The death of Charles Xavier shocked everyone. His X-Men, of course, but Erik most of all. He didn’t think he had it in him; the ability to feel so upset. It was odd. And in a way, it was refreshing. It was nice to know his heart hadn’t rotted away to bitter nothingness.

However, nothing on this planet could have prepared him for the final request of his beloved friend — to be appointed as leader of his X-Men. He was met with pushback, with resistance. And why wouldn’t he be? He was a known terrorist, a criminal, a man who had no qualms about expressing his disinterest in coexisting peacefully alongside humanity. A man such as himself had no place in a group such as theirs.

Yet, it had been Charles’ wish. Erik respected Charles deeply, despite their differing views. Of course, his X-Men did not trust him. Not one bit. It was a struggle to gain their trust, and it had been a struggle to alter his view of the world; living with over five decades’ worth of resentment and hate made it hard to see things differently.

He had help, of course. He couldn’t have done it without an old friend of sorts that he hadn’t expected to meet again. That old spark that never fizzled out, even after all this time.

After a particularly long, hectic day of wrangling mutants that didn’t necessarily agree with his views, Erik had retired to his—or, Charles’ old office. It was quiet there. Solitude was what he needed at the moment.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his stupor. He’d been thinking, reminiscing with his old helmet in his hands.

“I wish to be alone,” he snapped. By his tone, it was evident he wasn’t in the mood for chatter. To his dismay, the heavy mahogany doors creaked open anyway. That old spark that had fizzled in his chest seemed to flutter into a flame.

Even after all this time, he had a soft spot for them.