xmen_firstkink

Sorry if it's been prompted before, but I need a Secretary fusion for these two. Charles is a professor who needs help around the house and with his work, Erik is the slightly broken young man who comes into his employ, and eventually the two develop a D/s relationship with Erik learning to open up and trust.

...shit, my toes just curled with uncontrollable lust.

THEN MY FEET CRAMPED OH GOD

ow. (left foot still sorta hurts) I... am writing this. Give me some time. Will have first bit up within a few days.

If I don't, assume I died or something, because there's no way in hell I'm passing this up.

ON THE OTHER HAND IF SOMEONE ELSE IS ALSO WILLING TO WRITE THIS GO ON THERE CAN NEVER BE ENOUGH OF THIS SORT OF THE IN THE UNIVERSE

SPRAY IT AROUND, BROS

God I've written almost 30000 words total for various fills on kinkmeme but I can't write 2000 words for my big bang wtf world.

Also, guys, this is going to be kind of long. (makes rueful face at the universe)


"You know what I think you need?" Moira leaned back, posture deceptively casual. "I think you need an assistant around the place."

"That's an oddly specific comment, Moira, by which you perhaps intend to imply that you have someone lined up for the job." Charles took a fortifying sip of tea. "Almost certainly another social agenda."

"There is only one social agenda."

"No more politics. Please."

"Poor omniscient baby," Moira said maliciously, "donated to someone's PAC before you met them and found out they were despicable people really, did you?"

"I am hideously rich," Charles said. "I have a civic duty to give money to odious people and smile about it at the cameras."

He could see Moira trying to find a way to steer the conversation back into the direction she wanted. He did it for her. "So, this young man. Erik? Spelled with a 'k'?"

"You're a darling," Moira said, giving him a melting look.

"Dear me," Charles said. "Let me get my dampers. I want to listen to this rationally."

He meant it. Moira sighed and let him go off to rummage about in a drawer, from which he extracted an oddly shaped contraption. He fixed it around his head as he walked back to her with a slightly smug smile on his face. "I'm sorry, but compassion is not a good argument, especially if you're bypassing the part where you explain to me thewhys."

The dampers were two thin plates that clasped Charles' temples, connected by two thin wires that ran over and around his head. They blurred mental signals, obliterating entire thoughts and letting vague echoes of emotions through. Charles needed it in large, loud crowds, and apparently when his friends intended to convince him to do good.

"You look damn silly, my man," Moira said disapprovingly.

He smiled at her sweetly. "Let me start you off. The young man's name is Erik Lehnsherr. He is a liability. And you want him to work for me."

That about summed it up, Moira thought regretfully. "He's in the Dusseldorf facility."

"Mm. So he can transcribe my notes in broken English?" Charles said, apparently unaffected, but she saw Dusseldorf hit home. Dusseldorf was one of the heavy security mutant corrective facilities. They were not known to be nice.

"He's quite well educated. Was. I- how much did you get from me?"

"Emotional instability. You were keen on hiding it from me, so naturally I picked up on it first."

Moira swore softly. "He was badly- badly treated by his guardian. Jailor, that is. And by badly-"

Charles winced. "Yes. Go on."

"He was almost twenty one when, um, he apparently lost control and broke the house."

Charles blinked. "Broke the house."

"The foundations. The girders and everything. He came out without a scratch. Shaw, his guardian, and his wife were killed."

"That's not the sort of thing you can get out a correction facility after."

"Normally- no."

Moira waited. Charles waited. Neither blinked, but after almost fifteen seconds his mouth thinned and he lifted his hands. Moira smiled in apparent triumph and pulled out a thick file.

"You did come prepared," Charles said, touching the dampers on his temples. They allowed Moira's smugness through. "I never said I was willing to take him on."

The first document was a copy of a potential affirmation Erik Lehnsherr’s release.

"We submitted this patent application three years ago," Charles said. "About time it went through to practical use. Hank will be pleased. Is Dusseldorf the first?..."

"Experimental," Moira said. "You see, the test subjects had to be powerful enough to warrant such measures, and possessing cases sympathetic enough to warrant consideration."

"Thus the Dusseldorf inmates. I see. They also have to agree. Does this Mr. Lehnsherr understand quite clearly what this- device will do? Has he tried it on?"

"He went into withdrawal for four days. When he awoke he still said yes. The other five subjects who were offered the chance declined. Apparently the complete suppression of one's abilities is even more terrifying than confinement for life."

Lives which were likely to be short.

"Is he the first one?" he said neutrally. "To get out?"

"It hasn't passed through yet. He needs to submit papers verifying that he has a reliably secure job within two weeks of getting out."

"And this is where I come in," Charles said absently, setting aside the release documents and opening Lehnsherr's file. The picture was not- he hoped it wasn't a recent one. It showed a man with tightly cropped blond hair with a gaunt face. He looked lethally pissed off at the camera. But he was young. Despite everything, Charles could see that. "Metal. Tsk. I'm surprised the government hasn't snatched him away yet."

"The psych profile was enough to deter that," Moira said, the admission reluctant.

Charles skipped to the psych profile. It was not short. He read it carefully.

Moira winced.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Charles stopped reading. "Was I angry?"

"Terrifyingly."

"I really am sorry."

"No, it's not your fault."

"I really do have to be careful." He went back to the file, withdrawing his mental presence so completely that everyone in the house had to have felt it. "Oh Moira."

There was a little silence in which he warred with himself. Push now, Moira thought to herself. "No one will have him, Charles," she said softly. "He's obligated to include his records in with any CV he sends out. Who would have him? He's been charged with murder. Diagnosed as mentally unstable. Capable of tremendous and terrifying things."

Charles was silent.

"He's willing to work hard."

"You want me to help him."

"You don't have to if you don't want to."

"Damn you," Charles said, softly, angrily.

Moira said, without apologizing: "I'll put your name on the list of people he can write to for jobs."

"It's not a guarantee," Charles snapped. "If I don't like him, he's out. All I'll give him is a fair chance."

He took off the damper, hesitated, and put it on again. In the split second in between, she had to reel back from his emotions.

"Oh Charles," she said, and then switched tracks. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said with a visible effort. And then, in a different tone: "He does speak English?"

The anxiety in his voice made her throw back her head and laugh. With relief as well, and even with the damper he had to have noticed.

:::::::

Erik Lehnsherr did indeed speak English.

It irritated him nonetheless that the only application he sent out that was met with an offer of an interview came from America. New York, really. He'd never been there, of course. The government funds he'd been allotted for his two weeks just about covered a trip there. It was his last chance, too. It gave him a sick feeling in his stomach as he bought the plane tickets, as if he was being given a chance to walk to Hell's gate to peek outside.

They wouldn't say yes to him, of course. It was cruel. Not that he thought this.

Maybe he'd see the Statue of Liberty.

That was what he thought about on the way over the ocean. The Statue. And bigness. He sat peering out of the window nearly all the way, looking at the vast watery horizon stretching out below him. Giddy with it, in a rather agoraphobic way. A stewardess asked him if he had air sickness.

When he turned his head, she saw the collar. Her eyes went wide. Erik tried to smile at her, but he wasn't very good at it, and she went rather paler. "It's very wide, isn't it?" he said, fumbling to get the words out. It seemed important to do so, somehow, even to a stranger. "The sea. And the sky."

The man next to him gave him a strange look and went, with determination, to sleep. The stewardess got him a glass of water.

It was like a dream, walking out of the airport and hailing a taxi. The return letter from the man at Westchester- Charles Francis Xavier- was ratty at the edges and creases and smudged dark with fingerprints, despite his best efforts. He fished it out to tell the taxi driver the address, although he had memorized it anyway. Pathetic of him, he supposed.

Charles Francis Xavier lived, apparently, on the outskirts of civilization. It was a long drive. Erik didn't mind. He watched the pavement speed past outside the window, and the trees and clouds, the sunlight beating down on the ground.

When the driver tried to talk to him about football, he pretended to sleep.

They finally pulled up in the middle of nowhere, the driver checking the navigation irritably to see if it was the right place. "Funny," he said. "It says we're here."

"I think we are," Erik said, picking up the duffel bag that held all of his worldly possessions. "It's over the hill. I can see it."

He carefully counted out the money and offered it to the driver, unsure if this was what he should do. Did you give the money with one hand or two? Out Here?

"Thanks, chap," the driver said, and sped off. Erik watched him go with an odd sinking feeling, realizing that he'd have no way to go back to the airport when the interview ended. He should have thought of that.

Or he could walk. It wasn't a dismaying concept. It would only take an hour or so before he hit a village somewhere. He could take a few buses. It couldn't be that hard, buses. He could go around until his money ran out. And then- something. Something. A bridge, maybe.

He stood there in the road, absently watching the taxi wind out of sight.

Then he turned around and walked to the house he'd seen over the hill. Somewhere there.

A little further on.

A little-

He squinted into the distance. What he'd thought was a moderately large house quite near by was an enormous- the word didn't quite come to him- mansion, that was it. Mansion. It was not near. More walking.

He didn't mind. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder and strolled on, feeling almost happy. The sky was quite clear. He was tempted to take off his shoes and socks- the grass looked dreadfully inviting- but of course not. It wasn't allowed, of course. He shrugged the regret off.

There were huge ornamental gates, but they were open. He edged inside them, feeling- uneasy. Metal. He turned around touched them to make sure they didn't call out to him. Really? he kept asking himself, tugging at his collar as well, feeling that uneasiness grow inside him, no, no, what, where did it go, not safe. THE METAL

"Hello," someone said mildly, a few feet away.

Erik whirled around, nearly dropping his bag. There was a young man with his hands in his pockets, casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He looked vaguely anxious as he regarded Erik. "Mr. Lehnsherr?"

Mister. Someone was calling him mister lehnsherr wasn't that his dad's name-

"Yes," he said, after a pause.

