Chapter Text
Charles stares out the window, watching the miles flow past in the quiet night. There isn't much to see; it might be pretty enough by day, but in the darkness, the low wooded hills along the highway blur together into one long, dark smudge, and the moon has long since given up its battle against the thick cloud cover. Still he looks, enthralled. He hasn't seen the world outside his bunker in two years. It doesn't seem like it's been so very long; at the same time, it feels much longer. His mind feels sharp, alert; for the moment, at least, he's quite certain he's awake. Perhaps something in Hank's injection countered more than just the sedatives. He hopes the sharpness lasts.
He doesn't want to fall asleep.
They've been driving for an hour, perhaps more; what little conversation there was dropped off quickly, and now the silence goes unbroken but for the soft sounds of breathing and the wind outside as they speed down the highway. Charles warned Alex at first about the New York State Police and their love of issuing speeding tickets, but he just laughed it off. They've been lucky so far. Charles doesn't bother pushing the issue. In the back, Angel and Raven have fallen asleep against one another, Angel's head tucked onto Raven's shoulder, and Raven's cheek pressed into Angel's hair. Erik also sleeps, leaning away from the girls, head lolling back. He'll probably wake up with a crick in his neck and then go on to complain about the contortion of his long legs in the cramped backseat. Charles smiles up at the rear-view mirror, knowing no one is awake to see him, not caring.
"Hey," Alex says, keeping his voice low. "How's your leg doing?"
Charles shrugs. "It's fine." It hurts, of course; a constant, dull ache, buzzing at the periphery of his awareness. Less so now that he's stopped trying to walk on it, but he has no doubt he'll suffer for that adventurousness tomorrow. It doesn't matter. He welcomes the pain; it's a small price to pay for waking. He glances over. Alex keeps his eyes on the road, his jaw twitching like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. "May I ask you a question, Alex?"
"Yeah, anything, what's up?"
"Erik said that you kept him alive for two years," Charles says softly. "What did he mean?"
Alex fidgets, blinking a few times. "Uh, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to answer that."
Charles leans against the window, watching Alex intently. "I suppose I'd hoped Erik and Raven might stick together, after -- well. But she struck off on her own, and you stayed with Erik. You were with him this whole time?"
"Yeah," Alex says. "I mean, not like twenty-four seven or anything. We'd split up after jobs and then meet up again a few days or a week later, that sort of thing. But pretty much. We're -- we were a team, I guess."
"But why?" Charles is genuinely curious. Erik has always been a loner by default; and of all of the CIA's dreamers, Alex is the last person Charles would have expected Erik to latch on to, and vice versa.
Alex clutches the steering wheel. "After they took you and Darwin, Erik went hunting Shaw. I offered to help. It took us nine days before we found the bodies. Erik -- uh, he kind of lost his fucking mind at that point, it wasn't pretty."
Charles has to look away, staring out through the windshield at nothing. He knows how he might have reacted, if their situations had been reversed, and he has always been the calm, reasonable one. He doesn't even want to imagine Erik's rage set loose upon the world.
"I mean, I wasn't doing too well myself," Alex goes on roughly. "Losing Darwin like that, and then you, too...." He shakes his head. "But Erik, man, Erik was fucked up. You couldn't argue about Darwin, he was right there in front of us, but the body we thought was yours...well, anyway, Erik refused to believe it. He kept insisting you were alive, that Shaw had you. I mean, turns out he was right, but that wasn't -- none of us believed him. He didn't himself, not really, but he just couldn't let go. And the shit he pulled -- the jobs he was taking -- he was just--" Alex cuts himself off, shaking his head. He shoots a quick glance over at Charles, then back to the road. "I couldn't leave him," he says quietly. "I was scared of what would happen."
Charles nods mutely. He wants to grab Erik by the shoulders and scream at him; he wants to wrap his arms around him and never let him go. He doesn't know what he wants. There shouldn't be space inside of him for this many conflicting emotions; the human body simply wasn't built to withstand it. How has he not yet splintered apart?
"I'm sorry," he says instead, once he's able to force the words out. "Alex, I am so sorry. You should never have had to--"
"Hey, please don't," Alex interrupts, looking deeply uncomfortable. "I mean, we got through it, right? So whatever. We're good."
"Thank you," Charles says softly, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "For Erik, and everything else."
They sit in silence for a little while longer. Finally, as through the words are being wrenched out of him, Alex says, "It's funny."
Charles waits him out.
"I mean," Alex says, "I spent all this time chasing after Erik, keeping him in line -- I just never stopped moving. There was always the next job to worry about, what crazy stunt he might pull next, and I never...." He trails off, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "And now you're back, and that's awesome, and he has you again, so that's -- great, I mean, seriously. But I...." He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Christ, I have no idea what I'm going to do with myself now."
"Whatever you want," Charles says simply. He tries on a smile, and finds that it fits. "I think you may be the strongest of all of us, Alex."
Alex's shoulders tense up, then relax. "I don't know what I want."
"People rarely do. You'll figure it out," Charles assures him. "There's no rush. And in the meantime...." He shrugs, smile widening. "You'll do just fine."
He tilts his head back against the seat, and looks out at the highway. A sign flashes past, informing them that they're seventeen miles out of Albany. Still a ways to go yet, Charles thinks, but they're getting there.
After spending over an hour telling and retelling her story a hundred times to the local cops, Moira's pretty much ready to start shooting at random and make good her escape. The EMTs on scene checked up on her hand, and confirmed that it probably wasn't broken, just jammed, though they wanted to bring her back to the hospital to be sure. She refused as politely as she could. Sooner or later, though, she's going to have to sweet-talk somebody into giving her and Hank a ride back to civilization.
