WE WILL NOT GO LIKE LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER.

his birth name is moshe selig eisenhardt, but went by max most of the time from a very young age besides with his close family.

he took on the name ‘erik’ while in hiding before being detained during the war as a tribute to his uncle erich.  he identifies mostly with this name because of his fondness for his uncle and has left the name ‘eisenhardt’ for his past and his family.  he used the eisenhardt surnname while living with magda, but after anya’s death, and after magda left, he decided to retire it for good.

while working for the mossad in israeli, erik used ‘magnus’ as a codename and eventually for an everyday alias. he never disguised himself as a romani person under this name but used it as a name with his wife in mind, still smarting from her loss. problematic comics can suck it. 

“they are children, erik. we’ve had precious little to celebrate, and i think a small reprieve would do them all some good. —and it’s fitting, i should think. new beginnings, and all that.” charles smiles mildly, trying to encourage without pressure. it hadn’t occurred to him until he was already speaking that erik might have found him presumptuous, been offended, but it’s an incredible relief that he’s not. “if it were christmas this weekend, even i couldn’t stop them being distracted by that.”

acceptance starts at home, after all. fostering tolerance (and making a point) with the children is far from the only reason, or even the first reason, he’d brought this up, but it doesn’t hurt, either. and it would be good for all of them, he thinks—doing something positive together. as a team. as a family, in some way. a family erik is part of.

…so perhaps he’s being a bit overly sentimental, but he didn’t miss how easily erik had called them the kids, either.

“i’m sure we can find everything. we’re only about an hour from brooklyn.” which means half an hour at the speeds erik likes to drive. “and, of course, i’d be honored if you could teach me the blessings. i’m afraid my hebrew’s terribly rusty, but i’m sure it’ll come back to me. —i spent two years volunteering in haifa, but that was, oh—a good decade ago, now. when i was a very young man.”

the explanation’s almost an afterthought. a courtesy with the sudden awareness that erik doesn’t just know these things about him. then another thought strikes him, and his expression softens—wistful and affectionate in equal parts.

“—curious, isn’t it, to think how close we might have come to meeting back then. i was in tel aviv my last month abroad. if you were there in ‘52, we might’ve been no more than a few kilometers apart and never realized it.”

    it’s endearing.  it is.  maybe from anyone else in the world,  erik would be offended at the breach of the barriers he’s built around himself,  around everything that happened before 1944. so many barriers that even he can’t breach them without a little help.  making a home anywhere,  anywhere permanent at least,  sets his teeth on edge because that’s only ever been destined for failure,  upheaval.  still,  erik can practically smell the challah bread up his nose,  the scratch of the record player in their living room.  the weight of his mother’s hand on his nape while they sat in a synagogue pew. 

it’s been a long time.  and since charles suggested it... erik finds he’s more than open to the idea,  initial reluctance aside. 

“ i’ll drive. ”   because of course he will,  he doesn’t not drive and when he doesn’t drive,  he’s walking.  taking a long trip to brooklyn,  the borough his parents talked of but never had a chance to visit ---- ellis island, too ---- it’s tempting, too.  he wants to go,  and finds he’s excited in a genuine way that he hasn’t felt for a long time,  too.  stuffing his hands in the pockets of his worn leather jacket,  he finds moira’s keys there,  and meets charles’ gaze with his own when he hears that fondness in his tone.  it occurs to him that charles really never stops talking,  but that’s endearing too. 

not finding the words for all that he has to say,  erik reaches a hand to brush over charles’ wrist,  over his pulse,  where the bright blue sleeves of his cardigan ride up a little to expose veins and pale skin. 

“there were seven kings of norway named magnus,” charles explains—a reasonable enough thing to do, even if he couldn’t feel the little wave of surprise at his choice of descriptor. one intention indeed, but with only a few months left overseas, he finds he’s feeling rather reckless, the prospect of pursuing this—this, wherever it would lead, with a dangerous yet somehow stunningly familiar stranger practically radiating interest, far less tempered by the caution he’d have if he were at home in new york. besides, he says dangerous—not dangerous generally. mossad, he’d guess from what he saw, but the details aren’t his business.

