier, but it's like there's some kind of interference. I can't get through to him.’’ There’s a slight thumping pulsing in her head, a prior warning for the headache threatening to hit her full force if she didn’t put the telepathic phone to Xavier down.

‘’It sounds like there’s a telepathic dampener blocking you. If he can’t get through to you it’s likely that he doesn’t know Scott isn’t with us.‘’

‘’Maybe we don’t need the Professor to know where Scott is.’’

‘'What do you mean, Bobby?’’ Jean asks.

Gesturing to the left wall, Bobby says, ‘’Look at that.’’ There’s a mesh of devices hooked onto the wall panel, a few of them skimming the ground after the earlier telekinetic battle, wires trailing after them. Just below the roof, there’s a row of screens, linked to the exterior’s camera. Whilst most of them, show dark sky and grey clouds, the occasional bird breezing past, the furthest one looks half broken, a white blur eating away at half the feed.

Squinting Jean realises it’s not broken, the camera is embedded in a bed of snow, leaving only a sliver of the outside world visible. The mountainous hills in the background lets them know where they lost it, the Alaskan Hydra base. ‘’Hank, can you zoom in further?’' Complying he hits a button, the feed freezes for a moment before the image focuses in, blurring before it clarifies, revealing Scott Summers, bruised and blind but alive.

‘’We need to turn around.’’

‘'Jean, we can’t do that. I don’t even know if we have enough fuel.’’

‘’Hank, he’s right there. And night’s falling, he could freeze to death. He’s alone we can’t just leave him.’'

‘’He’s not alone.’’

‘’What.’' Jeans turns back around at the sound of Bobby’s voice, not acknowledging the subtle shift in his emotions she’d been unable to detect until now. The feed had been quietly projecting the sound of howling winds from the scene, the noise drowning out everything else. Now a crunching is relayed into their jet, slowly getting louder until sturdy purple boots enter the frame, the rustling sound of a cape accompanying them.

Jean’s throat goes dry like she’s spent the day in the desert rather than frozen mountains. She watches as the figure, the man she’s fought tooth and nail with many times, lower himself down to Scott’s level, one hand shifting to his face. Minor movements signal Scott’s finally awake. After a few seconds, harrowing moments where Jean envisions a metal fragment being wedged into his chest, Magneto rises, Scott held in his arms, red glasses now on.

Then without warning a verbal hurricane erupts in her skull. Crying out, Jean jerks forward, hands clutching her head as voices ring in her ears, the thoughts of the X-men barging down her telepathic walls. Their worries and confusion infiltrating her mind, their words drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in her ears. Quietly, barely in the background, she can hear a symphony of thoughts from the small town miles below the jet, she hears the child calling out their dog’s name and the father looking for his car keys.

Seconds later, a familiar presence peeks into her mind, the barrier once holding him back now gone, the professor quietens the voices and injects calm with a single nudge of his power. His presence is firm but gentle as he routes through her mind, catching up on the events of the day. Finally, she feels him, poking at her occipital lobe, till he can see the screen before her. The silence stretches long enough that Jean worries he’s been barred from her mind again until he says the name none of them had dared to utter, ’Magneto.’

Chapter Text

Consciousness flickers in Scott like a flame, his senses lighting up before fizzling out and engulfing him in darkness. Pieces of the world revealing themselves in frantic flashes, the squeak of trolly wheels on tiled floor and the painful pinch of an IV being guided under his skin. The moments brush by quickly, later Scott wonders if they were dreamt up figments of his imagination, his mind constructing solutions to the problem of brushing up against death. 

Warmth is the first concept Scott grasps as he fully awakens, the heat bordering on the edge of uncomfortable. Weighted blankets are draped over his form, a cocoon of fabric pinning his heavy limbs. Only for Scott there’s no great escape to a world of vivid colour and flight. There’s only sweat beading down his face with every movement and twinges of pain lighting up in his left wrist. The pain ignites flashes of memory, of bone deep cold and a streak of silver movement, and then of a man adorned in white, frosty eyes inspecting him like he’s a mildly interesting bug. The last memory is particularly vivid. Phantom hands can still be felt encasing his wrist after he’d been poked, prodded and finally fixed. The doctor’s hands had held the limb aloft as a thin steel band is manipulated, the metal rippling and flexing before settling securely on his wrist. 

Gently cracking one eye open, the sight of a med bay greets him. Similar and yet different to the one he’d been taken to on the plane. Pure crimson in his vision signals that the walls and furniture were a pure alabaster shade. Despite the room’s larger stature it remained just as remote, the neighbouring beds empty. There are no windows, and no hints of the outside world, just an inconspicuous picture of field crowed with cows, the black and white mammals staring with blank gazes. A few beds between them there’s a single door, likely locked. One exit. No view of outside. He checks off the facts in his head. Overlooking the cot an IV stands, tubes feed a dark greyish substance into his bloodstream. Drugged with unknown substance. Likely effects: weariness.

Inches beyond where the needle is inserted, a thin metal bracelet is secured, a few centimetres in width, grey and dull in appearance, tight but not restrictive. His eyes rake over it with interest, the words ‘captive’, ‘prisoner’ and ‘danger’ tumble around his brain sparking unease but he doesn't pursue them, lets them fade away into the growing fog in his head.

Suddenly the door moves, well-oiled hinges swinging without sound, revealing Magneto from behind. From the moment the first glimpse of red and purple peeks around the corner Scott lets his head droop back and clenches his eyes shut, suddenly glad he’s accustomed to seeing without sight.