Hank has parked himself on the grass, and responds to any inquiries with a polite smile and complete silence. It's kind of hilarious to watch. Moira likes this kid.
"Excuse me, Agent MacTaggert?"
Moira turns with a sigh, preparing her hundred and first recounting of the great Battle of Xavier Mansion. This guy isn't a cop, though -- or plainclothes, maybe. He's a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, very ordinary in every way: average height, average build, average uninteresting face. Something about him pings her radar, though. The deliberate blandness, the neat suit -- oh, definitely G-man. She knows the type. She's one herself.
"Yes?" she asks wearily.
He smiles pleasantly, flashing his badge. "Agent Phil Coulson, with the Subconscious Homeland Intervention, Espionage, and Logistics Division. Do you have a moment?"
"Look, I've already told the police everything I know--"
"I'm pretty sure you told them everything they asked, actually," Agent Coulson says, still smiling. "But I doubt any of the local cops thought to ask you about Cain Marko's affiliation with dreamsharing."
Moira stills, eyes narrowing. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He looks amused. "Don't they teach you how to lie at the CIA? Look, we both work for the same government--"
"Then you can take your questions straight to my superiors," Moira says flatly. She crosses her arms across her chest, glaring at him. "I've had a very long night, Agent Coulson, and I'm not interested in being interrogated."
"Actually, Agent MacTaggert, I'd like to offer you a job."
Moira likes to think she doesn't startle easily. But that she was not expecting. "If this involves dreamsharing, you should know that I haven't worked in dreams in more than two years."
"Yes, we realize that," he says, clasping his hands neatly. "We have no intention of sending you into dreams yourself, but frankly, there aren't many veterans of the U.S. government's various PASIV programs who are still interested in remaining in government employ. Black market dreamsharing has existed since the late '80s, but there's been a massive spike in the mercenary industry in the past five years or so. Meanwhile, the government's been terminating its own dreamsharing programs right and left. We've never been so vulnerable to dreamers who would sell state secrets to the highest bidder." He leans in, ever so slightly, his expression intent and serious. "The CIA's given up the ghost on dreams. You're wasted there. I hate to poach from a rival agency, but, well, we want the best. You'll still be serving your country -- but wouldn't you like to be free to focus your energies on your own area of expertise, with the support and resources you need?"
She can't deny that it's tempting. The CIA's been shoving her into a corner, keeping her as barely more than a high-level secretary as they slash their dreamsharing program. Having lost so many of their former dreamers, they simply don't trust Moira with anything important. The Shaw job was probably her last chance at anything better, and Sebastian Shaw is in Limbo.
"How do I know your group is going to be any better?" she demands. "The Subconscious Defense and Espionage whatever--"
"Subconscious Homeland Intervention, Espionage, and Logistics Division," Agent Coulson says patiently, in the tones of one long accustomed to having to repeat himself. He gives her a small smile. "But you can call us S.H.I.E.L.D."
Erik awakens gradually, in bits and pieces, which is unusual for him. Generally, waking is something that happens all at once, accompanied by a rush of adrenaline. Dreamers tend to be wary sleepers. But this time it's a drawn-out process. He's distantly aware of the motion of the car, the faint vibrations of his seat, becoming more pronounced as the vehicle moves off well-paved roads onto what feels like a gravel track. Then the low murmurs of voices seep in. Alex's is instantly recognizable from two years of living in close quarters; it takes a few moments to place the other, so soft as to be nearly indistinct. Charles.
Erik opens his eyes.
"Okay, but GPS doesn't even know this road exists," Alex is saying. "Which I gotta tell you, kind of creeps me out."
Charles laughs quietly. "That's probably what makes it a good safe house." His eyes flicker up to meet Erik's in the rear-view mirror, and his lips curve into a smile. "Look who's up."
"Well, if you two weren't chattering away," Erik grumbles, but he can't keep the smile from twitching at the edges of his own mouth. He sits up straight in his seat, rolling his neck to work out the kinks, body protesting his return to consciousness. He still feels thick with sleep. That was probably the longest he'd slept in one stretch in several days, and it's not nearly enough. Beside him, Angel and Raven are starting to stir as well.
Alex snorts. "Whatever, we're almost here anyway. Wherever the fuck 'here' is."
"Plattsburgh," Charles says placidly. "Or near enough."
"You say that like it's not just a synonym for the middle of fucking nowhere."
"There's the house," Charles points out. His voice is rich with suppressed laughter, and something locked tight within Erik's chest unfurls slowly at the sound of it. It's almost like hope.
The car rattles to a stop on the loose gravel drive, pulling up in front of a weather-beaten house. It looks ghostly gray in the headlights, but for all that, it seems decent enough. The construction looks sturdy and the roof has been recently shingled; there are three floors and a wide front porch, and Erik can see light shining through the curtains of the main room. An old but well-tended pickup truck is parked next to the porch.
"All right," Alex says loudly, killing the engine. "Last stop. Everybody off."
Raven groans and squints one eye open. "I hate you so much."
As they slowly sort themselves out, the front door of the house opens. Erik stretches his legs and studies the person who emerges. Not a tall man, but powerfully built; when he crosses his arms across his chest, his biceps stand out intimidatingly. He's only wearing a sleeveless shirt and jeans -- and cowboy boots, of course -- but he doesn't seem to notice the chilly night air. He has long, unkempt sideburns and a lit cigar between his teeth. "You Cassidy's people?" he calls, and Erik frowns. There's something vaguely familiar about this guy, niggling at the back of his memory.
"Yeah," Alex says, flicking off the headlights and slamming his car door shut. Erik blinks in the sudden darkness. "And you are?"
"Name's Logan. How many you got?"
