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Spring, he soon discovered, was merciless in here. The beginning of April was marked by a snowfall, the likes of which he has never seen. It has instantly blocked roads in town. Even his morning classes had to be cancelled because of traffic disaster. All that snow didn't stay long, though. It continued shrinking day by day, losing its' pristine whiteness, turning ugly yellow and dirty grey, as it was disturbed by multiple town dwellers.

Thirteen days since the snow had fallen and it was almost gone for good, except for tiny piles of white curled in the most shadowy of places.

One of such snow patches was in his backyard. He saw it on Sunday morning when he forced himself to venture outside to clean said backyard a little bit. Snow was huddled under the ancient thorny bush.

The plant looked like it needed trimming, he thought.

As he took a step closer, wet, slippery ground beneath the sole of his boot made a loud squeak and Charles found his balance compromised. He fell on one knee and his right hand has closed around some random vine. Thorns tore through a rubber glove, piercing skin, and he cursed under his breath. When he attempted to relax his grip, he didn't manage to do it at once. Thorns got stuck and he had to help himself with his left hand.

When inside, he somehow got out of boots by the back door and went straight to the kitchen.

He reached for paper towels with his left, while holding his right hand under running tap. Some water went in through the tears and helped get rubber glued to his skin.

He cursed again while peeling the glove off with a nasty squelch.

Finally freed, his hand quickly got numb under cold stream. Charles caught only a glimpse of redness washed away, but it was enough to turn his mouth dry. Enough to call forth a pang of nausea. Along with twisting pain in his gut came dull ringing in his ears. And then, fatigue slammed into him so hard, that he saw nothing but darkness.

A blink — and he opens his eyes only to squint up at the ceiling through the blur. He breathes, in and out, and, gradually, numbness releases its' teeth. The blur fades away. Charles realizes: his back hurts and so does his head, which is predictable, seeing as he was standing by the counter and now he's down on the hard, wooden floor.

He stays on the floor for a minute or so, listening to purr of running water. Hypnotized by the sound, he closes his eyes. His heart is beating in his ears, it seems.

After he collects himself he gets up with a grunt, carefully avoiding looking at his bleeding hand. He hates how unsteady he is. He has to lean on the counter just to stay upright.

The tap. He needs to turn it.

Frustration is bubbling like sour champagne. It's tinted with vileness. Together, they coil around his chest and Charles gives in without fighting much, because he is fooling no one. Not himself.

On Friday, he hid the bottle. Today, it's time to pull it out again.

He leaves the kitchen cabinet in a mess, which doesn't bother him anymore. Sparing half a thought to fetching a glass, he then immediately drops that idea. As soon as a cork hits the counter he takes a heady swig. Then, some more. It takes exactly four mouthfuls to clear out the sour bitterness in his throat. When he puts the bottle down with a dull clang, the residual ringing in his ears turns into white noise. He feels heat spreading through his blood. His heartbeat gets slower.

Just fabulous, he decides. He drops on the chair, because his feet feel wobbly, and tilts the bottle again.

Scotch licks his mouth and throat with little fierce tongues. Its' taste is almost beautifully erotic.

When half the bottle is empty — his head is already sufficiently heavy and he feels a different kind of lazy numbness.

It's high time: he dares spare a look at his right hand.

Charles sees crusted blood in the crease of his raised palm and registers only dim echo of previous panic. Fear is not gone, but it's dim. Manageable. He cheers himself with a victorious swig.

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At night, among other mundane things covered with alcohol-induced fog, he dreams up a vivid one in which he is making his bed.

He puts a white fitted sheet on and tucks the corners around the mattress. He carefully flattens all creases and wrinkles and then notices that the other person, on the other side of the bed is doing the same. When he lifts up his eyes, he sees Erik.

"Let's put the top sheet on," says Erik, and Charles catches the edges of the striped, blue and white sheet, floating in the air right in front of his face.

They align the hem of the sheet with the head of the mattress. Patterned sheets are such a bother, thinks Charles meanwhile, making sure it is spread evenly.

"Listen, I've been wondering where you were," sighs Charles, "you disappear when you deem necessary — "

"Do I?" drawls Erik in mocking voice, folding his arms, and smirking at Charles from across the bed.

"Always," says Charles with conviction and wakes up covered in cold sweat.