"Hi." The man's mouth twisted into a charmingly bemused smile. "You're here for the job?" He proffered a hand. Erik looked at it, at loss. Then it clicked. Cheeks burning, he took it and shook limply. The other man's grasp was firm and brisk, the skin dry and warm.

"The job interview," he said belatedly. "Not the job."

"Oh, well, let's have it now, then," the man said, still smiling. His eyes were very blue. "I'm Charles. Charles Xavier."

Erik stared. He hadn't expected anything of the man. Hadn't imagined anything. But he certainly hadn't expected or imagined him to look so young. "You are... a professor," he said slowly.

"Mm? Yes."

Erik shrugged, feeling bizarrely jarred. He had no idea what to say. Talking was- hard.

"Brought your things, have you?" asked Xavier, nodding at the duffel bag.

"Yes." Erik wished he had something interesting to say. It occurred to him that taking all of his belongings to a job interview had not been a good decision. At all. On top of everything else, it made it painfully clear to anyone who cared to see that he hadn't a place to stay. His cheeks burned.

"Why don't I drop that in the lobby," Xavier said in a light, friendly way. "And we can walk around the grounds while we talk."

He'd prefer that. He'd been thinking of some claustrophobic room- a too-big chair and fists on knees questioning answering unable to say anything do it do it do what they wanted.

Xavier's breathing hitched.

Erik looked at him, sharply, trying to read his body. But Xavier's shoulders were loose and relaxed, and he was still smiling. "Let me take your bag," he said, motioning at it. "And I'll join you down here a few minutes- yeah?"

Did he say yes or no? Erik stared a little, and deciding dithering was worse. "Thank you," he said. Xavier took the bag. It wasn't heavy.

As he watched the man walk away, the sun shining on his dark hair, it occurred to him that he should have said, no, I'll take it myself. He felt upset about that. Being unable to say the right thing. But it hadn't been really, well, important before, it was jarring to realize that he had to learn this, all this...

He stood there, staring at the ground.

Xavier was back quite swiftly. "So," he said, motioning that they should walk. Erik followed. It was nice, walking. Stretching his legs. Nice. The grass was rich underneath his shoes. "You're how old?"

Erik was fairly sure Xavier knew, but he answered, politely, that he was twenty one.

"Home-schooled," Xavier said, prodding gently.

That was a way of putting it. "Oh. Yes."

"How fluent is your English? You don't have much of an accent-" A kind lie. "-but what about writing, reading- for instance, if I set you to some library work, do you think you could handle it?"

What kind of library work? Erik tried to think about it.

"Cataloguing books, for instance," Xavier went on. "Marking out the ones that need to be replaced, so forth."

"I can do that."

"Right," Xavier said. "It's- I was fairly vague about what I wanted, wasn't I? I'm sorry. I said personal assistant. I should explain what that entails. So I said library work. I also write quite a lot, papers and so forth, and I'm quite horrible with filing. So filing as well. Er, and correspondence- I do get a dreadful lot of mail. Politics, mostly, and I’ll give you a list of names that are always allowed through. And a list of people who definitely aren’t. Sorting through it for me every morning. Fairly everyday stuff. If it's too mundane, I'll completely understand if you're not interested."

If he wasn't interested? Erik gave him a blank look, and the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself: "you did see my record, right?"

"Oh yes, that," Xavier said vaguely. "I did. Metal, isn't it? I suppose that's why you were touching that gate. Can't imagine it myself, having my own abilities restrained."

Erik stared at him. Xavier, with his eyes closed a little against the sun, looked supremely relaxed, but something told him that Xavier was watching him very carefully indeed.

"I'm an empath," the man said, several beats later. "A weak one, but still."

"You can read my thoughts?" Erik choked, and then stopped talking. He couldn't talk.

"Just impressions of feelings," Xavier said. "And now you're very afraid. Please calm down."

And then suddenly, he did. It wasn't like Emma at all, like being doused with icy water. It was like someone had gently reached out and showed him that it wasn't important at all. So the man could feel others' emotions. It wasn't a big deal, was it?

"Please don't do that again," he whispered.

Xavier looked worried. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, and he really did look sorry. "It's, your distress, it's instinctive for me to... yes, that was rude. I won't do it again."

Erik nodded, not trusting himself to talk.

"So," Xavier said, resuming the walk at a slow pace. Erik followed. "I was saying. These tasks. They're- boring, I know they are, but do you want to? I can promise a reasonable salary. Three thousandish? Does that sound about okay?"

Erik didn't know a lot about money, but that sounded like more than he could handle in a month. He frowned. "I'm not very good with numbers." Then he bit his tongue. That made him sound like some- "I mean, money numbers. I can do math."

That was even worse. He felt himself coloring.

"Mm. That's not going to be part of your job, I think," Xavier said. He spoke as if it were dealt with already. Erik wanted to ask, but he didn't dare. He tried to phrase it in his head- so, did I get the job- does that mean I get to- "Welcome to the house, anyway. I- was that presumptuous of me? If you have any other lodgings, of course, I mean- er-"

He swallowed. "Here is- staying here would be wonderful. Thank you."

"Oh, excellent," Xavier said earnestly. He looked like a delighted teenager. "I- oh, I'm sorry. Do you have jet lag? It's night in, in Germany, isn't it? You can go sleep. You can start tomorrow morning."

Erik stared at him. It just hit him, like that, that he had a job. He remembered his plan to walk back to the nearest village. Take buses until his money ran out. See the Statue of Liberty (towering metal HIGH distant). Jump off a bridge or a dock.

Xavier's eyes had gone a little wide. Erik wondered what he was getting. Just vaguely pleasant surprise, he supposed. Thank god he was only a low-level empath. "I'll show you to your room," he was saying. "It's next to the library. It's an adjoining room, actually. I'm always in the library. So it'll be more efficient like that, I suppose. I hope you like it here."

"Thank you, Mr. Xavier," said Erik, more intensely than he'd intended.

Xavier touched the back of his hand gently. "Charles. It's Charles."

The grass was green-gold under his shoes and the sky really did spread everywhere without clouds and this was how September wind felt in New York and the man in front of him was called Charles.

"Oh," he said.

::::::::

It was around three in the morning when Hank- awake, of course, nocturnal even here, where there was no sun. He peered through the eyehole before admitting his visitor. He liked to make sure.

The professor let himself in. Hank found himself staring in shock. "Oh!" he said. "Let me get you some tea."

"Curses," said Charles Xavier ruefully. "Do I look that horrible?"

Hank was already racing to the pot. "It's a new one," he said over his shoulder. "There haven’t been any lactose samples in this one."

"Much appreciated," said Charles faintly, finding a sofa to sit on, clearing away the debris. "Hank, I- should tell you. Someone moved in today."

"Mm?" Hank stopped. "Oh no."

"I did tell you, there was a man-"

"Oh yes." Hank frowned. "It is, well, startling all the same. Will you, um, introduce us sometime?"

"If we're lucky," Charles said. "He seems like a lovely young man."

But then again, Hank thought dourly, Charles Xavier lived in his own world, comprised of endless green meadows and butterflies and lovely young people.

Charles coughed.

"I could do a background check if you like," Hank offered.

"No, I have too much information already." Charles buried his face into his hands. "I need new dampers, Hank."

"What's wrong with the latest model?"

"They work perfectly. It's that latest events have convinced me that my powers are too invasive."

Hank bit his lip. It probably made him look savage, but Charles didn't mind, and Hank had learned to relax around him. Charles was one of the most accepting people he knew. It probably had something to do with his telepathy- Charles had been well-acquainted with the sexual fantasies of every adult in his house by the time he was five. Very little shocked him. Fangs, he could handle. "The young man. I suppose he has nightmares?"

"It has nothing to do with that."

"Have you told him that you're a weak empath?"

Charles winced. "I can't go around telling everyone what I- can do."

"And now I suppose you feel dishonest."

"Funny thing. I thought I'd gotten over all these little compunctions."

"You? Never." Hank set down his glasses. Funny little ape, he thought to himself, catching a glimpse in a reflective surface in his latest telescope design, and then winced at the same time Charles did.

Neither of them said anything.

"So you want new dampers to- shut out more? If that's all, I can just... oh, there are a lot of things I could manipulate..."

Charles watched him with a slight smile.

"I still have the interference gel," Hank said, rising and nearly knocking over the table. With composure, Charles steadied it. "Sorry! And the sheet metal, of course, and plenty of lead lying around. And the koala hair, of course, for the psychometric damping. Excuse me."

Then he paused. "Sir, does this mean that we- I mean, I- can't come up for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Oh Hank," said Charles, obviously distressed.

"It's fine with me, I mean," Hank said.

"I think I have his measure," Charles said. "And I'll introduce him to- everyone- properly, I mean- when he settles in. He's, he's a very nervous person."

"Does Alex go up?" Hank asked.

"I don't think so," Charles said. "I mean, if he wants to-" Hank smiled, involuntarily- "but I rather think... no."

There was a small silence. As it was with silences these days, Hank immediately thought of what to break it with. Charles winced. "No, don't bring it up."

"I'm sorry," Hank said. "But I'm not going to stop working on it, you know."

"You're a scientist. I wouldn't expect you to." Charles' voice was a little cool. "But I did tell you I'll never use it."

Hank thought of the room at the back, his designs. "Okay," he said, feeling the exact moment Charles slammed down his mind on the image. He steered the conversation back to safer waters. "So you've been soothing his nightmares?"

"Taking the edge off," Charles said. "He does need REM sleep, after all. I nudged him into a replay of walking down the estate yesterday before I left."

"Happy memory?" Hank said wonderingly.

"Very," Charles said, clipped.

Hank remembered that, despite- blue fur and hands that could twist metal and, and teeth, he was quite- he had been quite lucky in his life.

"I'll make the dampers," was all he could think to say.