“you have, have you?” he raises an eyebrow, and gives his watch a perfunctory check to confirm what he already knows—he has plenty of time before he’s due back in the east wing for his afternoon shift—before he gestures to the empty chair nearest him, still smiling brightly. it’s impossible not to be aware of his own reputation, as well—certainly not all the opinions held of him are positive, but more than enough of them are. “my curiosity is piqued, my friend. i’m yours for an hour yet—”

he leans in slightly closer, still keeping just enough distance to seem casual. he should keep this casual, really, because anything else would be foolish, and terribly unfair to gabby besides—but there’s just… something he can’t ignore.

“—and i’d love to know what you’ve heard.”

“ seven ?  i had no idea my name had such regal roots. ”   and it hadn’t been why he chose it,  the name ---- the idea of sounding royal had been far from his head when he had,  after magda had left him seemingly with a piece of his soul  still with her.  enough of it to dedicate his life to this.   charles shouldn’t distract him from it,  this life he leads,  but magnus allows it.  is allowing it.  and he wants it.  he wants.  he hasn’t in a long time,  he registers that much,  hasn’t thought to.  

stupid that all of this is from a few exchanged glances in a cafe,  but he’s too far in now to leave it seems.  one conversation and he’s already too far in.   

he ought to sit,  now,  and he does,  pulling out the stool beside to charles to sit.  he’s not due for a long time and they’ll be talking for all of it,  he’s sure.  gets a little closer too,  just close enough to be friendly without anyone asking questions and he’s confused.  he’ll pour over it later,  the feeling,  the draw,  something he’s buried like many other things he has for years,  especially the feeling he gets when he sees someone particularly handsome.  charles is lithe,  small,  but that draws him more,  beyond his demeanor,  the openness toward him. 

it’s impossible, charles thinks, not to feel some sort of draw toward this man—he has an intensity about him, a presence, that’s been pulling his eyes toward him every time they happen to be in the same room together for the past month. he’s never gotten closer than that—magnus is unusually difficult to read, even when he focuses—carries pain with him that feels like sifting through shards of glass to look through, and well, that’s not unusual here, but he’s also managed the exceptional feat of looking thoroughly like a man not to be trifled with even when smiling.

dr. shomron mentions him every once in a while, thinks of him with fondness and quite a lot of respect, and some of the girls have certainly had their share of amorous thoughts toward tall, dark and handsome magnus, but they seem to share charles’ assessment—that he’s rather lovely to look at, but difficult to approach. gabby has a shift with him occasionally, and has opinions about his strong jaw and finely muscled arms and what he might do with them that might have made another man jealous. 

a man who didn’t agree.

so: the crux of the matter is, the last thing charles is expecting on this particular tuesday afternoon is the man himself breaking the comfortable routine of making eye contact across the café—confident and almost friendly, even, and there’s something even more intense about his regard directly, like this—something magnetic, something deeply, profoundly familiar just beneath the surface—but his eyes are alight with a dark sort of satisfaction that makes charles shiver.

“magnus,” he repeats, offering a winning smile and pressing a finger to his temple in the guise of brushing his hair out of his eyes. blood, the glint of a knife, cracking bone, a flash of argentinian countryside—oh, you have been a busy man, maxerikmagnus. not just a regular volunteer then, but—that’s not entirely unusual, either. good dr. shomron has connections charles doesn’t pry into and pretends he’s not aware of.

his smile doesn’t falter. that—familiarity, that draw is only stronger actually looking, but he can’t place it. in the most inexplicable way, he finds himself reminded of raven—that instant connection they’d shared as soon as he’d looked into her mind that night, years ago. he shakes magnus’s hand—after a quick, appreciative glance at the way his short sleeves show off his tanned skin—and it’s the funniest thing, the way just a simple handshake feels like a jolt of electricity shooting up his arm, quickening his pulse. 