"Five," Alex tells him. "How many bedrooms? Or sofas, I'm not feeling too picky." He eyes the house, assessing, then glances back to where Charles is stiffly pulling himself out of the car. Erik tries to lend him a hand, only to be waved off. "And we're gonna want at least one bed on the first floor," Alex adds.
Logan shrugs, taking a puff from the cigar. "Bunk down wherever you want, bub. Got one bedroom downstairs and three upstairs. None of 'em are what you'd call luxurious, but a bed's a bed. If nobody wants to share, there's a couch in the living room. The attic's mine; you leave my shit alone and I'll leave yours."
"That'll do nicely, thanks," Alex says, and holds out a hand for Logan to shake. Logan just gives him a disparaging look, so Alex shrugs and drops it. "Your place?"
"One of 'em," Logan says noncommittally. He chomps on his cigar, looking them all over through narrowed eyes. "Dreamers, right? If you brought your own PASIV, leave it in the car. I don't want any of that crap in my house."
Alex glances back at Erik, who shakes his head. The car was Moira's; all of their kit had been left behind in the black van, now buried under a pile of rubble in Westchester. "We don't have any stuff," Alex tells Logan, mouth twisting wryly. "Of any kind, actually."
Logan nods sagely, like this sort of thing happens to him all the time. Maybe it does. "Twenty minute drive into town, you can pick up any essentials in the morning. Gonna need cash?"
While Logan and Alex work out the details of whatever arrangement Sean set up for them, Erik leans in to Charles. "Does this guy look familiar to you?"
Charles frowns thoughtfully, then brightens. "Now that you mention it -- didn't we try to recruit him to the CIA once?"
"Ah, yes," Erik sighs, the unfortunate memory sliding back into place. "Shitty bar in Michigan, Upper Peninsula. Nearly earned myself a knife between the ribs. One of our more memorable failures."
Charles chuckles, low and warm, and brushes his knuckles lightly down Erik's side. Erik shifts closer, and Charles slips his arm low around Erik's waist, leaning against him. That ridiculous thin T-shirt he's got on isn't nearly enough for how chilly it is outside, Erik thinks, and glares up at Alex and Logan, willing them to get a move on.
As if sensing Erik's impatience, Alex glances back over his shoulder and nods. "Come on," he calls. "Some of us have been driving all night while you had your naps, I'm about to fucking fall over here."
The girls head in first; Logan gives Raven an appreciative once-over as she passes, and Alex punches him in the arm. It looks like it hurts Alex more than Logan, who just grins around the cigar and hooks his thumbs in his belt. Alex scowls and heads inside after the girls. Erik and Charles follow more slowly behind; there are only four steps up to the porch, and Charles navigates them very carefully, Erik keeping a firm grip on his arm.
Logan watches them levelly, as though withholding judgment. "Cassidy says you're the ones did for Shaw," he remarks, following them into the house and closing the door behind them. It's not all that much warmer inside; Logan must not like wasting money on heating costs this early in the season.
"Yes," Erik says shortly. "He's in Limbo."
Logan smiles. It's not a very nice smile, feral at the edges. "Good," is all he says. "Bedroom's next to the stairs, can't miss it." With that, he turns and tromps up the staircase; Erik can hear Alex and Angel upstairs bickering over who called dibs first on the bathroom.
Now that they're on level ground, Charles brushes Erik off again and makes his way to the bedroom unaided. He's limping heavily and keeping one hand along the wall for support, but it isn't far -- hardly even a few meters -- so Erik holds his peace. But he does follow close on Charles's heels, ready to grab him again if he flags.
The bedroom is small but clean. There's a double bed squashed against the wall, an empty chest of drawers, and a small bedside table with a lamp, which Erik flicks on. In the warm lamplight, Erik is very aware that he's still a dusty mess after his narrow escape from the collapsing mansion; luckily, the room has its own adjoining bathroom, which is a very pleasant surprise. "I'm going to wash up," he tells Charles, who is wearily lowering himself to sit on the bed. "Unless you'd like to use the facilities first?"
Charles shakes his head, looking about as exhausted as Erik feels. "I'm fine, go ahead."
Erik does, stripping quickly out of the dirty clothing -- the trousers just need a good wash, but his sweater probably isn't salvageable, not that he cares -- and taking a fast, hot shower. The heat of the water only serves to loosen his body further, making him feel sleepier than ever. Alex was probably right not to let him drive. Once clean and toweled off, he hesitates, then puts his boxers and undershirt back on.
He half expects Charles to already be asleep by the time he emerges, but Charles is still sitting at the edge of the bed, staring blankly into space. He's taken off his shoes, at least, but otherwise gives no sign of having stirred at all. Erik drops his own clothes in one of the empty dresser drawers -- better than on the floor, he supposes -- and makes his way to the bed. "Charles?"
Charles blinks, then lifts his head to look up at him. "Feeling better?" he asks lightly. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. There's a distance there that clenches at Erik's gut. Something that isn't quite fear trips its way up Erik's spine, instantly dispelling his sleepiness. It's as though Charles is looking at him from somewhere very far away, and Erik hates it. He wonders if Charles has been putting on an act this whole time, since the bunker, cloaking himself in the good humor of the Charles they all remembered; but now he's stripped away the artifice, leaving only the broken shell behind.
Erik sits cautiously beside him on the bed. Gooseflesh stands out on Charles's bare arms in the cool room, but he's made no move to cover himself with the blanket. Erik isn't sure whether he's allowed to touch him right now. It's as though Charles has thrown up a pane of glass between himself and the rest of the world, closing himself off, keeping himself apart. Erik wants nothing more than to grab Charles by the arms and drag him close, but he's suddenly terrified that if he does, something inside Charles will fracture irreparably.
"You know," Charles says, almost conversationally, "for the longest time, I didn't even realize I was dreaming."