Charles' lashes fluttered shut, face almost sick with exhaustion. Not with the effort of calming a nightmare, Hank realized. The effort of not reaching out more.

Bewildered at the world, he reached out and enclosed one of Charles' hands in one blue-furred paw. It still was a hand, technically, but-

"Thank you," said Charles.

:::::::

The room was one of the nicest he'd ever been in. That was all he took in before laying his head against the pillow and-

(dreams? had they happened)

When he woke up, it was because something had rustled against his consciousness, a faint burst of enthusiasm and goodwill and energy. He lay there in the bed, startled, doubting himself for a moment. Was that- had that been-

He cautiously got up, aware that he had limited options for clothing. Everything he had right now had been worn at least once before in his trip. On a whim, he opened the closet, a beautiful dark mahogany thing in the corner.

There were clothes. He stopped, confused. Obviously they hadn't emptied out the contents before letting him move in. He should mention this to Charles. Or he could move them out himself, when he knew the house better. Something in him folded with embarrassment at complaining about anything. He pulled out some dark trousers and a shirt out of his duffel bag and tentatively went down, looking for someone who could tell him what to do.

He found the kitchen by smell, and stalled warily at the doorway. There was a young blonde woman flipping over eggs at the counter. There was toast and jam at the table.

He was about to back carefully away when she said, without turning around: "Table's set. Sit anywhere you like."

"Thank you," Erik said automatically. Then he sat down, awkwardly poised over his food. The woman turned around and deposited an egg onto his plate.

"Unless you want two," she said.

"It's fine."

"I'm Raven. Raven Darkholme. You're my brother's new assistant, I think."

"Oh. Yes."

"Welcome to the house."

"Thank you."

She waited for something.

"I'm Erik Lehnsherr," he said, belatedly, going very red.

Charles came in at the moment. Erik could have hugged him at the moment. (He couldn't have, but- the impulse, very shortly, had been there.) He was wearing something strange around his head. Raven turned her head and frowned at it. "Good morning, Charles."

His employer yawned. "Usually it's me that cooks," he confessed sleepily. "Raven never gets the yolk right."

Raven kissed him on the cheek. "Fussy."

"I'll show you around the library when we're finished eating," Charles said to him. How do I finish at the same time he does? Erik immediately wondered. What if he finishes before I does and he has to wait for me? Charles raised his eyebrows and touched the metal at his temple, fiddling with it a little. Then he put his hand down very quickly. Raven watched him, catlike. "So- so why don't we eat."

They all sat down.

"There are more people in this house," Raven said, a few minutes in. "I suppose you'll be meeting them soon?"

It was a question, for some reason.

"Angel comes home on weekends," Charles said slowly, looking at Erik, then at Raven. "She's, a mutant. Like us. Licensed. She can fly."

"And there are Charles' students," Raven said.

Charles made a noncommittal noise. "They're- think of it as a very complicated exchange program, Erik. They're doing... research here."

"Their names are Sean and Armando," Raven said. "On the other side of the house right now, because, their research involves high frequency sound waves and Charles says it interferes with his concentration. You might meet them at dinner."

They were speaking rather carefully. "I see," said Erik. And then, to change the subject, "there are someone's clothes inside the closet in my room. Did anyone leave them behind?"

He'd said it to break the awkwardness, but it actually consolidated around him. Raven blinked. Charles' mouth parted slightly. He stared at both of them.

"Er... no," Charles said.

"We, um, found some clothes that we thought might fit you," Raven said.

Erik frowned. "Overnight?"

Charles looked at him, mouth slightly open, eyes wide.

"We put them in this morning," Raven said. There was a small sound somewhere, like a thud, and Charles winced a little. "I hope you don't mind."

Why didn't I wake up, then? Erik thought. He was a light sleeper. Perhaps he'd been very tired.

"Tell me if they're not your size," Charles said.

"Thank you," said Erik.

When he finished- he ate much more quickly than either of them- he carried the dishes to the sink and started to wash them. There were more dishes. The others, he surmised. Armando and Sean.

"Oh," Charles said, surprised. "It's Raven's dish duty today."

"It's Hank's," Raven said. "Ow!"

Erik turned his head, wide-eyed. Raven was looking penitent. "I mean, it's my duty," she said. "Hank, uh, he's a student, not here right now," she said. "I expect you'll meet him sometime, Erik. Meanwhile-"

"I can do the dishes," Erik said.

"Yes, but you'll mess up the order, and if I don't do them now Charles will make me do them next time," Raven said earnestly.

The water ran over his hands, a chill reminder of- "I- do the dishes," he said, feeling eerily out-of-place. Everything was suddenly very confusing.

"Erik," Charles said slowly. "I rather do need you for other things. We're going to start reorganizing the library today."

Library. Right. He blinked, pulling back into his body sharply. His cheeks burned. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks for it anyway," Raven said, suddenly right next to him, gently pushing his hands out of the sink, taking over. Erik, firmly displaced, found himself pinwheeling, rather, trying to find something to latch onto.

It was on his arm. Someone's hand was on his arm. Charles was looking at him. His eyes were unbearable.

"It's a right bit of a mess," he said, "but I'll be glad to have help. This way."

Yeah, my internship ate my homework.

Also, I'm at that stage where you have snippets of writing and tons of planning and backstory and character development but you can't lace it together to form anything coherent and you know you can't update until you get it straight but you just can't?

The library was a mess.

"I was told you spoke several other languages as well," Charles said. "Is French one of them?"

"Yes."

"How fluent?"

"About as much as English."

"Delightful." Charles gave him a smile that made him want to check behind his shoulder. "I'm trying to make this place more user-friendly, so I'm sorting by language instead of topic. Not all the visitors are polyglot."

Erik looked at the library. It looked like a small, well-inhabited city. It also screamed of Charles, insofar as he knew the man. There was a casual and orderly chaos to the sprawl of books and files and papers. At least three computers- he eyed them with fascination- hummed gently in the vicinity of his desk. There was a tweed jacket and a scarf draped over the couch in front of the desk.

Charles blushed. "So I have a vague outline of how I'm going to do this..."

He explained. It was rather complex, but Erik couldn't see any better way to do it. There weren't even any records- Charles seemed to have inherited a room full of books to which he had steadily added without thinking that other people might want to use it.

"That was before I had all these people over, obviously," Charles said. "Raven knows her way around, but, when I got my degree I started to do quite a lot of stuff, and there were all these people... it sort of crept up on me. And they'll find an interesting book and open it and it'll be in Greek."

"Do you speak Greek?" Erik ventured.

"No," Charles said. "My grandfather did, though."

It wasn't going to be mindless work. Erik tried to explain that he was a slow reader.

"As long as you get the job done in the end," Charles said serenely, and drifted towards a desk, piled up with papers. "Call me if you need help."

He was supposed to pick up the books in French first and herd them into the new shelves at the back of the room. He tried to be very quiet. It wasn't difficult.

A little too easy, in fact. No one would notice if, say, he picked up a copy of Suskind's Das Parfum and started flicking through it. On the thirtieth page or so, he froze and realized he shouldn't be doing this.

...surely it wouldn't do any harm if...

He edged away from the shelf and looked at Charles. He was tapping away at his laptop, looking fiendishly pleased about something. Obviously very distracted. He inched back, hesitated, wondered if he should ask, decided he shouldn't risk it. He put the book in a corner where it didn't belong, marking it in his memory.

Time passed by swiftly. He was found books, marked down the language they were written in, genres and topics, publishers, dates...

"Do you prefer turkey or chicken in your sandwiches?" someone said to him through a shelf.

Erik nearly dropped the stack in the crook of his arm. Charles peered at him, eyes blue between E. E. Cummings: Complete Poems and Atomic and Ionic Spectrum Lines Below 2000 Angstroms: Hydrogen Through Krypton, Volume III.

"I," he said, reshuffling his books. "I, they’re both all right with me. Whatever's left over."

Charles' eyes crinkled briefly. "Come over when you're done with that pile. It's lunchtime."

::::::::

The dampers were a relief.

Hank hadn't gotten the new ones complete yet, but the old ones were still quite efficient. He could feel the nervousness roll of Erik in waves. Some time the man was going to find out that Charles was capable of more than he'd misled Erik to think. He'd hate to have to admit that he'd been essentially spying on him since day one. This was much less intrusive.

Besides, quite a lot of people were scared silly of telepaths. Since Erik seemed to be one of them…

He did wish that he knew what Erik was thinking. The dampers weren't very comfortable, and he felt agitated when he tried to reach out around the house- not to read minds, but to just register their existence, and he'd come up with blurred emotions. He kept trying to mentally blink it away, like someone trying to blink water out of their eyes.

It didn't help that Erik's face was extremely hard to read. His emotions ran deep and loud, but one couldn't see it from just his face. It was a hard, bony face, rough with stubble, wary and shuttered. Charles want to touch his shoulder and send calm, calm down towards him. He'd lain awake aching with that impulse for a good three hours last night.

"It's half-half," he said. "The sandwich."

"Thank you," Erik said, face inscrutable.

"There's more if you want."

"It's quite all right."

Charles grinned. He did that sometimes when he was nervous. "How is it going, then? The work?"

"It's fine."

This was hard. His temples itched, the dampers an annoying weight. How was he supposed to carry on a conversation if he didn't know what the other person was thinking? "How far along are you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How many books have you catalogued?"

"Two hundred or so."

"Right. So I'll be having you record that- there's a computer near the proteomics section. It's an old model, so you'll have to be patient with it. You can put the information in an Excel file. That'll do for now."

Erik was staring at him, expression not changing.

"Er," said Charles.

Erik swallowed. Charles could see his throat move under the restraints.

"Erik?"

"I don't know how," the man said. His voice was a little too loud, and he flushed. "The computer. I've never used them before."