“very regal. it suits you. —charles xavier, it’s a pleasure.”

charles xavier.  a name erik’s heard a few times before,  from some of the nurses and the residents alike.  smart charles,  genius charles ------ his posh accent had made a few of the residents swoon too,  particularly over whatever scientific research he happens to be on about.  the general consensus is that he’s very smart and very handsome.  with his boyish features, pink cheeks and even pinker lips ------ magnus doesn’t allow himself to look at other men very often but he’s allowing himself to,  now.  there’s something about him,  beyond his looks,  that draws him closer.  tempts him.  magnus licks along his scarred lower lip pensively.  

a firm handshake.  magnus lets his hand drop.  regal ------ he can’t say he’s heard that much about his romani name.  he can’t say he’s heard many things from anyone since he moved here with only one intention.

‘ charles xavier. ’   magnus says the name as if to test it,  the taste and feel of it in his mouth.  his smile grows a little wider.  realizes belatedly that he hasn’t done anything like this since he was a boy and hasn’t had to.  anonymous faces and names in hotel rooms and bars are little compared to this flirtation and wherever it’s going.  

an exhale escapes as he gestures to the barista.

magnus returns to the hospital a week later,  bruised and tanned, and finds the dark-haired man ------  no older than twenty,  he notes now that he looks at him long enough from the bar with a coffee in hand,  and certainly younger than him  ------  sitting where he usually sits,  reading a newspaper.  he exhales,  checking his watch to ensure he’s not running late to his usual volunteer time,  and rolls his shoulders to steel himself.  belatedly,  he realizes his palms are clammy and it’s not from the sun pouring into the room.  

crossing to the other side of the room,  magnus clears his throat,  offering a curt smile when the dark-haired man looks at him.  thinks something about the blue of his eyes that he’ll dwell on more later,  when he’s alone in his bunk.  

but,  right now,  he can only look at him.

‘  i’ve been meaning to introduce myself ------ ’  it’s a lie,  he hasn’t,  he very much hasn’t ---- but this is one thing he’ll let stray from plan,   ‘ i know we work in the same unit. i teach residents english, when i can.  ’

magnus offers his left arm,  knows that the short sleeves of his polo shirt expose the scars there.  the best part about living here is that he chooses who he is ------ who people see him as,  what they know of him.  he’s not a german boy named max eisenhardt,  or a red army refugee named erik lehnsherr.  he’s not defined by any numbers or any names anywhere on his body or beyond it. 

( redwing hops one foot, from a knuckle to sam’s thigh, and the other to the wood slats of the bench.  preening when sam strokes behind his head. )        he barely needed it.        ( an inside joke. )

                he’s not bothering you, is he?   i know not everyone thinks seeing a falcon is - part of their average day. 

    oh,  i’m not angry.  i think it’s extraordinary,  even.   (  he reaches out a hand, both an olive branch for the miscommunication and to offer his hand to the falcon.  the other birds,  city pigeons and otherwise,  seem to chirp louder where they sit.  )  

@evolutsye

“AH—ERIK, A WORD—” he’d picked up a passing thought as he, hank and moira had been stocking up in the produce aisle—a scattering of words, images, dates in the mind of a mother brushing by with her toddler on her hip, tinged with warmth and just a touch of holiday stress— “rosh hashanah is this saturday and sunday, yes? you’ll have to forgive me, my friend, i hadn’t thought to ask if you’re practicing. and i have stayed out of your head like you asked, mind you.”

though charles had already made adjustments to hank’s meal plan for the week, just to be safe—or rather, to hank’s credit, charles had raised his eyebrows as hank suggested pork chops for dinner and he very quickly got the message.

“there are synagogues in the area, and—if you’d want to—you’re welcome to the car.” the car being moira’s car. but she’ll agree to this. “or if there’s anything you’d want to do here, of course.”

erik doesn’t think he’s spent as much time reading ------ or doing much else beyond legwork in tracking down schmidt,  mind you  ------ as he has here.  charles’ library seems endless, full of first editions and other languages.  in downtime,  between training with charles and the seldom occasion in which he does sleep,  he reads.  he’s pouring over a first edition when charles finds him,  tucked away in the corner of his library under a light that makes him more rosy than not.  

a brow raises when he looks up at him,  endearment and amusement alike twinging at the corner of his mouth.

