Chapter Text
Charles is still asleep when Erik summons Mystique.
The appropriated quarters consist of one room—far more spacious than the cell where he found Charles, and far warmer too—with a narrow but comfortable bed against one wall. Charles lies sprawled there now, atop the covers, shirtless until Erik can find something for him to wear that didn't previously belong to a dead human.
From looking at him, there's no mistaking what Erik has done.
He almost keeps Mystique in the hallway for their little chat, but in the end he doesn't have it in him to be that cruel. He knows she's been just as worried as Erik himself—or nearly so—and he ushers her inside, closing the door behind her.
Mystique's eyes dart to Charles, then quickly away again. Back to Erik. There are veiled questions in her eyes—a shadow that could be accusation—but whatever her thoughts, she doesn't put them into words.
"What did you glean from the labs?" Erik asks quietly.
"I've ordered Riptide to coordinate with our scientists and prepare a full report for you. They were working on more than a hundred experiments down there."
"You know which ones I want to hear about," Erik says.
Mystique nods and continues, "It looked like they were streamlining more than a dozen different injections. Their people left detailed notes about every one, but it's impossible to tell—"
"Is his condition permanent?" Erik interrupts, voice harsh with impatience.
"I was getting to that," Mystique says in an alarmingly gentle voice. "It depends which compounds they gave him. Unfortunately, at this stage it's impossible to tell. There's no way to know if he'll regain his abilities until the chemicals clear his system. It could take weeks. Maybe longer."
"Verdammt!" Erik breathes, low and furious.
Mystique doesn't try to soothe him with false reassurances.
"What do we do now?" she asks instead.
"Contact Beast. Tell him Charles is alive, and that he's safe. Then round up everything worth keeping from the labs, and any documentation you can find. We should be secure enough for a day or two, but we can't stay here. There's too great a chance more humans will come, and we have no reason to defend this place. It would be a needless waste of resources."
He considers for another moment, then adds, "Have Azazel investigate the base's support structure and power reserves."
"You're going to destroy it," Mystique observes.
"I want there to be nothing left when we depart."
A long pause stretches between them, quiet and gauging, and then Mystique's eyes slide back to Charles at the far side of the room.
"What about him?" she asks.
"I don't know yet," Erik admits. He doesn't intend to let Charles out of his sight, but once they leave this facility things will be more complicated. He can't very well take Charles back to the Brotherhood's central base—Charles would never consent to it, and Erik refuses to carry him off by force. But he can't follow Charles back to the school, either. If he can't find some kind of middle ground, his options will be severely limited.
Mystique nods, as though she understands better than she should. After a final, unreadable pause, she turns for the door.
"I'll keep you informed if we learn anything new from the labs," she says, retreating into the hallway. Then, just before she pulls the door closed behind her, she throws a piercing look back over her shoulder. "You should rest," she says. "You look like hell."
"I'll take it under advisement," is all he promises, and gives the door an extra nudge behind her. The latch clicks, and Erik lets out an exhausted breath.
When he turns and finds Charles watching him with open, lucid eyes, Erik's not as surprised as he perhaps should be.
Charles doesn't sit up. He doesn't speak. His expression broadcasts a confusing mix of emotions, and Erik doesn't even try to decipher them as he crosses the room and drops smoothly onto the bed beside Charles.
He's sitting closer than he should. After everything that just happened, he should give Charles more space. But he's helpless against the pull of Charles's proximity, and for the moment it's enough of a struggle keeping his hands folded in his lap.
"How do you feel?" Erik asks cautiously.
Charles blinks up at him for a moment, mouth pressed into a thin line and throat working in a silent swallow. And then throws Erik a curve ball instead of answering.
"You're still not wearing your helmet."
"No," Erik says after a startled moment. Then, "How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough," Charles hedges. From the broken edge of fear in his eyes, Erik surmises that he overheard Mystique's report. But Charles doesn't press for more information—fortunate, since Erik has nothing more to give—and instead locks Erik with a piercing look and asks, "Did we really just do all that?"
"You mean did I just fuck you?" Erik says.
Charles flinches at the blunt words, dragging his eyes from Erik and focusing his gaze at the ceiling. The movement displays his throat, and Erik swallows back a hungry sound at seeing the bruises, visible proof of all the ways Charles just let Erik claim him.
"That's a yes, then," Charles murmurs uncomfortably.
Erik forces his eyes back to Charles's face, even though Charles isn't looking at him.
"Do you want me to apologize?"
"No," Charles says. But he's still not looking at Erik, and Erik feels something tight and uncomfortable—and a little too much like regret—twist in his chest.
"Are you sure?" he asks. His voice sounds too deep, too rough with gravel, and without thinking the words through he adds, "At best I took advantage. At worst—"
"How long have you wanted to do that to me?" Charles cuts him off in a clipped, breathless voice. His gaze drifts towards Erik almost like an afterthought, and despite his best efforts to hold motionless Erik finds himself shifting closer to Charles. He watches, oddly disconnected, as his own hand reaches out—as he trails the back of his index finger over the bruises at Charles's throat.
Charles shivers, breath hitching tightly, but he doesn't move away from the touch.
"Do you really want to know?" Erik asks softly.
Charles's lips press into a line, and Erik's gaze is caught again by the line of Charles's throat as he swallows.
"So you've thought about it before," Charles says in a cautious tone.
"Oh, Charles," Erik says, almost smiling despite the unsteady mire of emotions in his chest. "Of course I have." Leave it to Charles to ask the obvious question. Erik finds fragmented images springing to mind, memories of vivid scenes painted in the privacy of his own thoughts—so rarely indulged in, but impossible to deny himself completely. Erik's brow crinkles slightly as he adds, "Though admittedly, in most of my fantasies you were more…"
"Experienced?" Charles supplies dryly—the guess is both incorrect and unfair.
"Willing," Erik counters.