Erik clasps his hands together, forcibly restraining himself from reaching out to him.
Charles goes on, gazing straight ahead out at nothing. "My head was so muddled from the drugs -- when I was awake, that was the nightmare. Dreaming, though...." He shrugs. "I thought I was back in the CIA lab, still working with my team -- with you. I don't know if you were all my own projections, or if Shaw brought Emma's forgeries in from time to time, but it doesn't much matter. I helped him, Erik," he adds bleakly. "Shaw's research, his experiments -- I helped him with all of it. And I did so willingly."
"No, Charles," Erik says, as firmly as he can. "Shaw coerced you. By keeping your mind disoriented on his chemist's Somnacin compounds, he robbed you of any consent you could possibly have given. He tricked you."
Charles hunches his shoulders. "Maybe I wanted to be tricked."
"Look at me." When Charles doesn't move, Erik breaches the invisible barrier, reaching out to touch his cheek. Charles shudders but still won't meet his eyes. "Charles, please."
"I'm sorry," Charles says. His hands clench into fists on the coverlet. "I just -- I'm so tired, Erik, but I don't want to go to sleep again." He laughs a little, self-deprecatingly. "I'm not sure I trust myself when I'm asleep."
"Charles." Finally, finally, Charles turns his head to look at him, and the uncertainty in his eyes undoes Erik completely. There is no hell hot enough for Shaw, no fevered nightmare of Limbo grotesque enough for that man's hideous mind; he somehow twisted Charles against himself, and for that, there can be no forgiveness. Erik rubs his thumb against Charles's cheek and forces himself to keep breathing. "I trust you," he says, in a voice he hardly recognizes as his own. "Charles, there is nothing you have done, nothing you could possibly do, that would ever make me stop trusting you."
Charles lets out a strangled laugh, reaching up to cover Erik's hand with his own. "You've always been biased when it comes to me. It's a grave failing."
"You never complained of it before."
"I never realized quite what I was capable of, before."
"What you're--" Erik swallows the words back, shaking his head. He can't allow himself to get angry, not at Charles. He's been there himself, is all too familiar with the guilt and self-loathing, how it can rip you apart from the inside out. This is Shaw's legacy, his final revenge, and damned if Erik will allow Charles to succumb to it. "Charles, you kept yourself alive and sane for two years of captivity, during which you were physically injured, drugged, sedated, and confined in a place you despised with your psychotic and abusive stepbrother as your keeper. You trained yourself, alone, to do the impossible, to enter the dreams of others without ever leaving your prison." He takes a breath. "You devised a plan with Angel to enable yourself to invade Shaw's own mind, and when all my team's best efforts failed, you alone figured out how to permanently disable him -- which you did at great personal risk. And then--" He almost laughs as the final piece clicks into place. "I imagine you were the one who warned Emma that Shaw was gone, and convinced her to evacuate Hellfire from the mansion in order to clear the path for us to find you. Am I incorrect?"
Charles closes his eyes. "No," he murmurs. "You're right. Emma goes under for a private PASIV session every morning. I hacked into her dream and told her about Shaw. She didn't require much convincing."
"Look at me," Erik says again, and this time, Charles does. "I know precisely what you're capable of, Charles, and the only thing I don't understand is how you could ever believe that you're anything less than perfection." When Charles opens his mouth -- probably to protest further, the fool -- Erik leans in and catches his lips with his own.
He's not sure which of them moves first, or perhaps it's both of them at once. But then Charles's arms are wrapped tightly around him, and he clutches Charles just as desperately; no matter how closely entwined they are, it's not quite enough. "Touch me," Charles gasps against Erik's mouth, pressing him down into the mattress. He tugs Erik's undershirt up over his head and off, tossing it aside, then kisses him again and again. "Oh God, please, Erik, you have no idea, touch me, please--"
Charles has always been a very tactile person, casually demonstrative; Erik imagines him lying alone in a narrow bed for two years, with no physical contact with anyone save the press of an IV line into his arm, and the thought is unbearable. He gently maneuvers Charles down onto his side, facing him, and tangles their legs together. Charles tugs him closer still, running his hands along Erik's back, clearly craving physical contact, and Erik begins pressing soft kisses along every exposed inch of Charles's skin -- the corner of his mouth, the curve of his jaw, the long, pale line of his neck, the dip of his collarbone. For all that Charles arches into every kiss, there's a strangely innocent element to it; yes, Erik is half hard, and Charles is so starved for touch that nearly any contact carries an edge of eroticism, but they're both far too exhausted to take this much further tonight. Charles is still clothed in his T-shirt and track pants, and neither his nor Erik's hands slip beneath the waistbands of their boxers. Erik has never known such a sweet mixture of desperation and tenderness; he just wants to hold Charles close, to press his face into the curve where Charles's neck meets his shoulder and breathe him in, and everything else can just fuck off for a while.
Gradually, the urgency recedes, and they press together with slow, almost clumsy touches. Erik shifts them both enough to tug the sheets and blanket over them; Logan really ought to turn the fucking heat on, he thinks. When he pulls away to flick off the lamp, Charles makes a soft sound in protest and tightens his hold on Erik's waist. Erik hesitates, glancing down. In the golden lamplight, Charles's face no longer looks so frighteningly pale. There's a light flush along his cheeks and neck, and he blinks up at Erik with his blue, blue eyes, brown hair mussed and soft, perfect lips ever so slightly parted. Erik's heart clenches almost painfully in his chest, just looking at him.
Erik has never thought he deserved someone like Charles; that he should lose him and then find him again seems beyond impossible. But here he is.
"Erik?" Charles asks softly.
He doesn't have any words left. He flicks off the light and lies back down beside Charles, pulling him close, and kisses him once more, lingering. "You can sleep," he murmurs. "It's safe here. I'll still be here when you wake up."
