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“Domestic terrorism?!” Charles blurts out incredulously.

Erik doesn’t look surprised, which is the worst thing. His only tell is the way he worries at his wrists in the plastic cuffs. Without looking, Charles reaches over and stills his hands with his own; he’ll only hurt himself.

“You threw a tear gas canister at a cop,” Moira reminds them. Erik shrugs. Charles’s mouth works, so irritated and incredulous that the words seem to catch behind his teeth.

Moira MacTaggart is not a public defender. She’s a high-powered attorney who specializes in mutant caselaw, and has dedicated her pro bono hours this year to getting mutants who were arrested mid-protest, like Erik, off. She was contracted by Erik’s organization, Mutants Against Governmental Subjugation, to be on-call for protesters who got arrested. So Moira is the best woman for the job, Charles acknowledges; he wonders if she’d had any idea that she would be called upon to defend MAGS’s leader for a protest that they hadn’t even been running, just spectating at. From the friendly back-and-forth rapport between Erik and Moira, he gets the sense that this is a common occurrence. Still—domestic terrorism. That’s new.

“This is actually good,” Moira says. “They’re trying to make an example of you—the infamous Erik Lehnsherr of big, bad scary MAGS—so they’ve overreached. Domestic terrorism is almost impossible to make stick unless the media is really on your side, and for a little local news dispute like this—no way. If they went with minor charges, like instigation of a riot, I’m not sure we could get you off.”

“I’m not afraid of prison,” Erik says.

“Ignore him,” Charles snaps. “He was dropped on the head as a baby.” Moira covers her mouth to hide a laugh. “Erik didn’t instigate a riot, he was just there to protect the Xpression protesters when the police deemed it a riot and started shooting rubber bullets!”

Moira pushes a picture across the table. It’s a paparazzi photograph, not of that day; Erik is clearly at another protest, taking a break, guzzling down a Starbucks Pink Drink. At his feet is a sign that blares MAKE MORE MUTANTS, NOT WAR. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says RIOT INSTIGATOR. Charles rolls his eyes eloquently. Erik cracks a smile.

“I like that t-shirt,” he says.

“So does Fox News,” Moira says, exasperated. “Anyway, as long as you don’t have any t-shirts that say ‘DOMESTIC TERRORIST’ it won’t be a problem.”

“Well—”

“This is ridiculous!” Charles interjects. “It’s just a t-shirt!”

“Charles,” Erik says gently, “stop buzzing. You’re giving Moira a headache.”

Moira smiles at him. “I’m fine, Mr. Xavier.”

“You’re giving me a headache. Why did you invite him, anyway?” he asks Moira. “I told you all he was going to do was fuss.”

“You’ve never been arrested for domestic terrorism, before, Erik,” Charles snarls, “forgive me if the six months for assaulting a police officer you keep bragging about seem like small fry in comparison.”

“Here’s a note: don’t brag about that,” Moira advises. “Especially not in front of the jury. And I asked you here, Mr. Xavier, because the prosecution is going to call you as a witness.”

“What,” Charles says.

“What?!” Erik snaps.

“Apparently,” Moira says, “you texted one Raven Darkholme,” she reads from her file; Charles’s stomach drops roughly to the vicinity of his feet; “’Saw Erik throw a tear gas canister at a cop. He’s doing fine, thanks.’”

“That—that’s private correspondence,” Charles sputtered.

“The police obtained a warrant to search the cell phone and computer activity of high-level MAGS officials,” Moira explains blandly. “To see if there was any collusion to indicate a potential conspiracy that they could use to charge the others with. Regardless, it places you at the scene. Erik here has confirmed to me that you’re the only viable witness who could possibly confirm whether or not he threw the canister at all.” (And Charles can—it had been his lap the canister had landed in, before Erik had summoned it to his own hand and hurled it back at the cops. Everyone else had been too busy screaming, or running, or panicking to notice, the only reason that Erik had gotten arrested that day and charged was because of his reputation, and now the only reason it might stick is a stupid text sent to stupid Raven in the middle of a stupid riot incited by the stupid cops.) Moira studies his expression. “Okay, first of all—don’t make that face when they call you to the stand.”

“What face?” Charles says, putting on a very brave mien indeed.

“That one. The run-over-puppy one. You might win a few sympathy points from the jury, but absolutely no one is going to believe in Erik’s innocence at all with a face like that. Second of all: we need to decide what our strategy is going to be when they do call you to the stand.”

“Can’t I just—” Charles bites his lip. “Say I was exaggerating? That I didn’t actually have eyes on him, I just… assumed he was throwing tear gas canisters? I mean, it’s the kind of thing he’d do, you know.”

“Okay, don’t say that about him either,” Moira says. Erik snorts, but he looks flattered. “Were you exaggerating?”

Charles looks down at his hands.

“Okay, that’s called perjury, and legally, I can’t encourage you to do it,” Moira says. “Extralegally, I will say that if you do perjure yourself, lie better than you did just now.”

“He can’t,” Erik says languidly. “He’s always used his telepathy to get out of tight spots. He doesn’t know how to lie.”

Moira sighs. “Well, that’s just great. Our next move would be to make you a less reliable witness—find some flaw in your character, some reason you might have a vendetta against Erik—except—”

“Except our organizations have worked together closely, despite our differing political aims, since we graduated together,” Charles says wearily, “and because Fox News has been accusing us of being gay lovers since 2008.”

“’The Great Mutant Love Affair,’” quotes Moira from the New York Times profile about them. “It’s a shame you’re both men, or I’d just advise that you get married.”

“Married,” Charles says dully, feeling so emotionally wrung-out already that this further blow to his composure seems as light as the beat of butterfly wings.

“Married couples can choose not to testify against each other,” Moira says cheerfully. “With that and perjury off the table, it seems our best bet is for Charles to just bear up under questioning as best he can, and to focus on the sheer ridiculousness of labeling any act, even a violent one against police, committed by Erik during this time frame as ‘domestic terrorism.’ Now, I’d be willing to coach you, Charles, of course, if you don’t have your own legal counsel—”

His own legal counsel. Charles buries his face in his hands. He’s not—he’s not this kind of protester. Erik may be familiar with the ins and outs of the legal system, may spend more of his weekends inside a jail cell than outside of them, and Charles has certainly brought bail money and a snack for him to munch on upon his release to the various New York City precincts enough times, but the job, his job, working with Mutant Xpression and not MAGS, isn’t one that deals in this world. “It’s a sit-in, Erik,” Charles had told him, exasperated. “No one’s going to get arrested.”

“Never underestimate the willingness of the pigs to turn a peaceful protest into a riot,” Erik had warned darkly. “We’ll be there, anyway, protecting you from the humans.”

“We don’t need MAGS bodyguards, Erik. We’ll be just fine.”

“We’ll be there,” Erik had repeated, and then smiled that crooked, intimate smile, and Charles had abruptly stopped being able to resist. And then, of course, Erik had turned out to be right, the bastard was always right, and when the police had approached on them, batons out, riot shields proffered, and Charles had wheeled out, trying to explain that absolutely no property damage or bodily injury was imminent, Erik had been there, yanking him out of the way, wheeling him to safety before joining the fray himself. Erik, with his large capable hands on the handles of his wheelchair, Erik, wincing as a rubber bullet struck his calf, Erik, murmuring low in Charles’s ear, “Wish they were using real bullets, hmm?” before he stashed him in a storefront alcove and ran back out to get others to safety. Erik, who had picked up a tear gas canister and hurled it back at the cop who’d tossed it into the lap of a man in a wheelchair.

“Charles?” Erik says gently. Charles looks up to see that they’re both looking at him, Moira kindly and Erik with amusement, as though they’re not talking about a possible life sentence if Erik does get convicted of domestic terrorism, in spite of Moira’s reassurances, as though this isn’t the scariest thing he’s faced in a long time, including defending his dissertation, because at least then the only person he’d been sure had been out to get him had been Dr. Van Nuss, not the entire damn government.

“How are you this calm?” he demands of Erik.

“Is the panicking helping you feel better?” he asks dryly. Charles fights back the way his lips want to curve into a smile—damn it, Erik had always been able to make him smile, even during the aforementioned Bad Old Days of his PhD.

“Maybe,” he says defensively. Moira chuckles at them. Her phone vibrates, and she glances at it. The smile slides right off her face.

Later, Charles will click through the tweet that had made Moira blanch, read the full article “New York Seeks to Bring Violent Mutant Terrorist to Justice” (the Washington fucking Times, of course it is), take in the rhetoric like dangerous agitator and history of violent protest and casualty count and, when he can take it no longer, throw his phone across the bedroom. He will retrieve the phone, lie on his side in bed, and watch the retweets and likes tick up further. And further. And further. Domestic terrorism is almost impossible to make stick unless the media is really on your side, and for a little local news dispute like this…

What happens when your little local news dispute goes national?

For now, he just glances at his own phone, which so far has two messages. The first is from Raven, asking to let her know how the thing with Erik’s lawyer goes; she’s in charge of MAGS in Erik’s absence or arrest, so she’s understandably very busy at the moment.

The second is the same tweet that Moira had seen.

Mutant Law & Policy Center Brooklyn @mlpcbrooklyn

BREAKING: MAGS leader Erik Lehnsherr labeled “domestic terrorist” follow arrest at Xpression protests. bit.ly/4fjdfU

It’s the fucking cop at whom Erik threw the tear gas canister, because of course it is.

Sergeant William Stryker has had a celebrated decade-long career working for the Fort Worth PD, one of the most restrictive and violent anti-mutant regimes of the South. He arrived in New York City three years ago, following his fiancee up north, where his career stalled at the hands of a top brass less comfortable with his casual brutality and everyday expression of charming down-home anti-mutant sentiment than his previous employers had been. Now William Stryker, police sergeant, is the poster boy for victimhood at the hands of the “mutant agenda”—a good, honest cop whose career has unfairly been held back, who was attacked by a violent agitator-cum-literal terrorist and whose attacker is expected to get off nearly scot-free, perhaps with a small fine or time served.

William Stryker gets suspended for leaking the story to the press, which only adds fuel to the fire. Charles watches with something approaching fury as Stryker gives a press conference from the steps of his very nice brownstone, holding his head high, nattering about how he’d just wanted to “serve the community” and how he’d genuinely thought the best way to go about it was to “bring these difficult truths to light.” The man is being hailed as a hero by right-wing pundits and anti-mutant hate groups. When the Church of Humanity picks you up as their “Savior of the Week,” you know you’ve done something terrible.

“Suspended with pay,” Raven fumes. Her normally sleek red hair is bordering on frizziness—she’s been running her hands through it. Erik had insisted that the bail fund go to the Xpression protesters first, then the MAGS protesters who had day jobs and families to support, with “professional agitators” like himself being bailed out last. Charles would have gladly paid, but now with the charge of “domestic terrorism” hanging over his head, not even Charles has enough money to secure Erik’s temporary freedom until the trial. Which means, among other things, that Raven has started yanking at her hair as she tries to coordinate a media pushback with MAGS’s everyday mutual aid activities. “Bastard commits a miscarriage of justice and the NYPD suspends him with pay. This is cops protecting cops, no doubt about it. It’s not too late to join us, you know, Charles, in our attempt to—what was it?” She reads out from the Washington Post, which is at least polite enough to put scare quotes around Stryker’s more vitriolic language. “Ah, yes. ‘Violently overthrow American freedoms in our bid to subjugate humanity.’”

“Don’t even joke,” Charles says palely, glued to the screen. “Do you really think he’s orchestrated a miscarriage of justice?”

Raven runs another questing blue hand through her hair. She huffs and collapses next to him on the couch, staring with equal blankness at the anti-mutant protests—free, Charles notes, of tear gas canisters and rubber bullets—going on in DC. “I don’t know, Charles. Gallup did a poll on the percentage of people who thought Erik could receive a fair trial in their jurisdiction, and the numbers… weren’t exactly encouraging.”

Charles has seen that poll. It had been in that morning’s Mutant Review. He’d taken one look at it, carefully put down the magazine, and promptly lost his appetite.

“It’s not fair,” Charles says, horribly aware that he sounds like a lost college freshman witnessing the injustice of the world for the first time as an adult. “It was one moment, and he was saving me a trip to the hospital. Erik is—he’s a radical and an idiot and a lot of other things, but they’re all talking about him like. Like he’s evil.”

