Author's Note: I legitimately don't even think that there are words to describe how excited I am to finally have this thing wrapped up. Besides Criminal Minds, X-Men: Fist Class is my most favorite fandom on this site. And, after becoming ensconced in so much X-Men/CM crossover work by IntoTheWilds, SpencerRemyLvr, DarknessIsTheUniverse, and Eskimita, I figured my time on here could never pique without trying my hand at one as well.

Anyhoo . . . this is mostly just conversation, taking place in early Season Three of Criminal Minds (post-Gideon's departure, but sometime before Rossi arrived) and after the Beach Divorce in First Class. (And, yes, I realize that First Class took place sometime in the sixties and seventies, and Criminal Minds is literally decades later, and that this timeline is more effed up than the FNAF one . . . but I wanted Spencer and Charles to meet, and I wanted it to be modern times, and I wanted it like this . . . So, call it AU, pretty pweeze.) This mentions some aspects of details from my "Criminal Heroes" series, just my two prettiest boys talking about darling Peter Petrelli . . . but it explains everything within the writing, I swear. And anyways, those two universes (Hereos and X-Men) are so similar that it only makes sense that they happen along the same timeline.

Like I said . . . it's weird, but I'm super-excited. I hope anyone meandering into this takes the time to enjoy. It always means a lot to me when people read my work, even if I'm so far away from the internet anymore. And this is the first thing I've felt like writing in ages, so color me satisfied enough.

Warnings: Spoilers for Criminal Minds Season 02 and 03, regarding Spencer Reid and Jason Gideon. Spoilers for the entire finale of X-Men: First Class.

Disclaimer: It's probably for the best that I have no actual ownership over the wonderful creations of X-Men or Criminal Minds; the things I would make all of those gorgeous boys do to each other . . . Echem. Right. For the best. Yep.

Kudos: A million thank-ya's to SpencerRemyLvr and IntoTheWilds for proofing and approving this thing before I got the guts up to publish it. If you want some amazing Criminal Minds / X-Men fanfiction, those are the authors you want to check out.

If you remember to leave a review, don't forget. (Try to spend an entire class figuring that one out . . .)

"Check, Mate"

The day had started off sunny enough, with the sun rising early and bright, the light filtering in through his shades to wake up a certain young genius at an hour he considered entirely too early for so fine a Saturday.

And yet, Spencer Reid found that he didn't really mind the decided lack of sleep on his part, or the tepid warmth on the winds' — so rainy had the weather been lately, and so gloomy his mood, that this somewhat-warm, mildly-pleasant gift of a beautiful day that so reminded him of many similar ones in his hometown of Las Vegas . . . Truly, it was exactly the kind of morning that would tear anyone from any funk. By any means necessary.

Choosing to celebrate the glorious day off with which he was presented, Reid had immediately showered, shaven, and grabbed his to-go thermos of coffee and a small leather clutch off of the table by his door. Taking one last perturbed look along his apartment, the genius sighed at the mess the place had become recently, and headed out the door, locking it firmly behind him.

As he cut rapidly through the crowds of people, Reid kept his head down and eyes averted, weaving and ducking with superior skill through the throng of people that stood between him and his destination, the only thing on the genius's mind being to get there, fast.

That had been hours ago.

Now, he was comfortably set up at his favorite table, chess pieces scattered throughout the board, black knight in hand, contemplating his next move.

Ever since Gideon had left, the thought of playing chess often left a sour taste in the young man's mouth — and he hadn't taken Hotch or Emily up on any of their offers to a match.

But every weekend now, without fail, the genius trekked to the park where Gideon had first recruited him to the FBI all those years ago, set up the board that his mentor had made a Christmas gift of that same year, and set out on a mission that he knew was close to insurmountable.

Playing every possible configuration of every chess game ever conceivable was, as he'd told his friend, a tremendous task. Infinitely huge — but not impossible. Reid glowed at the idea of such a challenge, each week forcing himself to play at least three more versions, categorizing them in his head and saving the moves for the next time he played with G —

someone.

Anyone. Really.

Shaking his head, Reid put down the knight and instead moved his queen swiftly forward, seeing a way to claim victory over the white side in three more moves. He flipped the board around, and tried to find a way out of the predicament.

A burble of laughter tore through the air, and for a second, Reid was distracted, looking up at a father and daughter meandering past, hand-in-hand, both with wide smiles on their face as they cut through the park.

A potent mixture of jealousy and grief flooded his heart, which tugged at the imagery — dads always were a sensitive spot for Reid, especially happy ones.

Just as quickly, the feelings faded away, and, biting his lower lip, Spencer turned away.

Who needed a father figure, anyway?

He moved another piece.

"Excuse me?"

Normally, when playing a game — or doing anything, really — Reid would get so focused on his purpose in activity that he would completely obliterate the world around him, shutting out all of the noises, sounds, sights, smells that made up the rest of the universe; everything disappeared, vanished, and it was just him and whatever his mind was on.

So deep was his focus, most of the time, that the genius would be taken completely by surprise when something penetrated his little bubble of focus; it was a all-known fact — joke, really — around the BAU that their youngest agent startled terribly easily, and would jump and yelp if someone so much as stood too close to him when he was staring of at the distance, mind blazing on this thing or that.

Such an interruption would have sent the clumsy genius tumbling all over the pavement. But, as much as this, like so many other chess games, held his focus, Reid had played countless games already, and his mind was not so intently locked on his board as it normally might have been. He'd been scoping out the park that surrounded him since nearly the moment he'd arrived.

Thus, when the voice came softly across his periphery, Spencer Reid did not give one of his infamous leaps, or even start that much; rather, the genius looked up, barely surprised, into the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen.