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It was expected of Charles to undergo this procedure to sustain professional and personal benefits. And undergo it regularly. After an infamous cult case it clearly became a must. Counseling, and then supervision, is something he needs so badly, the assistance he has to accept if he wants to deal with what happened. Of course, Charles understood it. On the intellectual level he was totally on board. On the emotional, though, things didn't quite settle as he wanted them to. Therefore, that primal, raw part of his entire being dreaded this Monday afternoon like any anxious A-student might dread the end of term test.

After each of previous few sessions he would come back home drained and shaky and, despite his best reservations, his stock of spirits would drain day by day. She was getting a tad frustrated, but she never gave it away. Charles only could perceive her moods, because he has always been extremely sensitive. He was thinking that had he been in her shoes, he would probably redirect such patient to someone else.

The chairs in her downtown office are stylish contraptions, different from old-fashioned furniture he got accustomed to at the University. Truth be told, he'd prefer something with less metal ribs and more cushion plushness as harsh surface was irritating his sore back.

Emma surprised him with brown hair today. He was used to seeing her blond, so when he came in at a scheduled time he gave his surprise away.

It seemed she was pleased with his compliment.

"What happened to your hand?" she asked after he sat down on a chair she reserved for clients.

She looked up from scribbling a quick note in her diary. Now, with new hairstyle, her blue eyes became somehow more expressive and piercing than before.

"It appears there is a thorny bush in my backyard and yesterday I attempted to trim it. With dire consequences, as you may see," he speaks lightly, looking at a bandage.

Unbeknown to Emma, the bandage exaggerated the damage, but he was fairly paranoid about hiding the scratches from his own eyes. He couldn't afford going into shock at random sights of blood.

"Your mother used to look after the garden too, didn't she?"

He mentioned that bit, yes. Charles saw the path she was going to take and he played along.

"Yes, she was quite passionate about it. Though, she could afford not to do it. I'm glad that she discovered something to fill her days with. I believe that was akin to meditative experience for her."

"Is it the same for you?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I do it out of necessity rather than insistent need to get scratched by plants."

Emma leans back in her chair and smiles.

"We do need gardens, still. Maybe, this is some agricultural archetype speaking," she humored him.

"Or the spirit of downshifting?"

"I recall that police spokesman explained that members of Ogma cult treated sacrifices like offerings to the Garden of Youth. Those girls, slain in the isolated orchard," Charles shifted in his chair, suppressing a wince, as she continued. "Like part of metaphorical pagan harvest. I've been wondering all this time, was that your phrasing?"

"Well, only partially," confirms Charles slowly.

"Reporters," she hums, peering in the distance right above his shoulder, as though caught in a moment of vague reflection. Her next words cut to the bone. "What makes you think you should go on blaming yourself, Charles?"

She switched from small talk to direct question all of the sudden.

"I'm afraid, I can't do it today," he tries, emotionally exhausted to the point that he really can't say a word when it comes to this. Words just die before they live his lips and there appears to be an entire word cemetery taking over his mindscape.

"Can't you, actually?" this time she presses hard, unyielding. Her approach somehow balances on the edge of professional and outright offensive. "What are you thinking about? Feeling? Or, I'd say, what you aren't feeling?"

He knows that. He also can understand what her questioning expression probably means: how much longer you think you can withstand.

"Look, I broke the rules by following your request and not recording our sessions in any way. I can understand your concern. Besides, you've been involved in the recent investigation. General public is still reeling from it. And, I was fine with that. I was convinced that once I meet your needs you will be willing to cooperate," she pauses, pointedly looking into his eyes, searching. "May I wonder again? What happened to your hand?"

Shame pricked at him like a poisonous spike, for Charles had expected a different follow-up.

Today she is very good at catching him by surprise. Maybe, he's just getting slow. He is still overcome with hangover weariness.

"I was telling the truth," he says sincerely, feeling like a naughty six year old questioned by an overzealous nanny.

"All of it?" Emma tilts her head to the side, as though regarding him under a different angle gives her insights.

"After yesterday's accident, I pretty much figured that I've got a nasty case of haemophobia," he says reluctantly, thinking back to his extreme reaction.

"Have you ever experienced it before?" she touches the tips of her fingers together, looking concerned and wary.

"No, that never happened before," he nearly adds "I swear", but, fortunately, stops himself in time. Instead, Charles shakes his head a little too hard and the resulting pang in the back of his head is not pleasant.

"Why do you think such extreme reaction surfaced now? After all this time?"