"That's fine," Charles said automatically, voice casual, posture nonchalant. He cursed the dampers, but- taking them off would be even worse. "I'll show you. It's- you'll be slow at typing, but you'll get used to it."

He thought of Erik's file. It had been sketchy on Erik's life before the facility. The house had literally fallen apart, destroying quite a lot of what would have been evidence, and of course everyone else had died. Erik himself had refused to disclose most details. The man had received some kind of education, Charles knew that- he was polyglot and not at all stupid with numbers. But he'd never touched a computer in his life.

"I'm sorry," Erik said. It wasn't a mumble, but Charles would bet his great-grandfather's horse carriage that without the dampers he'd have heard psychic overtones of Mumble: emotions of shame and embarrassment and desperate I wish I were anywhere but here. But Erik didn't mumble. He always spoke clearly. Most people who'd gone through what he had wouldn't do that. Which meant someone had taught him to do that.

"For what?" Charles said, keeping his voice light with an effort. He poured them both tea.

"Wasting your time."

"It's no bother."

Erik was silent. He seemed unsure of how he had to eat. Charles never caught Erik looking at him- the man's eyes were fixed on the table- but he knew that Erik was taking cues from him.
Abused children were dreadfully good at picking up on body language. Charles tried to think about kittens and daisies. He nearly laughed- so this was how other people must feel around him.

They finished the meal at about the same time. Charles didn't think it was coincidence, and felt rueful. "Computer," he said, taking Erik to the proteomics section and turning on the power. It glowed a light blue. Erik stared. "I- you've never seen one before?" Charles prodded tentatively.

"At Dusseldorf," Erik said. "A few times."

"Right. So this is the keyboard..."

Charles taught Erik how to turn on Excel. "It's important to save the file when you turn it off," Charles said, "or you'll have to do it all over again."

He watched Erik haltingly type in the first few titles. His hands were long and bony, like the rest of him.

"Now try saving it," Charles said. "You can open it up again and continue entering the information."

Okay, I've been trying to post this for several hours now, if it turns out that it actually worked all along and I've put up this section four times I am going to be irritated.


He met Sean and Armando at dinnertime.

Charles and a man he didn't know were cooking when he came down. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway until Raven, coming up behind him, gently steered him into the room and sat him down at the table next to a redhead who was fiddling intently with what looked like a small glass cube. "Yo," he said in a distracted, blurred voice.

"Sean, this is Erik. Erik, Sean."

"Ohh, new guy," said Sean, and then tapped the cube. It screeched lowly.

"Sean!"

"Hnh?" he murmured, and looked up. His eyes were mildly unfocused.

"Sean and Armando are conducting experiments with high-frequency pitches," Raven said pointedly. "I told Erik about it in the morning."

There was a battle going on here, Erik felt, except that he couldn't quite understand its nature. After a moment, Sean's eyes abruptly came into focus, and Erik found himself staring into a rather frighteningly searching gaze. It went from his own eyes to his collar, and then to his clothes, and then back to his face.

"Hullo," said Sean, and offered him a hand.

Right. He had to shake.

"That over there is Armando," he was told. "He's better at cooking."

"Armando has relegated me to panini duty," Charles said, turning them all a soulful gaze over his shoulder. Erik looked down quickly. "Also, the soup."

"Charles makes good soup," Raven said.

"No one is bad at soup," said Armando, and turned around. He was terrifically skinny, and his gaze was frank when he fixed it on- of course- Erik's collar. The corner of his mouth tipped wryly. Everyone knew, Erik thought, hands damping up. "It's just dice and mix."

"I am emotionally invested in it, that's why it's good," Charles said meanly. "It's like plants. Those studies where reading them fairytales made them grow faster."

Somehow, in the next forty seconds, the table filled up with dishes. There was soup and salad and something beautifully done with fish.

Charles sat down next to him, and Erik found himself relaxing and tensing up at the same time. Charles was already familiar to him. Nonthreatening. He looked like he'd never been in a fight in his entire life. Those clothes and that smile and the familiar way he had of talking to people. He was easy to like. Erik felt like a waste of time next to him.

"Hope you're settling in nicely," said Charles. To him. "I mean- am I asking this too much?"

"No," said Erik. "I mean, yes, this is- good." He meant it. He tried to convey how much he meant it, how- unexpected this had been-

Charles smiled, a soft and surprised smile. Of course. He was an empath. Erik flushed.

"I'm sorry," said Charles. "I know that many people are uncomfortable with my abilities."

Erik was uncomfortable. Emma laughing lowly, you actually enjoy this don't you remember I can tell?

Charles' face didn't change. Erik was aware that he was examining Charles' expression with an intensity that was extremely rude, but he had to know. He had to. Was he spilling out humiliating memories and dreams- (and the dreams- he was going to have to-) into every mind capable of reception?

But Charles only looked a bewildered and concerned, and Erik wanted to lunge away all of a sudden. Too much of it. "Don't," he said without meaning to, and the table really had gone quiet. No one was staring at him, but their attention was fixed quite clearly on him.

Now Charles was going to say don't what and he was going to have to answer but he didn't know how to explain this-

"Speaking of which," Sean said, coming to focus again, seemingly oblivious to the tension at the dinner table. He dug his hand into his pocket. "Hank told me to give this to you."

"Nice of him, from out of town and all," said Raven meaningfully, while Charles took something that looked like a collapsed spiderweb from Sean's hand with an expression of mild doubt.

Sean's eyes were wide and guileless. "Yeah. Sure."

"Oh," said Charles, spreading out the web. "Oh. How marvelous! Very clever of him."

Everyone looked at him as Charles took off the odd plates at his temples and spread out the web under his neck so that it extended to his temples. The web flexed and then melded gently to the skin there.

"Quite comfortable," Charles said. "Very relevant to our discussion; they limit my abilities,"

"Charles likes to feel like he's a moral person," Raven said, crossing her arms.

"That- must not be comfortable," Erik said, trying to speak clearly. Someone- a blurred someone, in his mind- had dropped his helmet onto a blonde head- screams. He wanted- stop hurting.

He knew his face hadn't changed, but Charles was looking at him with that expression, the one- oh, Charles was terrible at concealing his emotions- where he tried not to look like he was worried. It hit him like a sucker punch, grounded him. He looked away.

"It's quite mild," Charles said. "The effects."

Erik nodded.

"Don't worry," Charles said, as if Erik would, and turned his face to the dinner table.

But, he realized, he had to ask. When Charles cleared away all the dishes and headed back to the library, Erik followed at his heels, trying to ask but finding his throat thickening.

"Go on," Charles said, stopping at the door. His voice was not aggressive. He talked, really, as if conversation between was one long private joke that he would gladly return to at any given moment. Erik was dimly aware that this was a socially desirable trait. People must fall at his feet.

"Do you take those off when you sleep?" Erik said, aware that he was being disgustingly obvious.

Charles looked at him gently. "Would you prefer me not to?"

Erik thought of- Emma again. The way she'd bucked against the helmet. "Isn't it painful?"

"Not at all," said Charles. "Its inventor is a very clever man."

"Oh," he said. Then he waited for Charles to ask.

He was completely unprepared for Charles' reaching up and touching his jaw, right above the collar. He went rigid. Charles' touch was light and warm and impossible. And then something drew out of him, something he hadn't even known was there, the coiled tension and anxiety that had built up in him throughout the day. Not the- deeper things that would shake him if they were dragged out into the light, but the surface murk. Charles skimmed it off him, leaving a soft gentle ripple of ease in its wake.

He was making a sound, he realized. A soft little rumble in his throat. He didn't know why, and stopped. Charles had gone slightly pink.

He wanted to say, do that again- never stop doing that- let me- do that again- but what came out was a strangled, "please- don't."

Charles shuddered a little. His pupils were large and dark. "Yes. I'm sorry. That was terrible, I should have- oh, that was a terrible way to prove a point-"

"What- point?" Erik asked, still dazed.

"Not prove a point- I was going to show you, that's what I could do, on a smaller level, when I slept. I- do it naturally, you know. The minds around me."

Erik was too ashamed to ask.

"May I?" said Charles softly. "Take them off during the night?"

Offering him a gentle way out.

"Thank you," said Erik, who wasn't going to pretend this wasn't a favor.

Charles quirked his lips at him. "Good night, Erik." For a moment Erik thought Charles was going to touch him again, but he was just walking away. "Good night," he returned, quietly, belatedly.

For a first day, it had been- intense.




And... it turns out you're going to have to wait a while for the sex. In the meantime, HAVE SOME UST

But it was- he fell into it. The library was warm and dry and spacious and Charles' sandwiches were wonderful. Charles told him how to sort out the mail. When he looked out of the window, the grass was green. The letters told him that the date was September 16th.

He felt vaguely certain that he was being the worst personal assistant ever- it took him a full minute to type information about one book, and sometimes his eyes blurred and he couldn't focus on English and tried to read everything in German, and he went off into small dazed spaces of his own. No one had minded in Dusseldorf, but it was occurring to him that he had to mind himself here. It had taken him several seconds to realize that, after Charles had asked him something while he was in one of those moments, he had replied in German. Charles had gamely been matching him. It was the accent that had alerted him to the fact that something was wrong.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, I should brush up on my languages," Charles said with that wry smile.

"You speak German with an American accent," Erik noted, "but English with a British one."

"My tutor was American." Charles smiled sheepishly. "We never got as far as Das Parfum, though. Good book?"

Erik's own smile disappeared. Charles looked back, looking confused. "Ah- weren't you reading it?"

"I'm sorry," said Erik.

"About what?" But Charles understood. There was a shift on his face, his eyes- Erik looked away. "You can, you know. Read anything you like here."

Erik breathed. He'd left the book around, obviously. Stupid. Stupid. He wasn't terribly good at deception- why had he tried it in the first place- they always knew-

"I never quite got into Suskind," Charles said carefully. "Erik?"