Eye-level across the table from him, the stranger with a slightly rounded face and neatly combed — if curly — hair blushed in a barely noticeable manner before speaking once more.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude . . . " The slight English accent gave the words an even milder sound, making the man seem even younger while simultaneously giving him a slight air of knowing, and sophistication.

Reid made no move to answer, merely cocking an eyebrow as he took in the intruder, silently whizzing through small facts to add to a new profile.

Young — probably no more than thirty. White male, brown hair, full lips, average build. Speaks correctly, with inflection, probably well-educated. Obviously foreign — Oxford, maybe? Quite still, not that nervous, then — social? Not introverted, at least . . .

So intent was the agent on classifying this complete stranger that his eyes glazed over. Facts and figures shot through his head at lightning speed as Reid tried to figure out everything he could about the stranger without saying a single word.

He didn't even hear when he started talking again.

Quiet, but forward. Yes, social to whatever extent — though not just for business, seeks company out frequently. Graceful. Obvious intelligence, politesse . . . Wealthy?

" . . . Pardon? . . . Sir, are you quite alright?"

New clothes, out-of-style but clearly well-taken-care-of. Cares about appearances. Upper mid-class . . .

His thoughts began to drift, and suddenly, as though his mind gave a great shove, Reid snapped back into reality, and realized that, for whatever amount of time, he had been staring that this stranger in a way that, frankly, would have made just about anyone uncomfortable. Himself included.

However, the young man across from him didn't seemed to be that perturbed. In fact, if Reid hadn't already half-registered the concern in his voice, he would have said that the guy looked amused. His lips were curved into a half-smile — more of a smirk, really — and his jaw rested lazily on one flat plan of his hand, two fingers gently pressed into his temple as he mustered Reid with the same intensity with which he had just been observed.

And now it was Reid who was stumbling over his words.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to be rude . . . I, ah, forget where I am, sometimes, lost in my thoughts. . ."

The other man continued to look him over with that irksome grin, and Reid cleared his throat, rapidly becoming put out with the expression.

"Can I help you?"

It was a moment before his companion answered, shaking his head suddenly as though Reid had interrupted a deep thought.

"Oh, right, yes . . . quite. Sorry, I zone out myself." He tilted his head, brow furrowing as he gave Reid another one of those searching looks.

"My apologies, chap . . . I was simply wondering . . . Well, I couldn't help but notice that you're here playing all on your lonesome, and all of the other tables are filled . . ." The stranger gestured to the park around them, which had indeed become loaded with people in the few hours since the young genius had arrived that morning.

Reid tried not to show his surprise, but realized that he must have done a very poor job of concealing it when the man turned back to him, grinning again.

"Would you mind if I joined in for a game?"

A game?

"Oh," Reid breathed, realizing what the other meant. He bit his lip, trying to find the right words to answer. "Uhm . . ."

"C'mon," the other man plied, eyes twinkling mischievously. "I'm a worthy challenge, I assure you."

Reid opened his mouth to speak, but before a single word could get out, the stranger interrupted him again.
"Besides . . . You wouldn't really say no to a cripple, would you?"

Reid started slightly, and looked past the stranger's face for the first time, eyes rapidly traveling from the deceivingly innocent face, down neck, towards the torso . . .

How had he not realized that the man had remained seated the entire time?

The stranger grinned at the blush spreading noticeably over Reid's cheeks, and patted the sides of his wheelchair, hand clapping familiarly over the large, white 'X' beneath the tire.

"Lovely, isn'y it? All plastic, very durable . . . my favorite, if I have to call it that. Sturdy as Big Ben." Again, he smiled.

Did the man never stop that lascivious grinning?

"How about that game, then, mate?"

"Mate?" Reid raised an eyebrow slightly, thinking again how very queer this stranger was.

How can we be mates if we don't know each other's names?

Almost as if he had heard the thought, his compatriot stuck out his hand, a determined smile on his face.

"I'm so terribly sorry — where've my manners gone? Charles Xavier. Pleasure, I'm sure. And you are?"

More confused than he wanted to admit by the rapid pace of this man — Charles, apparently — Reid slowly, almost reluctantly, reached out and grasped palms.

"Reid."

Charles nodded, pumping his arm up and down. If he noticed Reid's lack of complete name, he made no comment. "Nice to meet you. Now," he said, sitting down without any further invitation, hand slipping from the genius's grip easily, "White or black?"

"You must play this a lot."

It was the third comment that Charles had made in the last half hour. Whether he was just a chatty person by nature — not unlikely — or was putting some vague effort in to resuscitate the banal conversation from earlier, Reid was unsure.

All he knew was that it was making it increasingly hard to focus. And he really needed to focus — this Charles was quite a good chess player.

The genius made a noncommittal noise that might have been a grunt, before sweeping his knight down the board, capturing another of Charles's pawns. Thusfar, the 'score' was tied, both men having three pieces. However, while Reid had taken one rook and two pawns, Charles had both of his rooks, and one bishop.

A challenge, indeed. As much as Reid craved a truly demanding game of chess, this was starting to remind him too much of all the times he'd battled with Gideon. No matter what he did, the other man was coming out ahead.

A point that seemed to be further — and unnecessarily — proven when Charles moved his own knight that Reid hadn't seen across the squares, neatly taking Reid's last bishop.

"Damn," the genius slipped out before he could stop himself.

Across the table, Charles grinned. "Finally, a word! I was starting to think you were a mute, lad."

Reid snorted. "Lad? We're practically the same age!"

"And here we both sit, playing an old man's game."

" . . . Touche."