Charles freezes at the correction. He stares at Erik with wide eyes, disbelief written across his features. His lips are just slightly parted, his eyebrows knit tightly together. He looks like he wants to twist away from the hand still touching his throat but can't quite figure out how. He looks…
Furious, Erik realizes. And as the silence stretches between them, Erik finds himself leaning closer instead of backing away. Charles's chin juts in defiant challenge, and Erik's fingers slip higher along Charles's throat—until his hand is curled beneath Charles's jaw in a gesture so far from casual it leaves his skin tingling.
Charles draws in a single, sharp breath and says, "I had to all but beg for it, and now you claim I wasn't willing enough?"
"That's not what I meant." Erik's thumb traces idly over Charles's jaw, a caress ghosting back and forth. "You're not exactly at the top of your game right now, and I… may have been a bit too forceful."
"A bit," Charles snorts. And though he doesn't look particularly appeased, there's a different expression on his face now. Something wary and bright and maybe even scared. Erik doesn't mean to lean closer, but somehow the mattress is dipping from the weight of the arm he has braced beside Charles, and Charles's face is so close now that Erik can see the darker flecks of blue in his eyes.
"What is it?" Erik asks, not sure how to interpret the look.
Charles hesitates, shifting uncertainly against the mattress.
Finally he asks, "Are you in love with me, Erik?"
Erik's pulse rushes sharply in his ears, adrenaline surging hard through his body, and he chokes, "For god's sake, Charles. What do you think?"
Stubborn resolve flashes in Charles's eyes and he says, "I think it's been a very long time since I was able to read your mind, and I need you to say it."
Erik hesitates, not because he's unsure of his answer, but because the weight of it clogs his throat. He needs a moment to find his voice, and to muster up the words.
"Of course I'm in love with you," Erik whispers at last.
"You should have said something."
"Oh, Charles," Erik shakes his head sadly. "You wouldn't have wanted to hear it."
Erik wishes he were wrong, but the quickly shuttered guilt on Charles's face says he's right on target. Whatever brought them to this point—whatever violent, possessive instincts Erik knows he has to thank for the fact that Charles is looking at him like he's actually considering all this—Erik knows he could never have spoken up sooner.
There's a bruise at the base of Charles's throat—right where neck and shoulder are indistinguishable—that's darker than the rest, and rather than try to find words to express the impossible, Erik leans in and nuzzles at the spot, pressing a kiss to the marked flesh. Charles shivers beneath him, and Erik kisses the next bruise up the line of his throat, and a third after that.
Charles gasps, reaches uncoordinated fingers to tangle in Erik's hair and hang on.
Erik kisses higher, until his lips are brushing Charles's ear, and finally he says, "You need to tell me to stop."
Charles laughs, a wry sound that makes Erik's heart stutter in his chest, and he's choked when he says, "I'm not sure I remember how."
God, it sounds like an invitation. It sounds like a plea. It sounds as lost and confused as Erik feels, if nowhere near as desperate, and he jerks back more abruptly than he means to. He yanks his hands away from Charles's body and sits back. If he could bear to put any more space than that between them, he would stand and start pacing, but the thought of that much distance makes his stomach crawl. So he stays, and watches Charles's hands settle against the edge of the pillow on either side of his head.
Erik wants to reach out and trail his fingers down the length of Charles's bare chest. He wants to map every inch of Charles with his mouth, lay even more bruises so that anyone who looks at Charles will know exactly to whom he belongs.
The desire to touch is so intense that Erik has to clench his hands into fists in order to resist.
"Raven is right," Charles says, startling Erik from his thoughts. "You should rest."
Erik blinks down at him, slow to catch up.
"Excuse me?" he says.
"You look exhausted," Charles explains. "How long has it been since you had a proper night's sleep?"
Erik stares at him and can't answer. He hasn't slept more than scattered, fitful hours since he learned Charles had been taken.
The answer must show in his eyes, because Charles's worried expression softens to something more exasperated.
"You should rest," he repeats.
"I'm not leaving you," Erik insists. The thought of walking through that door, even for a few short hours, makes his heart pound angrily.
"Then stay," Charles says. A ghost of a smile—the first Erik has seen in a painfully long time—lightens his features as he adds, "I'll protect you."
Erik should protest. The bed is too small. It's his job to do the protecting. He can't rest until he knows Charles is safe, and as long as they're here—as long as the future remains unsure—there's no such certainty to be had.
But Charles is staring him down, fiercely determined, and when he shifts towards the wall to make room, Erik knows he's not going to protest.
"Okay," he whispers, and stretches into the space beside Charles.
The bed is too small for both of them, but Erik doesn't mind having to curl close. Especially when Charles shifts to face him and lets himself be tucked against Erik's chest, lets Erik wrap him in a possessive embrace and press an exhausted kiss to his temple.
"Sleep," Charles murmurs. And though the word comes unaccompanied by any telepathic nudge, Erik drifts off almost instantly, lulled by Charles's warmth and weight in his arms.
Charles doesn't intend to fall sleep himself. He doubts he'll be able to with Erik wrapped so tightly around him, Erik's arms warm and possessive, his breath steady over Charles's skin.
But there's something calming in the way he can feel Erik's heartbeat beneath his palm, and Charles finds his eyes growing heavier with each passing moment.
He startles awake feeling chilly and bereft, with no idea how much time has passed.
He's alone in the narrow bed now, and he casts around with his thoughts, searching for the nearest minds—
Only to stop short at the painful jolt of emptiness that ricochets through him. The world is a void of unwelcome quiet, and Charles doesn't know how he could've forgotten.
It takes him a moment to realize he can hear actual voices in the room around him. Erik is murmuring in a low tone as though trying not to wake him, and when Charles opens his eyes he sees Raven nodding in agreement with whatever Erik just said.
"And the rest of my instructions?" Erik asks. Charles has to strain to make out the words.
"We're ready to move," Raven says. "The facility has been cleared, our people are back aboard the jets."
"Azazel?"
"Is ready to bring the place down. He's just waiting for you."
Erik hesitates, then. Charles wonders why—though he stops wondering when Erik shifts his weight and throws a worried look his direction. He doesn't seem surprised to find Charles awake. Mostly he just seems reluctant to leave the room, even in order to handle whatever needs to be done.