"It's an enjoyable book," Erik said. This was the sort of thing one said, he supposed. Being asked about books. And they were in a library. Perfectly normal.

"Breathe," Charles was murmuring, and what nonsense, but Erik was being led gently to a sofa. Charles' hand was on his. Not his shoulder. That was good. "Hey, hey."

"I'm fine," said Erik after a few seconds, as close to irritated as he could get. He was horribly embarrassed. He wanted Charles to go away. When Charles got up, though, he wanted him to sit back down. He hoped Charles wasn't picking up on this.

Charles came back, curling up next to him with his laptop. He was handed Das Parfum.

"Let's take a break," Charles said.

And then it was like breathing. Sometimes it hitched, but it was always quiet where it was, and wide. Charles' computers hummed at his desk, never off for long, and there was quite often the murmur of Charles' voice and mellow accent over the phone, or even talking to himself. He made funny faces at his computer when something amused him. He laughed a lot. He slept in the library sometimes, curled up on the sofa with a hand outstretched towards the keyboard, eyes squinted shut against the glare of the monitor.

"Yeah, he's an unexpected workaholic," Raven had said when Erik had discreetly brought it up one day at breakfast. "He tries to do everything, you know?"

"I never knew professors were this busy," as if Erik would know.

Raven's chin had jerked a little- surprise? "Ah," she had said. "Well, he does- more than that, really. Stuff here and there."

"Like mutant rights," Erik had said, wondering if he was allowed to push this far. Charles seemed to like it when he pushed. “He’s a political activist?” Except that activists he knew were all angry people with placards in newspapers. Charles seemed quite down-to-earth and easy to talk to, even over the phone. Erik had never seen him shout or be angry.

"Sure," Raven had said. "It helps that it's not the sort of thing that stands out, mind stuff. Helps the normal people get used to him."

“You speak as if you’re not one of them,” Erik had commented. It had slipped out before he could stop it.

Raven’s eyes had been cold, even as she smiled and said, “well- growing up with Charles- you really get to see a new side of the conflict.”

“Um.” Erik had not yet reached the world of such conflicts. As long as people were treated as he’d been in Dusseldorf, it seemed fine to him. Dusseldorf had been good.

“I expect he’ll tell you more about his work some day,” Raven had said, and neither of them went a step further.

Personal assistant hadn't seemed to be such an intimidating job when he'd applied for it. He'd thought, if he'd really ever thought about it, of getting paper clips, organizing files, so forth. Moving around books had fit in quite well with that. But one morning Charles stirred on the couch and put down his book, fixing Erik with a gaze that made Erik wonder where to look. Charles' nose? Forehead? His shoes?

"We're going to Busan in two days," Charles said. "I'm sorry for the short notice."

Erik wished he had his back to a wall. "Oh," he said. Then he fell into silence.

Charles had learned, to his shame, the textures of his silences. Particularly the one when he was wondering whether or not to ask a question. It helped that Charles looked harmless, splayed out on the couch in casual clothes, looking young and small and friendly. Erik took a breath, a small one, and said: "Where's that?"

"Korea."

"Okay," said Erik. And then, feeling bold, "why- what do you need me for?"

"I don't know, you're fast becoming indispensible." Charles threw him one of those bewildering smiles. Erik checked the instinct to turn his head and see if there was anyone behind him. Checking that instinct, in fact, was becoming instinct. "I'll need someone to do a little bit of everything. You already screen my mail. How comfortable are you with talking to people on the phone?"

"Not at all," Erik said, frightened into honesty. Talking. To someone other than- talking. He went rigid and stared at Charles. "I mean, I can. I can."

Charles had a wide-eyed look that Erik did not quite know how to interpret. "Oh. Erik. It's fine if you don't want to. I don't get all that many calls anyway."

And if that wasn't the biggest lie Erik had ever heard-

"I can," said Erik.

"Right, I'll walk you through it," said Charles. "And you're quite welcome to hang up on the unpleasant ones."

Erik laughed uncertainly.

"You're serious?"

"I wouldn't want to talk to them, anyway, and hanging up is more likely to dissuade them than polite evasion is." Charles' skin crinkled up at the corner of his eyes. "It'll be fine. Look, come on here. If the guy starts immediately by babbling technojunk into the phone, ask for the name first and mouth it at me so I can tell you if you should hand it over to me or tell them I'm indisposed..."

At moments Erik might have lost the thread of the conversations, because something about the way Charles smiled and laughed, and his voice, and his eyes- Erik often met them to be polite and found himself not processing sound for a few moments- made him feel locked into the present, like someone had sharply cut away the rest of his life and this was all that was left.

He nearly missed it when Charles, having shifted into a more casual topic of conversation, said- "because I rather imagine you'd be- terribly bored in the lecture hall while I blather on."

Erik stared at him and rewound the last ten seconds of the conversation.

Charles watched him patiently. "I'd be willing, you know."

"But I'm too old."

"Hardly," said Charles. "I was in college when I was your age."

As a professor? Erik thought wryly. It wasn't the sort of thing he would have thought a week ago.

"Why not give it a try?" said Charles. "We have time on our hands."’

That was how evenings after dinner became lessons. Erik’s heart pounded madly the first time he came back into the library and found Charles already sitting down- not at his desk, but one of the many couches spread around the room. He found one near Charles and sat down, trying to arrange his legs in the right way. It seemed uncommonly hard, right then. Charles watched him.

Erik cleared his throat, casting his eyes down.

“So- genetics, and maybe literature. You seem to be interested. You're going to have to tell me about your educational background," Charles said. His eyes were soft. So might his fingers be, but Charles didn't touch him. "How far- did you get?"

It wasn't in his file, Erik knew. Because people had asked him and he had not answered and that was where they stopped. Busy people.

"I," said Erik. "I was taught- mathematics. Languages. Some, some physics and metallurgy, when, it was thought that it would help."

Charles waited.

"It didn't. So it was stopped. I've studied biology. There was a book. I was allowed to read it."

If Charles had noticed the constant deletion of a subject in Erik’s sentences, he didn’t give a sign of it. He said, "that's a good start.”

Erik said, suddenly angry, "no."

"No?"

"It's- not." And there he found that he could not say more, even though something was building up inside, nasty and threatening. The metal around him did not rattle, but he touched his collar and desired, for the space of a second, that he could crumple up the world.

"You can read everything here," Charles said. "I've already told you."

"Maybe it's too late," said Erik, and he didn't know what he was saying. Too late for what? He didn't want anything. Neither Shaw nor Dusseldorf had taught him how. He had to look away from Charles because it had hit him, an urge so alien that it was terrifying, one to hit Charles and push him against a wall and shout at him don’t you understand, no one ever-

"It really isn't," Charles said, and reached for him. “May I?”

By the gods, he didn’t need to ask-his fingers were soft on Erik’s knuckles before they spread out and it was Charles hand on his, gripping fully. And the anger and terror drained out of him, and he was left staring at the space between them, the carpet, the wires snaking across the floor, Charles’ polished shoes.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Your gift- comes in handy- doesn’t it?”

Charles looked astonished at that, for some reason. Then he frowned. “Yes,” was all he said. And before Erik could ask if he’d insulted him, Charles was standing up, still holding Erik’s hand. “Let’s take a look at a few books, then. There are a series of primers where they used to be, you haven’t gotten to them yet. And I know a few books you might be interested in.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome to talk more about it, if you like,” Charles said.

He’d meant it just as a courtesy, Erik knew, but for some reason he started to talk again, barely knowing what he was saying, "I was expected to, because it was thought I should be- I was given books but it was always more interesting that I should know the metal, but I couldn't stop the bullet when I was twelve, I can't now either, it wasn't very pleasing when I couldn't. It was expected of me but I couldn't. And now it's gone. Everything's gone."

Charles handed him a book and met his eyes. Erik, oddly, found it easy to meet them. Charles said, "he, she, they."

"Not yet," said Erik, taking the book and feeling dizzy and achy and wondering what he was saying. He wasn't thinking about what he was saying. "No. Wait. Stop. I can't."

"Sit down," Charles said, and they did, in between the shelves. There was a book in his hands. Erik reached for it.

Charles seemed to understand that it had been enough, what they’d done, and merely said, “skip the introduction, go to chapter two.”

His trembling fingers caught on the corners of the page, steadied there.

"Whenever you want to start," said Charles.

The thing about being cooped up in the basement with Alex Summers.

The thing was that Alex was angry. Hank could see that. When Alex came into the room, not talking but just geared for a fight- which was whenever Alex came into a room- Hank quietly found excuses to go elsewhere. And because it was a damn big basement, it wasn't difficult. But it was irritating when he was working with a volatile compound and Alex came in with the same aggressive whatcha doing, bozo and and what's this, Harvard? and Hank had to quietly dump everything and pretend he had to work with the collider now, thanks for coming by.

He'd tried to dissuade Alex by telling him he had to wear an apron when he came in. But he'd misjudged Alex completely, because the guy donned it with a self-derogatory smirk and muscled around the lab. Hank grew agitated when he did that, and wanted to beg him to stop, except that Alex would probably take it badly.

In the guy's defense, he was cooped up in a space that was ninety percent full of Hank's things, waiting anxiously for news of his brother, trying to control the erratic plasma bursts that had forced him to seek refuge in Xavier's household in the first place. Hank had offered to install things that may have interested Alex- weights, maybe? And Alex had snapped that he wasn't some uneducated dickwad bodybuilder, thanks, he didn't have to act like Alex wouldn't be interested in smart things-

Except that Alex wasn't. Alex prowled around and poked things and asked questions and called Hank names and obviously disliked him but would not leave him alone.

"Please don't stand there," Hank said nervously when Alex came in and stood next to him. "The respirator there has to remove the hydrocarbon vapor."