There was a comfortable silence for a few long moments, as Reid studied the board, contemplating his next move. As he lifted his fingers once more towards his knight, Charles watched with a keen interest.

"Is this a regular thing for you?"

Reid's eyes snapped to his, voice a compelling mixture of curious and defensive. "Why?" he asked slowly.

Charles appeared to not to catch the suspicious tone. "You play this with an intense level of focus — one the likes of which I've seen only on professionals . . . and myself, perhaps. You're privy to the moves and make smart choices . . ." He shrugged. "It's simply not possible that this is your first game."

"I never said it was." Reid's tone was flat as he let go of his knight and instead moved his third pawn forward, narrowly avoiding another capture.

Satisfied, the genius smiled, once again locking gazes with his new partner. "Besides — you're hardly unfamiliar with the game yourself."

"Sheer dumb luck."

The tone was cheeky, and it wouldn't have taken a profiler of Reid's prowess to catch that the man was lying. Instead of calling him out on it, though, the agent merely shook his head, blowing out a breath of air that made his bangs swing slightly in his face.

Charles' grin tugged slightly, and he appeared to thin something over in his head for a long moment.

"It's a game I grew up with," he finally offered. "Always been a favorite."

"And yet," Reid commented absently, eyes skirting back down to the move at hand as he swiped an errant curl off of his face, "You're not smiling."

Charles' brow furrowed, amusement making his eyes sparkle even more so. "And you are?"

Reid shrugged. "I was just playing."

"People don't usually waste their time doing things that put such a sad expression on their face," Charles responded, also avoiding eye contact by suddenly becoming very interested in the board.

Reid stiffened at the comment, slightly wary as the other man continued talking.

"You looked like you were in pain, Spencer"

In pain?

Wait . . . Spencer?

Reid shook his head, trying to remember the exact moment that he had told this — admittedly — stranger his given name, but . . .

but the memory wasn't there.

He frowned harder, forcing himself to think.

Something in his expression must have bled through, though, because Charles was suddenly leaning across the table, concern written all over his face. "

"Are you alright?" he asked breathlessly, worry making his English accent seem thicker.

Reid unconsciously chewed his lower lip, face so gravely serious that it had the youth suddenly looking far beyond his years.

"Yeah," he muttered distractedly, fingers twitching slightly as he curled them into a fist on his lap.

How did he know my name?

Charles didn't seem to buy the confirmation, and cocked his head slightly, eyes crinkled in unsettlement.
"You don't look it, mate."

Reid opened his mouth to speak, and shut it again, chewing his inner cheek. "Yeah, well . . ." he murmured, trying to get his thoughts back on track. "Guess I'm just having an off-moment," he finished lamely.

"I'll say. One would almost guess that you're not even having fun."

"I don't always, actually."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and everything inside of Reid went cold. He froze, praying uselessly for just one second that Charles hadn't heard him.

No such luck. His companion looked up, face scrunched in concentration. "You're not now?"

Reid paused, watching, waiting.

He didn't want to seem rude, even more clueless in social situations than he already really was, but . . . Something about Charles seemed very inviting — welcoming, almost. As if some gentle, guiding voice in his mind was pushing him to trust the man.

Reid shook his head suddenly, very confused. What the hell was he thinking, exactly? That this person — this intruding, foreign, very strange person he barely knew — would understand his own problems? Or even care?

He had to bite back a bitter laugh at that. Sad as it made him to even think it, no one ever cared.

Not very much, anyway. Not enough to stay.

Gideon was proof enough of that.

Gideon.

The name squeezed his heart like an iron fist, and not for the first time in the month since his mentor had left, Spencer felt as if the breathe was stolen from him.

Just like his friend.

A hand suddenly touched his, and Reid jumped, looking up to see Charles suddenly much closer than he had been before, keen eyes locking onto his with a sort of irresistible magnetism, a calling of care and comfort.

So very strange . . .

"What's wrong?"

Though still spoken in calm tones, Reid could sense something different about this query.

It was commanding, however minutely; this time, he wasn't being offered the luxury of consideration. Somehow, without changing his words or even expression, Charles was actually calling for an answer.

And suddenly, in a moment of impetuousness so foreign to the genius who calculated and planned every aspect of his life, Reid wanted to say something.

"It just . . . makes me sad." His voice was compact, without a warble or even change in pitch. Expert he was at hiding his emotions, Reid had no intention now of breaking down.

"Why?" There was that soft note again, almost fatherly.

Reid forced himself to look up, back into that probing gaze that gave him the feeling he was being seen right through.

"A friend . . . someone I cared about very deeply used to play chess with me. It was our tradition, nearly every night. He's . . ." Reid swallowed. "He's gone now, I guess."

Charles's eyes were sympathetic. "Passed away?"

Reid shook his head miserably. "I wouldn't know . . . moved on, certainly. He left awhile back."

"Oh."

The syllable was breathed, barely audible over the spun of the wind and even his own cluttered thoughts. Reid tried not to react but he couldn't help the slight tensing of his shoulders.

Dear lord, what had just happened? Private by nature, terrible with new people, and yet the genius had just let something slip that he wouldn't even admit to his best friends was bothering him.

And yet . . .

And yet something about this strange new acquaintance of his felt very warm, safe, even. As if he would only be comforting, and not hasty or judgmental. He gave off a veritable sense of caring, and Reid somehow felt instantly at ease in his presence.

But even with that unknown camaraderie, there was a palpable awkwardness in the air; the valorous honesty and frankness with which Reid had just announced his personal business had left an acrid tinge in the air, a sort of elephant.

Slowly, the silence drew out, and with each moment, Reid could feel his regret growing, and internally began cursing himself for always being so inept with social nuances.