“Yeah,” Raven sighs, “welcome to the real world. Looks a little different down here with the cops and the scum and the real people, not the laws and the glad-handing and the cocktail parties, huh, Charles?”

They’ve had this argument a hundred thousand times, in the way of siblings with similar politics but very different praxis, and Charles doesn’t feel up to it now. He watches the news morosely, which airs stories about Erik every hour, and devotes a good chunk of the rest of the airtime to the protests and counter-protests his arrest or perceived impending release have sparked. They’re calling him the “Mutant Menace,” a moniker they’d previously reserved for the surge of mutants in schools and society. As though all the fear, all the hatred of mutants can be distilled down into fear and hatred of one man. One man—a good man, a reckless man, a loyal man, a man who cares with the intensity and endurance of white-hot stars—a scapegoat for all mutantkind.

Raven falls asleep on the couch. Charles watches the news long into the night. Eventually, a different news story comes on.

It’s late—he’s not sure how late, but late enough that he’s a little startled that she answers, sounding tired but alert—when he calls Moira.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“I…” Moira sighs. “It’s bad, Mr. Xavier. A high-profile case like this is going to be tried in the press as much as it is in the courtroom.” Charles feels like he’s on the verge of pulling his hair out. High-profile? Erik? For god’s sake, the man still has Count Chocula cereal every morning. “I’m working with a few public relations firms and sympathetic journalists, trying to get his side of the story out, but it’s difficult when I’m also still trying to keep the prosecution from calling you to the stand. We’re not sure what angle to run with yet—he didn’t do it at all, he did it but you should go easy on him because here’s why, or This Is Ridiculous And Not The Definition Of Domestic Terrorism. It’ll all depend on whether or not we can get your testimony thrown out.”

“Is…” Charles swallows. Raven’s features, relaxed in sleep, shimmer with the light of people waving rainbow flags onscreen. “Would me not testifying really be the best thing we could do?”

“Yes,” Moira says bluntly. “Without you, there is no case. There is literally no physical act on which to pin any charge—domestic terrorism or otherwise. But don’t worry about it, Charles, all right? You just do what I tell you to do, it’s my job to put Erik in the best possible position to survive this.”

That’s what convinces him, actually. Survive this. New York doesn’t have the death penalty, but that’s what it feels like the stakes are. Erik’s life. “Okay,” he says blankly, and clicks the phone off. He stares back at the screen.

It is July 2011, and somewhere else, people are celebrating the passage of same-sex marriage in New York state.

He endures the metal detector and the full-body pat-down with relative grace. When the security guard pulls out a metal detecting wand, though, he can’t help but roll his eyes. The security measures have multiplied since the last time he visited Erik, and it’s galling to see how easily the justice system can be manipulated by the press. “Aren’t you supposed to be innocent until proven guilty?” Charles snaps as he slides into the chair across from Erik. “They’re already treating you like a domestic terrorist. The plastic cuffs are one thing, but this—”

Erik smiles. He looks very tired. Erik has never, never cared what people thought of him, but this—when his whole life hangs in the balance—is different, Charles suspects. Now he has to care, and he’s resenting it, Charles can tell. Charles knows him better than anyone. “They say it’s for my own safety. In case anti-mutant protesters come in with—I don’t know, sticks to beat me to death.”

“That’s—” Charles sucks in a breath. It’s probably too much to ask that the guards, conservative as they must be to go into a profession like this, be nice to Erik, but at the very least they could not scare him with horror stories of the impossible.

“It’s all right, Charles,” Erik says gently. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

“Don’t you see that makes it worse?” Charles grits out.

Erik has led a hard life. He grew up in Bonn, but he and his family were chased out of the city—which remains quite a small town in some respects—when his powers manifested. He moved to the States, which has ostensibly better mutant rights policies, but in the lower-income areas that his family could afford, still faced down bullies and bigots with nothing but his fists. Charles has never blamed Erik for becoming the kind of activist he is, the kind that thinks that violence is inevitable, the kind that, yes, sometimes falls on the wrong side of the line between protest and domestic terrorism. But Erik is good, Erik walks through the world with an essential light burning in his heart, and Charles is terrified for that flickering light, that any harsh wind might extinguish it and radicalize Erik even further, but also that Erik himself might decide that tenderness, that openness to the world, is too much hassle, and squash it down himself, leave the cause, become a—stockbroker or something else soulless.

Erik is so strong, though, that Charles had never worried that the world would crush him, that it would see that light and decide to grind it out with malice aforethought. His hands are shaking now. Erik reaches out, with his plastic-cuffed hands, and places his own hand on Charles’s shaking fingers. “It’s all right, Charles,” he says, though it’s not, it’s not. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Charles pulls himself together firmly. Right. Right. He pulls his hands free from Erik’s grasp, already mourning the loss of the heat of his skin, trying to tell himself that this isn’t his last time to feel that warmth. He digs through his bag until he gets to the papers, neatly pressed in a portfolio case, and draws them out. His hands aren’t shaking anymore, he notes with distant interest. Erik watches him with open curiosity. “What’s that?”

“I talked to Moira,” Charles says instead of answering. Erik cringes; Moira’s obviously spoken to him about his chances, too. “She told me that the best chance you have is if I don’t testify. So I won’t.”

“They’ll just subpoena you,” Erik tells him, with the air of one breaking bad news gently.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Charles says, fumbling for words. God. Erik asked him a long time ago not to use his telepathy on him, and Charles doesn’t, except for the most surface thoughts that he can’t help, but it makes Erik hard to read, it makes Charles, normally so smooth with the press and the people he helps, tongue-tied and anxious all the time. (”There’s another reason for that,” Raven had said once when he’d told her this, rolling her eyes, but he tries not to think about that now. Not when he’s about to ask… what he’s about to ask.) “This is about… I don’t know how much you’ve been watching the news.”

Erik raises an eyebrow.

“No, not that news. Not the news about your trial, about… everything else. Last week, the… an act the governor signed last month came into effect.”

Erik frowns, obviously trying to remember. “The… Mutant Education Acts? Don’t those come into effect in September?”

“The Marriage Equality Act,” Charles corrects for him, and waits for the penny to drop.

It doesn’t. Erik’s brow furrows. “Gay marriage,” he says after a moment. “Right. That was last week, then? God, I’ve lost track of time lately.”

“Right,” Charles says, and an awkward silence falls while he waits for Erik to figure it out.

“What about it?” Erik asks after a while. Charles groans and scrubs at his face.

“It was—it was the joke Moira made, do you remember? Gay couples—if they’re married, they’ll have all the benefits of straight married couples—adoption rights, tax benefits… spousal immunity…” Charles bites his lip. He hadn’t been sure what spousal immunity meant until he’d started doing research after that late-night call with Moira, and given Erik’s blank expression, he doesn’t know, either. “If you’re… married to someone, you can… choose not to testify against them. It makes your private conversations… privileged. In the same way client-attorney confidentiality is privileged.”

“Charles—”

“So,” Charles barrels on, “if, say, your husband threw a tear gas canister at a cop, and you were the only one to see it—”

“Charles,” Erik snaps. “What the hell are you saying?”

Charles flips open the portfolio with a flourish. Inside is a marriage certificate. “Erik Lehnsherr,” he says, all in a rush, because he thinks if he slows down, he might not do it, “will you fake-marry me so you don’t get sent to prison for the rest of your life?”

“Charles,” Erik says, “what the fuck.”

“I got you a ring,” Charles says, as if that is the issue. He digs in his pocket and unwraps the ring pop the guards had let him through with, after much cajoling and just a little bit of telepathic pressure. He presents it to Erik hopefully. “I would get down on one knee, but…”

“This isn’t funny,” Erik says, “and making it a joke makes it even less funny. No, Charles, I’m not going to marry you just to get myself out of prison! What the fuck?!”

“It’s the best way forward,” Charles says firmly. “There’s always divorce.”

“This would drag you into the public eye, and not as the celebrated leader of Mutant Xpression, this would make you a terrorist’s gay husband,” Erik says sharply. “What—why—why would you even think?—did Moira tell you to do this?! I’ll kill her—”

“Moira doesn’t know,” Charles says. “Erik, listen, please—”

“What… why are you really doing this, Charles? So I got myself arrested, again. It happens all the time—”

“You got yourself arrested protecting me!” Charles cries out, abruptly out of patience with himself and Erik and the whole damn justice system. “You’re about to get yourself sent to prison because—what—I can’t handle a few nasty reporters? A few rumors about us together? God, Erik! People have been thinking we’re sleeping together since college! Just sign the stupid papers! Because I can’t! I can’t be the reason you lose the whole rest of your life, okay?! I can’t be the one to put you in prison for decades! You’re—you’re my best friend, Erik.” They never say it, but it’s true. “And I can’t. I can’t do this without you. Without you there, protecting me, the way you were that day. I can’t do this without you.”

Erik stares at him wildly, but at least, at last, he’s shut up. “Charles…” he says.

Charles wipes angrily at his eyes, surprised but not surprised to find them wet. “Please,” he says. “Please, do it for me, at least. I’m so scared for you, Erik. I keep watching the news and—and thinking—please. Not Erik. Please.”

He shoves the ring pop at Erik. Slowly, Erik takes it and slides it on his ring finger.

“We’ll need witnesses,” Erik says after a long moment.

Charles takes a deep breath. “Guard?” he calls out.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Raven says blankly.

“Helping out a friend,” Charles says through gritted teeth. God, Raven can be annoying. It’s the perils of having a little sister who knows you better than you know yourself, who resents you and adores you in equal measure, who…

“Helping out a friend is giving their car a jump-start. Helping out a friend is babysitting their protest organization when they’re in jail. Helping out a friend is not fake totally platonic marriage to the guy you’ve been in love with since you spilled beer all over him freshman year!”

Who knows all your secrets.

In an instant, Charles is a pleading child again, begging Raven not to go to Mother with evidence that Charles has been using his powers for evil again. “Don’t tell him. Please, Raven, it doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t matter whether I’m—in love with him or—I’d do it even if he was just my best friend, it’s just until the end of the trial and then we’ll get divorced. People get divorced all the time. It’ll be just a blip. Just a blip, a funny anecdote we tell during long overnight strategy meetings.”

“You,” Raven says, “have lost it. Lost it entirely. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard Erik ask me to—” She takes a deep breath. Charles ought to resent that her loyalty to Erik runs deeper than her loyalty to him, but he can’t; families by choice and all that, and anyway, Erik’s loyalty is a thing of beauty, a passionate fire that burns brighter than his frame can almost sustain, he can hardly blame her for being attracted to that light like a moth to a flame. “Charles,” she says more gently. “Charles, this will only break your heart.”

“It’s not like I kissed him,” Charles says quietly.

“Didn’t you?” Raven sighs.

Raven is exaggerating. Charles hasn’t been in love with Erik since he bumped into him at a party and spilled beer all over him freshman year. Erik was a year above him, despite being nearly three years older—Charles young for college and Erik having taken a gap year to work—Erik had cursed at him and Charles had thought, wow, what lovely eyes, and then laughed and challenged him to beer pong, and Erik had rolled his eyes and stalked away, and Charles had thought, Then what are you doing at a party, my friend?

Charles has been in love with Erik since they were in the same Transnational Mutant Movements class, and he’d listened to Erik argue passionately on behalf of intersectional mutant activism, Marxist mutual aid initiatives, denounce the nonprofit-industrial complex and institutional factors keeping mutants in positions of subjugation, with such eloquence and utterly adorable wrongheaded radicalism. Charles has been in love with Erik since he figured out that Erik was entirely self-taught, that he had read Wittig and Foucault and Lugones by himself, in the creaky old attic desk when he should’ve been sleeping to prepare for the next shift of the auto shop he worked at, poring over difficult texts with a dictionary because he was angry and raw and the words made the anger and rawness less, somehow, knowing that there were reasons for it, knowing that there were things he could do. Charles has been in love with Erik since their civil argument over nonviolent protest turned into a semi-violent catfight in the middle of the classroom, with their professor eventually having to break them up.