"Go," Mystique says, sparing just a short glance for Charles. "I've brought warm clothes. I'll make sure he makes it to safety."
"Signal as soon as you're clear," Erik says, tearing his eyes from Charles without acknowledging him. He strides towards the door, and disappears through it without another word.
Charles watches the door swing shut, and belatedly sits up.
His body aches with the movement. He feels the throb of tired muscles, and a deeper pulse of discomfort somewhere far more intimate, and he moves gingerly as he slides his legs over the side of the bed and presses bare feet to the cold floor.
"Here," Raven says. Her tone is brusque as she crosses the room and tosses a pile of folded clothes on the bed beside him. Dark colors, thick fabrics, a heavy pair of boots lying askew on top of the pile.
"Thank you," Charles says, feeling suddenly awkward. Raven stands a short distance away, looking so natural in blue, and Charles wonders how he could ever have thought of her as anything but beautiful. Guilt twists in his stomach, all those years he spent hurting her simply because he couldn't see what Erik clearly understood at first glance, and he suddenly has trouble meeting her eyes.
"How do you feel?" she asks.
Charles doesn't want to answer. He feels like hell. He feels wrung out and exhausted and empty. He feels wrong. The audible silence in the room makes it exponentially more difficult to ignore the gap in his perceptions where other minds should be murmuring, and having Raven so close without being able to sense anything is making it difficult to breathe.
"Charles?" she says, setting a hand on his bare shoulder. There's sharp concern in her voice. Without thinking, Charles surges to his feet.
He wraps his arms around her, and nearly gasps in relief when she reaches up to twine her arms around his neck and return the embrace. His eyes sting ominously, and even though he knows she's stronger than him, he still wonders if he's crushing her.
It's surreal holding her like this. The natural texture of her bare skin beneath his hands, against his chest. It should feel awkward.
Somehow it doesn't, and when they finally part, a weak but genuine smile curls at one corner of his mouth.
"It's good to see you, Raven," he says.
Something sad shadows her eyes, and he asks, "What?"
"No one calls me that anymore, Charles. It's not who I am."
"Then what do I—"
"Mystique," she says. "Call me Mystique."
"I'll do my best," Charles says. He's heard the name before, but it will be an adjustment.
Raven—Mystique, he reminds himself, tripping on it already—gives him a fond, exasperated look.
"Come on," she says, nudging him in the arm. "Get changed. We've got to get out of here so Magneto can tear this place down."
The air is so cold it makes Charles's lungs hurt, but he stands on the open ramp at the aft of the jet and watches from a distance as Erik takes the facility apart.
A sequence of explosions rattles the air and shakes the earth—tall plumes of smoke and fire that cascade along the landscape and drag the gray walls down to crumbling ruin. Even from this distance, Charles can see the ground give out beneath the structure, and everything collapses in on itself, down and down, until there's nothing left but a smoking crater and melting snow.
An instant later there's a swirl of red in the snow at the base of the ramp, and Azazel is darts past Charles, disappearing inside the jet.
Erik, once Azazel has released his arm, moves more slowly. There's no rush now, Charles knows, and he takes in the sight of Erik wearing his gloves and cape, that awful helmet tucked under one arm.
Charles hates that helmet. He would destroy it in an instant if he could. It hurts that the only reason Erik isn't wearing it now is that Charles doesn't currently pose a threat, and as Erik approaches him Charles has trouble swallowing past the lump of raw emotion in his throat.
How did they reach this point? What happened that they went from allies—brothers—to this?
The thought of separating now—of watching Erik put that helmet on and disappear back to a life in which Charles has no place—Charles doesn't know if he's strong enough to allow it.
Erik stops beside him, hovering close. He's standing far nearer than he probably even realizes, gravitating towards Charles with an unspoken intensity—leaning close so that his chest brushes Charles's arm and sends a shiver along Charles's spine.
"I'd rather not let you out of my sight for the time being," Erik says. His voice is a throaty rumble that makes Charles's skin feel warm despite the bitter cold air.
Without looking at him, Charles says, "Then come back to the school with me."
"You know I can't do that."
Of course he can't. Charles swallows thickly, regret settling sour in his chest. He hates that he can't make this right. He hates a world that forces them to such extremes that any compromise between them is impossible. In this one, ugly moment, he very nearly hates the humans themselves.
But anger quickly subsides beneath calm resignation. Erik will never be able to meet him halfway.
"I suppose I could go with you," Charles finally says, struggling to keep his tone even and calm. "Just for the time being. Back to… wherever it is you go when you're not planting explosives and coordinating attacks on human power structures."
Erik startles visibly beside him, a tightening of his spine that's obvious even in Charles's peripheral vision. Charles turns, then. He inclines his body just enough to meet Erik's eyes, and finds Erik staring down at him with unmuted surprise.
"I didn't think you would consider that," Erik says.
Charles shrugs, though the gesture doesn't feel half as careless as he intends.
"If you have a viable compromise to propose, I'm listening."
Emotions cascade across Erik's face in a quick sequence, and it's all Charles can do to keep up. Relief. Hope. Fear, and then, finally, reluctant skepticism.
"I can't give you free rein in the Brotherhood's base of operations, Charles. The secrets I protect are no longer mine alone. And I refuse to treat you like a prisoner. Besides, it's only a matter of time before these chemicals clear your system, and then you could read every mind in the place as easily as glancing through a book."
There's sadness in his eyes as he explains, and Charles feels a matching sadness echo in his own chest. He knows Erik is right.
But he can't let it end like this—not this time—and so he squares his shoulders and turns to regard Erik face to face. They're standing close enough that he can feel the warmth of Erik's breath on his skin.
"If I gave you my word that I would not interfere… that I would not indulge in any of your secrets or read any mutant's mind while I was there… would that be enough?"
"You would do that?"
"Answer the question."
"Yes," Erik says. "It would be enough."
"Then I promise," Charles says, taking a step back and squaring his jaw. "If you take me with you, I give my word I will not take advantage of your hospitality."