Alex rolled his eyes and stepped aside. Hank was technically taller and thicker than Alex was, but his mind was set to small and geeky, and whenever he looked at Alex he saw muscles and football and wanted to back away quietly. (It never occurred to him that Alex, who had only known him in this form, wouldn't understand.)

"Can I help?" Alex said, jostling into his personal space. It didn't help that he smelled nice and set off alarm bells in Hank's mind, because his eyes were telling him threat and his olfactory system was alerting him to good hormones!

He'd never had this trouble in college. He sighed. Alex's face went hard. "No, I didn't sigh because-"

"Leave it," said Alex loudly.

"Christ," Hank said, without quite meaning to. And, because he'd gotten that far, he went on: "You don't have to be so touchy, you know?"

"Since you obviously don't want me around," Alex said tightly, and his body posture said I'm going to stomp off now. Except he didn't. Hank waited for him to.

There was a tense little silence.

"...Do you?" Alex said in a small voice.

Hank's eyes went wide in alarm. Red was swimming around in the expeller on Alex's chest. "Holy- not near the microcentrifuge-"

The expeller made a small whump, and the world flashed red. A wave of heat rolled out from Alex, stifling-

The microcentrifuge made a mournful little noise and stopped.

"No, no, no," Hank moaned. This was a nightmare. He realized, vaguely, that the fur on his face was singed. "It must have melted."

"Christ, your poor guinea worm embryos," Alex said unsympathetically, and dragged him to the medical room.

"I'm sorry," Hank said with genuine remorse as Alex thumbed cream into his fur. It wasn't serious enough that he had to shave to treat himself, and Hank wouldn't have stood for it anyway. Under the blue fur there was a pale blue skin that looked sickly and disgusting, even worse than the fur. Alex smelled of distress. "For upsetting you."

"You didn't upset me," Alex snapped.

"But your plasma blasts are related to emotional states-"

"They're random, okay?"

"No, I showed you the buildup graphs, it wasn't time yet, so it must have been emotional-"

"I'm not fucking on the fucking rag," Alex raged, and there was fear now, and Hank shut up quick. Alex was scared of his own powers, it was insensitive of Hank to have- he kicked himself. Right. Goddamn. He hated being an idiot.

Alex's hands were gentle throughout.

"You know what," he suddenly said roughly, his breath stirring the fur on Hank's throat, "c'mon. Do you have anything really dangerous going on right now?"

"You- uh, the microcentrifuge is broken, so no." Hank tried for tactful.

"Let's get drunk," Alex said with a manic look on his face. "Huh? C'mon. You need to loosen up. You've been in this lab for six months without- jesus, of course you wouldn't have had sex- and I know you don't smoke- what is your life, Henry McCoy? Hustle!"

The surprise came with hurt- of course you wouldn't have had sex- Hank didn't know how to interpret that. It probably wasn't the appropriate time to bring up the fact that he was a virgin. And was likely to remain so until the rest of- his time in this form. "Oh," he said, and realized he was being dragged into Alex's room, which Hank had only been to once, when Alex was getting settled in. Everything was fireproof.

"What was the point of fireproofing the room if you were going to leave flammable liquids around everywhere?" Hank exclaimed, scandalized, spotting the bottles. The room smelled faintly of it as well. "Alex!"

"Calm down, I do pay attention to those buildup graphs," Alex said. He pointed to a printout taped to the wall, besides a mirror. "See?"

"Well," Hank said, annoyed. Alex thrust a bottle into his hand.

"Unless you want to be posh and get glasses," he said.

"This is fine," Hank said, realizing he was about to get drunk. Drunk. "What if- someone walks in-"

Alex gave him a long look. "Xavier's still easing the new guy in, relax. He doesn't come by that often now that we're officially in hiding even within the house."

"Just until- fine," Hank said. "Um, how do you open..."

Alex tipped his thumbnail against the lid.

"Cool!" said Hank. Alex looked like he was stifling a smile.

Good looking guy, Hank thought regretfully as he took a swig.

"I don't like this," Hank said thoughtfully to the bottle. "It tastes like shite."

"That's weak stuff, try the vodka," said Alex. Hank liked the vodka, even though it made him cough and sputter for the first ten minutes. Hank liked the way the vodka made him feel. He said this. Alex twisted his lips into a new expression.

And that expression was part of the reason Hank found himself spilling out his life story to an unexpectedly sympathetic Alex Summers half an hour later.

"And so I got to, um, the university." Hank didn't like saying Harvard around Alex. It made him feel fragile and open to mockery. "And there was all this, everything I needed, and I was working on a cure. I knew I could do it, I'd been theorizing for ten years or so by then, and I had a pretty concrete idea of how to use zinc fingers to fix my feet. I'd found the right viral medium, I thought. I mean, the ice mall survived."

"Ice mall?"

"All the mice," Hank explained. It had made sense in his head. How strange. "Damn. So I'd isolated my mutation by then. I was just looking at the feet. I had no idea that this- all this would happen, I mean. Obviously it had been dormant. It worked, for a while, and then I went like this. And my feet were even worse."

He was silent.

"It was a nightmare. It happened over the course of a few weeks, but I was pretty sure what was happening to me by the fourth day, because I'd gone a definitely strange color, and it had nothing with being carsick. I think I took off a pound of flesh off myself, studying the skin samples and trying to find out where I went wrong. I didn't even dare think that it was permanent..."

"But it was," Alex said, a sarcastic little smile on his face. It didn't hurt Hank. Hank understood more when he was drunk than he was sober when it came to Alex. It was like a tradeoff, he thought sadly. Science or Alex. My brain can only go so far. He hiccupped with laughter. "What?"

"Just thinking, at this point I'd choose you," Hank said, irrationally fond. "Vodka is mind-altering."

"Whatever you say, bozo," said Alex, shrugging. "So. Go on. When you found out it was permanent..."

"I didn't know who to call, you know?" Hank felt almost sober again, remembering that. "My parents had freaked out about my feet for my entire life. One long seventeen-year-long freakout. And now I was- like this. I tried to calm down, find a cure, but I knew I couldn't do it right away, and I needed a place to stay. But I couldn't call- the government or anything. They'd fine my family for hiding me and everything, and then maybe I'd be sent to a facility-"

Alex made a small noise in his throat.

"I really didn't have anywhere to go. I didn't know any mutants. I thought that they'd recognize me or something and... I didn't want to... associate with them. I know, I was- but I was scared. The only one I knew at that point was Professor Xavier, everyone knew about him, and they were okay with him because his powers weren't scary, you know-"

Alex snorted.

"Well, at that point we didn't know, I mean, because of course he went- he goes around saying he's a weak empath. That seemed fairly harmless, he could just know how people felt. And I got his number- I had to hack the school database to do it- and I called him, and he recognized me at once." Hank gave a warbling little laugh. "That really amazed me, you know, because we'd only met once or twice. But now I know it was because he'd known, of course, from the beginning, and of course he'd remember a hidden mutant... anyway, I called him and asked for help and he sent a driver to pick me up. And that was almost half a year ago. It seems like a lifetime."

Alex said nothing, but handed Hank another bottle. He seemed to have an endless stash.

"I have-" he hiccupped- "high metabolism, there is no need to emit cortisols like a broken proton emitter. I mean cortisol, of course. The plural of cortisol is not cortisols. I feel so stupid."

‘"Welcome to the rest of the world," said Alex, and flicked off the lid for him. That was so cool, Hank decided.

"You're nice when I drunk," Hank said fervently, an indeterminate time later. "Maybe I should be drunk all the time."

Alex said nothing, looking grimly amused. "Maybe you should," he said. "See what sobriety did to you in life."

"I think," said Hank, ruminating deeply, "I think that was just life."

"Get more alcohol," said Alex.

"Okay," said Hank, and ambled up.

Alex looked surprised. "Really?"

"I know where Charles keeps good wine," confided Hank.

"Get cheap stuff," said Alex.

"Charles doesn't have any cheap stuff."

Alex sighed. "Yeah. I guess. Get whiskey, if you can. Don't get caught."

"It's three am in the morning," said Hank. He blinked. It was actually true. How had that- "I'm not going to run into anyone."

And that was how he stumbled up the stairs he hadn't touched for several weeks now, headed for the kitchen.

::::::

One night Erik woke up, discomfort digging through his throat. He was about to roll over and bury his face into the pillow again- morning water and breakfast, only a few hours, go back to sleep, when he realized- oh. He was somewhere else. It didn't smell of Dusseldorf disinfectant or the scentless shifting of Shaw's house. There was soap and warmth and the distant dryness of-

He sat up, sleep blurring into the air. He was- allowed.

He was thirsty. He was going to get something to drink. He processed that, and stumbled to the door.

Everything felt different in the house when everyone was asleep. The mansion was blunted soft corners and pooling shadows and soft carpet under his bare feet. He found, by memory and moonlight, the kitchen, allowing himself to thrum with sleep and warmth. And then there was something else, something like a content purr at the edge of his consciousness. It was like Emma when she slept, except softer and deeper.

Oh.

He'd never realized.

He found that he was smiling, cautiously. This was all right. He opened the refrigerator door, squinting at the light. Apple juice. He wanted apple juice. It was odd to have a desire to directed and articulated. But it wasn't there. Glancing at the garbage can, he saw an empty plastic bottle.

"Damn," he said. Odd to curse. But- again, that lurching realization that never became old- he was allowed to, wasn't he? "Damn," he said again.

There was a rustling sound behind him- not loud, but enough. He ought to have tensed, but everything was still soft-edged, and he merely turned around, mildly inquisitive.

There was- something- tucked in between the oven and the corner. It was large and, in the dim light of the refrigerator, blue. Furred, in fact. It had hands. Erik's eyes traveled slowly. Hands and several whiskey bottles. It was wearing trousers and a lab coat.