The space between them grew, a mental chasm of sorts, making a resuscitating conversation seem more and more unlikely.

And then, when two-hundred and sixteen seconds of the loudest silence possible had passed, Charles surprised the hell out of both of them by speaking.

"Funny," he said softly, hands once more resting lightly atop of his queen. "You play chess when it makes you think of someone who makes you sad . . . Not exactly a normal action."

Reid sensed the teasing in the other's voice, and knew deep-down that his partner was trying to sort past the awkwardness. He made an attempt at a smile.

"I'm not exactly normal," Reid replied. "But I enjoyed the game a good deal before I ever met . . . him. And even if playing it makes me think of the past, there's enough good in there to dilute whatever bad present. I love chess."

Charles took a long moment before responding. "I know exactly what you mean."

Reid frowned for an instant before schooling his expression into one of practiced neutrality. He crossed his hands on the table in front of him, leaning forward slightly.

This was where his talents as an interviewer came to fruition. Situations like these were a delicious challenge for the young genius.

"How so?" He gently prompted, voice friendly and encouraging.

Charles seemed to take the bait, smiling briefly as if in on a terribly amusing joke. "I, too, used to have a very close . . . friend with whom I played. He wasn't as skilled as you, but . . ." He sighed wistfully, gaze drifting off to the distance. " . . . But Erik had his own unique style. It was what made being with him so much fun."

"He was your . . . chess partner?" Reid couldn't keep the slightest hint of skepticism out of his voice. And judging from the look Charles gave him, the other man caught it as well.

"We were good friends." Ah. The implied just.

"Were?"

Charles looked down, blinking rapidly as he tried and failed to keep his voice steady.

"He's been . . . out of contact for awhile." The defeated tone spoke volumes of just how little hope Charles had of seeing this Erik again.

But yet again, the man with such striking blue eyes surprised the genius, looking up with a sort of renewed determination. "He'll come 'round, someday. I'm sure of it."

Reid shook his head, unable to help himself. "You shouldn't cling to the past when the future is more open and inviting."

"And yet," Charles countered with that unbearable knowing smirk, "Here sit two young men with nothing better to do than play an old codger's game and talk about people they pine for."

Reid shook his head. "I don't pine for — "

"I'm terribly sorry, my friend, but you do."

Suddenly, this whole conversations as becoming too much for Reid. All he had wanted to do was come to the park and continue on his vague self-assigned mission to play every game of chess known to man — as his friend Zach said, it was an infinitely large number. But he'd gotten through over three hundred and twenty-four thusfar, and today was supposed to have made that number an even three-thirty.

Instead, here he was digging through a past he'd much rather pretend didn't exist, at the hands of someone he barely knew, all within an hour of the precious little daylight left, and —

— and it was all just too much for him.

Reid could feel the edges of his temper begin to build, his emotions churning just under the surface of his ever-collected exterior. Something was off, so very off, so very twisted . . .

A migraine began building at the back of his skull. As if someone was pushing at him, there was the slightest hint of a touch, something rooting around in his mind.

He had felt that sensation before, when Peter —

Oh.

Suddenly, it all clicked into place.

"Are you okay?"

The words, though spoken gently, were starting to become very irritating, indeed. But Reid said nothing voicing his inner thoughts. Instead, he forced his eyes back to the board, moving his pawn up another square, and swiping his rook back from near where Charles's hand rested on the table.

"Fine," he said from the side of his mouth, unable to focus as wave after wave of realization hit into him, almost crushing him under the layers of incredulity and excitement . . . and a very faint level of wariness, too.

After all . . . telepaths could be unpredictable.

Peter had informed him of that when he taught Spencer how to shield his mind from intrusion, all those months ago.

Who was to say that this Charles Xavier wouldn't be just as bad as Sylar?

Mentally, Reid began tugging up the shields his best friend had painstakingly helped him build, yanking a blanket of empty, static thought over the crevices of his mind, sending out a dead signal to anyone trying to delve into there, all the while keeping his emotions and thoughts and the general hectic frenzy of his mind completely active, just below the surface.

When he saw the Charles crinkle his brow in confusion, the genius and to stifle a victorious smile. He'd been right.

You'll get nothing more from me. Mate.

Charles hid his perplexity quite well, smoothing his face as he absently moved another piece.

Subtly — so much so that only a profiler could have caught it — the blue-eyed man moved two fingers to his temple, pressing against his temporal vein almost in a casual manner, and he stared at Reid harder than he had been before.

Meanwhile, the young agent pretended not to notice, and he simply shifted in his chair, focusing intently on the next play.

For all of his concentration into making a successful um passant, Reid couldn't help but be a little irritated at the way Charles captured his newly-won rook in the next move — while barely paying attention.

He sighed inaudibly. "The odds of you doing that were 8 in 2,217,365 millionths of a chance."

Charles looked up, interest suddenly peaked. "How did you figure that?"

Reid shrugged. It was simple, really. "There are approximately 1.2688693e+89 billion moves and responses in which to play a game of chess — the factorial of 64, with infinitely changing series, given what version you're playing. By my calculations, the odds of you both catching the move I was making and responding to it aggressively were relatively unlikey — in the millions, so to speak."

Charles gaped. "I know another young man like you; tall, thin, just as brilliant. Hank."

"Oh. Um . . ." Reid wasn't really comfortable with attention being called to his intelligence — complimentary or not, it was attention, and not something he fared so well under. "Yeah, well . . ."

Charles leaned forward, eagerly. "Are you a genius?"

Reid blinked. "I don't believe that intelligence can be accurately measured." It was his standard reply, and most people left it at that.