Erik levels an intense look at him, heavy with undercurrents Charles can't decipher. Charles is suddenly painfully aware of the emptiness clawing at his insides—the fact that, without the helmet in his way, he should be able to feel enough to fill in the gaps of Erik's silence.
When Erik finally nods, Charles lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
As they move up the ramp together, Erik's hand settles at the back of Charles's neck and he leans in close enough to whisper privately.
"If your telepathy doesn't return naturally, I swear to you we'll find a way to reverse the process."
"I believe you," Charles says.
The alternative doesn't bear considering.
Charles lets Erik blindfold him for the duration of the journey, but the artificial darkness brings fresh panic rushing beneath his skin. He finds it difficult to keep his breathing calm and his thoughts in order.
His absent telepathy is already a constant thrum of wrongness and disorientation inside him. Losing another sense, even temporarily, leaves him even more adrift.
Charles reminds himself that at the moment there are no certainties. There's every chance his telepathic senses will return in due course, and if he focuses on that—if he willfully ignores the fact that the alternative is equally true—he can keep it together in the meantime.
So Charles blocks out every What-If. He reminds himself that these are questions only time will answer, and then he takes every doubt, every fear, every hint of panic, and he walls them away. He digs a cave for all the things that are too overwhelming to process—dodging a sliver of guilt as he piles his new, confused feelings for Erik in alongside—and closes it tightly off.
The barrier won't hold forever. Charles is too much the scientist to let difficult questions go unanalyzed for long. But for the moment it's enough, and it lets him draw his first steady breath in weeks.
He's still grateful that between Erik and Mystique, someone is always close at hand, offering constant distraction through the duration of the flight.
It's not until the jet has come to a stop that the blindfold comes off. As they disembark, Charles blinks to let his eyes readjust.
They're either underground or in an incredibly well-insulated hangar. Or perhaps it's nighttime. There's no sunlight filtering into this wide space. The only illumination comes from overhead fluorescents and the evenly spaced light sconces along opposite walls.
"This way," Erik says, setting a hand at the small of Charles's back and guiding him towards a door halfway down the nearest wall. Charles catches the look Erik throws Mystique—the one raised eyebrow, Mystique's responding nod, an entire exchange communicating orders Charles has no hope of understanding—and then Mystique vanishes the other direction.
The corridor Erik steers him into is simple and elegant. Narrow with tall ceilings, all smooth edges and closed doors. They pass broader spaces now and then, graceful support columns and walls that flow naturally with few sharp edges breaking the effect. Charles takes it in with quiet admiration.
"This is beautiful, Erik," he says as they cross a sloping bridge that carries them over some kind of natural rock formation—definitely underground, then.
"It's efficient," Erik says, though there's a pleased glint in his eyes.
"Did you make all of it?"
"Most of it," Erik concedes. Then stops abruptly in front of a door that looks exactly like every other door in the slim corridor. "Here," he says.
"Here what?"
But Erik is already opening the door, without bothering to touch the inset panel that Charles has to assume functions as the door's locking mechanism. He gestures Charles into the room and follows a step behind, nudging the door closed again behind them.
The room looks sparse but comfortable. Empty bookshelves, a generous bed in one corner, and a door on the far wall that sits slightly ajar, offering a glimpse of simple amenities. The bed's frame seems to be crafted from material twisted straight up from the floor.
"These are your quarters," Erik says. "I've made sure you're across the hall from Mystique."
"My… quarters," Charles repeats, blinking and trying not to sound too shocked.
"You seem surprised," Erik says, tilting his head and giving Charles an odd look.
"I just…" Charles laughs, sheepish and suddenly self-conscious. "I assumed I would be staying with you."
A pained expression crosses Erik's face.
"I didn't want to presume," Erik says.
Charles feels unexpected gratitude swell in his chest at the words, and he breathes a quiet, "Thank you for that."
Erik nods, then casts his eyes about the nearly empty quarters as though looking for a change in subject. When it becomes apparent nothing is springing to mind, Charles takes pity on him.
"I suppose a more thorough tour of the premises is out of the question."
Erik gives him a rueful smile and shakes his head.
"I'm afraid so. I don't intend to lock you up in here, but I can't allow you into any sensitive areas."
"Then," Charles says, suddenly uncertain. "At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I'd like to see your room."
Erik chuckles at the request, and the sound reassures Charles that he hasn't gone too far.
"Certainly," Erik says. Then, turning for the door, "Try to keep up."
Charles likes Erik's quarters significantly better than his own assigned accommodations.
It's not a question of craftsmanship. In terms of construction and décor, the rooms are nearly indistinguishable. Erik's is quite a bit larger, but consists of the same fluid framework, the same sculpted bed.
But even the most superficial glance tells Charles to whom this room belongs. The bookshelf is packed with titles, predominantly in English and German, but with half a dozen other languages scattered into the mix. The bed is covered in dark sheets, pillows plusher than mere efficiency dictates. There's a desk against the far wall, busy with materials but carefully ordered—no files or documents sit open for prying eyes.
A spare cape hangs off the bathroom door, and the bed looks carelessly rumpled, as though Erik slept a fitful night and then left in too great a hurry to bother remaking it.
There's also a small table in one corner. An elegant chess set sits atop of it.
The pieces look as though they've never been touched.
Charles gravitates instinctively towards the table, and doesn't ask permission before reaching out to touch one of the black bishops. He feels Erik's eyes on him as he picks up the piece and turns it in his hand.
"Fancy a game?" Erik asks softly.
And despite everything—despite the silence in his head and the unfamiliar surroundings and the helmet that even now he can see sitting like an unpleasant afterthought on a corner of Erik's desk—Charles can't help but smile.
They play four games, one after another, and it's not until a yawn interrupts Charles's invitation to a fifth that Erik realizes how late the hour has become.
"It's two in the morning, Charles," he says, resetting the pieces without any intention of beginning another game. "Let me show you back to your quarters." It's a complicated route from Erik's corner of the base to the corridor of personal habitats where Charles will be sleeping. And while he wouldn't put it past Charles to have memorized the route from navigating it once, Erik would rather not leave him to make the trek alone.