Charles has been in love with Erik since the accident. Since Erik visited him in the hospital and brought him his work and spirited arguments about the coloniality of the biologism inherent in the mutant/human divide. Since Charles had opened his eyes after an exhausted nap to find Erik there, dryly saying, “Oh, good, you’re awake from your coma; per your demands in class, I have prepared an extensive list of arguments as to why mutant supremacy does not violate your precious deontological principles.” Since Erik had not cared that he was half-dead, was ready to fight him anyway, to take his mind off of his useless legs and broken spine with an argument so rousing Charles had distractedly asked the doctor to come back later to change his IV. Since their arguments had tapered off into philosophical tangents about humanism and utilitarianism, since Erik had first brought out the travel chess set and left annotated copies of Das Kapital for Mutants (in the German, the bastard) on Charles’s bedside as a pointed reminder for him to educate himself. Charles has been in love with Erik since Erik first saw him in a wheelchair and didn’t offer to push, didn’t look at him with pity in his eyes, just sent him that flashing look of challenge and fell into step with him and started arguing with him about the right to bear arms in self-defense against cops and military, and whether mutant powers qualified as “arms.”

Charles has been in love with Erik for eight years.

When his silence gets too much for Raven, she sighs. “The things I could tell you about each other,” she says wearily. “You’re a goddamn mess, Charles,” and Charles can only agree. He’s a mess over Erik Lehnsherr.

Erik has worked with Moira several times since they met two years ago at a mutant charity mixer Erik was protesting. Moira helped him get Azazel out of a tight spot involving police profiling of teleporters; Erik made sure that her professional life was never boring. He doesn’t know her that well, but he knows that she’s one of the good ones—humans, that is—and that’s rare enough that she holds a special soft spot in his heart.

He’s never seen her speechless before. She’s a lawyer; words are her stock in trade. He’d once asked her whether he could sue the Lego company for mutantphobic design (answer: Yes, but don’t expect to win, the Lego company has the lawyers to back up their mutantphobic design). But this time, between them, he and Charles have, between them, managed to render her absolutely—speechless.

“I—” she struggles. “I—”

“Anyway,” Erik barrels on, “Charles got the guards to do the witnessing—I think they thought it was sweet, something about conjugal visits when I’m inevitably sentenced to life in prison—and we saved you a copy of all the paperwork.” He swallows. “You know. In case you… need it.”

“In case I—” Moira makes a choking sound rather reminiscent of that time Emma kicked a handsy journalist in the balls. “What were you thinking?!”

“It was Charles’s idea,” Erik says immediately. He knows that tone of voice, mainly from his mother’s reactions when he had accidentally melted another car, and he also knows that in spite of his best attempts, his lawyer’s ire will not be deflected upon someone who isn’t even there at the moment to take the full brunt of it. Still, he had to try. “He thought it would improve our chances of him not having to testify—”

“It was a fucking joke,” Moira moans. “Oh my god, they’re going to have me disbarred. They’re going to tell stories about me to hapless first-year law students. ‘That lawyer who accidentally got her clients involved in a fraudulent marriage’—”

“But it might work, right?” Erik asks. This feels like an oddly momentous moment, the fulcrum on which the rest of his life—if he even has a life left—pivots. He only gets one news channel in the jail, but every time they come to visit, Charles and Moira look more and more wan, their smiles more and more strained. He got the impression that he’s really in trouble this time, and not even for something he’d expected to be in trouble for.

“I—it—there is virtually no chance—”

It’s at that moment that the door bangs open, which Erik will later appreciate for its dramatic timing. William Stryker storms in, his visitor’s badge askew. He looks livid. He glares at Erik; the puffiness from the tear gas had long since faded, but Erik fancies an lingering swollenness about the eyes, maybe an essential piggishness to him. “You son of a bitch,” he spits at Erik.

“Hey!” Moira shouts. “You can’t just barge in here—this is privileged time—”

Stryker advances on him. The guards sidle in, shamefaced and unwilling to lay a hand on their fellow brother-in-mutant-suppression—that’s okay, Erik is used to that sort of thing—Erik pours his concentration into Stryker’s buttons and medals and belt zipper and yanks him backward. “You son of a bitch,” he snarls again, all but dangling from the grip Erik has on the metal fastenings of his uniform, “you really think anyone’s going to believe this? You and Xavier?”

“Don’t you have rubber bullets to shoot at innocent people?” Erik sneers. “Or, I don’t know. Parking tickets to write?”

“You little shit, you think this is going to stop us from locking you up? You assaulted a cop, you son of a bitch, you’re not getting away with this. You think this’ll stop us from getting our hands on Xavier?”

“Yes,” Erik says softly, “I think this means you won’t fucking touch him. Now get out of my cell, I’m talking to my lawyer.”

“Yes,” Moira says, recovering herself, though she’s looking at Erik speculatively. “Take him out of here, or I’ll have him arrested for tampering with a witness,” she tells the guards, and they gently tug on Stryker’s shoulder to lead him out. Erik releases his hold on the metal of Stryker’s uniform. “Say another word and I will slap you with so many charges your head will spin,” Moira warns him as he opens his mouth, and he shuts it with a click. Stryker’s eyes are the seething color of the sky before a storm. Erik smirks at him.

When the door shuts behind him, Moira sighs and slumps back into her seat. “…Well,” she says, “Stryker must have talked to the DA. …I admit, I wasn’t actually expecting him to be so… affected.”

“Meaning it might be working,” Erik reads between the lines.

“Meaning,” Moira says, “you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into.”

Charles had had no idea what he was getting himself into, but he gets an inkling when he rolls outside to get the newspaper and is confronted with a cohort of babbling, jockeying, pushy reporters who all start shouting the moment they set eyes on the wheelchair.

“Mr. Xavier! Mr. Xavier! Is it true that you’ve entered into a fraudulent marriage with domestic terrorist Erik Lehnsherr to keep from testifying against him?”

“Mr. Xavier! Did Mr. Lehnsherr pressure you into this sham? What does he have over you?”

“Mr. Xavier! How long have you been gay? Why didn’t you come out before?”

“—given your longtime disagreements over nonviolence on behalf of the mutant cause—”

“Mr. Xavier! What does perjury feel like?”

“Dr. Xavier!” Charles almost turns for that one, the lone reporter who’s gotten his title right—PhD at 25 while also founding and leading a nonviolent protest movement, he’s quite proud of it, thank you—but she carries on, “What’s a domestic terrorist like in the bedroom? Who’s the girl?”

“Mr. Xavier, can you even get it up?”

It’s that—that final indignity—which causes Charles to blotch red and grope behind him for the door handle. The crowd pushes in on him, camera lenses flashing, and he realizes with horror that this is going to be on the news, that everyone in Xpression is going to see him in his pajamas being berated over what happens in his bedroom, and he just wants to disappear, he wants to shimmer like Raven and blend into the crowd, he wants to posture like Erik and rip their cameras from their hands, he wants to use his telepathy and tell them all to BACK OFF—

But he stops himself just in time. A lifetime of being conditioning that he can only use his telepathy without permission in self-defense, and when his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, his telepathy rose to the surface—he can no longer fight or fly, but he can think. But this—cabal of vultures, they wouldn’t hesitate to press charges for unlawful use of telepathy, and then that would be it, he would spend the rest of his days suppressed and drooling in a facility for mutant criminals and everything he’d worked for would be gone and he wouldn’t be able to help Erik—so he stops himself. Just in time.

“Get out of the way, you fucking vultures!” a semi-familiar voice shouts. And, like an avenging angel, Moira is there, swinging her handbag in large swoops, knocking cameras and microphones aside. “Come with me if you want to live,” she says to Charles in an undertone, and without waiting for an answer seizes the handles of his wheelchair and propels him down the ramp like a battering ram.

There’s a plain black towncar parked very illegally, half-in and half-out of a space too small for it between two news vans, and a slim man with natural hair and a suit opens the door for Moira and Charles. Still stunned, Charles transfers himself to the backseat, and the man grabs his wheelchair, folds it up, and tosses it in after him. Moira sprints to the passenger seat and hurls herself in.

“Drive,” she snarls at the man in the suit, and he does.

“Where are we going?” Charles asks numbly. “I’m—I’m still in my pajamas—”

“Nowhere,” Moira says. “We’re just getting some goddamn privacy. This is Armando,” she says, nodding to the driver, who nods his head as though he were tipping a cap. “He’s your new bodyguard.”

“Call me Darwin,” he says.

“What—bodyguard?—what?!” Charles tries.

Without saying a word, Moira holds out her phone. Charles squints at it. It’s open to the New York Post website, which—he thought Moira had better taste—

MY BIG GAY MUTANT WEDDING, blares the headline. Charles blanches again, thinking back to the questions that had been shouted at him. Slowly, they’re starting to sink in. Fraudulent marriage. Sham. Gay.

“There are others,” Moira says briskly, “but I liked the Post’s take. The Times is being boring and respectful as always: ‘Renowned Mutant Leader Rumored to Have Married Accused Terrorist Lehnsherr.’ The Post, though. The Post has flair.”

“Oh my god,” Charles says blankly.

“You knew this case was a media circus,” Moira says unforgivingly. “What did you think marrying Public Enemy Number One just days before his trial was going to do to your personal life? Make it quieter?”

“I—I didn’t think—”

“Damn right you didn’t think, or you would’ve talked to your lawyer before signing the stupid papers,” Moira sighs. “Regardless of how insane this idea is, I could’ve at least arranged protection for you, prevented that scene on your doorstep from happening. So! You’ll be staying at the Hyatt under a false name indefinitely, and you’re to keep Darwin in sight at all times.”

“Is a bodyguard really necessary?” Charles asks weakly.

“Mutant Xpression reports that it’s already received three death threats against you,” Moira tells him.

“That’s not—I mean, I get death threats fairly frequently, it comes with being a mutant activist—”

“Three death threats since the story broke,” Moira says. “You’re stuck with the bodyguard. Deal with it.” She sighs and rubs at her temples. “Charles… I can’t reiterate again how unbelievably stupid of an idea this was.”

“But it could work,” Charles says stubbornly.

Moira stares at him. “You and him,” she says, “you’re a matched set. It could work—that’s all you care about. Not your reputation, not mockery—believe me, the talk show hosts are gearing up for a field day tonight—’it could work.’ That’s really all that matters to you, isn’t it?”

“I do care about my reputation,” Charles says. “I weighed it against the rest of Erik’s life. It was easy.”

“A matched set,” Moira says. “Fine. The very least you could’ve done, though, is give me some warning. You’re going to have to do a lot more than this to prove that your relationship is legitimate, or you’ll still have to testify, and they’ll hit you with additional charges.”

“Like what,” Charles says, fear suddenly freezing his blood.

“Like fraud,” Moira says grimly. “Stryker, at the very least, is going to push the DA into looking into the validity of your relationship. I don’t blame him—it’s just the thing to do, when the person you’re prosecuting suddenly gets married to your key witness. You’re going to need testimony from your friends that you’ve been a couple, and all the trappings of couplehood.”

“What do you mean?” Charles asks through a dry throat.

“I mean vacation photos, joint bank account statements, insurance policies—I’ll arrange to have Erik’s things moved into your apartment, but you’ll have to brave the vultures again to make it all look nice and natural, not to mention pick up your clothes and a few knick-knacks you ‘just can’t live without.’ That means a photo of you and Erik, by the way, framed and displayed in a prominent place in your new hotel room. We’ll have to get letters from a few people you trust attesting that you and Erik have been dating quietly for at least a year—”

At least a year. Charles tried to put aside the quiet sensation of goggling at that prospect and concentrate on what else Moira had said. “My sister, Raven,” Charles suggests. “She—thinks it’s a terrible idea—”

“Smart lady.”

“—but she doesn’t want Erik to go to prison, either, not least because then she’ll be in charge of MAGS.”

“Good. Now, we’ll also have to figure out what to do professionally.”

“Oh, god,” Charles says, “I’m speaking in front of a rally tomorrow.”

Moira looks at him shrewdly. “You can cancel,” she says. “You will get the kind of questions you got this morning, even cruder, crueler—people will try to rile you up, get you to snap or use your telepathy—and the second you do, that’s it. That’s our case. Domestic terrorist Erik Lehnsherr married to dangerous, violent telepath—we’re screwed. As your lawyer, now, too—I’m your lawyer now, by the way—I have to advise you that you can just… testify. Make this all go away.”

“Make Erik go away,” Charles says dully.

“Well. Yes.”

