It's five a.m. in Westchester, Erik's cue to leave. Instead, he's in the kitchen, frying turkey bacon and debating whether he wants scrambled eggs or an omelette to go with it.
He'd meant to quietly abduct Charles this past Sunday evening, but Charles had still been recovering from a bout of pneumonia — still is. So instead of dragging Charles off for their annual week-long sex vacation, Erik's been climbing in Charles' window every night and leaving again before the sun comes up. He hasn't spent this much time in the same bed as Charles while not having sex with Charles in...ever. He's somewhat unsettled by how little he minds.
On the first morning, Erik had left the same way he'd come in. On the second, he'd shrugged and helped himself to the kitchen (after about half an hour's worth of reconnaissance, of course). He'd found stainless steel cookware in the cupboard and turkey bacon in the fridge, which had been more invitation than he'd needed.
It's not that he believes they're actually meant for him — he can't come up with another reason Charles would stock turkey bacon, but sentimental as the man may be, he's not pathetic — but it still makes him feel welcomed. (That he's never actually been invited is beside the point; if he sat around waiting for Charles' summons, he'd be sexually frustrated for years at a stretch.)
He's turning the bacon over in the skillet when a young girl walks through the wall. It's a little startling, but Erik still manages to come up with at least four military applications for that ability on the spot.
She turns toward him, crosses her arms over her chest, and says, "Okay, jerk, I caught you —"
And then she stops, apparently noticing that he's not whomever she'd expected. She looks him up and down, her eyes going wide when her gaze lands on the tongs floating beside Erik's hand. (He dropped them strategically when she appeared. Completely intentional.)
"Um," she says, and peeks past Erik at the skillet. "That's mine?"
"Is it."
"Someone's been taking it?"
"Have they."
She doesn't seem to have a response to this. Erik's not sure what to say, either. He'd been somewhat concerned about the possibility of running into an X-Man — they might cut themselves on his wit, and Charles would have a conniption if they ran crying to him — but hadn't actually thought about what he'd do if he encountered anyone else, probably because Charles' students have always been more abstract to him. Charles never talks about them; he's always insultingly closemouthed when it comes to his students, which is likely why they tend to slip Erik's mind.
Well, at least her appearance explains why someone wrote "KITTY'S!!! DO NOT TOUCH," on the package of bacon a day or two ago. Erik had assumed this meant there was a cat wandering around the mansion, which he would either have to shoo off or share his food with, depending on how annoying it turned out to be.
Erik floats the tongs into his hand and turns back to the stove, considering. "Three slices, or four?" he asks.
"Um. Three, I guess."
There are only four slices left in the package, so Erik moves them all over to the skillet.
He considers the eggs again and decides on scrambled.
"Two eggs or three?"
"Um. Two?"
When the food's done, Erik loads up two plates. When he gestures one toward the girl, she looks alarmed — no doubt this is the first time a terrorist has made her breakfast — but takes it and sits down at the kitchen table.
Erik sits across from her and starts eating, not rushing but not taking his time. He's not explicitly watching her, so it takes him a minute to realize she's staring. At first he thinks it's because no matter how much he tries to slow down, he's always done eating before anyone else is even half-finished, but then he realizes his shirtsleeves are still rolled up, and that is what she's looking at.
It's not something Erik's ashamed of, and it's not something he hides. It's just that he doesn't care for random strangers seeing the numbers on his forearm and thinking they know something about him. As with everything else, he brings this out on his own terms, and always for a reason, wielding it as he would any other weapon.
Before he can decide what to do about the staring, or whether to acknowledge it at all, she blurts out, "My grandpa was at Auschwitz."
"...I am very sorry to hear that," Erik says. The words feel strange in his mouth; he can't remember the last time he's expressed this exact sentiment in this exact way. He's not sure he ever has. He's starting to wish he'd run into Cyclops instead — he hates that sanctimonious asshole, but at least he knows how to talk to him. "So. You walk through walls."
The change of subject works; the girl perks up, as most mutants who openly display their abilities do. "Yeah. It's called phasing." She demonstrates by putting her hand through the table.
"Fascinating. How does it work? Do you have any limitations?"
In retrospect, he could have worked up to that a little more smoothly.
"Um. I don't think I want to tell you that," she answers, side-eying him.
Erik barks out a laugh. "Clever girl." He doesn't mean to — he's not in the habit of offering advice to potential future adversaries — but he can't seem to help adding, "You shouldn't have eaten the food. You don't know what I might have done to it."
"Oh," she says.
Neither of them says anything else for the moment, having exhausted the two subjects they seem to have in common. He has no idea what else to say to a teenage girl; he has very little experience with children between the ages of seven and seventeen. What he remembers from his own teenage years isn't much help: Move the coin. That's worse than useless.
Erik finishes his food, then shoves his chair back so hard it squeals on the floor, and makes his exit. He walks down the hall a little more briskly than he usually would. It's not that he's fleeing so much as that he doesn't feel like sticking around any longer than he already has.
*
When Erik gets to the kitchen at five a.m. the following morning, the last thing he expects is for her to be sitting there waiting for him. He normally never enters a room without some awareness of whether or not he's alone, but somehow he manages to walk right into her line of sight before he realizes she's there.
"Good morning," she says, resting her chin on her hands.
"...Good morning," Erik says. He considers his options, then walks over to the fridge with dignity, suppressing the urge to glance over his shoulder.
He does well until a few minutes later, when she says, "So, is it true that you're having a secret love affair with the Professor?"
As it turns out, strategically dropping an egg is much messier than dropping a pair of tongs.