"You'd better," Charles says, but his eyes are already closing. Erik can feel the soft brush of Charles's eyelashes against his cheek. He waits patiently until Charles's breathing goes slow and even with sleep, and then follows him down.
By daylight, the safe house is almost pleasant, Raven thinks. The interior decoration leaves something to be desired -- way too masculine for her tastes, all exposed brick and dark wood and practically no decorative touches whatsoever. Utilitarian, if not borderline Spartan. But nice enough for all that. The kitchen has large windows, and the late morning sunlight streams through the open curtains. Not quite worth being awake for, but hey, what can you do?
She's warming her hands around a mug of coffee when Erik emerges from the first floor bedroom, hair uncharacteristically tousled, like he just woke up. Well, he probably did. He had the good sense to pull on his trousers, at least, though his chest is bare. Not that Raven hasn't seen him shirtless before, but still. Nice view.
"Cups?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.
Raven gestures to the sink, where a few mismatched mugs and glasses are upside down on the drying rack. "They're clean."
Erik grabs two glasses and fills them both with water from the tap, then sets one aside while he drains the other in a few long gulps. "I feel like my throat's still clogged with dust from that fucking explosion," he grumbles, refilling his glass. "God, it's quiet out here. The others still in bed?"
"Yeah, not so much," Raven says, smiling crookedly. "You missed them by like twenty minutes. Logan's giving Alex and Angel a ride to the airport; they're flying out to Boston, or maybe Montreal. I don't think they'd decided yet."
Erik frowns, leaning back against the sink and folding his arms across his chest. "They're gone?"
"Angel's trying to disappear. Turns out Alex has some experience in that area, so he's helping her get started."
"Of course," Erik sighs. "I suppose he needed a new project now."
"Yeah, well, it's not like he was going to keep babysitting you forever," Raven points out.
"I know." Erik sounds strangely disarmed; Raven wonders if this is the first time Alex ever managed to truly catch him by surprise. Well, apart from when he'd first shown up, hunting for Darwin, and then refused to go away. "It's for the best, especially for him. I just thought -- well, two years. I expected to at least be able to say goodbye."
And to thank Alex for not letting him jump off any cliffs, Raven thinks, all of which would have been monumentally awkward for both of them. No wonder Alex skipped out before Erik could stop him.
"How's Charles doing?" she asks, only partly to change the subject.
Erik smiles softly. It's such an unusual expression on him, she's almost taken aback. Erik never used to wear his fondness quite this openly, did he? Or did she just not notice it back then? "Still sleeping," he says. "Real sleep, unlike that sedation crap at the mansion. He needed it badly."
So did you, Raven doesn't say. He looks ten times better for a full night's sleep; he's lost the harsh, haggard edges and the coiled-spring tension of the last week or so. Or maybe it's just having Charles back that changed him. She hunches her shoulders and looks away, taking a long sip of her coffee.
She should have left with Alex and Angel. There's no room for her here.
"I should head back in before he wakes up," Erik adds, glancing back over his shoulder at the bedroom door, which stands ever so slightly ajar. "But later today we need to discuss what comes next. Is Logan going to kick us out at some point?"
Raven shrugs. "I don't think there's any sort of time frame. You can stay here until you figure out where you want to go next." She finishes the coffee and gets to her feet. "If I'm gone before he wakes up, tell him I said bye, okay?"
Erik's attention snaps back to her. "What are you talking about?"
"Things to do, people to see, scams to run," she says, tossing her hair back in a show of breezy unconcern. "You know the drill. Plus my lease in Rome isn't up for another couple of weeks, I could use a real cappuccino--"
Erik catches her wrist as she sets the mug down in the sink, gripping a little too hard. "Raven. I'm certainly not about to tell you what you can or cannot do with your life, but there is no fucking way you are walking out of here now."
She shakes him off, putting her hands at her hips. "Look, I know what happens next. You've finally got your Charles back--"
"Don't be childish," Erik snaps. "You're better than that. Raven, he's your brother and he needs you, just as much as you need him. And if you run away without so much as a goodbye -- well, Charles will forgive you, because he loves you and that's just what he does. But I won't," he adds, with a predatory smile, "and that's far, far worse."
After a long, taut moment, Raven breaks away, slumping back against the sink. "I don't want to be in the way," she whispers, feeling raw and exposed, and hating herself a little for it. "I know what the two of you are like together."
"Just stay out of our bedroom, and you'll be fine," Erik says, with a touch of humor. "I realize that I can be a possessive bastard, but surely you don't think I intend to force Charles to choose between us? You're his sister."
"It won't be for very long," she promises, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "You know me and Charles -- stuck in the same house all day, I'll probably want to kill him inside of a week."
For all that she loves him dearly, she and Charles are very different people. And it's been two years. She has a different life now; Charles will want to focus on rebuilding his own. But for a little while, at least, she just wants to enjoy having her big brother back.
"Oh!" she adds, gesturing him to follow her out into the living room. "I almost forgot. Alex and I did a run into town before he left, we picked up some stuff. Toiletries, change of clothes, just the basics." She tosses him a shopping bag. "He guesstimated your size pretty well, and I know Charles's -- same as mine, without the curves." She smirks. "And there's a washer and dryer in the basement."
"Thanks," Erik says, tucking the bag under his arm. "You must've been up early."
Raven shrugs it off. "Too much thinking. Couldn't sleep. Might head back up for a nap now, though, since apparently I've got nowhere else to be."
Erik nods. "You do that. We'll talk later." As she starts to head back up the stairs, he puts a hand on the railing, looking up at her seriously. "Raven -- you do know that Cain's still out there somewhere, right? I sincerely doubt he was caught in the explosion, he planned it out too well."