Charles swallows. “I’ll be at the rally,” he says. “I’ll—face down whatever questions I have to. I’ll take my bodyguard. But the mutant cause never rests.” Moira is looking at him with something almost approaching approval. Charles takes a deep, steadying breath. “I can’t do this in my pajamas,” he points out.

Moira tosses him a garment bag. “On the house,” she says, and politely turns away as Charles struggles into clothes in the backseat of a car, a feat he hasn’t tried since the accident, when he was regularly crawling out of people’s backseats disheveled and misbuttoned. Erik, he thinks sarcastically, you make me feel young again.

Charles holds a box of Erik’s things in his lap and scatters them across his apartment as though Erik actually stays the night more often than occasionally crashing on his sofa after a movie night in which Charles makes seasoned popcorn and Erik scathingly critiques the representations of mutants in mainstream media. A photograph of Erik’s smiling parents here, Erik’s prized copy of Das Kapital for Mutants there. Two toothbrushes by the sink. Charles is staring at them when he has a come-to-Jesus moment: Friends don’t marry friends as favors. It was what Raven had been saying all along, but it strikes him now with the force of rolling thunder. People get married for a lot of reasons—money, sex, power, loneliness, unplanned pregnancies, green cards, love—but they don’t get married as a favor. Their greatest defense, Moira had told him, is how utterly outlandish it was. Dating in private and getting married immediately after gay marriage passed is somehow more plausible than him marrying Erik to get out of testifying, and that is terrifying.

Charles has another moment when he takes down the photo of him graduating, Raven’s arm around his shoulders—Erik had been taking the photo—and puts up one that Raven had taken, Erik wearing his cap at a jaunty angle while Charles mimed trying to pry it off his head. He stares at the photo, remembering. That had been one of the best days of his life. Mutant Xpression had been just a seed, a loose collection of people on campus that had gathered behind him when he’d started a petition to get a mutantphobic professor reprimanded (Erik, of course, had organized walk-outs to get him fired; what would become Xpression had started in opposition to Erik’s salt-and-burn measures, had crystallized in a belief around forgiveness and education), but he could already see it growing into something extraordinary. He was finally used to and reconciled to the wheelchair; Raven hadn’t yet dropped out; he still had hope that maybe one day Erik would look at him and see, see his own heart reflected back to him in Charles’s eyes. Five more years of friendship—and nothing more—had crushed that hope. But Charles has never been able to picture a life without Erik in it.

Well, with any luck, he won’t have to. He takes a deep breath and positions the photo on his mantel, where anyone who comes in through the front door will see it immediately.

Before the rally, Charles apologizes to his people about the circus that’s about to ensue, and they collectively decide to hold off announcing their new initiative to get mutant representatives in Congress until this has all died down. No one asks him about the marriage, which he appreciates, but he can sense their burning curiosity. They’ve all worked with MAGS before; some of them were there when their MAGS bodyguards stepped in during the sit-in to protect them from angry counter-protesters and cops. They know that the rivalry between MAGS and Xpression is trumped up because the press loves a conflict, they know that he and Erik have been friends for a long time, that the only reason their organizations aren’t one and the same is because of irreconcilable differences in approach when it comes to direct action. But they know, too, better than to ask Charles about anything when his expression is that particular shade of pleasant, like the glassy calm of the sea concealing a riptide underneath.

Charles is grateful, even though he catches glimpses of doesn’t surprise me that they were fucking all along and so selfish, didn’t he think what this would do to the project and wonder what Lehnsherr is like in bed that he wishes he wouldn’t—he tucks his telepathy in tightly before going out to introduce the organizers of the rally and their goals for the day, not wanting to hear the questions and concerns in stereo from the reporters as well as his own people. The crowd is massive—flashing camera lenses, the mass of people swelling all the way down the street—and he feels a tinge of resentment that the news crews come out for a personal matter between two private individuals when he’s had to fight and claw for every scrap of media attention and still doesn’t see a turnout like this on his best days.

“I know,” he says into the microphone, “that many of you may be here for other reasons than protesting the appalling ratio of mutant representation in local and national governments. However, I will not be taking questions about my personal life at this time, and I am here solely in my capacity as organizer and leader. Please welcome Ms. Elizabeth Braddock to the stage to introduce the issue of mutant representation in Congress.” Behind him, Darwin crosses his arms menacingly. Waiting in the wings beside Betsy, Moira is distracted, talking on the phone—she’d wanted to come with him, make sure he didn’t let anything accidentally incriminating about their faux-marriage slip—but she nods at him. Short, sweet, and decisive, just like she’d coached him. He wheels off the stage feeling good about himself and only wanting to plug his ears with his fingers a little when a reporter calls out, Hey, Xavier, can you feel it when he takes you up the ass?

ACCUSED TERRORIST LEHNSHERR TO FACE INDICTMENT TODAY

COINER OF ‘MUTANT RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS’ TO FACE DOWN SUPERIOR COURT OF NY

HANG HIM!: HUMANS SPEAK OUT AGAINST MAGS’ LEHNSHERR

The judge, Marjorie Liu, is a slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman. Erik makes a noise very much like a moan of dismay when everyone rises to allow her entry into the court. “What?” Charles hisses, leaning over the wheelchair-accessible front row, which is doubly his as the disabled husband of the accused.

“She’s the one who sentenced me to community service when I smashed up that mutantphobic business’s windows,” Erik mumbles. He has a way of speaking without moving his lips that Charles has always envied; when Charles tries it, he looks like he’s pantomiming secrecy for a fourth-grader. “I may have—called her some unfortunate names—”

“Mr. Lehnsherr,” she interrupts, in a sonorous, amused voice rather like echoes off a canyon wall. “How lovely to see you again.”

Erik’s back straightens. He always comes through when under scrutiny, especially the scrutiny of humans. “Your Honor,” he says. Moira is rubbing at her temples like she’s been hit with several migraines at once. “What are the chances?”

“Of seeing you in a courtroom? Fairly high, I’d say,” she says. “Moved up in the world from smashing up windows, have you?”

“Your Honor, if you feel that you cannot fairly conduct this trial—” Moira says in a rush.

“Don’t worry about me, counselor. Worry about them.” Liu nods at the prosecution. The DA gives Moira a sharkish grin. She pulls her lips back in a snarl. “Let’s get started. Mr. Wilson, what do you have for me?”

Court is rather more… savage than Charles expected it would be.

Wilson, the DA, stands, buttoning his shirt pompously. “Your Honor,” he says, his voice striking a nasal plaintive tone—are all DAs this annoying, or is Charles just biased?—”it has come to our attention that last week the defendant embarked upon a fraudulent marriage with our key witness in a frankly transparent and illegal attempt to prevent him from testifying. We demand that the court suspend Mr. Xavier’s—”

“Dr. Xavier,” Erik mutters under his breath. Moira kicks him under the table.

“—spousal testimonial privilege given the circumstances under which the privilege was obtained.”

Liu’s raised eyebrow is eloquent. “Congratulations, you may be the first couple in the state of New York to face suspicion that your marriage is fraudulent. Same-sex marriage to invoke spousal immunity… that’s a new one.”

Moira stands, smoothing out the front of her sharply-cut blazer. “Your Honor, it is rank homophobia to claim that my client’s marriage with his longtime partner, Dr. Xavier, was obtained expressly for the purpose of spousal immunity.” Charles feels his jaw loosen. Moira sells it so convincingly—the righteous indignation on behalf of a couple whose timing was poor but whose love is genuine—that he almost believes it. And he’s the one living the lie. “Mr. Lehnsherr and Dr. Xavier had in fact had plans to marry once the legislation was passed for over a month, since the Marriage Equality Act was approved by the governor. The purpose of spousal immunity is that our conversations with the people we love most are as protected under the law as our conversations with ourselves. Dr. Xavier has been Mr. Lehnsherr’s other self for long before this case was even a glimmer in DA Wilson’s eye.”

His other self. The turn of phrase loosens something in Charles’s chest; he presses an absentminded hand to his sternum, swallowing the ache there.

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Liu says. “Unless either of you want to launch a formal investigation—”

“No need,” Wilson says triumphantly. “Your honor, we would like to present in evidence a series of text messages between one Raven Darkholme, assistant community organizer of Mutants Against Governmental Suppression, and the defendant.”

Erik goes stiff, his spine suddenly as straight and unbending as steel. He’s just remembered something. “What is it?” Charles whispers, but Erik shrugs him off, his attention fixed on the phone Wilson is waving, probably as a prop, in front of the judge.

“Throughout the months of May and June, which is the time period that Ms. MacTaggart claims that Mr. Xavier and Mr. Lehnsherr were making the decision to marry as soon as it was legal, Mr. Lehnsherr and Ms. Darkholme exchanged a series of lewd texts, such as this one: ‘Coming over tonight? xx Bring your,’ followed by an eggplant emoji, written by Mr. Lehnsherr to Ms. Darkholme. Ms. Darkholme replied—”

“I think we get Mr. Wilson’s point,” Moira says dryly.

Charles sits stock-still, his hands fisted on his knees, a slight ringing in his ears. He thinks about inviting Raven to dinner, the way she’d said, “Sorry, I’m busy with MAGS,” and wonders how many times she’d really meant, “Sorry, I’m busy with Erik.” Wonders how they could do this to him. How, even if Erik is unaware of his feelings, Raven isn’t, and how she could fuck the man he loved—and how the man he loved could seduce his younger sister—

But they’re well-suited to each other, aren’t they? Erik tends to date people with visible mutations—he’d been the one who’d encouraged Raven to walk around wearing her natural form when she’d had that breakdown in the middle of her junior year—he’d been the one who’d called her “beautiful” when Charles was still fighting with her decision to drop out of school—he’d been the one who’d recruited her, not Xpression, and they’re the ones even now who know each other’s politics and never argue, who work in perfect lockstep with each other as organizers and as friends. Really, why hasn’t he tried to set them up before?

He knows why. It’s purely selfish. And now, sitting in this courtroom, fake-married to the man he loves, hearing that he’s been fucking his younger sister for months… this is it. He’s hit rock bottom.

“Ms. MacTaggart?” Liu asks, raising an eyebrow like she’s watching a particularly quick game of football.

Moira rolls her eyes. “Your Honor, no straight couple would have to prove the validity of their marriage for spousal immunity even if it came out that one of the partners were cheating; I beg of you to give Mr. Lehnsherr and Dr. Xavier the same consideration.”

“True,” Liu says, “although most straight partners who were cheated on would, I think, happily waive spousal immunity to testify against the spouse in question. So, Dr. Xavier,” she says, turning to Charles, who blanches, whose tie suddenly feels much too tight, “are you still determined not to testify against Mr. Lehnsherr?”

Moira looks at him. Erik does not. Erik is staring at his folded hands, his teeth gritted like he’s really expecting—like he’s already braced himself for Charles to say yes, I do want to send him to jail for the rest of his life.

Why? Charles thinks bleakly, dazedly. It’s not like they’d ever been together in the first place. So Erik and Raven are—whatever. It doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t change that Erik is his best friend, and he doesn’t deserve to go to jail, and it doesn’t change what Charles has done. It doesn’t change his signature on the marriage certificate.

“No,” Charles says, “I still don’t want to testify.”

Charles sits numbly through the opening statements. The way Wilson lays out, in loving detail, as though he’s savoring the taste of each wrongdoing on his tongue, every misdemeanor Erik has on his record; every inflammatory press release he’s ever penned; every angry tweet he’s ever made. After he’s finished, Moira stands, and doesn’t even try to dispute Erik’s long history of rhetoric bordering on anti-human propaganda; instead, she goes deeply into the definition of what ‘domestic terrorism’ is, skirting the issue of whether Erik had thrown the tear gas canister at Stryker at all. They’d agreed on a bench trial, skipping jury selection entirely, which Moira had seemed to feel was the best option, given the complex legal nature of Erik’s defense. Still, even judges can be swayed by public opinion, so any advantage they can get—like Charles’s silence—the better.

That’s how the first day of the trial passes. Charles numbly watches it like a show on television, his eyes mainly on the flex of Erik’s jaw, his head repeating a series of lewd texts, a series of lewd texts over and over again. Lewd. Not a word he’d ever thought of using to describe Erik and Raven. Then again, neither of them would have ever wanted their private business aired in a courtroom with reporters hunched over their notepads and sketchpads in the back.