Except that Charles didn't. True, the other man said not a word, but rather nodded, a placatory light in his eyes that clearly indicated go on.

"W-Well," Reid started, truing to stifle the ramble eh felt coming on, "I have an eidetic memory, and I can read up to 20,000 words a minute, and I hold degrees in Mathematics, Engineering, Chemistry, Psychology, Sociology, and Philosophy . . ."

"Polygenic hypthymesia." The word was rushed out, breathless, almost lost to the sound of the wind.

For a moment, Reid wondered if he'd heard it at all — but then he saw the excited, almost feverish look in Charles's eyes.

"Sorry, what?"

"Polygenic hyperthymesia. Your memory. You call it eidetic, I call it hyperthymesia. It's a mutation. A very groovy mutation. One that allows for a subject to develop perfect recall, at a progressive ascent of developing strength in rationality. Your mind," the other man said in wonder, "Will continue to get more and more advanced, more spectacular, as you age."

The note of eagerness in his voice might have been very off-putting to most people.

"You just . . . know this off of the top of your head?" Even for someone famous for pulling random facts out of the air, Reid found this a little . . . odd.

Charles smiled guiltily. "So sorry, mate, I often forget. Genetics are a prime fascination for me —I've been doing my professorship in them."

Reid blinked. "You have a doctorate?"

"Just one, unlike you." Charles smiled. "My IQ isn't as . . . through the roof."

And there it was again. That knowing.

Confirmation. As if he'd still needed any.

Reid clasped his hands together, fingers intertwining as he leaned back in his chair, studying the brown-haired enigma before him with a renewed confidence.

"That's very strange."

"Sorry, what?" Charles had been focusing on the game once more, and barely seemed to take in the genius's words. His attention always seemed to be bouncing from place to place, as though there was nothing that could hold his interest for too long.
Easy enough for someone who read minds to be bored.

"I was just thinking . . ." Reid started, drifting off as he waited for the other man's attention. It didn't take long before he was once again subject to the full blast of those magnetic blue eyes.

"I never told you that I was a doctor."

Charles's fingers froze. His entire body seemed to halt, for just an instant, and there was a flash of alarm in the air.

So delicately it looked almost poised, he set the chess pice back down.

"Didn't you?" He asked, voice light.

Reid shook his head. "No."

"Well," Charles breathed out, rubbing by his temple in quiet frustration, "That's a bit of a bad slip-up, mate. I am so, so terribly sorry."

"Are you?" Reid asked, the level of knowing in his voice a strange mixture of frightening and comforting. "Because it seems like you're rather graceful under pressure, well-prepared, and the fact that you're winning our chess game proves what a forward thinker and planner you are. A . . . slip-up doesn't fit your MO at all, Charles."

The other man grinned sheepishly. "MO? You sound like a copper."

Reid shrugged, refusing to be distracted from the subject at hand, and Charles, seeing this, sighed. "I suppose even the most fastidious of us can make a mistake, Spencer. I seem to have been distracted — you're very fascinating, you know."

"Mmm." Reid made a noncommittal noise. "I could say the same, Mr. Xavier. And yet, as you said, here we sit playing chess." He rested his hands in his lap, relaxing. "So why don't we make it more interesting? Why are you here?"

Charles blinked. "I'm doffing a game of chess."

Reid smiled, but shook his head. "Please don't play word games with me, professor. I'm not angry, and I'm not going to report anything. I'm just curious. Why are you here?"

"Coincidence?"

"I doubt it." Reid tried not to sigh in irritation; interviewing this susp — man — was proving more difficult than he had initially thought. "I don't believe in coincidences. And I doubt most telepaths do, either."

Charles's eyes locked onto him, a whisper of fright fleeing into curiosity, approval, and some tiny edge of . . .

Glee?

"You know." He said, a tone of faint awe just barely present in his voice.

Reid nodded. "I worked it out. One of my friends has the same . . . ability."

"Mutation," Charles corrected automatically, his mind clearly distracted as his eyes darted around, trying to work something out in his head. Finally, he looked back at Reid.

"You say one of your friends has this power?"

Reid nodded. "Among others; he's sort of like a human sponge, he absorbs and mimics the abilities of others."

Charles's eyes widened. "Fascinating — he sounds like a more genetically-focused form of Raven."

"Who?"

Charles flushed. "Oh — ahm —" he coughed. "Nothing."

The awkwardness of the moment couldn't simply be ignored, and Reid shifted in his chair slightly, wondering how he always seemed to get into these sorts of conversations.

Across the tables, Charles grinned at him. "Because you're simply too interesting to avoid talking with, Spencer."

Reid jumped. "Did you just — ?"

Charles nodded. "Sorry, mate," he said, not even a hint of apology on his face. "Your mental shields are remarkably strong, but I sense you rarely have to use them to this extent. Your whole mind is rather . . . exhausted."

Reid tried not to frown. "It's the chess."

For a moment, there was stunned silence as Charles stared at him incredulously. And then he opened his mouth, laughing uproariously. "Yes," he gasped between breaths, "Yes, quite." Dropping his eyes to their game, he picked up a pawn and began to play with it, turning the pice over and over between long, elegant fingers. "Your friend taught you to guard your mind?"

"He said that not every telepath would be as fun as he was."

The words were casual, but one didn't have to be a mind-reader — or a profiler, for that matter — to sense the trepidation in Reid's voice.

"It behooves me to say that your man Peter is correct, Spencer." Charles had met another telepath, and she was nothing but bad news.

Reid frowned. "I am quite aware of how your particular ability works, Professor. Perhaps you could find it in yourself to stop rooting around in my mind now."

Charles winced. "I am sorry, Spencer — "

"Reid."