It's not so much a question of trust as it is the urge to be a good host. Or, perhaps more honestly, the fact that he's not ready to let Charles out of his sight.
He doesn't explain, and he doesn't expect Charles will ask. Instead, Erik stands from the table, hovering close as Charles does the same.
But Charles doesn't immediately move for the door, and suddenly he's not meeting Erik's eyes. There's renewed tension in his shoulders, nervousness in the way he catches his lower lip between his teeth.
"Are you all right?" Erik asks. He wonders if he's done something wrong.
"Do you think I could just stay here tonight?" Charles asks in an awkward rush.
Erik stares. Blinks. Stands frozen in place, because that particular question is the very last thing he expected to hear from Charles tonight.
"You actually want to?" he checks, skepticism heavy in his voice.
"It's not—," Charles starts, but cuts himself abruptly off. Erik steps closer—he can't help it, not when Charles is staring at the floor like that, like he wants to burn a hole through it—and after the briefest pause, he sets a hand on Charles's shoulder.
"What is it?" Erik asks.
Charles finally meets his eyes, and something too much like fear is visible behind his gaze.
"I don't particularly want to be alone," Charles admits. "It's… the quiet is worse, somehow. When I'm not with you."
"It feels different?" Erik asks.
"No," Charles amends. "Not different, just… harder to swallow." His lips thin in an unhappy expression, and his eyes cut once again away from Erik.
"I'm sorry," Charles says before Erik can agree. "I'm sorry, I know it's not… It isn't fair of me to ask for just your company like this, when you've made it quite clear you want more than that from me. I just—"
"Charles," Erik finally interrupts.
Charles raises his eyes, reluctant and hopeful, and Erik gives his shoulder a squeeze.
"You can stay," Erik says. "I promise to behave."
When Charles smiles, the expression is bright with relief, and it's all Erik can do to take his hand back and keep his word.
Charles sleeps better than he expects to in Erik's bed. Not just that first night, but every night that follows. Charles doesn't return to his assigned room, and Erik clearly has no intention of sending him away.
The bed is wide enough to leave them both plenty of room, but Charles still finds himself waking repeatedly in Erik's space, wound close and warm and intimate.
It should feel like more of a revelation than this, perhaps. It shouldn't be this easy to wrap himself in Erik's arms—to curl against his chest like he belongs there—to drift back to sleep as though this is exactly the way things are supposed to be.
But after the fierce confession of Erik's feelings for him, Charles can't bring himself to be uncomfortable with the intimacy he finds himself sharing with Erik now.
The third morning he wakes in Erik's arms, face tucked near Erik's throat, it feels only natural to press a kiss to the pulse point so near at hand.
He might not have done it if he knew Erik was already awake. Or at least he would have braced himself for the way the light kiss makes Erik descend on him with greedy hands and mouth. Erik's touch is rough and focused, and completely overwhelming. Charles's senses swim, even as he parts his lips for Erik's tongue and arches beneath him.
Erik jerks away in a jarring instant, and when Charles opens his eyes, his friend's expression is strained but bemused.
"That," says Erik, "was not an intelligent thing to do."
"Sorry," Charles says breathlessly.
He doesn't try to offer an explanation. There is no coherent rationale for whatever this is between them. He should appreciate Erik's efforts to keep his hands to himself, but he also finds himself wondering, sometimes idly and sometimes not, just how hard he would have to push to tear down Erik's self control.
He shouldn't want a repeat of the violent chaos of the first time Erik touched him. And he doesn't want it like that, not really.
But Charles does want Erik. That much is painfully clear to him—almost as clear as the reality that this arrangement is only temporary. He can't stay, any more than he can expect Erik to sacrifice his own principles and follow Charles back to the school.
The grim sense of inevitability twists unpleasantly in Charles's chest. It doesn't seem possible for it to hurt more than being cut off from his telepathic abilities, but god, it's a wonder Charles doesn't shatter right here.
"Are you all right?" Erik asks, worried at the extended silence.
"Fine," Charles says, tucking those feelings away as deeply as he can. "I'm fine."
Erik looks skeptical, but doesn't press for more. Charles takes a slow, steadying breath and tries not to look too grateful.
Much as Charles is greedy for Erik's time, he knows his friend has other responsibilities.
When Erik is off handling Brotherhood business, Charles is generally left to his own devices.
He knows better than to go exploring, but he remembers the way back to the quarters Erik first showed him—and he knows which door belongs to Mystique. She always smiles to see him, and invites him in. For tea, for conversation. Their discussions generally stay light-hearted.
There's no point covering the well-worn ground of their ideological differences.
Charles suspects Mystique would be more easily swayed than Erik, but he's far from confident in the outcome of that argument.
Besides, even if he knew he could win her over and convince her to return to the school, he's not sure he could bring himself to do it. Taking her away would leave Erik with… who?
No one Charles trusts the way he trusts Mystique. And considering the path laid out before them, Erik is going to need someone watching his back. If that someone can't be Charles, at least he knows Mystique won't let him down.
He's been a guest in the Brotherhood's hidden base for nine days. He's spent every night of his stay in Erik's bed, even if that time has been spent innocently enough. His mind is perhaps not as present in his conversation with Mystique as it should be, distracted as he is by thoughts of Erik's piercing eyes drilling into him this morning, and Charles takes longer than he should to realize Mystique's words have trailed off to nothing.
He doesn't know how long it's been since they both lapsed into silence, and he sits straighter in his chair, trying to decipher the concerned expression on her face.
"What is it?" he finally asks.
She glances aside guiltily, staring down at the table where her hands are wrapped around a blue coffee mug that's barely a shade lighter than her skin. Charles doesn't press, though he's tempted to. He doesn't demand an explanation. He simply waits, forcing himself to be patient and calm, as she swallows and finally gathers her thoughts into words.
"You were never interested in men," she says.