When the judge signals that court is adjourned, Moira waves the bailiff off, indicating that she wants to speak to Erik for a little while. Slowly, everyone files out. Probably waiting outside to get a comment from Charles or Erik or Moira. The DA and Stryker strut out, pleased with themselves, even though they’ve won exactly nothing; they’re confident that on investigation the judge will find Charles and Erik’s marriage fraudulent. And why wouldn’t they be? It is, after all. A scam.

Charles realizes he hasn’t moved when Moira is looking at him questioningly. He should. He should go. Face the reporters. Try to spin it in Erik’s favor a little.

“You should have told me,” he says instead to the empty courtroom.

Erik raises his head and looks at him. There’s an old, ragged pain Charles can’t understand in his eyes. “Why?”

“Why?” Charles sputters.

“It’s not any of your business who I fuck,” he says bluntly.

“There’s a marriage certificate hanging on my wall that says otherwise,” Charles snarls. “What the fuck? What don’t you get about this? You left me to be—to be blindsided with the revelation that you’re fucking my sister—”

“So it’s Raven,” Erik says. “That’s what has you upset.”

“Yes—no,” Charles swings wildly back and forth between poles. Hot shame and righteous fury. “You don’t think that the fact you were in a relationship was something to tell your best friend? Or, failing that, the person who married you to get you out of prison?!”

“I didn’t ask you to do this for me, Charles!” Erik cries out. “It was your idea, all right? This whole incredibly stupid thing was your idea, and now the world will think you’re an idiot who was cheated on and it’s my fucking fault—”

“Damn right it’s your fault,” Charles snaps, “if you hadn’t thrown that goddamn canister—”

“—and let your lungs burn, right—”

“How do you always make this about me?” Charles shouts. “I’m not the one accused of domestic terrorism! You’re the one on trial, and I’m the one doing you a favor!”

“Well,” Erik says, standing, clenching his fists hard enough and to yank at the plastic of his handcuffs, “you can take your favor and shove it up your ass, how’s that,” and he storms out hard enough to startle the bailiff who’d been standing outside the door waiting for him, who has to jog to keep up as Erik paces back toward the cop car that will take him back to his holding cell. Charles stares after him, wanting to run, wanting to snatch him back and tell him to sit down and figure out what is going through that goddamned head, but those are both things that he’s not capable of anymore, if he ever was, and so he slumps in his chair and rubs at his eyes, which abruptly feel hot and stinging.

“Well,” Moira says, faux-cheerfully, “that went well.”

Well, Moira thinks, they certainly fight like an old married couple.

Darwin is waiting outside to escort Charles out to his car. Moira walks him to his bodyguard, then stands alone in the courtroom, feeling like she’s about to pull her hair out.

It’s a good thing, too, that the best the DA had been able to pull from Erik’s texts was an affair. That it’s with a woman is of no consequence—the tabloids have plenty of shots of Erik with men and women alike, though none recently, also thank goodness. That it’s with Charles’s sister is… more complex, but people have affairs with their partner’s siblings and stay together all the time. In soap operas, anyway. “I would not stay with someone who fucked my sister” is not a solid legal argument anyway. And Charles’s obvious shock had been… something to behold, not that Erik would know, he’d been staring at his own hands so fixedly during the entire hearing anyway.

That worries Moira. In all the time she’s known Erik, she’s never seen him so—resigned, maybe, to his fate. She’d been expecting to hold him back from spitting barbed wire at the prosecution and judge. Had he thought that Charles would turn on him immediately? Preposterous. Anyone who’s spent more than two minutes with them can see the devotion shining out of Charles’s eyes, the answering fierce protectiveness that burns in Erik in return. Anyone, it seems, but the two of them.

When Moira had been pulled from her bed in the middle of the night to take charge of the MAGS and Xpression protesters that had gotten arrested in what was obviously an unnecessary escalation on the part of a mutantphobic police force, Erik had been the last. They’d set bail at a truly outrageous number, one that far outstripped the little bail fund that MAGS had set up; Erik had grinned when he’d heard it, the lunatic. (That was her first sign that Erik was to be a scapegoat for all mutant activists, a tool used to punish them and keep them in line. She’d vowed that she wouldn’t let that happen—not to anyone, for the sake of democracy, but especially not to Erik, who was wry and passionate and had bought her drinks every time she did one of these bail runs as thanks for being a not-awful human.)

She’d seen Charles Xavier for the first time then, anxiously waiting at the front of the precinct, running his hands back and forth over the wheels of his chair in an imitation of pacing. She hadn’t paid much attention to him except to note that that was the founder of Xpression, to make hasty plans to maybe approach him later to see whether or not Xpression would have the funds to hire legal counsel anytime soon, which would be necessary with their focus on legislation. Then she’d stormed back through a clustering cloud of police officers to harangue and browbeat them into giving Erik his civil rights, even if he had punched out a cop or whatever he’d done this time to make them so wary and furious around him.

When he’d gotten the full story from Erik, that he’d summoned a tear gas canister that had landed in the lap of a disabled Xpression protester and hurled it back at the cops, she hadn’t made the connection immediately that the disabled Xpression protester was Xavier, though she probably should have. She hadn’t until she’d asked him to contact the protester, if he could, and tell him to come in so that she could coach him through testifying and get Erik out of this utterly ridiculous bind he’d found himself in, and Charles Xavier had wheeled through the door, fidgety and nervous and his eyes always, always returning to Erik. She’d seen instantly that Erik’s actions hadn’t been the heroic calculations of a MAGS bodyguard defending a peaceful Xpression protester—immediately, his story took on the tint of personal passion, of rage that a dear friend was being threatened, at grim satisfaction at the cop’s suffering when the canister had gone off in his face, and Moira had resolved then not to call Erik to the stand anytime soon, unless he could disguise the obvious pleasure he took in learning that Sergeant Stryker had had to spend the night in the hospital.

Charles, though. Charles’s concern bordering on fear had been obvious to see, and Moira had wondered once why the articles about their friendship had only jokingly hinted at a sexual relationship between them, when anyone who spent a significant amount of time with them surely must have been able to sense the tension, thick as butter, in the air between them. The way Erik turned his body to protect Xavier; the way Xavier tenderly touched Erik, a hand on his shoulder, a finger stroking his clasped hands and causing them to relax. She wonders at Raven Darkholme, who undoubtedly saw the thing between them and had still deigned to fuck Erik anyway. She considers that Raven was probably a stronger woman than Moira, who would’ve run straight in the opposite direction if anyone she’d been interested in had looked at their best friend like that.

Men. Moira sighs and packs up her notes, her legal pads, her depositions and testimony. She’ll corner Erik tomorrow and coach him through his new story of being a cheating bastard; not that he’ll like what the news has to say about that, or Charles either, to be honest, but there’s nothing for it now. It is not her job, she reminds herself, to play matchmaker. Even if it would make her life a thousand times easier, and the fraud she’s perpetrating a thousand times less fraught.

The fight Raven and Charles have is… substantially more stormy than the one Charles and Erik had.

It’s the cost of growing up together. Raven knows all his weak points, all the tender places to dig in her fingers and press. She maintains—loudly and viciously—that who she sleeps with is none of his business, and she’s right, is the worst part, except for the thing where she knew that this would come out in court since they had her text messages and still didn’t warn him, and then she tells him he wouldn’t have needed to be warned if he noticed anything except himself, and then he curses at her, and she curses back at him in German, which Erik must have taught her and infuriates him further. She spends a half hour insinuating that Charles is only angry because he’ll be the poor fool that got cheated on in the public eye for the rest of time, with Charles shouting her down with increasing vigor, and then brings up pertinent examples—things he’s ashamed of—all the times he’s put public opinion over her feeling comfortable in her own skin to drive the point home. Then she moves on to his legs.

She never mentions that Charles is in love with Erik. Some blows are too low even for siblings. Raven knows exactly why he’s so angry, what he can’t say, can never say, and that’s even worse, that even when he’s being horrible to her she’s still being kind to him. She does, however, describe in half-arousing, half-skin-crawling detail exactly what Erik is like in bed, which is—better? worse? hurts more or less the same?—who even knows anymore? Charles throws the phone against the wall once the phrase “god of oral” comes out of her mouth, and knocks the battery out. Well. That’s one way to end a call.

At loose ends, Charles does what he needs to do when he has to think: he makes bread.

Because he’s depressed, he adds three generous squeezes of honey to the dough. Flour, oil, yeast, and water—he takes a deep, abiding pleasure in kneading his hands into the floury mixture until the dough begins to shape up, and then going after it with all of his strength by beating it with a rolling pin. It’s not the conventional way to knead bread, but it’s good stress relief, and better than throwing phones at walls or anything at Raven. He’s a pacifist, he reminds himself. Violence is to be reserved for bread dough only.

When he tires, he goes back to conventional kneading, sinking his knuckles into the dough, working the heel of his hand into the soft, yielding substance. This is what he makes bread for, aside from delicious gifts during the holidays. The act of kneading, of punching and battering innocent ingredients into yielding, elastic dough, is meditative. And he badly needs that clarity of mind and purpose.

Here is where he arrives at:

The thing is, Erik has no obligation to return his feelings. Erik has no obligation to even respect his feelings, given that Charles has never made them clear. It hurts because Raven fucked Erik and didn’t tell him, though he understands why; if he fucked the person Raven was in love with, he certainly wouldn’t tell her. It hurts because Erik fucked anyone and didn’t tell him, much less Raven—they’re supposed to be best friends, though if he thinks about it Erik stopped sharing the details of his love life over a year ago, and Charles had supposed it was just because MAGS had gotten so busy he’d stopped picking people up, although now he sees that that was naive—or at least short-sighted. Maybe Raven and Erik got together because they were the only people they saw on a regular basis, although Charles sees Erik plenty, just usually at the opposite ends of public forums or debate panels.

It hurts that it’s Raven because… Erik dates people with visible mutations, usually. He likes the pride they’ve had to develop in themselves. He likes people who are proud, as proud as he is, and that’s… that’s never going to be Charles. Charles is the one who believes in assimilation. Charles has been bred and brought up to smile, to ingratiate himself with the most powerful person in the room, to secure power not through riots and throwing tear gas canisters but through eloquence and amiability. Charles is the opposite of what Erik is interested in. And Erik can never forget it. Long before Charles thought of dating Erik as a possibility, he ruined any chance he had after the accident, when Erik bore witness to the long process of acclimating himself to his disability. Erik had helped him, Erik had treated him, gloriously, wonderfully, the same, but he has no doubts that Erik had noticed, that Erik could ever be attracted to him; not because of the wheelchair, but because of how Charles had reacted to the wheelchair, with shame and self-loathing and everything that Erik hated in his partners.

Charles rests his forehead against the cool counter. They make a good pair, he admits to himself. Erik had brought Raven out of her shell, the shell that Charles had put her in. Raven was a solipsistic hedonist, in the best way; she’d spent so long worrying what other people thought of her that now she aggressively pursued what she wanted, it was what her entire personality was based upon. She would remind Erik to live, that he couldn’t devote his entire life to the cause, that there is more out there for him than the next rally, the next protest.

Their babies would be… very loudly mutant. Erik would love it.

Erik will have to stay married to Charles for a while, of course, but then they can get a divorce, and maybe Charles can tease him about extracting alimony from him, since Erik was the one who “cheated.” It’ll be embarrassing for a long, long time, but within the year the tabloids will stop talking about it, and within five Erik and Raven will be happily married—or not, Raven has mentioned marriage being a tool of the human capitalist heteropatriarchy before—and people will only whisper behind their backs a little, but Erik’s personal indiscretions will be just that: personal. Charles regrets having ruined Erik’s reputation forever, but not as much as he would regret sending him to prison. So. That’s that.

The dough rises. Charles preheats the oven. His mind is pleasantly blank. He puts the shaped loaf in the oven and sets the timer. Eventually, it beeps and he takes it out.

When he comes back to himself, he goes to the jail.

“Here,” he says, and stuffs the loaf of bread into Erik’s chained hands. Erik blinks. His eyes are faintly reddish. Charles wonders if he’s been sleeping enough.

“Is this your version of an apology,” Erik says.

“Yes,” Charles says. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I mean, you should’ve told me, but I recognize that you probably forget in the hubbub of being charged with domestic terrorism and all.”