" — Reid," Charles amended. "But I already know everything about you. At least, as much as you keep near the surface. I've known since we first met."

" . . . This morning?"

"I make it a habit to . . . examine someone upon shaking their hand — or otherwise. So many of us are so suspicious, and will immediately try to block our minds against a possible intrusion. It's only a precaution, Reid, please think nothing of it."

But Reid's mind had focused on something entirely else. "Us?"

Charles blinked. "Mutants."

"I —" Reid started to shake his head. "I'm not a mutant!"

"No, really, you mustn't knock it!" Charles's voice was impassioned, hands swirling madly in the air as he spoke about something he so clearly loved. "Mutation took us from single-celled-organisms to the dominant form of reproductive life — "

"No," Reid cut in, trying not to rile, " You misunderstand me, Charles. I'm not knocking mutation — I briefly studied it when getting my doctorate in Chemistry. What I'm disputing is your claim. I," he spoke, voice getting slightly wavery, "I'm not a mutant — I don't have any abilities."

Charles's blue eyes filled with surprise. "Do you really not see it, Reid? You said yourself!"

Reid stared a moment longer at the man before him, and then closed his eyes, leaning back slightly in the chair as he tried to remember everything he and the professor had talked about.

Suddenly, he shot forward. "My intelligence?"

"That's certainly a part of it," Charles nodded. "Genius is an adaptive sign of mutation; my good friend Hank graduated Harvard at the age of 15, and he teaches engineering at the school."

"But that's not implicit!" Reid protested, hand running messily through his brown locks. "Plenty of ordinary people have higher IQ's — you yourself — "

"I am a mutant," Charles spoke quietly, gently. "As, we think, were Albert Einstein and your John F. Kennedy. Intelligence is a key sign in the human genetic revolution, Spencer. But your powers go far behind that."

"My — my powers?"

"Your memory."

"My — ?" Reid had to bite back a sunned laugh, his voice twisting unrecognizably. "My memory is common enough — "

"One case in over thirteen thousand births?" Without meaning to, Charles's voice had taken on a slight tone of amusement. "That's less common than violet eyes. What you have is a gift, Spencer —"

"Reid," the genius ground out through tightly clenched teeth. "And an eidetic memory is hardly the thing of comic books."

"Who says it has to be?" Charles threw his hands out into the air, frustration evident in every line of his face. "Powers don't have to be seen, or heard, or explode into the night. They're something within you Sp — Reid," he caught himself barely before continuing. "Your memory is already extraordinary; remembering everything you can read, right?"

Reid nodded, and Charles took it as a sign to go on, excitement starting to leak into his voice. "Imagine if you could remember — flawlessly — everything you'd ever heard. Ever tasted, or smelled. Every feeling you've ever had, every thought that's ever crossed your mind for the briefest of seconds — every moment of every day of your life?" He leaned back. "That's what your mutation has the potential to be, Spencer."

"Potential," Reid murmured, almost unthinkingly. Charles nodded excitedly.

"Imagine, if you will, being able to stretch out your memory, like a blanket — covering everything about yourself, every last code of every strand of every pore of DNA. All of it," he implored, eyes glowing. "Then, think about being able to expand it — shielding to other people. Accessing their cores, remembering everything of their lives and selves. Histories of war survivors that wouldn't have to be lost to age, memories from those few suffering of loss, being able to recall every second of anything you wanted or needed . . . You'd be a . . . how do you Americans call it? A walking dictionary."

"Encyclopedia," the genius corrected unthinkingly.

Charles nodded. "Encyclopedia, then. With the right help, you could learn to tap into anything with a history — a sponge of sorts, like your friend Peter. But not one of powers — one of the mind. Nothing to the past would ever again be lost, no stone left unturned with your power to absorb and remember it all. Imagine knowing anything, Spencer — literally everything."

Literally everything.

The words echoed in the genius' brain, and whether that was his own remarkable memory or some extension of Charles', even he couldn't be quite sure of.

Reid was still turning over everything in his mind, and he barely looked at the professor when he spoke. "Those . . . those things I could do. It'd be with your help, you mean."

Charles nodded. "At my school, we take brilliant mutants and show them not only how to control their powers, but how to embrace them — to use them for the common good, to be the better men."

"Brilliant?" Reid questioned, and for a second, Charles had the good grace to appear embarrassed.

"Right, sorry — I forget myself entirely too often, mate. Any mutant is welcome —we've never turned someone in need away."

"And has anyone ever turned you away?"

"Some." Charles's eyes suddenly darkened slightly, and he bit his lower lip. "Some don't want to learn, or engage. Some don't want to be found."

"Maybe some aren't lost." Reid's voice was gentle, but arduous — the same tone in which he talked to his mother, on her bad days when she insisted that they were in danger.

So few, those were now.

Charles studied the genius intently, blue eyes flickering over the set of his slim profile, the unwavering firmness of his stance.

He sighed, reluctance seeping in to meld with levels of understanding, of compliance and even acceptance. "You mean you. We're not talking about anyone else now, are we Spencer?"

"Weren't we always?" Reid chided gently.

Charles gave a one-sided smile. "I know a lot about you, Spencer — more than most. And I know there's a place for you at my school."

Reid opened his mouth to protest, but Charles held up a hand, imploring for silence.

"Listen," he insisted. "Just for a moment, please. Here you are, a genius beyond comprehension, sitting in a park and playing a game of chess that well should be inferior to you. You have an extraordinary gift, and a chance to achieve great things in your still-so-young lifetime; and with your drive and diligence and your strength, I sense that you will achieve those things." Here Charles paused to offer a kind smile, and Reid couldn't help the warm feeling that spread throughout his person.