"Yeah, I kinda figured," she says, mouth twisting into a bitter smile. She fingers the fresh bruises at her throat. "That's part of what woke me up. But we've managed to avoid each other for years already. No reason he'll come after me now."
That's a blatant lie, and they both know it. But Erik lets her drop the subject for now. She'll be hearing it from him and Charles both later, she's sure.
"Go on," she says, shooing him. "You should be there when he wakes up."
He smiles that unnervingly sweet smile again, and Raven shudders and leaves him there. Right now, she could use a few more hours of sleep. She'll sort the rest of it out later.
She has plenty of time.
Charles blinks slowly awake to the weight of someone else's arms around him, the warm press of another body all along his back. Erik, his mind supplies lazily. When he stirs, he can feel Erik's lips at the nape of his neck. Still more than half-asleep, Charles rolls over onto his back, turning his head to capture Erik's mouth with his own, kissing him slowly, languidly. It feels so simple and natural, like any of a thousand mornings, not quite ready to face the day--
No, Charles remembers all at once, with a sharp surge of adrenaline. It's not. Because he's alone, has been alone for so very long in the bunker, and Erik isn't here, can't really be here. He's dreaming. Dreaming.
He breaks the kiss and pushes himself away, nearly falling off the edge of the bed in his panic. The projection of Erik (or forgery? But no, Emma has never been quite this cruel) is surprised enough to release him at once. Charles's left leg is so stiff as to be nearly numb; he has to grab on to the nightstand to pull himself upright, nearly knocking over a glass full of water. He stumbles to his feet, putting some distance between himself and the bed, grasping at the wall to keep his balance.
"Charles?" Erik demands, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, openly concerned. He's only wearing a pair of dark shorts; the sunlight through the window casts a warm glow on his bare chest and shoulders, his muscles rippling under the skin. It's deeply unfair, that a dream should be so beautiful and so false. "What's wrong?"
Charles glances quickly around the room, assessing the parameters of the dream. "I'm sorry," he tells the projection distractedly. "I'm so sorry, but this isn't real, I need to wake up--" He's very talented at manipulating the dreamspace, but if this is one of Shaw's nastier Somnacin compounds, he might find himself trapped here for some time....
Erik moves so quickly that he's practically a blur, grabbing Charles's shoulders and pushing him roughly back against the wall. It doesn't quite hurt, but it certainly gets Charles's attention. "Don't you dare," Erik says urgently, gripping him tightly. "You're not dreaming, Charles, you can't wake up because you are awake. This is real. This is real."
Charles's heart is racing, thumping painfully against his ribs. "How do you know?"
"Stay right here," Erik orders him, kissing him hard before pulling away. He doesn't go far, just a few steps across the room to a battered old dresser; he pulls open a drawer and rummages through a small heap of clothing. Charles leans back against the wall and frantically rifles through his own memory. He recognizes this room, doesn't he? It's different enough by daylight to throw him, but yes, familiar. How did he get here? Last night--
"Here," Erik says, returning. He takes Charles's hand and presses a coin into his palm. "My totem, Charles, you must remember--"
Erik's totem is a silver dollar, with heads on both sides. Charles remembers that much from before. He doesn't think Erik ever gave it to him to hold; totems are private by their very nature, useless if other dreamers know too much about them. Erik would have trusted him easily with even this, if Charles had ever asked, but he never had. He'd respected Erik's privacy.
Charles takes a deep breath and examines the coin. Both sides are identical. Heads. He flips it in the air a few times, clumsily, but the results never change. It lands on heads every time.
He clenches his hand into a fist around the coin and closes his eyes. Adrenaline still courses through his body, but the fog of sleep and panic is slowly clearing from his mind, the memories crashing back into place. They came here last night. There was a man, Logan, rough-spoken but generous; this is his safe house. Alex had driven them in Moira's rental car; Alex and Angel and Raven and Erik. Because they'd found him, pulled him out of his prison, and he'd watched his family estate collapse into rubble.
He knows how he got here. This is real. He's awake.
"Oh, God," Charles says shakily. The rush of relief leaves him suddenly trembling, and he's not entirely certain how much longer his leg will be able to support his weight. His mouth feels very dry. He fumbles for the nightstand, grabbing the glass of water and gulping it down, then carefully limps over to sit back down on the bed. He can't quite bring himself to look up at Erik, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. How could he ever have thought Erik was a projection? "Oh, God," he says again. "Are the others--"
"Alex and Angel have already left, but your sister's upstairs." Erik starts moving to the bedroom door. "Do you need me to go get her? Will she help you believe?"
Charles is already shaking his head, trying not to look too desperate. "No, please, that's fine. I don't want Raven to--" see me like this, he doesn't finish, but he knows Erik hears it anyway. He holds his head in his hands and takes a few deep breaths, willing himself calm.
"I'd almost have thought...." Erik starts, oddly hesitant. He holds back, hovering by the closed door, like he's not sure if Charles will let him close. Charles isn't entirely sure himself. "In our dreams, in Shaw's mind, you could walk -- you could run. I suppose I'd assumed that would be nearly as good as a totem."
Charles laughs. It rasps in his throat like sand. "Do you honestly imagine I've never had nightmares where I couldn't walk? Or worse?" He squeezes his eyes shut. "And when the pain is bad enough, it spills over into the dreams. Yes, if I can walk freely, I know for certain that I'm dreaming. But the reverse isn't necessarily true."