Erik gently sets the loaf back on the plate Charles had brought with him. “Sorry, too,” he mutters. “I did forget, but—I should’ve told you earlier. You’re my best friend. I was waiting for Raven to tell you, since she’s your sister but… I’ve never had a sister. Maybe it’s not the kind of thing you talk about.”

“It’s really not,” Charles says, relieved.

Erik’s eyes crinkle. “I’ll make a note. So when I get to Cain—”

“Oh my god, you’re the worst, I hope they put you away for life,” Charles says, and Erik cackles, and it is beautiful.

He sobers after a minute, but there’s still the old sparkle in his eyes, the one that Charles had fallen in love with. “Moira told me the judge is going to rule on whether or not you need to testify tomorrow after interviewing us. They’re sending someone by to check on your apartment tonight, see if we’re really… living in sin together.”

Charles stares at him, and Erik doesn’t break until Charles giggles first, and then they’re both laughing, and the release of tension is so good Charles’s stomach begins to hurt. “Should I be there for that?” Charles asks.

“If you want,” Erik says. “Or… you could stay and we could play Fake Chess.”

Fake Chess was what they’d invented on a long train ride with no chessboard. Charles had tried projecting the chessboard into Erik’s head, but it turned out it gave him a headache and also Charles couldn’t always remember where the pieces were. So Fake Chess was imaginary chess with imaginary rules, where the two of them spent more time squabbling over whether a pawn had been there or one spot over than actually playing, and the winner of an impromptu debate got to decide where the pawn had indeed “been.” Charles grins. It’s been a long, long time since Fake Chess.

“Deal,” he says, and they play Fake Chess until the guards come to clear Charles out because visiting hours are over, and Charles drives back to his apartment, slightly mussed where people had been picking up photographs and putting them down, and sits in the dark, and thinks about acceptable futures, even if you never end up getting what you really want.

For the interview, they let Erik out of his cuffs.

He’s in his nice suit again. Moira leads them both down the hallway to the judge’s chambers, holding the door open for Charles and removing one of the chairs in front of Liu’s heavy mahogany desk. She’s wearing reading glasses today, and peers at Charles and Erik from above them. “Ah,” she says, “the fake couple."

“Your Honor—” Moira begins hotly.

“Relax, counselor, it’s just a joke,” Liu says. “Although you are aware that the allegations against you are very serious, Dr. Xavier. The DA is ready to charge you with fraud if I determine that this marriage is illegitimate.”

Charles nods. Moira had told him that much before they came in. Erik had gripped the metal arm of his chair so hard he’d left little indentations where his fingers had been, which would almost definitely confuse and frighten the person who used the chair next. When Charles had asked for advice about what to do, Moira had said unforgivingly, “Don’t give her a reason to think the marriage is illegitimate,” and that had been it, Charles supposes, as much support as they were going to get.

The judge fixes them both with her gimlet-eyed stare. “So,” she says. “Let’s get to it. How long have the two of you known each other?”

Charles fidgets, suddenly wondering if the two of them should’ve come up with a romantic story. “It was love at first sight,” or something like that. Have they been fucking all along or is this recent? On-again off-again since university or did they fall into each other’s arms after a rally? These are the kinds of questions, he feels abruptly sure, the judge will ask, and not preparing suddenly seems the height of foolishness.

“We met eight years ago,” Erik says. “We were in the same class at Columbia—”

“No,” Charles says. “That’s not right. We were at a party together.”

Erik shoots him a narrow-eyed glare, a This is not the time to be questioning basic facts of our relationship, but Charles is just realizing that—Erik doesn’t remember it, the first moment between them, even if it had been nothing, even if it had been two drunk college kids passing in the night, and it sticks in the back of his throat. “We were at a party, and I was drunk and I spilled my beer all over you and you gave me a look of such total contempt that…” That I fell in love, Charles should say. It’s what Liu is expecting him to say. “…that I complained about you for a week straight. And the next semester, we ended up in class together, and—” And then the accident, and Erik being surprisingly lovely, and the falling, as if from a great height.

He trails off. Liu raises an eyebrow and looks at Erik. “Well, Mr. Lehnsherr? Who’s correct?”

Erik is quiet for a second. He’s no longer glaring at Charles, just tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair he’s in, like the days of not being able to fidget with his fingers or metal have gotten to him. “Charles is,” he says after a moment. “I’d… forgotten. But he’s right. We met at a party. Though ‘met’ is a bit of a generous term for it. I didn’t have a name for him until the class, and… I didn’t recognize him as the asshole who spilled beer all over me.”

“You’ve been close since then?”

Charles and Erik both snort. The judge suppresses a grin. “We were enemies at first,” Charles explains. “I… our politics are very different, as you can… probably tell from glancing at a newspaper.”

“Sometimes when our professor didn’t feel like talking, she’d toss a question up into the air and just… let us at it,” Erik says, smiling.

“In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best learning environment for everyone else,” Charles says. “But… it was such fun.”

“Only you would think that arguing is fun,” Erik says.

“Only me and you,” Charles rebuts.

“I wasn’t having fun, I was furious at you. All the time.”

“So what changed?” Liu asks.

“Nothing. I’m still furious at him all the time,” Erik says. Moira clears her throat. “But—ah—I respect him. As an opponent, as a friend… as my husband.”

“And how long have you been romantically involved?”

Charles chokes on air and starts to cough.

Erik leans over and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls, too quietly for anyone else to hear, just a breath against Charles’s ear, but Charles has listened to that voice shouting across the hubbub of a riot, has listened to that voice mumble drunken confessions, would know that voice and be able to pick it out anywhere. “This was your idea, so deal with it.”

Charles swallows down spittle and deals with it.

Erik smiles falsely at the judge, but only Charles, he thinks, would be able to tell how fake it is, that edge of teeth. “A little less than a year,” he says, and—oh. Charles knows exactly the moment he’s thinking of. The night Erik had come to him, falling-down drunk, giggly turning to maudlin, and he’d woken up with his head in Charles’s lap and had looked at him with such wonder that Charles had almost thought—

And then Erik had turned away and mumbled something about needing to attend a solidarity meeting between a labor union and MAGS and the moment had collapsed in on itself like a dying star. Charles hadn’t thought of that night, that look, for a long time. It had been too painful. Is still too painful. But Erik needs him.

“And you’ve just now decided to obtain the legal benefits offered by the state?”

“We saw the way the wind was blowing,” Erik lies flat-out. “We wanted to wait until full marriage was legal. When the Marriage Equality Act came into effect, we thought… well. What better time to get married?”

“And gain spousal immunity,” Liu says.

“Your Honor,” Moira interjects, “though that may have been a contributing factor to their decision to marry, I remind you that you cannot declare their marriage fraudulent without a strong suspicion that the affection between them is not unfeigned and genuine—”

“Yes, counselor, I remember,” Liu says, amused. “I’d like to hear from Dr. Xavier now. Dr. Xavier, what are Mr. Lehnsherr’s hobbies?”

The questions are surprisingly easy, for both of them: hobbies, family, small things like preferred brand of toothpaste (Crest for Erik, an organic charcoal and sea salt compound for Charles). Charles talks about Erik’s knitting; Erik lists off the whole Xavier family tree with the sort of bored composure of a student reciting the Constitution. They snipe at each other, just a little, but the fond sniping; it feels good, actually, to realize how much he knows about Erik, to remember that in spite of everything they’re best friends, and nothing can change that.

The judge finally leans back in her chair and lobs the big one. “I’m surprised, Dr. Xavier, to see you here, after the revelations that came out in court yesterday about Mr. Lehnsherr’s… indiscretions.”

Charles swallows. This, he feels, would make or break his case. “I’m angry with him,” he says honestly, letting some of it shine out in his voice. Erik flinches; good, that will help them sell it. “I’m so angry with him. But I’m not going to let him… go to prison for life. Our… marriage issues are not the grounds on which a miscarriage of justice is going to happen.”

“Technically the sentence for domestic terrorism is only 25 to life,” the judge says with a wry grin. Then, because this ordeal is apparently not over after all, she says, “Mr. Lehnsherr, what attracted you to Dr. Xavier?”

“I…” Erik suddenly looks panicked, like a cornered animal. Charles feels like he’s going to bite through his own lip. He stretches a hand out to Erik, takes the hand that has curled into a fist gently, and feels Erik—relax under his touch. Erik looks up, determined. “His strength. Charles is the strongest person I know, and the most passionate. He’s… a wellspring for others, and he doesn’t even know it. People draw strength from him, and he infects them with his passion… he makes everyone around him… better.”

The judge nods, smiling. “Dr. Xavier,” she says, “what attracted you to Mr. Lehnsherr?”

When put on the spot, Charles suddenly understands Erik’s panic. “His mind,” he says. “I, you know I’m a telepath. His mind is… extraordinary. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” The judge hmms; she doesn’t seem impressed, although Charles thinks that was quite romantic. He swallows and tries again. Maybe a reminder of how other they are isn’t the way to go. “His brilliance. He’s, he’s one of the most incisive, analytic people I’ve ever met. In another world, he could’ve been a general, or an orator. And. His kindness. I know it’s hard to believe if you just know him by reputation—or, er, the way he’s… previously behaved in the courtroom—but he’s not a naturally angry person. He’s angry because he cares so much, about everyone, and injustice is… hard on him. He wants the world to be a good place, and it hurts him when it’s not.”

Abruptly, he realizes that Erik is staring at him. He shuts up, his cheeks feeling like they’re on fire. God. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, but this…

The judge smiles at them. “All right,” she says, gently, like she’s aware of how fragile everything is right now, “I think I have everything I need. Go get some lunch; I’ll have my ruling about whether to suspend Dr. Xavier’s spousal immunity when we resume in the afternoon.”

“That went well,” Moira says.

“Did it?” Charles mutters, feeling his ears still prickle with heat. Erik keeps casting curious glances at them; he knows that a blush is last to go from Charles’s ears, and he seems fascinated with how red they’ve turned, and how slowly the color is dissipating.

“You answered all her questions without hesitation, and I might have been hard-pressed to answer a few about my husband,” she says.

“You’re married?” Erik asks, startled.

“Divorced,” Moira says. “Kept the name, kicked the man.” Erik laughs, all pure delight. Moira grins at him. “Lunch is on me, boys.”

The bailiff is waiting outside the judge’s chambers to cuff Erik again, but Moira promises they’ll get him some tzatziki from an excellent take-out place she knows near the courthouse. Charles isn’t terribly hungry; he pushes his spanakopita around on his plate. Moira eats with the grim determination of someone who knows she’ll need the calories for whatever comes this afternoon. “What happens if I don’t have to testify?” he asks.

Moira grins a shark-like grin. “The DA’s case utterly falls apart,” she says. “Without any evidence as to how the tear gas canister ended up going off in Stryker’s face—and he needs an eyewitness, as Erik’s powers and the gloves most of the protesters were wearing ensured there were no fingerprints but Stryker’s on the canister—the judge will have no choice to dismiss the case. Wilson might try to put up a token fight for his reputation’s sake—his career is on the line as well—but I doubt he’ll want to waste too much of his time on a losing endeavor.”

“And the press?”

Moira sighs. “That’ll be harder. You should probably keep Darwin around for a little longer, at least until the death threats taper off. The whole mass media is convinced that your marriage is a scam; you’ll have to live together for at least a little while to be truly convincing. But interest will fade, eventually, especially as you and Erik keep doing things to make waves in the mutant movements.” She purses her lips. “No more antagonizing the cops for him, though. Not unless he wants to end up in prison. They’ll be keeping an eye out for him, and Stryker, at least, seems like the type to hold a grudge.”

“I’ll keep him in line,” Charles promises, though he knows what a massive undertaking it is. Erik has never cared much for his own safety, hence picking up a tear gas canister and throwing it at a cop. When his people are in danger, any scant sense of self-preservation that survived his college years flies utterly out the window. The best thing for him, Charles determines grimly, is to hand over MAGS leadership to Raven permanently. It’d remove the taint of being associated with terrorism from MAGS and reduce his opportunities to get in trouble. And there would always be a place for Erik at Xpression, always.

Moira snorts. “Sure,” she says, but she looks speculative. “Well,” she says after a moment, her tone significantly more thoughtful, “if anyone could, you could.” Charles smiles at her, and she offers him a bite of her baklava. It is sticky-sweet on his tongue.