They speak some more about it. And vileness wound around his chest squeezes him even harder than yesterday. She and Charles know what to do to overcome haemophobia. So their conversation sounds like a debate of two colleagues, which is a welcome change at the moment. Blood phobia is a condition, which is extremely common, and effective treatments have been utilized for years. What Charles doesn't share, though, is his own insight that his panic is but a mutated manifestation of a different kind of fear.

When his time is almost over Emma says, very evenly.

"I'm sure, you agree that you don't need my services anymore."

In lieu of immediate answer, Charles grabs the strap of his bag and hoists it up.

"Thank you, Emma," they share a long moment of silence, which is strangely comfortable. He is even more wrung out when he was before, but there it is, a tiny glimpse of peace flickering out or reach. At least, he can see it now.

This goodbye of theirs is full of so many unspoken things, that Charles' head might just spin.

On the bus, he, for the first time in ages, sits back and simply lets road rumbling filter through his mind. Lets his troubled thoughts flow by.

When he is about to open his house door, his phone buzzes, somewhere deep in the pocket. He reaches for it, noting that small tremors are sneaking through his hand. The caller ID reveals an unknown number he can't recognize. Charles looks at it. And looks. Until it dies abruptly and Charles, secretly relieved, gets ready to push it back in his pocket.

All of the sudden it comes alive again. And Charles blames his traitorous thumb for sliding across the display.

No choice, then, he decides, and presses his phone to his ear.

"Professor Xavier? Are you there? The signal's disappearing."

"Yes, I'm listening. Who — "

"Summers. Last time we met I was with Operations Division," he explains breathlessly, though his last name doesn't quite match his slightly distorted voice.

"You are," he strains to come up with a name. It suddenly frightens him, because his memory has always been exceptionally good when it comes to human interactions.

"It's Alex. I work for —"

"Yes-yes. I got it now, Alex," he says quickly. "Police. Of course. How can I help you?"

"We need your expertise. By we, I mean our Division, of course," his next words get swallowed by some harsh sounds in the background. "Can you spare us some time?"

Charles' mind is a blank void, whilst his mouth is saying yes.

And, as he does that, grey limbo opens up under his feet ready to devour him and digest for eternity. What the hell is he doing?

But then comes a thought that it's okay.

It's not necessarily some bloody business.

And if they ask him, it must be serious.

"Thanks. I'll call you back when I get out of this dead zone," Summers tells him.

"Alright," says Charles in the end.

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Beautiful and quiet Glirham should come across as a charming and very cultured town. There you can find dozens of different churches, almost as many museums, three large semi-Gothic cathedrals and genuine, albeit weathered, ruins of a Medieval castle.

There is one grand old University complex and three smaller branch colleges.

That is to say, Glirham University has always maintained a special, almost exclusive reputation in the scientific community. And though, it's not as celebrated as top establishments, one of which Charles has left almost a year ago, Glirham University has not been labeled a nurturing ground for life-altering minds for naught. It has been considered one of the most respected institutions in the field of natural and social science.

That fateful letter arrived last spring. Charles was rather surprised when he was offered a teaching post by the previous dean and, at that time, moving to a different place seemed like a welcome solution to his many problems. It happened all too fast. He didn't plan it properly, but everything worked out just great. He loved his new place, loved his work and was accepted by student populace. He found himself alone in the unknown town, many miles away from home, and abruptly realized that he was fine with it. He was always alone anyway, in a true sense of this word.

What started in October was akin to an avalanche. He was involved in an absurdly mysterious missing person's investigation and got acquainted with a police detective along the way. Exposure of a human-sacrificing cult running an exclusive drug business blew the entire town apart; the breaking news was awashed in both innocent and vile blood.

Right after Erik was shot, Charles' mental axis, badly jostled many times before, finally and infinitely lost balance and it hasn't been back to its' desired state ever since.

The last of his carefully maintained defenses crumble when Marcy's blood splashes onto his face.

Her acid hatred was burned into him like an iron stamp. Charles doesn't recall the policeman, who drove him back home, after he was pried from Erik's body and a medic made sure that he was unharmed. Some kind human being had the courtesy to usher his shaky, bloodstained self in their car and even walk him to his porch.

He remembers that woman from Erik's department coming to question him. Charles was retelling, answering, repeating the same story again and again. He was mad with desire to tell everyone what was really going on.

Eventually, that willingness sagged under constant tension and scrutiny.

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A tall building, housing police force, is now a familiar grey monument to this town's shrouded secrets.

Ruffled Alex meets him in the entrance hall. He has a black jacket on and his shoes and also the hems of his slacks are covered in drying mud.