Charles continued. "You're surrounded by humans who may be friend or family or stranger or foe, but humans nonetheless. People who, for all that is great and good about them, will never be able to understand you like your own can; people who will never see you the same way, know you the same way — love you, like we can. And will," the telepath emphasized, leaning forward even more in his chair.

"At my school, you would not only be welcomed, Spencer. You would be wanted."

All the while, Reid had listened to Charles talk, he had felt something stirring in his chest. Something light, something fluttering and pulsating and pounding, rhythmically warming him and chilling him as he listened to words that, for most, would have been too good to be true spill from Charles' lips.

A place where he would be accepted. A place where people wouldn't judge him for his differences, but bask in them, let him live and laugh and thrive.

It was something the genius and dreamed of since he had been a kindergarten child, curled up in his parents' arms while they tried to stopper his tears and assure him that things would 'get better.'

Eventually, of course, they did. They always do.

Reid blinked, surprised by the thought. He'd never been a pessimist, certainly . . . but Reid had always taken comfort in his openly realistic view of the world, and the way it worked.

He didn't remember ever thinking quite like that. So . . . hopeful.

"Wanted," he repeated softly, the word rolling tantalizingly over his lips, tasting of unfamiliarity, of freedom, of desire.

Hope.

"Yes, Spencer," the telepath nodded, the glint in his eyes showing that, however unintentionally, he had picked up on Reid's thought. "No one is ever rejected from our school. Everyone has a home, everyone has . . . has friends."

Suddenly, the fog in Reid's mind cleared, and he looked up at Charles, eyes shining brightly.

"I have friends."

With just those whispered words, the light in Charles' marvelous blue eyes began to dim.

He recognized that tone; it wasn't aggression, or anger — nothing to be feared.

And yet something that still tore at the professor's sometimes bleeding heart.

Rejection.

In Spencer's words, he had heard the same rebuff as that which Erik had given him upon their first . . . confrontation.

"What do you know about me?"

"Everything."

"Then you'll know to stay out of my head."

Charles shook away the memories, choosing to ignore the old wounds.

After all — he had gotten Erik to stay, in the beginning.

His frosty blue eyes locked onto Spencer's hazel ones, and he spoke with a renewed, if quieted, determination.

"You don't have friends like you would have in the X-men, Spencer."

Reid bit back a snort. "I think not; where I am, I have family. A life." He shook his head. "I doubt you're proposing to give me that."

Charles bit his lower lip. "We could try."

Reid frowned. "Then you would be tremendously ambitious. And mistaken." He set his queen down on the board with quite a bit more force than was really necessary, gaze never leaving his opponent's. Somehow, besides the battle at — or in — hand, there seemed to be a secondary war going on, this one one of cunning, one of will, one of wits.

The two men stared, neither one shriveling from the intensity of the other's eye-contact.

Charles blinked.

Reid smirked.

Even without the gift of telepathy, or the job of profiling, both men easily saw the shift in power in that microsecond of movement.

Charles sighed. "You won't even consider it?"

"I've been considering it since the second you came over," Reid replied smoothly. "I've just made my decision more quickly. It's something I do, professor."

Charles smiled. "Work fast?"

Reid's eyebrows crinkled. "Make up my mind." He swallowed. "I can't say that I don't appreciate your . . . offer. It's something I might have jumped at, once, but now . . ." He looked around the park, gesturing, unsure of how to explain.

But Charles was the most powerful telepath in the world. "You'd prefer to just . . . keep playing the game."

Reid nodded. "Are you — are you going to leave?"

Charles raised a single eyebrow. "Is there any point in my staying?"

Reid looked down at the board. "If you don't," he spoke through the tendrils of curly hair hanging in his face, "then you concede the game."

Charles smiled. "I . . . I do suppose you're right. Can't have that, now, can I?" He leaned forward once more, laying his palm over a pawn.

The daylight had ling begun to ebb away from the sky before either of the two men spoke again.

As it happened, this time it was Reid.

"Are . . . Are you going to disappear now?

Charles looked up, mind torn from the move he had been contemplating to put himself out of peril in the game. "I'm sorry?"

Reid shrugged, trying not to look as vested in the question as he was. "I just . . . I mean, I'm a federal agent . . . and I know . . . about you . . ." He lifted his shoulders.

"Are you asking if I'm going on the run?"

Reid blinked, and Charles gave a low chuckle.

"Spencer, I'm a foreign billionaire who can read minds and has a virtual militia of loyal, dedicated mutants with far more . . . aggressive powers than my own."

"That's a no?"

Charles nodded. "That's a no. If I've ever had to be more covert, it's no terrible inconvenience for me to wipe memories and minds.

"Oh," Reid responded, suddenly getting very quiet again.

It wasn't much longer after that that it became a struggle to see the board. Yet still, the two men played.

"You know," Charles said, turning a bishop over in his hands as he contemplated the game, "I should very much like to meet your friend. The human sponge."

Reid jerked slightly, confusion lining his face as his hazel eyes locked onto equally intense blue ones. "I beg your pardon."

"Peter," Charles clarified. "He sounds fascinating, powerful . . . I should like to make his acquaintance. Would you take me to him?"

"I . . . I don't think I can."

"That's a no."

Reid looked back down at the chessboard, suddenly uncomfortable. "I have to respect his privacy as well, Charles. When his . . . abilities . . . manifested, it took almost a year for him to tell me about it. Our relationship is . . ." He didn't know what to say.

Charles saved him from having to answer, holding up a hand in a peaceful gesture. "I saw, Spencer. I understand."

Reid still didn't know how he felt about this man knowing so much about him. Equally so, he was unsure of how to voice his disquiet.