They return to the courthouse refreshed and fortified, with a take-out container that Erik devours ravenously. “Jail food,” he mumbles through a mouthful, “sucks.” Court has long lunches; they’re not called back in until 1:30. They file in, and Charles’s palms immediately begin sweating, though Moira has reassured him, though, he suspects, they’ve made as convincing a go of it as they could. Erik shifts back in his seat, angling his head toward Charles, and Charles rolls forward, pressing his hand into Erik’s shoulder. Erik relaxes under his touch. They all—except Charles—rise for Liu’s entrance, and she settles back in the high seat with majestic calm.

“I’ll make this quick,” she says. “Mr. Wilson has claimed that the defendant and Dr. Xavier took advantage of the recent legalization of same-sex marriage solely to prevent Dr. Xavier from testifying. It’s not without precedent, at least among straight couples, but after reviewing the photographic evidence brought to me by Sergeant Stryker’s home search of the defendant’s domicile and my own interviews with them, I find I have no reason to suspect that the affection between the defendant and his partner is anything but unfeigned and genuine. As their relationship is bona fide, there are no grounds for suspending Dr. Xavier’s spousal privilege—at least in that respect.”

Charles deflates like a popped balloon. Thank god. Thank Christ. He won’t be the one to put his best friend in prison. Erik turns to him, smiling, and Charles summons up a weak smile to aim back at him. This fucking nightmare is almost over at last.

“However,” the judge says.

The smile freezes on Charles’s face.

“There is, I’m afraid, another issue. While spousal immunity prevents members of a marriage from having to testify against each other, that privilege, at least in the state of New York, is intended to protect communications, not acts. What's more, spousal immunity is only meant to apply to communications which took place during the time of the marriage.

“Since the marriage of Dr. Xavier and Mr. Lehnsherr took place after the alleged act of terrorism occurred, I have no choice but to suspend Dr. Xavier's spousal immunity. Dr. Xavier, please prepare to take the stand first thing tomorrow. Until then, court is dismissed.”

They traipse into the side room that has been designated Moira’s working area while the case is ongoing. Charles doesn’t ask what they do next. Moira’s eyes flash, calculating, but she hasn’t opened her mouth once. She was counting on this, Charles realizes, as much as they were.

Charles feels like something has eaten through the floor of his stomach. He unclenches his fists, for the first time, he realizes, since the judge had made her ruling, and they ache with the release of potential energy. He can’t look at Erik. What do you say to your best friend who you’re about to send to prison for life? I’m sorry? We tried? Exhaustion hangs over him like a stormcloud. He’s so tired of this. He wants it to be four months ago, the night before the protest, when he’d been playfully insisting they didn’t need protection and Erik had been hard-headed about providing it anyway. He wants to be in that riot again, breathing in tear gas, and maybe ending up in the hospital—he’s used to hospitals—but at least Erik would be free, at least Erik would be at his side, angry and burning up with it, sure, but there.

Erik says to Moira, “Can you give us a minute?”

Moira stares at him for a long moment, then nods and steps outside to guard the door from questing bailiffs and their handcuffs. Erik leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets; Charles still can’t raise his gaze any further than his collarbones. He stares fixedly at Erik’s collar while the silence between them grows thick and unpleasant.

“So,” Erik says, “this is it.”

“Erik,” Charles rasps, “I’m so fucking sorry,” and at once Erik is kneeling in front of him, his hands resting on Charles’s knees, his eyes earnest and fierce.

“Don’t, Charles,” he says. “It’s not your fault. All you’ll do tomorrow is tell the truth. I’m the one who got myself into the mess—”

“—to protect me—”

“—and I’d do it again. A thousand times over. I don’t have any regrets about it, okay? If the state is going to send me to prison for protecting a friend, then—so be it.”

“It’s not fair,” Charles gasps.

“Life’s not fair,” Erik says, with such gentleness that it hurts. “I’m sorry that it’s you. I’m sorry that you’ll beat yourself up over this for the rest of time. But. I’d do it again. I’d still do it again.”

Charles shakes his head. This is worse, worse than sending Erik to prison, hearing that he’s going gladly—Erik, the wildest spirit he’s ever met, Erik, who values his freedom more than almost anyone else because of the economic and social restraints he’d lived through as a child—Erik, who deserves to be laughing in an autumn morning as the wind whips color into his cheeks and the changed leaves begin to fall, Erik who deserves to watch the leaves fall. “Hey,” Erik says, that awful note of gentleness in his voice again, “I expect you to start a Justice For Lehnsherr campaign. I want it to be good. I want there to be a hashtag and everything.”

And it’s not enough, it’s not anywhere near enough. Charles thinks of honeyed bread and his hands on Erik’s own one day four years ago, showing him how to shape the dough, how to stretch and knead it into submission, how to tell if the dough is overworked or underworked. He thinks of the innocence of youth, of thinking that you have forever left ahead of you—to confess how you feel, to pass the time together, to make bread. He thinks of all the days that Erik will never get, and his mind goes blank. “Aren’t you angry?”

“Oh, I’m fucking furious,” Erik says. “But my best friend needs me right now.”

And that, at last, is enough for Charles to pull himself together. Erik thinks he’s strong? Erik is the strongest person Charles has ever met, and Charles can be strong for Erik. Charles can be what Erik needs him to be, and it’s not a blubbering mess. Charles reaches out and takes Erik’s hands on his knees, and Erik squeezes gently, and Charles feels the strength rush from Erik into him, and he tilts his chin up and says, “I’ll never stop fighting for you, you know.”

Erik smiles. At last, the weariness is showing in his face. “I know,” he says. “I know.”

Outside, Moira catches up to him. “Charles,” she says. “Listen. I have an idea. What would you be willing to do for Erik?”

I’ll never stop fighting for you, Charles had said, and, I know, Erik had said. “Anything,” Charles says.

“Good,” Moira says. “Because this is not going to be pleasant.”

Something in Charles’s expression must have tipped Erik off, because when they enter court the next morning Erik takes one glance at him and freezes. In the space before the judge enters the room, he tugs on Charles’s sleeve, hissing, “What on earth are you planning?”

Charles shakes his head mutely. This is going to suck. But it might work, which is what matters.

“Don’t do it,” Erik says urgently. “Whatever it is. Don’t—don’t perjure yourself. It’s not worth it.”

I’m not worth it, Erik is saying, which isn’t true. Could never be true. Charles wonders what he would have done had Moira not come up with her idea. He doesn’t like to think about it.

It’s just that. In a way, Erik is right, because it’s not just them, it’s not just the two of them. The point of Xpression is that he and other mutants have faith in democratic institutions. They believe in the power of legislators to change the world, believe, in fact, that change can only come from the top down. It’s not just his reputation at stake, it’s not even just his own freedom. It’s everything that Xpression has built. Xpression, the backbone of the mutant cause, the New York Times had once called them. Xpression, whose tactics Erik and Raven might roll their eyes at, but which is nonetheless the most prominent mutant rights organization in the country, perhaps even in the world.

“You have responsibilities,” Erik whispers, as they all rise. Liu sits, strikes the gavel, and court is in session. Moira pinches Erik; he reluctantly turns back to the front. It’s not just about a lie, Charles knows. It’s about everything that lie would represent, to the nation, to the press. To the people who follow him, who trust in his perfect integrity.

But he wants to save Erik. What is that worth? he wonders. Most people never have to find out what they would give to save a loved one. He’s about to.

“State your name and occupation for the record, please.”

“Dr. Charles Xavier,” Charles says, staring straight at Wilson, who has persistently called him Mr. Xavier throughout this whole trial. “I’m the Director of Mutant Xpression, a mutant advocacy organization.”

“So,” Wilson says, “safe to say you have an agenda when it comes to your fellow mutants.”

“Objection,” Moira says sharply.

“Withdrawn.” Wilson turns away, strikes a dramatic pose, his head tilted to the side to catch the scanty light coming in through the high courtroom windows. It must look great for the reporters in the back, Charles thinks sourly. “And you organized the protest which took place on April 22nd, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Please describe the nature of the protest for the court.”

Charles talks about the business that had violently thrown out a mutant shopper with a visibly physical mutation, the way the press had largely ignored it, the way the courts had upheld the rights of the business to refuse to service mutants, as mutants were not yet a protected class. He talks about organizing the sit-in on the steps of the building, the linked arms, the way his mutant protesters and human allies had united to stop anyone from entering the store, and how most people had respected the picket line. He talks about the business calling the cops on them.

He wants to talk about the cops rolling up with their riot shields and rubber bullets, and skip straight to the injuries sustained, the protesters he’d visited in the hospital, Ororo with her shattered kneecap from a rubber bullet, Alex who’d been concussed when he’d fallen, how none of the protesters had used their mutant powers except defensively, how the MAGS bodyguards had been there to shield the Xpression protesters with their bodies and deflect the worst of the police attention, but the moment he gets to the police’s arrival, Wilson says briskly, “Thank you, Dr. Xavier, and Charles grits his teeth and shuts up. “So you purposefully created a disturbance and resisted arrest when the police came to break it up?”

“No,” Charles says sharply.

“No?”

“There was no disturbance. We were practicing our right to peaceful assembly—”

“At this time I would like to enter into evidence the record of property damage Sergeant Stryker has assembled. Two smashed windows, one police vehicle with its tires slashed, significant destruction of police property, including riot shields and tasers—”

“All of that happened after the police arrived determined to treat our peaceful protest like a riot,” Charles insists. “And at least one of those windows became damaged when the police threw a tear gas canister through it—”

“Dr. Xavier,” Liu says, “if you speak out of turn, I will have no choice but to hold you in contempt of court.” Charles shuts his mouth. God, this is even more infuriating than it looks on TV. “Please go on, Mr. Wilson.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Wilson says smarmily. “Mr. Xavier, was Mr. Lehnsherr present at this protest?”

“Yes,” Charles says. His hands clench involuntarily under the witness stand.

“And what role did he play in Mutant Xpression’s organization of this protest?”

“He didn’t,” Charles says. “He’s not with Xpression. He heads a separate organization, Mutants Against Governmental Suppression, and he and several MAGS volunteers offered us protection for the day from violent human or institutional reprisal—which I’m deeply thankful for, seeing how the protest turned out,” Charles can’t help but add.

Wilson ignores that. “So he had no reason to be there that day?”

“I just said,” Charles says through gritted teeth, “that he had a perfectly valid reason. He wanted to protect me—and the others. Me and the others.”

“Did you see what Mr. Lehnsherr did after the police arrived?”

Charles bites his lip. The moment of truth. “Not really,” he hedges.

“Really? I would like to enter into evidence a text sent from the witness to his sister and MAGS member Raven Darkholme, ‘Saw Erik throw a tear gas canister at a cop. He’s doing fine, thanks.’”

Charles swallows. “Was there a question there?”

“My question, Mr. Xavier,” Wilson says triumphantly, “is did you or did you not see Mr. Lehnsherr use his powers to direct a tear gas canister at Sergeant Stryker?”

“I—I couldn’t say.”

STOP, Erik thinks so loudly from where he’s sitting that Charles can hear him even without directing his telepathy towards him. Charles glances at him involuntarily; he’s wearing a stony mask, but his eyes are pleading.

“Your Honor,” Wilson says sharply.

Liu frowns at Charles. In that moment, despite her jokes, despite the warmth of her judge’s chambers, she seems very cold and very remote. “Please answer the question, Dr. Xavier.”

Charles swallows hard. DON’T, Erik thinks, as pointed as a knife. Charles says nothing.

“Mr. Xavier!” Wilson insists. “Did you or did you not see Mr. Lehnsherr throw a tear gas canister at Sergeant Stryker?”

Charles can’t stop looking at Erik. His brow is furrowed, and his knuckles are bone-white from where his fists are clenched in front of him. In spite of the situation, all he can see—all he can sense—from Erik is concern for Charles. Worry that Charles will do something stupid. (Ha. Erik’s always the one who gets in trouble, and Charles is always the levelheaded one. Isn’t it his turn?) An intense craving for Charles to be safe, for Charles to be anywhere but here, anywhere but on the witness stand as sweat runs down the bridge of his nose and a shouty man whose job it is to put Erik away for life glares at him.

Charles, Erik thinks, please. Please.

Charles closes his eyes. I’m sorry.

“Yes,” Charles says, defeated.