"Nice to see you, sir," he says with a grateful nod.

Charles returns the sentiment and shakes the offered hand.

"Let's go upstairs. I'll introduce you to everyone and we'll start our debrief," motions Alex and turns to the staircase. "It won't take long."

"It's official this time?"

"Yes, you'll get a paycheck," he promises, though money is last thing Charles is worried about.

The Division's quarters have migrated to the third floor. The corridor walls are muted yellow. It seems to be much quieter, comparing to last time Charles has been there. As they turn around the corner, he hears Alex muttering a curse.

A thin man with parchment-like skin is a new Chief of Police. Charles knows that much. When he approaches them, Charles almost feels an incoming wave of projected disdain.

"Summers. I see, no matter how hard one might try get rid of it, filth just sticks," he mentions, pausing by Alex's side and glancing at his shoes with a raised eyebrow.

"Sir, I was —," Alex starts.

"Spare me," deadpans Shaw and lowers his voice, throwing a blank look at Charles. "I suggest you keep this one under tight wraps. We can't go on making nationals with mass burials and lost children."

He leaves briskly, not giving Alex any chance for redemption, which is a well-practiced and perfectly-timed move in Charles' opinion.

"I was in the countryside since morning. It's Mudfest in there," Alex turns to Charles, as though seeking his forgiveness. "That damned car broke down again."

"Have you got such strict dress code in here?" wonders Charles politely.

"We've got some dumb dress code," mutters Alex. "And here we are."

As Alex swings a door open to let Charles in first, a few heads turn in their direction. It's a small, pale, window-less meeting room with a white-board, a large desk, and a few rows of cheap chairs. Papers and folders are spread all over the desk with a single laptop. On the wall, near the door, there is a calendar with a print featuring apple trees in blossom. Red marker is circling today's date.

"You must remember Rose, Professor," says Alex and Charles does remember that brown-haired female detective, who he has come to associate with endless tension and notorious headaches.

Rose raises her head from her phone and offers him a small smile and a nod, so Charles berates himself for his unbecoming thoughts.

Charles learns that an older, mustached man, in the first row, is called Ellis. An incredibly attractive woman sitting next to him introduces herself as Danielle Moon. She looks like an ancient queen, with black hair long and shiny and a perfect face as still as a clay mask.

"Miss Moon is a fellow officer from Lake district. She is, erm, was a leading detective in a missing person's case," explains Alex for his sake. "We're going to join our forces, because our crime investigation unit is terribly undermanned."

"This is Sean," Alex nods to a young, lanky man, who seems to be even younger than Alex is.

Sean looks red-eyed and incredible sleepy. He is trying to stick a picture to the whiteboard with planner stickers. It keeps sliding down.

"Has anyone seen any magnets?" he turns, waving his hand around. "No?"

"I suspect, someone borrowed them again," grunts Rose and stands up to take the picture from him. "Just sit down and let me start."

Charles and Alex take their seats as well, whilst Rose is clearing her throat before she lifts up a picture.

It's a boy, realizes Charles. The blond, grinning boy in a red jacket.

"Our victim is Mark Evans. Thirteen year old. Mark's mother came to believe that he stayed at his friend's house after school on Friday. On the 31st of March. He texted her."

Two weeks ago, thinks Charles gloomily. It doesn't look good.

"I was in charge of interviewing the family and keeping them informed about the proceedings," picks up Danielle. "Ms. Evans, his mother, was used to Mark bulking up with his school mate. It happened all the time she said, that's why she didn't get worried. She had a shift in the hospital on Friday night, so she left. Tried calling him, but he didn't pick up. She then called the Smiths, the family he stayed with, and only after that she realized that something was really wrong…"

She produces a folder from her bag, resting on the free chair.

"I've forwarded all reports and records to you, but, just in case, here are printed lists with my field notes."

The man, sitting next to her, takes the folder and starts rustling through it.

"Do you need copies of these?" Ellis asks, raising his head.

His grey eyes are heavy and clouded.

"Oh, yes, later," says Alex, when Charles misses an opportunity to answer a question, apparently aimed at him.

"Thank you," he hurries to say, in order to dissolve the odd moment of silent staring.

Getting carried away is not something he can afford. He feels hot under his collar and regrets not taking the coat off altogether. Physical discomfort is only a fraction of overall unease, carried by notorious bugs crawling under his skin. Charles wills his thoughts back under reign, thus inevitably missing a few lines of dialogue.