It's not what Charles was expecting, and he blinks in surprise.
"No," he says. "I suppose I wasn't."
"This thing between you and Erik…," she says, reluctant in a way that surprises him. "It's mutual, right?"
Charles stares at her in profile, embarrassed at how relieved he is she's not looking at him right now. His face flushes hot, and he's not sure what to say. How can he explain to her when he's having such a hard time wrapping his own head around it?
"Raven…" he says, and for once she doesn't correct him for tripping over her old name.
"I know he can be intense," she says, and when she raises yellow eyes to lock with his, he's not fast enough to look away. "But Charles… you can't just humor him. It won't fix anything. And it's not fair to either one of you."
"That's not what I'm doing," he says tightly. Her eyes stare right through him, and he wishes suddenly, so strongly it hurts, that he had access to his telepathic senses. Not to read her mind—that would be cheating—but so he could feel her at least. So he wouldn't feel like he was flailing blind right now.
"But you're not in love with him," she says.
The words seize up in Charles's chest, stop his breath in his lungs, and he needs to look away. There's something dangerous in the air, a cliff's edge spinning closer, and Charles needs to break out of this staring contest before—
"Oh my god," Mystique whispers. "You are in love with him."
"Oh my god," Charles echoes.
Then he's rising, stumbling to his feet. The chair clatters to the floor, and the room is spinning, and someone is calling his name. The table feels unsteady beneath his hands, and panic tingles along his skin.
"Oh god," he repeats, and his legs give out.
There are hands on his arms, guiding support as he falls to his knees, and he's shaking, god, he's shaking so hard his entire body is beginning to ache.
He knew he was getting too close. He knew he was beginning to feel… something. Even before Cuba, his friendship with Erik was always right there on the cusp of more, and Charles should've seen this coming.
Christ, this isn't possible. Realizing he's in love shouldn't hurt this much.
Raven is still speaking to him—Mystique is still speaking—in a low, soothing tone. Charles can't decipher the words through the panic pulsing in his blood, but he feels her voice grounding him gradually. The room stops spinning by degrees, and he remembers how to work air in and out of his lungs.
He closes his eyes and takes a measured breath. In and out, slow and steadying. When he finally opens his eyes he finds Mystique watching him carefully, worry flashing across her face.
"Does he know?" she asks.
Charles laughs, manic and mirthless, and drops forward, thumping his forehead against her shoulder and resting it there tiredly.
"If he does, he's a great deal quicker on the uptake than me." But Charles doubts it. If Erik had already figured this out, Charles can't imagine him keeping his hands to himself.
"Come on," Mystique says, tugging him to unsteady feet. "I think we need to get you something stiffer to drink."
The revelation lodges in Charles's heart and makes it difficult to meet Erik's eyes.
He still crawls into bed beside Erik that night. He doesn't even make a pretense at settling on his own side of the bed for once. He curls on his side, right in the center of the mattress, and holds his breath until Erik settles close behind him. Erik's arm drapes over his stomach, and Charles lets out the breath he's been holding.
The hammer of his racing pulse slows only reluctantly, and it's a long time before he drifts to sleep.
He's alone again.
He's probably not supposed to know that Erik and Mystique have left the base on business, but even without telepathy it's difficult to keep some things from him.
He doesn't know where they've gone. He doesn't intend to ask.
He could pass the time reading one of the books on Erik's shelf, or exploring any number of corridors that haven't been designated off-limits, but instead Charles finds himself sitting on a broad bridge in a sprawling natural cavern, legs dangling over the edge and gaze taking in a distant view of columns and stalactites.
There must be artificial lighting wired into the formations to allow for a view like this—a thought that undermines Erik's arguments about pure efficiency, and draws a wry smile to Charles's lips.
Mutants have been wandering past him off-and-on all morning, so Charles thinks nothing of the approach of quiet footsteps.
He startles when the footsteps stop immediately beside him, and in his peripheral vision he sees dark shoes and black trousers. A quick glimpse of red catches his eye, and when Charles tilts his head back and back, it's Azazel he finds standing beside him.
"I thought you would be with Erik," Charles says, surprised that the teleporter is still in the base.
Azazel smirks as he folds to the ground beside Charles, dangling his legs over the edge of the bridge in a mirroring pose.
"My particular talents are not required today," he says simply. Charles doesn't even consider pressing for more information.
"Is there something I can do for you?" he asks instead, genuinely curious. Azazel's company is not something he expected.
"No," Azazel says. But he makes no move to leave.
The silence that settles between them is surprisingly comfortable, and Charles wonders at the surreal sense of… not companionship exactly, but tacit understanding.
"What is it like?" Azazel asks, startling Charles from his thoughts.
"I'm sorry?" Charles turns and blinks at him, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
"Perhaps I am too forward," Azazel says. "But I am curious. Your telepathy… you have had it since you were a child, yes?"
"Yes," Charles concedes uncomfortably.
"I was quite young when Shaw helped me to discover my own abilities," Azazel says. "I cannot imagine what it would be like to have them suddenly stifled."
Charles doesn't want to think about this, let alone talk about it. By all rights he should tell Azazel that it's none of his business.
But there's no malice in Azazel's tone. No pity, either, for which Charles is grateful. A hint of concern, perhaps, but mostly a genuine curiosity that makes Charles open his mouth to answer before he's even considered his response.
"I don't know if I can describe it," he admits. "It's…" Emptiness. Silence. Ragged and claustrophobic and tight, cold panic twisting in his chest if he lets his guard down long enough to feel it. "…horrible," he finally says. "Like reaching out to touch someone's hand, and knowing you should be able to feel it—their skin, their warmth, their pulse—and instead finding… nothing."
Azazel's eyes darken in sympathy, and Charles swallows stubbornly past the lump in his throat.
"I can't imagine you like me much," Charles says softly. "But I know you were in Alaska with Erik… you came to my rescue anyway."
Azazel nods wordlessly.
"Why?" Charles asks, turning his head to look Azazel straight in the eyes. Azazel doesn't flinch beneath his focus or his question. The scars stand out clearly when Charles looks at him like this, and they distort the look of wry bemusement that crosses Azazel's face.