The silence rings out very loud for a moment as Wilson takes the time to savor that confession. “No further questions,” he says. “Your witness.”

Moira stands and stalks toward him. There’s a predatory look on her face that he’s never seen before.

“Dr. Xavier,” Moira says, “when did you become aware of the sexual relationship between Mr. Lehnsherr and Ms. Darkholme?”

“In court,” Charles says, “On Monday.”

“Really,” Moira purrs. “Then why is Ms. Darkholme willing to testify that she told you on April 19th, shortly before the protest in question?”

“Objection,” Wilson says. “What is the point of this?”

“Merely pointing out that Dr. Xavier’s motives may not be as pure as they appear,” Moira says silkily. “After all, the call to alert the NYPD that high-level MAGS members may have been working as part of a terrorist plot was anonymous. And Ms. Darkholme confessed an affair with the man you were in a serious relationship with—indeed, intended to marry—shortly before you, the sole witness to the alleged act of violence, unwittingly communicated on a line that would soon be investigated by the NYPD as a result of this anonymous phone call that Mr. Lehnsherr committed a grievous attack on a police officer—a story that none of the other MAGS or Xpression protesters are willing to corroborate. So let me ask you, Dr. Xavier. Did Ms. Darkholme tell you about the affair, and in retaliation, did you set up Mr. Lehnsherr with a text and an anonymous phone call for arrest and indictment for a violent act?”

“No,” Charles says. He can hear the falsity in his voice. And with any luck, everyone else will hear it too.

He glances over at Wilson, who is staring, slack-jawed, at him. He glances over at Erik, who—

Is furious. Charles can feel the anger radiating off of him, and he flinches back from it—from the way the people sitting immediately behind Erik are leaning back in their seats, it doesn’t take a telepath to be able to feel the hot waves of fury emanating from him. Charles—doesn’t want to look into his mind. He’s frightened of what he might see there.

Erik turns his hot eyes on Charles, and—

They soften. They turn to sorrow, to devastation, to the realization that Charles’s reputation might never recover from this, from the implication that he framed his cheating boyfriend for a serious crime, and Charles sags in his seat as he realizes that no one believes a word of it, not Wilson, not Erik, thank Christ, not Erik, no one except maybe the judge. He can’t look at her. Can’t bring himself to see what expression is on her face.

“Well,” she says after a moment. “That’s quite enough for now, I think. I’m calling a brief recess while I… deliberate the recent revelations.”

The sound of the gavel echoes through the room like a gunshot. And Charles, for the first time in a full hour, breathes.

“What,” Erik breathes, so angry that he can’t even achieve full volume, “the fuck.”

“Not here,” Moira says through gritted teeth, and pulls on Erik’s arm until he relents and lets her lead him to a private room. Charles sedately wheels behind them, wincing every time Erik casts a lost apologetic look at him. When the door closes behind them, Erik rounds on them both.

“I ask again: what the fuck?”

“Before you say anything, I agreed to it,” Charles says. “It was a good idea, a way of discrediting me as a witness.”

“But—” Erik looks apoplectic again. “Your reputation—”

“Erik, for god’s sake, I married a man accused of domestic terrorism, obviously I was willing to sacrifice my reputation at a very early stage in this whole affair,” Charles says self-consciously. Erik is quiet, which is good; he doesn’t say what both of them are undoubtedly thinking, which is that it hadn’t been that much of a stretch to either the people who knew them or the mainstream media that they had been dating in secret and gotten married when legal disaster struck. Charles can’t afford to think about that very much right now; if he does, he might actually lose it. They both know, though, that this is on another level. Accusing himself of having fabricated evidence—Moira had assured him that there was absolutely no way for the DA to be able to make charges stick, but he thinks of the reporters clustered at the back of the room and feels a little ill. Even if they get away with this, the whole ordeal is only just beginning.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says, which is the first time he’s apologized throughout this entire mess. Charles winces at the fact that he’s doing it for Charles.

“You saved me,” Charles reminds him.

“I didn’t have to throw it back at him,” Erik says. “I was—angry. I’m always angry. And now you’re paying the price.”

Charles reaches out and places his hand on Erik’s elbow. Erik looks at him, and that awful lost expression is on his face again. “You didn’t make them try to put you away for life on a trumped-up ridiculous charge,” he tells Erik. “You didn’t get the media involved. You didn’t make this the mess that it is, Erik. We can’t control everything. But we can control whether or not we stick together. And I’m going to be by your side, Erik, no matter what happens.”

The door closes again; Charles starts. Moira, who had stuck her head out at some point during Charles’s speech, looks grim and decisive. “The judge is calling us back in again,” she says. “Are you ready to sit down without looking like you’re going to murder someone?” she asks Erik reprovingly. Erik nods sheepishly. “Okay. The next step will be calling character witnesses. I’ve got a few people willing to attest that you would never attempt to undermine the state—” Erik snorts— “and I will not have you undermining them by wearing that expression when they’re testifying, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Erik says snidely. Moira ignores him. Charles thinks that if they win this, they really have to buy her a drink for putting up with Erik. Charles wants a drink himself rather badly.

When court resumes, Moira takes the floor with poise and confidence. Liu interrupts her before she can call their first witness though. “Hold on a moment, counselor. There’s something I’d like to say first.”

Moira shrugs and takes her seat by Erik. Only the tap of her heel on the polished wood floor belies her concern. Liu says, “I’ve humored this trial thus far, but it’s become clear to me that without a reliable witness, this case should have never gone beyond a preliminary hearing.”

“Your Honor—” Wilson says hurriedly.

“No, Mr. Wilson,” Liu says calmly. “The domestic terrorism charge was always a stretch. Though I understand that several revelations, such as the nature of Dr. Xavier and Mr. Lehnsherr’s relationship, and Dr. Xavier’s reliability—or lack thereof, as the case may be—did not come out until recently, I must contest Judge Kelly’s determination that there is a case to be made at all here, particularly with Dr. Xavier’s motives for testifying now in doubt. Next time, Mr. Wilson, do your homework.” She looks at Erik, who is—shell-shocked. Charles sympathizes. “Mr. Lehnsherr, I suspect… I suspect you have better friends and family than you deserve. Don’t take them for granted.” She smirks. “Or sleep around. I can’t tell you that in my capacity as a judge, but as someone passingly familiar with your face, I don’t want to get any more familiar with the vagaries of your personal life.”

The sound of the gavel rings out like a gunshot. “Court dismissed.”

It takes a long moment for Charles to understand.

They won.

And Erik turns to him and—

His lips are very warm.

Kissing Erik is like—

Like Erik has thieved all the breath from Charles’s lungs. It’s like running and falling, what he remembers of it, the moment when your body flies through the air and all you can feel is fear and motion. Kissing Erik is like every fantasy he’s ever had has come crashing down on his head, insufficient to predict the way Erik licks at his teeth, Erik’s hands gentle on his jaw, cupping his face. The dig of the plastic cuffs into his chin. Erik tastes like the fading specter of toothpaste and Erik, the same spicy-sweet scent that underlies his aftershave, he tastes like freedom hard-won and the exhilaration of a riot and the tensed posture and clenched teeth of a good debate.

He tastes like everything Charles has ever wanted.

And then it’s over.

Erik pulls away from him, his eyes closed, his breath caught in his lungs. His eyes flutter open, the green-gray of an ocean about to storm, and he just—looks at Charles for a moment. His hand still cupping Charles’s face. His breath still brushing Charles’s lips.

Moira clears her throat. “I, uh. Need to go gloat at Wilson. My temporary office will be empty for a little while, if you. Need it.”

“Thanks,” Erik murmurs, and stands, his hands outstretched, for the bailiff to uncuff him. When he’s free, he rolls his shoulders in an obscenely attractive way and signals that he wants to take the handles of Charles’s wheelchair. Normally, Charles wouldn’t let him, but his arms feel like jelly, so he nods. His head is deliciously blank of anyone’s thoughts, including his own. Erik smiles at him—a smile that, again, wipes all conscious thought right off the map—and takes his chair and pushes him out toward the private room they’d just been in before the world had changed. The reporters near the back are saying something to them. Erik flips them off.

Erik closes the door behind them and leans against the table. Charles looks up at him mutely.

“We should probably talk about this,” Erik says.

Charles nods. He opens his mouth to agree. His voice fails him.

“I’ll start, okay?” Erik says.

Sometimes Erik can be so kind it hurts. Charles nods again.

“I love you,” Erik says.

Charles’s voice at last returns to him. He makes a wounded noise. He waits to see if anything else comes out; it doesn’t.

“I love you,” Erik says again. “I’ve loved you since you told me I was an idiot for uncritically accepting a psuedo-Marxist reading of mutants as a class.”

“That’s not what I said,” Charles says faintly.

“Right,” Erik says, rolling his eyes. “It was much politer and colder than that. I never thought—I never imagined that you felt the same way.” At this, Charles opens his mouth to protest hotly, but Erik presses a finger against his mouth and smiles. “I’m going first, remember? Charles, you—you sleep with everyone, or you used to, back when we were in college. I thought if you felt the same way, you’d just tell me. But I was happy. Being your best friend. Being the only person who got to see that side of you, the one that would get angry, the one that wasn’t perfect. I’ve been happy for all these years.”

“What changed?” Charles rasps out.

“You don’t get married to your best friend as a favor,” Erik reminds him. “It took me… until our interview about our relationship to realize it. But you were telling the truth, weren’t you? About… about the things you love about me.” Erik takes a deep, steadying breath. “You love me. Don’t you? You love me.”

“Yes,” Charles whispers. “Yes, Erik. Yes, I love you.”

“Oh, good,” Erik says, and kisses him again. It’s somehow even better than when they kissed in the courtroom. Charles throws his arms around Erik’s neck and drags him in close, and their kiss turns messy and ravenous in moments, and Charles thinks, Years! Years of not having this, followed by, if he has anything to say about it, years upon years of more kisses like these. Charles knows he’s getting ahead of himself when he finds himself picturing a wedding, picturing them growing old, picturing Raven rolling her eyes at them at holidays—

Raven. He breaks off the kiss. “Raven,” he says, when Erik looks lost. “What about—”

“Oh.” Erik colors. “Raven and I were just blowing off steam. And she… she knows how I feel about you.”

“She does?” He’ll kill her. Things confessed in confidence his ass, she’s known that the two of them have been pining for each other for years and had just let them be stupid.

“I… may have called her the wrong name in bed once. Or twice. And. She may have… run with it.”

“Oh my God, Erik, I don’t think we can be together,” Charles says, and Erik laughs and presses a kiss to his forehead, and the warmth of it spreads right through Charles’s veins into his heart. Charles is running greedy hands over Erik’s sides, up and down his wrists, so Charles admits that he may have been communicating some mixed messages. “Erik…” he says. “Erik, I’ve loved you since you told me I was a fascist and a willfully ignorant son of a bitch, and those were your exact words, by the way. I’ve loved you since you held my hand in the hospital and told me that I was still a fascist and a willfully ignorant son of a bitch. I’ve loved you forever, Erik Lehnsherr.”

“I’ve loved you forever, too,” Erik whispers.

“I thought—I thought you’d hate how weak I was, after the accident—”

“—it made me love you more, how strong you were—”

“I thought I’d never have you—”

“—you’ve always had me, Charles. I’m yours. I’m yours.”

Another kiss. They really are getting quite good at this. Charles grips Erik’s wrists and drags him down to his level, and Erik climbs onto his lap and kisses his breathless, kisses him senseless. They lose track of time like that—Moira never comes to find them—until finally, finally, Erik clears his throat and straightens his tie and looks at Charles with shuttered eyes and says, “They’ll be waiting outside. All the vultures. They’ll have all heard by now, that I got off.”

“Not yet, you haven’t,” Charles mutters. Erik flushes, and it is beautiful. “We’ll face them,” he says more seriously, and holds out his hand for Erik to take. “We’ll do it together.”

“Together,” Erik promises, and he squeezes Charles’s hand tightly before he takes up the handles of Charles’s chair and pushes them both forward, out into the world together. His voice brightens as he thinks of something slightly chaotic and wonderful. Charles knows that tone of voice, and loves it. “Let’s see if we can get a picture of us kissing to be front-page of the New York Times, hm?”

LOVE AND ACQUITTALS: LEHNSHERR AND XAVIER CELEBRATE