"…in the woods, almost at the crossroads, yes. Snow's not gone there yet. I hope we won't find anyone else as it melts," finishes Alex a tad lamely.

Charles abruptly pictures Erik saying the same thing in a sarcastic drawl. That would sound completely different coming from him. Like natural extension of his tense, responsible attitude and edgy wit. Maybe, the only safe way to deal with terrible realities of this job.

Meanwhile, Rose is spreading pictures from the crime scene over the desk. Charles swallows a gulp. The one closest to him depicts a bluish shape of a human arm, peeking from the snow. Fingers are crooked as though aimed to grab something. Fingernails — black. Charles bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from a nauseating sensation. Just like he thought: he won't be able to look at photos right now and not succumb to another panic attack. That established, he focuses his eyes on the safe image of a smiling, alive Mark.

"Remind me who found the body?" Sean asks, pulling the laptop closer to wake it up.

"Guys from a local road service," Alex sighs. "I talked to them this morning in person. Nothing new. They were just doing their job until one decided to go take a leak. We managed to identify him pretty fast only thanks to huge pile of snow he was buried in up till lately."

"When exactly did they find… Mark?" asks Charles.

"At a quarter past four, yesterday." Ellis fills in.

"If I'm going… I'd like to take a look at the place myself," Charles states, turning to Alex.

"I'll take you there, of course," nods Alex. "I haven't seen the full autopsy report yet. Is it ready?"

"Just a sec," retorts Sean, clicking on the folder.

"Well, at first sight, it is nothing like a ritualized sadistic fantasy."

Rose continues shuffling the pictures around the desk. She obviously doesn't have any problems with cataloguing almost surreal, blue and black gore.

"Thank god," mutters Alex. "Yes, you're right. It does look random. Violent, but random."

Charles begs to differ, but it's too soon to voice any preliminary arguments. Struggling with the wicked, twisting reptile in his gut, Charles takes a brief, sweeping look at the photos. He couldn't pinpoint it up till now.

"Where're the clothes?" he rasps and then has to clear his throat.

"Dunno," Alex rubs his forehead, exhaustion bleeding through cracks in his demeanor. "He's got nothing on, but underwear. That is what I've been trying to locate since morning. We really need more people, because I can't be in two places simultaneously."

"His mother said he was wearing a red jacket, a grey sweater, black pants and sneakers. Had a mobile phone, which went dead on Saturday afternoon. Also, a blue backpack, which is also gone," adds Danielle, picking up a smiling picture. "This jacket."

"Um, they won't give us a proper time of death because of "atmospheric conditions. It's approximately sixteen-fourteen days."

Rose takes to drumming her fingers against the desk.

"He was killed right before the snowfall. It's evident."

"And, Alex, man, you were right," out of all people Sean looks at Charles, "the kid was basically bludgeoned to death with some blunt object. It's not metal, they say, but other than that, they are not sure what it was. His right hand is broken in two places, which might suggest self-defense, or just a fall. To sum it up: not much skill, but a lot of effort. And, wait a moment, that's interesting: whoever it was they didn't target his head."

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The sky dome is grey with nasty, morning drizzle. Needles of rains slash against his kitchen window, whilst he is reflecting on his today's schedule.

Afternoon classes. What else? Charles makes a mental note to go through case files in the evening.

His mind goes blank for a stretch.

Thoughts — heavy and lazy lumps of goo.

He hears his own long exhale, coming, so it would seem, from the bottom of his chest. There's a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, waiting for him in pregnant silence.

The sound of doorbell is akin to a shriek.

The glimpse of the person outside reveals someone wearing a hooded raincoat, which badly resembles some generic character from a horror movie. The assault by the hooded stranger would be just perfect, he thinks sarcastically. He also ponders the ridiculousness of the current predicament: there's no way he can hear anything due to freshly soundproofed windows and tough doors.

Fully awake now, he still fumbles with the locks quite a bit. Those are new and expensive pieces he installed after a break-in. He only hopes that if they make him struggle so much, the hypothetical offenders would also be in trouble.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and opens the door a little.

"I see, you know how to take your time," Erik squints at him, and through the pounding of his own heart Charles doesn't hear his next phrase.

Not often at a loss for words, he struggles when he attempts to come up with something. Anything. A smart reply. A proper welcome. His mind shied away in the corner, numb, as though being hit with a tornado of different emotions was too much to handle.

"Hey, is everything alright?" Erik trails off, before squeezing through the gap inside and commenting. "Hm, you did some remodeling."