"I suspect you would do the same," Azazel observes, and Charles doesn't have it in him to disagree. "Besides. They would eventually have killed you. I do not think Magneto would ever have recovered from your death."
"And that matters to you?" Charles asks softly. He doesn't mean to be flip, or cold, or even rude. He's genuinely curious. Azazel seems to take his question without offense, if the narrow flash of smile is anything to go by.
"I have sworn to protect him," Azazel says. "If in order to do so I must protect you as well, then so be it."
Charles feels his eyes widen at the assertion, and Azazel's smile quirks wider.
"You look surprised," he observes.
"I suppose…" Charles flounders. "I assumed it was the cause you believed in, and not the man." He remembers clearly enough standing on a beach on Cuba—how quickly Azazel stepped forward and took Erik's hand after watching Shaw's body drop lifeless to the sand.
Azazel nods as though following the train of Charles's logic. When he speaks, it's with slow consideration measuring his words.
"Perhaps, in this case, they are the same."
Charles is standing beside the chess set, staring blankly down at the pieces when Erik returns to his quarters that evening.
Edgy impatience thrums beneath Charles's skin. Perhaps he simply had too much time in his own head today, or perhaps it's Erik's conspicuous absence for what felt like an interminable stretch of hours. Perhaps Charles has had too long to mull over his own feelings and come to dangerous conclusions.
Erik closes the door behind him with a dull click. He takes off the helmet first. Then the gloves, the cape, the broad-shouldered jacket, until he's just Erik again, standing there in a black turtleneck and looking at Charles as though he wants to say something ridiculous like, "Honey, I'm home."
Charles holds his ground for five whole seconds before he's crossing the room and pulling Erik down into a kiss.
It's not a subtle kiss. Charles doesn't think subtlety is a power he possesses right now. He parts his lips in invitation, fingers slipping through the short strands of Erik's hair as Charles presses against him with unguarded purpose. His tongue darts forward into Erik's mouth, coaxing Erik's tongue to action, and he gasps when strong hands curl around his hips and hold on almost too tightly.
There's uncertainty in Erik's eyes when they part, and he searches Charles's face with painful intensity.
"I need you to be perfectly clear with me right now, Charles," Erik says. His voice is an aroused rumble low in his chest, and Charles's pulse stutters in anticipation.
"You can touch me tonight," Charles says in a rush. "I want you to touch me." Then, leaning up—rising to his toes and leaning so close that a light breeze is all it would take to have them kissing again—he whispers, "Please."
It's Erik who closes the distance, wrapping one hand around the base of Charles's skull and claiming his mouth a second time. The kiss is all sharp edges and unmuted hunger, Erik's tongue in his mouth and hands dragging Charles roughly against him. He manhandles Charles towards the bed without breaking the kiss, then lays him back across the mattress, shifting Charles far enough up the bed for Erik to stretch out on top of him, all weight and heat and unmistakable intent.
Erik reaches for the edge of Charles's shirt, tugging it out from his pants, and then Erik's hand is sliding beneath the fabric, along his flank, and the caress of skin against skin makes Charles gasp.
Erik stops then. He goes still on top of Charles, pulling fractionally back. He doesn't go far—just enough to look Charles in the eye—and he doesn't takes his hands from Charles's body.
"Are you sure about this?" Erik asks. His voice is ragged rubble and shattering control.
"Completely," Charles says. His chest aches with the impossible force of everything he feels for Erik—of how badly they have the potential to hurt each other—but he needs this.
Erik moves slowly, then. Measured and deliberate as he slides his hands to grip both of Charles's wrists—as he pins them deliberately to the mattress without breaking the heavy, heated eye contact smoldering between them. It's almost like he's waiting for permission.
When Charles doesn't protest, Erik leans in—so slowly Charles has to remind himself to breathe—and nuzzles at Charles's jaw. It's a wordless command, and Charles instantly obeys. He tilts his head back, arching his neck and baring his throat.
Erik's mouth is slick and warm on his skin, and Charles cries out—pleasure and surprise—when Erik's teeth close on the sensitive flesh just beneath his jaw. Erik sucks on the heated point of the kiss, tongue playing over the spot and soothing the bite, and Charles chokes back a needy whimper.
Erik is marking him. Deliberately. Right where the previous line of bruises has finally faded. And Charles arches against him, eager and lost.
Erik's touch grows frantic then, and he releases Charles's wrists in favor of tugging at inconvenient clothing, touching him everywhere he can. His hands are rough and possessive, and Charles submits to everything, every wordless command, gasping and writhing and opening for every kiss Erik leans in to claim.
Erik doesn't fuck him, not tonight, but he finds a hundred other ways to take Charles apart.
They collapse naked and sated, hours later, and Charles doesn't complain when Erik crawls practically on top of him as they're drifting towards sleep.
"Can we do that again tomorrow?" Erik asks in an exhausted rumble. The words are teasing enough, but there's a more serious edge to the request. There's genuine hope. And Charles smiles against Erik's throat, a little sadly, and presses a kiss to the slowing pulse.
"As many times as you like."
Erik doesn't shirk his duties, despite the way he resents every moment he isn't spending in Charles's company.
Charles has been their guest for nearly three weeks, and Erik has to constantly remind himself that their arrangement is temporary. It's only a matter of time before the other shoe drops—before Charles's abilities return and their truce comes to an inevitable end.
Erik still believes Charles's abilities will return. The alternative is unthinkable.
But it's difficult to remember sometimes, that Charles will eventually have to leave. It's too easy to imagine him staying, a constant fixture at Erik's side. It's all too pleasant a fantasy, and all too easy to fall into when he keeps waking up with Charles in his bed—when he returns to his quarters each night and finds Charles there, eager and waiting and greedy to have Erik's hands on him.
Erik knows he doesn't get to have this forever. But keeping that reality firm in his head is too painful, and so Erik falls into the routine instead.