"I suppose so," he chose to say instead.

Charles smiled faintly, fingers tapping lightly as he waited for Spencer to make his move. "You're not pleased with how I used my ability," he stated, baldly.

Reid's eyes flew up to him, but he said nothing. Charles nodded, confirmed.

"If you'd like, I can go back and alter this memory a bit — make you more comfortable. Or I can erase it entirely."

Though the offer was made in nothing by a friendly voice, Reid flinched back from the words, shoulders tensing instinctively as he looked back down.

"I was under the impression that you were going to do that already," his low voice cut through the silence of the park.

Now Charles was the one who tensed. "You thought I — what?"

He sounded so affronted, so repulsed by the idea that Reid hadn't dared say. Charles bit down on his inner cheek — hard — to keep from saying something he would regret.

But, really — Spencer thought he was going to wipe his mind?

Trust was hard to come by, especially for a telepath; so many assumed that just because he could flip through their minds like one of his many favorite books, he would. As if he were so tactless, so little mindful and very inhumane as to want to mess with his equals on a level so vulnerable as their minds.

He remembered Erik thinking the same things of him. And Raven. Shaw and Angel . . .

And while it brought back all of the old hurts, the memories good and bad and the histories tinged with the acrid taste of his new life, Charles' outward demeanor gave no sign of his inward turmoil. A slight twitch to his fingers, a brief intake of breath, and then . . .

. . . then the telepath was able to look up again, bright blue eyes once more impeccably clear, gaze strong as he plied the genius to look at him.

"Do I come off as that much of a control freak?"

The words were amused — not angry, or defensive, or resigned as Reid had thought they would be. Rather, there was a sense of . . . comfort, again. That pressing urge of gentleness that told him that Charles wasn't about to get aggressive.

Of course, from what he understood of telepaths, they could have a wide range of abilities, and Spencer had no idea how to tell if his emotional senses were being manipulated, but . . .

. . . but something about this man seemed so honest. So kind, wise and yet naive, intelligent and soft . . .

Reid might have been amused to see how much his thoughts on Charles reflected the thoughts most of his team had had the first time they'd met him.

But he didn't know then, and the genius hesitantly looked up, lips slightly pursed as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"It's not — I d-didn't mean — I mean, no, you don't, not exactly, but . . ." Reid huffed a frustrated breath, and dragged his free hand through his hair.

"I'm a profiler; I study human behavior for a living, and I've deal with some of the most jaded and obsessive people out there, from one of the spectrum to another." He gestured slightly with his fingers, indicating how many there were. "I know how instinctive the human need to survive is — believe me, I — I know. And . . . And the f-fact is, since I am an FBI agent, and since you are trying to hide from people like myself . . ." He shrugged, trying to mask his wariness with nonchalance, acceptance. "With you having a superior power to mine, I just . . . It wouldn't be hard for you to escape from here scott-free."

Charles chuckled. "I wasn't aware that there was anything to escape from, Spencer. I thought we were just playing chess. Yes?"

Reid stared at him. " . . . I . . . Yes."

His hesitance wasn't just audible, but visible, and Charles winced internally at the hint of fear he detected in the aura of someone who, until minutes ago, he had been having a splendid time with.

"Spencer," he said gently, leaning across the table, "I'm truly sorry if I somehow gave you the impression that I was going to cut and run without your acquiescence. That's a haunting thought, so let me say this plainly; I have altered someone's memories once before, for my protection, only because I knew that she would be tortured for information regarding my whereabouts. Other than that, I have never played with someone's history, and Heaven permitting, I never will."

Reid's eyes flickered, and the quiver in his lips indicated his inner struggle.

Sure, he wanted to believe Charles, but . . .

"But you still twisted someone's thoughts, manipulated them to . . . to protect yourself," he croaked out, barely a whisper.

Charles' lips pursed. "I did. It still shames me. Someday, when our kind are accepted into society, I hope to find Moira and make amends for what I've done to her."

Reid blinked. "Someday?"

"The day when mutants no longer have to hide their abilities in the shadows. When we are an accepted, embraced part of society. When humankind includes all kinds."

Reid's mouth quirked slightly. "You sound so . . . impassioned."

"As I should be, Spencer. It's my life's work." Charles set down his knight with a slight knocking sound, and looked around them, as if only just noticing the waning light. "Goodness, do you see the hour? I really must be going."

He gripped the rims of his wheelchair, and began pushing himself away from the table, only to be stopped when pale fingers gripped his arm with a surprising amount of force.

Startled, Charles looked up into earnest eyes that still shone even in the near-blackness.

"You're leaving?"

Charles gave a small, one-sided smile. "I have a curfew to keep, Doctor. Don't worry, though — we'll be talking again soon. You'll find me rather relentless when I've my mind set on something."

Reid raised an eyebrow. "And I think you'll find a worthy opponent in myself, Professor."

"Right," Charles responded. He leaned over, shoulders brushing against the slim genius's chest, and flicked Spencer's king down, watching as the piece rolled onto the grass below.

"Cheerio, then."

For a moment, the agent's gaze followed his . . . friend? . . . as he wheeled himself out of the park, the hills and cobblestones in his path making no change in his pace.

Sometime after the backside of the strange professor had disappeared, Reid turned and looked at the board, a million thoughts running through his head as he took in the sight.

Oh.

Reid bent over, fingers searching blindly on the ground for a moment before wrapping around the familiar, polished wood of his king, and he straightened back up.

Charles had won.

Reid smiled. Maybe for now, he thought, placing the set of thirty-two pieces into his satchel, and standing up.

But not next time.

Checkmate.