He vividly recalls one of the first dreams Shaw had built for him, so very shortly after the surgery he was too drugged to remember. The anaesthetic from the surgery had reacted badly with the Somnacin, and he could feel nothing at all below the waist. He'd ripped the dream apart in his panic, shattering the world around him as though putting a fist through a thin pane of glass, shards cutting into his skin. Even so, he'd never fully realized he was dreaming, his mind stuck on an endless loop of I can't feel my legs, I can't feel my legs.... And when he'd jerked awake, his leg was still completely numb and he couldn't breathe properly and Shaw was staring down at him with eager interest saying fascinating, that was just fascinating, let's see what happens if we adjust the anaesthetic and try again--
He's suddenly aware of Erik's hands on his knees, gripping hard enough to bruise. Erik is kneeling before him, white-faced, saying Charles's name over and over again until Charles meets his eyes. The mattress sits low on the bed frame; they're very nearly of a height like this. Charles scrubs his hand across his face. "Did I zone out for a moment there?" he asks ruefully. "I'm so sorry, Erik, I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Don't apologize," Erik says sharply. His tone takes Charles aback until he realizes: Erik is angry with himself. "I should have known you'd -- waking up in an unfamiliar place, after what you've -- of course you would think--"
"I'm fine," Charles says, each of Erik's half-formed recriminations cutting into him as though they were his own. He clutches the coin so hard that it's probably being permanently imprinted into the skin of his palm. "Please, Erik, stop, it's certainly no fault of yours."
"I should have--"
The last thing Charles wants is to listen to Erik blame himself. He reaches out to run his hand through Erik's hair and cups the back of his head, dragging him in for a kiss. Erik surges up into it, bracing his hands on either side of Charles's thighs, bracketing him in. His mouth is hot and desperate; Charles matches Erik's urgency with his own, kissing him like he has no need for oxygen, drowning in him, finding himself anew.
"You're awake," Erik promises against Charles's lips, drawing back the space of a breath until their eyes meet. "This is real, I'm real, you're awake."
"I know," Charles says hoarsely, cupping Erik's jaw in his hand and tracing his thumb across his lower lip. Erik shudders slightly at the touch, his eyes dark with heat, and Charles needs him so badly he can't breathe. "God, Erik, come here."
Erik follows willingly where he's led, scrambling up to join Charles on the bed and manhandling him against the pillows, anchoring Charles with the weight of his body. Charles reaches up to him, clutching at his shoulder blades, pulling him down to kiss his mouth, his jaw, his neck, his mouth again. He's dimly aware of the coin falling out of his hand to land with a clink on the floorboards; he couldn't care less. They'll find it again later.
Erik tugs impatiently at the hem of Charles's T-shirt; Charles laughs and sits up enough to yank it off, then gasps at the feel of Erik's bare skin against his own, nearly overwhelmed by it. God, two years without touch; it's all too much, all at once, and he doesn't care because at the same time it can never be enough. He forces himself to stop touching Erik for long enough to wriggle out of his trousers, which takes more of an effort than it used to, even with these loose track pants. Erik helps strip him bare, then pauses, tracing his fingers along Charles's exposed left thigh.
Ah, yes. That. There's just the single, puckered scar; a pale, ugly little round thing. Strange that something so small as a bullet could do so much damage, and hardly leave a mark. "It's all right," Charles says, still breathing heavily but trying to accommodate Erik's obvious shift in mood. "It could have been much worse. I suppose I'll need to purchase a cane, but it's only a minor inconvenience, really."
Erik has plenty of his own scars, both visible and not; he knows better than to afford Charles's too much importance. He presses his lips to it, lingering, then slowly traces a path of open-mouthed kisses up the length of Charles's body until Charles is arching and gasping beneath him. With every touch, every caress, the world of the dreamscape seems further and further away; Charles's universe shrinks down to only encompass the two of them, here in this moment, waking and indisputably real.
"Stay," Erik breathes out against the soft, sensitive skin just beneath Charles's ear. "Charles, stay with me."
Charles laughs, breathless and free. "Where else would I possibly go?" he replies, and twists up to claim another kiss, and another, and another.
Epilogue
The universe really has no excuse for Mondays. By mid-morning, the walls of Hank's lab feel like they're closing in on him, and he ducks out for his second coffee break just to not be there anymore. It's not that he finds his work dull, exactly; Proclus Global is at the cutting edge of Somnacin research, and Hank has pretty much been given free reign of his lab. It's just that the experiments he's running are so...sterile. Theoretical. Fascinating enough in their own way, but completely detached from the gritty day-to-day realities of actual dreamsharing.
Hank is bored.
There's a Mr. Coffee in the staff kitchen, of course, but Hank isn't in this for the caffeine. Well, not just for the caffeine. He wants the full playing-hooky coffee break experience, and that means the Caribou down the street. Besides, he likes their flavored lattes.
He guesses he should be surprised to find Alex loitering outside the building, but really, it's about fucking time.
"It's been two months since the Shaw job," Hank says by way of greeting. "What took you so long?"
Alex smirks. "Getting tired of playing with test tubes, Hank?"
"You have no idea," Hank tells him feelingly. "What's the job?"
"Actually, it's, uh--" Alex waves his hand expressively. Well, it's probably meant to express something, anyway, but it's not any of the military hand signals Hank remembers, and apparently he's not up to date in his Alex-to-English dictionary. "Got a few minutes?"
Hank shrugs, indicating the coffee shop at the other end of the block. "Only if you're buying."
"You're on Proclus's fucking payroll, why the fuck am I the one -- Christ. Fine."
Once they've collected their caffeinated beverages of choice, and after Alex has spent a solid three minutes making fun of Hank's caramel mocha latte, they finally settle in to talk business. "So Raven and I are thinking of putting a crew together on a more permanent basis," Alex says.
Hank licks some stray whipped cream off his upper lip, considering. "Who's in charge, you or Raven?"
"Bit of both."
Hank just looks at him.
Alex huffs out a breath, rolling his eyes. "Okay, yeah, Raven, whatever."