The door shuts with a dull thud.

"Are you… When did you come back?"

Caught in rapt astonishment spiced with fear, he watches as Erik shrugs off his hood.

He is so thin, almost translucently so. The bags under his eyes are dark smudges against ashy skin. Sadly, Charles isn't prepared to face him right now and, maybe, that's why it is just a perfect opportunity to do so. For his own peace of mind.

"I arrived yesterday," Erik frowns.

His thin lips form a downturned arch.

"Charles, I've tried calling you dozens of times. Alright. Forget it."

Charles wonders when Erik will notice how badly he's shaking at the moment.

Ah, he just did.

"I thought you were the calm sort," mutters Erik, sighing slightly. "Okay. I'll tell you how it was. I'll be brief."

"Maybe, you'd like to sit down?" Charles' lost voice is on the road back from abyss. It's scratchy as hell.

"No, just listen. I, well, when I first woke up and started, you may say, reconstructing the events of the day. It was very fuzzy, but I was trying hard. Then, I thought up the scenario where you were dead. Because, what else would I do, if I were the shooter?" Erik actually winces. "Seemed very rational to me: first, kill the cop; then, target the unarmed man. No one bothered to tell me about you, while I was lying there like a vegetable. Speaking was not an option. Right arm was paralyzed. Marie would come and read to me, which was actually nice. Summers would come to recite some irrelevant bullshit. A moron."

"I came to visit. Twice. But you were always asleep; I left your wife a book," having Erik tell him that only underlined what a miserable excuse for a friend he has been. "I am sorry, Erik. I am so sorry."

"Lord, I didn't come to blame you! You saved my life. If you hadn't performed CPR then, I'd have been dead. You should have heard how my doctor praised you. At first, I didn't know it was you, of course."

"I'm sorry," he can only repeat that, robbed of words again.

Because it was entirely different. For Erik suffered so much in his place; and Charles has embraced the injustice of it completely. His extra sensitivity, in rare moments, backfired like that. Instead of perceiving with utmost certainty what other might need or feel he finds himself buried under the broken dam. And he can't do a single thing about it.

"Sounds like we won't come to mutual understanding," Erik's tone is faux casual as he grabs a door handle. "I have a PT appointment. I'll be leaving. Honestly, Charles…"

Charles stopped trying to speak then. He cuts the distance between Erik and himself and wraps his arms around Erik. A touch awkwardly, because he doesn't know where to touch not to hurt. Erik's sleek raincoat is wet and so is his thin T-shirt now. The tacit I missed you a lot went buried under the weight of great emotional shake-up.

Erik just sighs again and puts his hand, left one, right between his shoulder blades and Charles almost goes slack for a moment. It's unfair how much one touch can do.

"I'm glad you're fine. Relatively, but still," hums Erik, releasing him. "I do have PT. And I need to go."

"I can drive you," offers Charles immediately.

"Don't you have anywhere to be? Like work?" wonders Erik.

"Only at noon."

"Ph.D. people have the most packed of all schedules."

"That's not exactly true," retorts Charles, somewhat petulantly, falling back into teasing conversation routine. "I had to cut my workload this semester, because I knew I wouldn't be able to cope."

His honesty has an unexpected effect on Erik, whose face appears to darken.

"What is that?" he eyes the bandage, Charles has already got used to and therefore stopped paying attention.

"That's old, actually," Charles' hand twitches as he scowls, half-heartedly. "Please, stop. Don't forget that I know what you're thinking. It's profoundly obvious. Let me assure you, that you're wrong. I only did it once and for a good reason."

A touch disconnected, he has hard time thinking back to what happened to him. He knows for sure: it's a long fight he hasn't won yet, though he has battle scars and so does Erik.

But Erik wavers his hand in what Charles' interprets is: 'be is as you say.'

A car ride later, Charles learns how much Erik hated a convalescent hospital he was stuck in after his surgeries. He also has an opportunity to study the other's face: the rigid way Erik is moving his right shoulder. How he chooses not to extend his right arm, unless necessary. More than anything, Charles is struck by his hollowed cheeks and regrown hair, which has not been sprinkled with whiteness before.

Put simply, that bullet had almost killed Erik: it torn the top of his lung and fragments did more nerve and tissue damage than one might expect from a tiny metal piece. Whilst awareness of it pains him, Charles is saddened, deeply, with raw regret: Erik might have survived, but for a chance to continue breathing he had paid with a solid chunk of his life and his health. For all intents and purposes, it's irreversible.

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