He followed the line of blue fur in between the lapels to a thick blue throat, oddly singed in places, and from there to the face of a monkey. Except that monkeys didn't wear glasses. This one did. Even by Erik's limited knowledge, he could see that those were unfashionable glasses. He found himself quirking his lips. This was obviously a dream. That might explain how he felt. He didn't feel like this in reality.

"Hullo," he said.

"Eep," said the monkey. It wasn't an animal sound. It was someone actually saying 'eep'. "Yes. Hello."

"Are you old enough to be drinking?" Erik inquired.

"Um," said the monkey guiltily, cradling the whiskey bottles. It wasn't actually the face of a monkey, Erik decided, giving it a critical look. The teeth and fur, yes, but actually- "I- no, not really. I mean, yes. And of course I have an extremely high rate of metabolism- do I look young?"

That was a silly question, really. Erik answered honestly. "It's rather hard to tell."

"It is, isn't it," it answered gloomily. "Well. How does your collar work? Is it holding?"

Erik's chin jerked in surprise. The metal, which he barely noticed these days- (no, that was a lie, every moment he felt like he had lost some-) suddenly felt cold and heavy against his shoulders and neck. "I can't feel what I used to do at all," he said. "So yes. It works. Thanks for asking."

"No problem."

"Perhaps," said Erik, "when I come back down someone will not have drunk all the apple juice. I have developed a fondness for it." It was the sort of thing that he never would have admitted to in real life.

"There's more in the pantry, but you will want to add ice," said the monkey.

Erik frowned. "You are being very helpful. People aren't usually, in my dreams."

The monkey grinned weakly, and hiccupped. He was holding quite a lot of alcohol. "A dream. Not an illogical hypothesis. I don't happen in reality, do I?"

Erik opened the pantry door. There was an unopened bottle of apple juice. "I've seen some very unusual people in Dusseldorf," he mused.

"Right," said the monkey nervously from behind him. "But no one like me, I would conjecture."

"You would be correct. But I think you are a mutant. This is not a dream. Who are you?"

He turned around. No one was there.

A chill ran through him. The- man, he knew now- was fast. Had he sneaked into the house? To get alcohol? It seemed illogical. But surely there were precautions against intruders. He would ask Charles about it in the morning. It seemed too surreal to bring up- perhaps he'd be laughed at- but Charles wouldn't do that. (Strange, that trust-) But on the other hand, he was still thirsty.

:::::

Alex looked at Hank, took in the bristling fur and the whites of his eyes. "Oh, whiskey," he said joyfully.

Hank opened his mouth.

"Exactly," Alex said, handing him a bottle. "Come on. I swear this stuff is good for you." He was giddily beautiful when he was drunk, tense lines melted out of his spine. Hank found it peculiarly calming. He found himself looking at the hard-soft lines of Alex's jaw and thinking no big deal, was it?



I keep thinking that I'm missing something with this story, and by the time I find it it'll be too late to fix it. Ugh.

Possibly the alcohol might have helped.

"I, um, met someone," he said.

Alex looked at him, wide-eyed. "Who?"

"Tall blond guy, kind of good looking," said Hank. This- was a manageable problem, right?

"You can't meet anyone," Alex said decisively. "You're down here."

"When I wasn't, I mean."

"Well, you're here now, it's about time you forgot about him," Alex said.

Hank opened his mouth and what came out was that sounds like a good idea. Alex looked pleased with himself.

What the hell, Hank thought, the room blurring around him. He'd tell Charles when he woke up.

Except, he discovered when he woke up past noon the next day and promptly went to throw up in the toilet, Charles had a seminar in Chicago, and after that he’d headed straight to Korea.

:::::

Erik was about to bring up what he'd seen in the night- slowly lead into it, check for a reaction, back away if he found one, back away if he didn't- but he discarded the idea when he approached the library and heard a stream of muffled curses. He stopped at the door, wondering if he should go in, feeling unnerved enough to walk away- Charles never cursed or got angry. If he was- Erik found himself shivering-

Or maybe Charles needed him, in which case he had to- he opened the door before he lost the courage.

"Shit," Charles was saying to himself, "bleeding hellish shit, oh hello."

They blinked at each other. Erik found his shoulders tensing. Charles' eyes went wide, and something in his posture just snapped into place, as if Erik's appearance had jarred him into controlling himself. "Come in. Hello. Apparently I have a seminar tomorrow that no one told me about. Or, um, they did tell me about but I sort of... forgot. And we have a flight to catch right after that to Korea."

"Oh," Erik said. It was his private opinion that Charles could deal with anything that came his way. He'd dealt with Erik, certainly. He put away the thought of mentioning the blue monkey entirely. "Genetics?"

"Yes. Mutations, actually," Charles said after a beat. "And pharmacogenomics. Rather upsetting. I did that research two years ago, in another country. I'm going to have to ask my colleague to fax me about two thousand pages of raw data and then I'm going to have to beat it into a coherent lecture."

Erik was already putting his books down. Charles gave him a grateful smile, with astonishment lurking at the edges, the one that said what did I do to have you in my life? It made Erik's heart beat oddly. He was flushed all the way through a phone call.

He tried not to look exhausted as the hours slurred into each other and rolled on. Charles was typing like a demon while Erik sifted through old notes. More fax came. He changed the toner. They ran out of paper. Charles made an irritated sound and went to get some from the storage room.

Erik didn't remember putting down his pen.

Charles' hand on his arm startled him awake. The man was holding a sheaf of paper in his elbow, and his smile was a little crooked. He'd taken off the device that regulated his mutation. Erik's heart fluttered and he thought about sunlight on a stone floor, trying to block everything out.

"Oh!" Charles said. "Someone taught you that?"

Erik righted himself, astonished. "What?" he said.

Charles' eyes were very wide. "Nothing. Go to bed, Erik."

I thought I was, here- Erik's brain caught up with him. "Is that- an order?" he said, trying to keep his breathing quiet.

Charles flinched, very slightly. "No. Not at all."

"I mean- I will," said Erik. He couldn't get his bearings.

"You're very tired."

"You don't have your dampers on."

Charles closed his eyes. "An evident mistake." He fumbled for them.

Erik watched him, shakily. He almost said no, wait, I'm not. I don't want to be- before catching himself and changing the words midway into: "I'm sorry. We aren't done yet. I shouldn't go to sleep."

"I can handle it." Charles sounded unbending on that. "I'm almost done anyhow. Go and pack."

"I have."

"Then just sleep." Charles smiled, and his eyes were bright even through the fatigue, and he touched Erik's arm very briefly. Erik thought of stone and sunlight again. Don't let him know please don't let him know. "Erik? Go to bed."

And this time it didn't sound like an order at all. Erik clambered up, ashamed of himself for some indefinable reason (there was bound to be something, he vaguely felt, woozy with exhaustion). Busan. Maybe it would be good for him.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

::::::

Busan was a port city. Early October in Korea meant pleasant weather and wet toes curling into the sand as they ate ice cream, their luggage abandoned on the pavement. The sea rumbled tamely at them. The caught their breath after a slapdash seminar in which Charles had made enthusiastic noises about lacI genes from the podium. Erik had sat at the back, in the shadows, watching him gesticulate and babble on about things that Erik knew he was going to learn in the near future. It had given him an odd, dizzy feeling.

Charles looked ridiculous in sunglasses.

"Go on," said Charles. "Say it."

"You look ridiculous in sunglasses," said Erik, and couldn't stop the grin. Dusseldorf had never seemed so far away, even with the passers-by politely dropping their eyes when they saw his collar. Charles smiled back, and it lit up something somewhere that Erik shied away from locating.

"Yes, it's a shame to hide these eyes," Charles said loftily, putting them away.

Erik, who had no answer, said: "I like the beach." It was- fascinating, how he could just throw out a statement like that and Charles would unhesitatingly weave it into a new conversation, make it something interesting, smile about it. Like now-

"We could go to the Mediterranean this winter," said Charles. "Italy or Greece. All of us. Except maybe Sean, his family might snatch him away. Would you like that?"

Erik knew how to find Greece on a map. He'd been taught geography. Its importance had been impressed on him that. He dropped his eyes and licked away the ice cream dribbling down his cone. When he looked up, Charles was watching him, face suddenly unreadable.

"Yes," Erik said. "I'd like that." Maybe he did. Charles was smiling again, putting on his sunglasses a cloud uncovered the sun and the sky grew brighter.

They went to their hotel. Erik had to crane his neck to see the top. He said something. A car honked loudly as it passed by.

"What?" Charles said.

Erik almost said "nothing", but- he didn't. He'd just been to the sea. "The hotel feels empty. All the buildings do, now, but something that big... it just struck me."

Charles caught Erik's elbow as they were jostled by the many people trying to cross the street all at once. He waited until they were in the lobby of the hotel to say, as they were waiting in line, "the girders and supports and things."

"Everything. The bedposts and the mirror frames and the bars and chains and doors. The guns and cuffs."

Charles was giving him a slow odd look. "Do you-"

"Next? Excuse me, sir? Your name?"

Charles exchanged swift niceties with the receptionist, a girl with a sleek bun and well-applied makeup, and Erik thought of Charles saying breathe. He breathed. It helped. Charles' fingers danced lightly along his knuckles for a few seconds, just until Erik realized he wasn't imagining it.

"1433, thank you," Charles said, and walked to the elevators, Erik close behind. "Please take the next one," he said politely to a young Korean man in a suit who came up behind them. The young man looked vaguely bewildered but stepped back as Charles shut the door in his face.

That was rude, Erik thought, just as bewildered, until Charles whirled around and made a small, cut-off movement, as if he'd been about to touch Erik's shoulders but had stopped. "Are you all right?"

Erik stared. "What?"




Updates will be slow now for various reasons. Uh... I argue creative process (yeah right) and actual RL shit flying around and smacking me in the face.

“Are you- is there anything wrong?”

“Why would there be?”

“You were acting a little strange.”