 The clink of metal hitting the floor hints at his location and brisk pace when he brushes past Scott’s cot, it also indicates he’s in his suit. Which makes sense. Scott had only seen Magneto, not Erik, never Erik to him, once without his Magneto suit. And although it was the first time they’d met recalling the image of it feels unnatural, like seeing a plucked bird.

 They had met around a year ago when he’d visited the professor. Scott had taken his jacket at the door and called him ‘’Mr Lensherr’', then he’d walked him through the school ground never imagining their guest would don a suit just weeks later and demolish a S.H.I.E.L.D. security base. Or that a year later he‘d owe the man for a dozen black eyes and fractured ribs. 

That night he’d felt the professor ruffle through his thoughts, possibly unaware Scott could feel it. Scott could picture him, clutching a steaming tea, half dozen test papers scattered across the table, only half focusing on the telepathic task he’d set for himself. Sensing the professor routing through his memories of Magneto , feeling him taste his mood and mull over his thoughts it might have been the first time Scott had felt the bitter tang of fear rise up toward the man who had adopted him. 

He’d justified and half forgotten the memory until now, in the unfamiliar base at the mercy of the brotherhood is when it scrabbles to the forefront of his mind, distracting him from the current crisis. Dead silence has smothered the earlier clinking sound, which was unfortunate considering Scott doesn’t know where Magneto had got to. He just needed to feign sleep for a few minutes longer and Magneto might loose interest. Relaxing his muscles, he focuses on the steady rise and fall of his chest. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath-

‘'I know you’re awake, Cyclops.’’ With the ruse over Scott blinks open his eyes. The lines in Magneto’s forehead look more pronounced than they did last night, the steely glint in his grey eyes has faded too, leaving a look of exhaustion. ‘’I brought you soup.’’

‘’Oh.’’ And he has, there’s a large bowl perched atop of the side table, tendrils of steam still rolling off, roughly chopped veg floating in thick it’s orange contents. 

‘’Does Charles not teach manners at that school of his?’’

‘’Sorry. Thank you, Mr- Magneto... Thank you, Magneto.’’ Leaning forward, Magneto helps him sit up, carefully avoiding brushing against any injuries. Peeling back the cocoon of covers Scott realises the yellow latex suit he’d wiggled out of has been replaced by a thin grey shirt. More splodges of purple are visible now, colours racing down his arm and a blot of green peeking out from his shirt collar, pinpricks of pain light up when he lays eyes on them. 

He’s distracted from his multi coloured skin by the tray of soup being carefully deposited in his lap. ‘’Thanks.’’ Clutching the metal spoon awkwardly in his left hand, hunger sits like an hollow ache in his stomach. Raising his spoon, it trembles gently in his grasp before a pull in the magnetic field steadies it.

Peeking out of the corner of his eye as he relishes the first mouthful, Magneto is absorbed in the paper he’d pulled out. The masthead’s look is iconic, from the swooping curves of the B to the way each printed letter looks like it’s been angrily slapped onto the page, Scott recognises the Daily Bugle at first glance. Not the sort of thing he’d been expecting Magneto to be reading, especially since ‘Magneto the mutant menace strikes again’ is a frequent headline. Not that he’s ever imagined the mutant to do anything as mundane as picking up the local paper.

"What do you want from me?"

‘’I want you to finish your meal.’’ The words ‘for now’ hang ominously in the air. Maybe Magneto can see them too as he turns to face him, the paper forgotten on the table, ‘’I meant what I said although Charles seems insistent on throwing them at me I have no desire to hurt children. Especially not mutant children.’’ 

‘’But the X-men are meant to be your... enemies.’’ Only when they’re in the air does Scott consider how ridiculous the words sound.

‘’Men like Reverend Striker are my enemies. Organisations like Hydra are my enemies. My enemies are numerous. But as naive and mildly imbecilic as I find Charles and your X-men to be, you are not my enemies. Do you think of me as your adversary or have you simply adopted the irrational rivalries of Charles? Remember boy, you attacked me. I’ve never pursued you.’’

‘’You attacked us at that S.H.I.E.L.D base in North Carolina.’’ North Carolina was one of the X-men's first missions, defending a S.H.I.E.L.D. base against Magneto. Scott had seen the base before the mutant terrorist had arrived, it was a grand stone structure, reduced to rubble once Magneto was done. 

‘’I was keeping you out of the way.’’ The mission hadn’t gone well. Splitting up Scott had got half way across to his destination before something heavy had bounced off the back of his skull, sending a wave of darkness billowing over him. When he’d awoken a heavy metalic chain tied him to the rest of the team and the building was in ruins. Charles had deemed it by chance that they’d been left on the outskirts of the site, far enough away from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents hurrying about. ‘’I suppose Charles thought it a coincidence that I left you where S.H.I.E.L.D wasn’t able to retrieve you.’’

Clatter of metal against metal makes Scott realise he's finished the bowl, his hunger pain dissipated. ‘’I’m going to leave you to rest. You’re not my only charge tonight.’’ Covers are dragged over his form by invisible hands, probably metalic disks woven into the material. ‘’I’ll be back in a few hours.’’

‘’Can I speak to the Professor?’’

‘’We’ll see when I get back.’’ His chair drifts across the room, moved by invisible forces. At least Jean’s gift leaves a pinkish hue in it’s wake, some indication that it’s her. Magneto’s control of metalic field leaves no marks, objects just fly as if by a ghost’s hands. ‘’And please Scott call me Erik.’’ 

Only when he’s left does Scott look at the Daily Bugle’s front cover, sees a cartoon caricature of his kind, a male mutant, magenta skinned and fanged, looming over an all American family, blonde haired kids and a spotted dog. The headline asks whilst also telling, ‘Mutant menace invading your school?'