"Any set criteria for jobs?"
"Only clients recommended by people we trust, nothing involving any state secrets because Moira will kick our asses, bonus points awarded for creativity." Alex grins. "Raven doesn't take kindly to being bored."
"Base of operations?"
Alex shrugs. "Fluid. Raven's partial to the Mediterranean, I've got more contacts in the States; we both have an irrational fondness for Sydney, but that's way the fuck out of everyone else's way. So wherever suits the job in question, I guess. Keep your apartment here in D.C., it's a good international hub."
"So this is meant to be a full-time gig," Hank says thoughtfully.
"What part of 'permanent basis' implied 'keep your day job'? Christ, Hank, it's not like you'll be taking much of a pay cut -- no, don't give me that look, I'm not trying to get into some kind of bidding war with Proclus, do you want to spend the best years of your life locked in a fucking corporate lab or what? And just think of the frequent flier miles!"
Hank grins, sipping his extremely sugary and delicious coffee-related beverage. "Is Sean on board, too?"
"He bugged out but good," Alex admits. "Haven't heard a thing since he set up that safe house for us. I mean, whatever, he'll turn up eventually, always does. But nah, we actually did a job with Angel the other week, I think she might stick around." He drums his fingers along the cafe table. "Though Raven's been dabbling more and more with architecture herself. You should probably hide your chemistry set in case she decides to go for the full complement, she's like trying to be the next fucking Darwin or something."
He says the name easily, without flinching or glaring or hunching his shoulders like he's trying to ward off attention. Maybe he got some of his own closure out of the Shaw job after all. "Heard anything from Erik lately?" Hank asks, cautiously testing the waters.
"He and Charles are lying low for the moment, giving the government a chance to forget about them. But they're good," Alex says, almost fondly, though Hank generously ignores that to maintain plausible deniability. "Last e-mail I got, sounded like Charles is making noise about starting a dreamsharing research academy or some shit, get people trained up properly, all in the name of science and psychiatry." Alex snorts. "You better be careful, Hank -- they ever get that off the ground, they're gonna try to recruit you."
"Yeah, well, you too, probably."
"Probably," Alex admits with a crooked smile. "But I may as well enjoy myself for a while first. Seriously, though, you're obviously bored out of your fucking skull here. We need a chemist who knows his shit and is willing to experiment, and I can promise that you'll actually get to participate in the dream levels on the jobs when we need you. Angel prefers hanging out topside during the jobs themselves anyway. So, what do you say, Hank?" He reaches across the table and swipes his finger in Hank's whipped cream, over Hank's loud protests, then does his level best to suck the cream off his finger in the most outrageously lewd fashion imaginable. "Wanna go commit some really sexy mind-crime?"
"It's like you want me to tell you to go fuck yourself," Hank complains, but he can't help but grin back at him. As Mondays go, he's had far worse.
Fuck, he really needs to make himself a totem.
They settle in Montreal, for no particular reason. Or, well, because it's an easy drive across the Canadian border from Logan's safe house, and they both speak French already. Erik is fluent, but apparently he has a thick Parisian accent, which the locals consider entirely too snobbish, whereas Charles mangles complex tenses left and right, but mimics the Quebecois conversational patterns with ease. It doesn't really matter; Erik's used to everyone liking Charles better, anyway. God knows he does.
And it's not as though they plan on staying here long. But Erik really quite likes the city, and they have a pleasantly large ground-floor flat within walking distance of the McGill University hospital, where Charles undergoes regular physical therapy under an assumed name (though the doctors say he'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life). So it will suffice until they can work out what comes next.
Erik keeps a PASIV case of the top shelf of their bedroom closet. He'd half expected that Charles would never want to dream again, but that underestimated the man's resilience. True, Charles chooses to live solely in the waking world for the first few weeks, relishing in his first real stretch of full consciousness in more than two years. But one day he puts on that particularly mulish expression and won't back down until Erik sketches out a quick dream for them both to share. It's a complete disaster: militant projections, grotesque distortions of architecture, inconvenient paradoxes, the works. They last less than ten minutes before being killed awake.
So the next day Charles insists they try it again.
"This is what drew me to dreamsharing in the first place," he murmurs, later, trailing his fingertips idly across Erik's chest, down the bare plane of his stomach. "Direct access to the subconscious mind -- the gateway to unlocking psychological traumas. Not scampering about carelessly plundering secrets, but if we could instead devise a sympathetic course of treatment...."
Erik presses a kiss to Charles's collarbone, catching Charles's hand and twining their fingers together. "I don't like the thought of you experimenting on your own mind."
"I'm not experimenting, merely exploring," Charles retorts, but his fingers tighten around Erik's. "And who better?"
Erik hates that Charles can be so clinical about the lingering scars of his long captivity; he self-diagnosed his own fucking PTSD weeks before he allowed Erik to drag him in to see a proper psychiatrist. There are still hours when Charles is distant, disengaged, the line between waking and dreaming blurred. Never for very long, and the episodes are gradually growing fewer and further between, but no less terrifying for Erik to witness. But for all that, Charles's ready willingness to let Erik in is a comfort; if Charles ever falls too deep, Erik will be able to follow him down, to find him, to bring him back.
That's the theory, at least. And it's not as though Erik is a stranger to Charles's subconscious demons.
He brings their joined hands to his lips, kisses Charles's fingertips one by one until Charles loses patience and drags Erik close, tangling their bodies together. And Erik thinks that someday soon, he'll be ready to bring Charles down into his memory fortress, to finally offer up the darkest corners of his mind to Charles as Charles has to him. And maybe then, with Charles at his side, Erik will be able to stride down the iron corridors of his own construction, throwing open door after door, releasing every last memory, setting himself free.