Erik twitched a little, trying to shake his head and shrug at once and stopping himself instantly. Weak gestures, he wasn’t supposed to make those. “It’s just that I can’t feel the building anymore. That’s all.”

“The last one you’ve been to, the last big one, I suppose, was the Dusseldorf facility,” Charles said, voice and face easy as if he’d never kicked someone out of an elevator to ask Erik if he were all right. Erik shoved that fact away for later, when he could better deal with it. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” Erik reviewed his words. He had sounded strange. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” Charles said, as if it were an important point. "I thought you- never mind. But- the collar, are you feeling any side effects?"

"No," Erik said. “It’s working just as it should. I can’t do anything with metal.”

"Do you want it off?" Charles asked, very directly.

Erik couldn't believe his ears for a second. "What?" (Charles wanted to send him back? Charles wanted permission from the government to remove it? Charles wanted to- but that made no sense- was it a theoretical question- Charles- what did he want-)

"If you could, would you take it off?"

"Stop giving me choices," Erik said, in a helplessly wrenched way that he found he despised, and they stared at each other, both utterly lost.

There was a soft chime, and the doors slid open to an empty hallway.

"Let's go," Charles said, and Erik obeyed. Their room was near the lifts. The trunks rolled almost soundlessly on the carpet. Erik felt defeated. He should just have said no. That was the right answer, anyway. Why did he keep- why did Charles keep-

The room was spacious, the window opened to a sprawling view of the city and a sheer blue sky. Erik sat on his bed and rigidly waited for Charles to- do something. Anything.

But Charles opened his luggage and started stripping casually. His shirt fell to the floor before Erik knew it. He averted his eyes politely as Charles changed into something comfortable. It turned out to be pajamas that looked like they were older than he was. It was only 4 pm in Korea, but jet lag was catching up with them both; Charles obviously wanted to collapse.

"Aren't you sleepy?" Charles said, facing him, buttoning his shirt up over a widening V of skin.

Erik should say yes. "Not really."

"I'm sorry that I've pressed you too hard," Charles said, coming closer to sit on the other bed, his by default. The space between the beds was wide enough, but their knees were only inches apart. Erik thought about shuffling back, but that would be rude.

"You haven't." Erik thought it was somewhat true. Charles hadn't asked about- Dusseldorf and before-Dusseldorf. "I just."

When it became apparent that he wasn't going to continue that sentence, Charles said: "Do you object to choices?"

"You have to stop asking me to-" Erik stopped. "I mean, I-" he didn't know how to say 'I don't want'. He stared at Charles, holding his breath.

"It's fine. Please go on."

"I don't like it when you ask me what I want for breakfast," Erik said, voice pitched low, "I- don't like it when you ask me what I want."

"Can I touch your hands?" Charles said.

"Yes," Erik said without even thinking about it, and Charles' slightly smaller hands were clasping his, warm and dry.

"I'm afraid that's just something you're going to have to get used to," Charles said, and Erik thought he was talking about the hands for half a second.

"I know."

"The collar. Erik?"

"I want it on."

He was so frightened that Charles would ask why. He clenched himself against the possibility.

"Okay," said Charles, dropping the issue suddenly, totally, gently releasing his hands. Erik watched him rise and stretch out, yawning, looking swamped in his large bedclothes. "Aren't you sleepy?"

Now Erik said yes.

"Conference starts at ten in the morning tomorrow," said Charles, eyes half-lidded, taking the digital clock from the bedside table and setting it to eight. "I guess we'll wake up earlier than that, but just in case. We can have breakfast around here. You know you can talk to me."

Charles said the last sentence so casually that Erik's ears fit it with the rest of his words and passed it under 'innocuous'. Then he blinked.

"G'night Erik," Charles was murmuring sleepily, burrowing under the blankets, digging his face into the pillow. One hand plucked off the dampers and dropped them on the bedside table. The air changed around him, slightly denser with sleepiness and waves of contentment. Erik recognized it only because he was looking for it.

He sat there for a long time, perhaps an hour. Charles began to dream. The air took on a quality that Erik associated with waking up these days. It was familiar instead of frightening, as he'd half expected it to be. A queer whimsy and peace.

Erik curled up like that on his own bed, above the sheets, fully clothed, and fell into his own sleep.

:::::

Charles was reviewing his notes when Erik awoke. It was about four in the morning. The city slumbered beyond the window, a fidgeting and barely-dormant beast.

"I can smell the sea," Erik mumbled sleepily, and Charles fumbled for his dampers with shaking hands. The spaces between his ribs felt damp and soft. "Salt and sand... ice cream."

"You should change into something more comfortable."

"Charles?" Erik murmured.

"I'm here."

"What do I say about the collar? Do I wear a turtleneck over it or something?"

It was one of Erik's tentative jokes, and Charles would have laughed even if it hadn't been very funny. As it happened, it was, and he had no trouble. The idea was ridiculous. "You'd look like you have a goiter or something," he said. A smile was playing around Erik's lips.

“When someone comes up to you and asks uncomfortable questions about it, pretend you can’t speak English.” Charles meant that as a joke, too, but Erik looked very serious. Charles started wondering about that. He’d meant Erik to meet people, in the footnotes of his reasons for coming to Korea. Mutants who weren’t hiding themselves. But if Erik were that uneasy-

“I cannot speak English, I am in America for only three weeks,” Erik said very seriously in a heavy accent, and Charles curled into himself with laughter, biting his knees. Erik was smiling uncertainly, as if he weren’t certain if it had been funny. “Can I do that?”

“If you like,” said Charles, familiar words by now. “But you may find people you want to talk to, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to meet any more people,” said Erik. He was tall and broad-shouldered and sharp-faced, and Charles had never seen anyone look so unsure in his life. “I am… this makes a difference.”

He touched his collar, at that, but Charles knew he’d meant to say something quite different and had taken it back at the last moment. He played along anyway. "Plenty of mutants have regulating devices. I have one myself, don't I?"

"But this is different," said Erik. Then he paused. "Am I the only one with this?"

Classified information. Classified information. But what the fuck. "No, you aren't. There are a few others who had been released under the same conditions."

"I'm surprised."

"Are you?"

"No one else in Dusseldorf wanted to."

Dangerous waters. Charles ached to tear off his dampers. Erik's face was blank, as always, his shoulders razorblade sharp against the sheets he was lounging against. The lamplight glittered off the collar. "The suppression of one's powers is jarring." There. No step-asides, no equivocation.

Erik didn't answer. He got up to retrieve more comfortable clothes- Charles didn't know why he'd slept in those ones anyway- and changed into them. Jagged profile and miles of skin. Ribs, long feet. Erik made quick work of dressing, and it was over like a coin falling back into someone's hand.

"You've dropped your pen."

"Huh. Have I?" Charles reached down. Erik was watching him with that same blank-toothed regard.

"I couldn't control it," Erik said.

Charles thought of Alex, cooped up in the basement, and Hank, withering away. Raven and her peach skin. A nightmare he'd had as a child that had knocked out the help. "Volatile mutations... yours was one of them?"

Erik nearly stopped there. Charles wondered if it was his fault. It might as well be. He was completely lost here. He didn't have to be, but Erik had secrets he would die to keep yet. He'd respect that. "It wasn't. Volatile. Unless I got angry."

"Did you get angry a lot?" Charles himself had never seen Erik lose his temper. Couldn’t imagine it, really. Erik was like one of those huge clumsy Greek buildings, with most of the space set aside for its own supporting columns. He didn’t seem to have space for things like anger. Except what did Charles know, really?

Erik sat down on the bed. "I..."

He looked like he was trying to explain in a foreign language when he continued: "I was... tried to make... I was provoked in order to..."

It was a hard sentence to construct without a proper subject. "Someone tried to awaken your abilities by making you angry," said Charles quietly. This wasn't in the file. No one had cared enough to ask properly.

"It was attempted."

"Not at Dusseldorf." It was an obvious thing, of course- several organizations were very strict about mutant rehabilitation centers, including some that Charles had helped found. They'd never.

"Before Dusseldorf."

Charles could swear that Erik was sweating. Something piled up against his dampers, seeped through- miles and years and miles of distress and I want-

He looked carefully at Erik. He didn't look like a man having a mental breakdown. "Erik? Do you want to say something?"

A pause, and: "No."

"All right," said Charles. "Do you want to go back to sleep?"

He hadn't been imagining it; Erik's forehead was sheened lightly with sweat. "I want to go back to sleep."

"All right." Charles went back to his notes, Erik pulled a blanket over himself.

"Charles?"

"I'm here."

"Could you send me to sleep?"

His pen paused in the middle of underlining a key phrase. "Are you sure you want me to?"

"Yes."

Charles took off his dampers, and Erik hit him full force, a violent tangle of wire. I want to dream now I have good dreams now.

You will not cry, Charles Francis Xavier, he told himself, and then sent out a smooth pulse of pillow sleep tired eyes close now happy. And it was absolutely not cheating if he searched out a part of Erik that felt raw and open but good and let it become part of his sleep, a bead of air in a fish tank, rising up. It wasn't cheating, it would have happened anyway. He was just-

He buried his face into his hands. This was how it all started. This was how it all fucking started- he noticed Erik shift in his sleep and put on his dampers before his own distress could reach its pitch. Like the time he'd been sitting next to a racist on the bus and had softened the edges of her resentment because it had felt so wrong. Or the anorexic girl in Amsterdam he'd shared a table with in a MacDonald's whom he'd taken to a mirror and showed how she really looked in his eyes. Or the man in an abusive relationship-

Granted, none of those people had gone wrong- Charles had anxiously checked- but every time he did something like that he knew that even though he had the best of intentions, it could never be justified. And Erik, whom he'd been determined to behave properly around, was proving to be the largest temptation of all.

When you see an abyss, Raven had once said to him, you'd want to jump in just to fill it up.