He knows he's asleep. The dream is a familiar one—empty corridors carved from metal and stone. The Brotherhood's familiar doors and structures.
But the layout is wrong. The corridors move in unpredictable circles, connecting in all the wrong places, and no matter who Erik is looking for, he can't find them. There's no one here, and no way out, and Erik hears nothing but his own footsteps echoing though rooms that are otherwise silent.
"What are you looking for?" comes a familiar voice, and Erik spins in surprise, twisting in place and searching out the source of the words.
"Charles," he gasps. This doesn't happen. This isn't in the script. Erik moves towards Charles in a rush, tightly wound and ready to pounce.
He's surprised when Charles flinches back at his approach, until he realizes Charles isn't looking at his face—he's looking at the helmet Erik didn't even realize he was wearing.
He stops before he ends up crowding Charles awkwardly against the wall, and removes the helmet with unsteady hands. Charles's expression softens, gratitude and relief, and his eyes follow the helmet in Erik's grasp.
"I hate that thing," Charles murmurs.
"I know," Erik says, stomach twisting with guilt. He wishes the helmet weren't necessary. He wishes they could fight for each other instead of against.
"But you'll put it back on anyway," Charles says darkly. "You don't trust me."
"I want to," Erik says, and the helmet falls from his hands and clatters to the floor. He surges forward, backs Charles against the wall and says, "I want to trust you. But, Charles… you're too damned principled. You would try to stop me. How could you do anything less?"
Charles breathes a soft laugh, low and unhappy, and his eyes are pained and bright.
"I suppose we're doomed to hurt each other, then."
"Don't say that," Erik gasps. And when Charles opens his mouth as though to retort, Erik cuts him off with a kiss—quick, desperate and deep—shoving him harder against the wall.
Charles clutches at Erik's back, tilting his head and opening for the kiss, and Erik feels tears stinging in his eyes as he frames Charles's face with his hands—
He wakes smooth and fast, in his own room, right where he should be.
Charles lies beside him—right where he should be—and his eyes are open.
He's watching Erik with a strange expression, gaze weighted with comprehension and sadness. Erik stares at him for an oblivious moment, then his eyes widen in understanding.
"That wasn't just a dream," he realizes, voice a rough whisper. "That was you."
"I'm sorry," Charles says. Not because he's broken his promise—Erik knows somehow that Charles hasn't rummaged unwelcome through his thoughts—but because this is the moment of simultaneous hope and dread that's been looming over them for weeks.
"It started yesterday," Charles continues. "But until now it wasn't strong enough… I wasn't sure…."
Erik rolls forward, interrupting Charles with a rough kiss. He thinks he feels the flutter of Charles's mind touching his own, but it's impossible to be sure. Charles lets Erik press him into the pillows, wraps his arms around Erik to hold him close, and Erik breaks the kiss with a choked, reluctant sound.
"Stay," Erik growls, staring into Charles's eyes.
He sees the instant Charles actually considers it. He sees the possibility, cruel and taunting—Charles by his side, walking these corridors as a partner and ally. He sees what they could accomplish together.
But he also sees, all too clearly, the shadow of himself Charles would become if they took that path, and Erik's chest twists with too many emotions when he sees Charles's expression harden with resolve.
"I can't," Charles says. "I'm sorry."
"Today, then," Erik whispers. "A few more hours. What can a few hours matter?"
Charles looks up at him, eyes wet and bright.
"All right," he says.
Neither Erik nor Mystique accompanies Charles back to Westchester. They part in Erik's office, and while Mystique can't seem to stop hugging him, Erik keeps his distance.
Their are goodbyes have already been said.
"Promise we'll see each other again," Mystique whispers in his ear. She means off the battlefield. It's a promise Charles desperately wants to make.
"I'm sure we will," he says, falling short of the promise but hopeful just the same. This can't be the last he sees of her—the last he sees of Erik without that wretched helmet closing off his thoughts. Charles can't let that happen.
Resolve doesn't lend him any practical inspiration, but the sense of hope is enough. There's too much history between them. It can't end like this.
He's in love with Erik Lehnsherr. How can he go back to a world where they're doomed to spend their lives as enemies, fighting on opposite sides of a war that will ultimately destroy them both?
He can't, is the simple truth of it. Which means there has to be another way.
He detaches from Mystique's embrace with reluctance, steps away and turns his attention back to Erik. Erik's face is closed off and guarded, but he's not wearing the helmet. Charles brushes his surface thoughts and feels a chaotic mirror of his own emotions—a jumbled mess—and rising loudest from the chaos is the ferocious certainty that this is not the end.
"Ready?" Erik asks, and Charles nods.
Mystique opens the door, and Azazel steps into the office. His face is blank and professional, though he pauses on his way past Mystique, hand touching her shoulder in a gesture that might be intended as reassurance.
"Come," Azazel says when he reaches Charles's side. He holds out his hand, and Charles takes it, and an instant later the room distorts and vanishes. It takes several vertigo-inducing hops, with no pause or respite between them, but eventually Charles finds himself surrounded by green grounds and a familiar gravel driveway.
He wonders what Azazel's range is, but he doesn't rifle through the teleporter's mind to find out.
"Thank you," Charles says. Azazel inclines his head to acknowledge the thanks, and on a whim Charles asks, "Is there any way to contact you?"
"To summon me, you mean?" Azazel asks with a quirked smile.
Charles presses his lips into a thin line, embarrassed to realize that yes, that is exactly what he was asking. But Azazel laughs, apparently unoffended, and shakes his head.
"I'm afraid not. I can teleport great distances, but I cannot communicate in the same way."
"Be safe, then," Charles says, for lack of anything more appropriate to say.
"You as well, Comrade."
"Take care of them."
"I will," Azazel promises, and then vanishes into the air.
Charles turns from the empty space where Azazel had stood, shifting his attention to the manor and the minds inside it. There's a spark of activity, surprise and hurry—not panicked enough to be an alarm—which means someone must have seen him.
He moves towards the school with measured steps, and smiles at the sensation of his students' minds hurrying to meet him.
THE END