‘ i hadn’t thought of it,  but yes,  it is. ’  that smirk doesn’t leave his features,  though his eyes go elsewhere,  for a moment.  to a different life than this.  his faith is one of the few things he doesn’t associate with schmidt,  but observation aside from diet has been the last thing on his mind since leaving the mossad years ago.  ‘ though i haven’t gone to a synagogue in years,  charles. ’

an exhale escapes as a lithe finger trails along the engraving of the spine of the book as he sets it aside,  standing at his full height. he feels oddly exposed now,  vulnerable now that charles looks at him in that way of his,  and he doesn’t like it.  the memory of rosh hasahanah ------ eating applies drenched in honey,  fresh warm challah bread,  his mother’s weather-worn features over candlelight ------  it makes him feel even warmer.  he hadn’t known he had that,  either.

the shouting makes him flinch for an instant—he can’t help it, and for that moment he can do nothing but open and close his mouth helplessly until he can shake off the fear. the man is not afraid of him and behind the anger is recognition, hannibal thinks, or maybe he’s just rationalizing things to tell himself he isn’t going to die. the knife is gone and—how did you do that—he can’t answer that any more than he could answer how do you breathe, how do you blink—

(it is 1944 and mischa is being ripped out of his arms, take the girl, she has more meat on her and hannibal is crying and then he is crying in her voice, take me, take me, and his wrists are so small he can pull them out of the shackles and stumble after her on legs that are too short, and then their hands are on him and there’s a sick crack and painpainpain and a toothy smile above him as he watches black feathers ripple over his torso—pone schmidt will pay us for this one, if it lives says the smiling man and then mischa is dead and everything is darkness.)

“i—i can—since i was a child—” he can’t find the words to explain to the man, so he elects to demonstrate and in a breath he is the man, or the best he can mirror him. sometimes in the dark he doesn’t quite get the colors. it is in the man’s voice that he says: “i don’t know how.”

and then he is himself again.

“hannibal lecter.” he cannot even think to lie. he stares down at the papers around him and does not try to go for the knife, either, as much as he wants to. he is not sure what to say that will make this man not want to kill him, but he does not trust himself to figure it out through lying or threats any more than by telling the truth. “i am here to avenge my sister. this man, he has information about the soldiers who killed her.”

he has seen some names in the pile of documents, names he hopes to connect with locations, addresses even, but his german comprehension is too poor to be certain of that at a glance.

“i am his enemy, not yours.”

FOR AN INSTANT,  MAGNUS LOOKS INTO HIS OWN EYES,  AS IF LOOKING INTO HIS OWN REFLECTION.  then the boy stares back at him,  so young.   he knows his own path has gone wayward,  and maybe he can’t imagine anything after finally killing schmidt,  but at one point,  magnus had been this young, too.  outward appearances mean nothing and he realizes that,  but innately magnus knows that hannibal lecter is not older than eighteen years old.  an exhale escapes as he opens his palm,  the german-engraved blade flying back into his palm to tuck back into his holster.  there’ll be no use for this tonight.

brow furrowing,  magnus looks him over.  they’re the same,  which fills him with relief  ----  for so long,  the only other person like him in the world had been schmidt,  and the thought’s always filled him with existential dread.  it only made sense that he was his creator,  then.   but now,  this singular encounter puts all of that into question and his thoughts race a mile a minute.  hannibal’s story is one he’s heard so many times before,  in his time in poland and then the mossad and then,  briefly,  tel aviv.   he’s lost count.  but little has led back to schmidt until now,  not like this.

❝   my name is magnus.   ❞    he looks out at the nazi memorabilia in the office around them,  nose scrunching in disgust,  before meeting hannibal’s gaze once more.