Erik stepped into the dimly lit hotel room, closing the flimsy door behind him with a finality that signaled the end of another exhausting day on the tail end of a discouraging week. He sunk slowly into a chair, kicking off shoes and letting his feet scrape against the rough maroon carpet as he buried his face in his hands.

The three mutants they'd visited today had either been disinterested or had outright refused their offer. The first had been like many who had a very weak mutation – mostly unaffected, and perfectly happy remaining in society. She was a young single mother with a perfectly photographic memory, and was fine keeping herself and her young son away from their world. Erik understood and accepted this.

The others he did not comprehend. One had been a striking Korean woman in her mid 20's who could control the flow of air around her; she threatened to suffocate them if she wasn't left alone in the future, quickly ushering them out of her small apartment past her startled roommate. The other had been a rough looking man hunched over a glass in a bar, who had told them to "fuck off" before they could get out anything more than their names. Erik had been able to play it off with good grace and humor at the time, but he was feeling anything but amiable.

It wouldn't be so bad, he reasoned, if it weren't so common for these mutants to turn them away, to choose to try and ignore or hide their gifts rather than feeling comfortable in their own skins. He imagined what it would have been like had someone come to break him out of the camps as a boy, how quickly he would have gone… But Charles had led them to no fewer than 19 possible recruits in the last week alone, and they had not one newcomer to show for it. The success they'd enjoyed early on, finding Angel, Sean, Alex… had certainly been shortlived.

Erik's scowl deepened. These people just didn't seem to get it – when something gets ugly, humanity will stop at nothing to find someone to blame, especially if they are convinced that many others will stand behind them. To Erik it was obvious that they were on the brink of political and social unrest, and just as obvious that mutants were the next group to bring down – the one that presented the easiest target. Charles played it like a game, and while Erik loved to watch the other man in his element – all bright eyed enthusiasm – sometimes he felt that he'd turned his back on his duty, and it grated.

Erik would be lying if he said he hadn't enjoyed the road trip. But as time went on, the nagging sensation that he had somewhere to be got harder and harder to ignore. He hadn't gone this long focused on something besides Shaw since – since the beginning. And now their streak of failure (just a different *choice*, Charles insisted – but Erik always thought of it as failure) was sending him into a spiraling bad mood, a land of worsening nightmares and bottled up frustration.

The door swung open suddenly and Charles was ushered into the room by a chilly evening breeze, his black wool coat flapping gently. The atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed warmer, cozy and intimate rather than dumpy and washed out – but that was just Charles. His presence was pervasive, to say the least. He plopped a bag on one of the two double beds before settling into a chair across from Erik, letting out a whoosh of breath as he ran fingers through already wind rumpled hair and tugged off his fingerless gloves. "I popped by the deli across the street… sandwiches and wine for supper?"

Erik sat back, his frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he gave the room another perfunctory glance and settled for looking out the window. "Yes, that'll be fine… I'm going to shower first."

Charles groaned theatrically. "Must we wait? I'm practically starving, Erik, and no matter how filthy you are it won't be enough to put me off."

"You can just start without me then."

The telepath rolled his eyes. "It will not kill me to wait, although it may come close. I can use the time to add to the log –" Charles had been keeping a journal of sorts, of the different mutations they met in their travels – "but Erik! How about the girl we met today! I just… it's really amazing, isn't it?" He looked earnestly at Erik, face open and bright. Sometimes Erik forgot that at heart, Charles was every bit the geek Hank was when it came to anything involving mutation.

Erik stood abruptly, almost knocking the table into his friend. "I'm showering now, Charles." He moved over to his suitcase, started digging for a change of clothes.

Charles stood carefully, moving his chair aside. "Erik… what's the matter? You've been practically exuding this… moodiness… for days now. What's troubling you, friend?" Some of the enthusiasm had fallen from his voice.

But Erik could not tell him. Couldn't tell him that Shaw was invading his sleep again and that he itched to be on a different mission. Couldn't tell him that watching mutants turn down their destinies over and over was driving him crazy with wasted potential. Couldn't tell him that honestly it had just been a rough week, the anniversary of his mother's death having come and gone, and he was tired and irritable because of it, because he could not escape his own mind.

He shook his head, mouth set firmly. "It's nothing, Charles, just leave it."

"You could be a better liar, you know."

Erik felt Charles' hand settle gently but firmly on his shoulder, and he cursed himself for leaning into the touch – for wanting it – as much as he cursed Charles for insinuating that Erik could ever be good at lying to Charles, because Erik wasn't afforded that luxury around a telepath, was he?

He shook his head roughly, shrugging off the hand and pushing the new anger down into the mental box where he'd been keeping all the frustrations of the last few weeks. Erik's mind, in his own perception, was a neatly organized cabinet – everything neatly tucked away, sorted by what type of thought or memory or feeling it was and carefully modulated and controlled – a cabinet forced into existence by a childhood that had required him to develop a mind that could withstand the vagaries of Shaw's torture.

It was then, as he was filing away his little furies, that he felt Charles' mind step into his own – Erik, just tell me - and ruffle gently against his thoughts in an attempt to discern what was needling Erik. Because of course Charles would try to help, and of course he would look. Charles had grown more free with his telepathy around Erik over the course of the trip – it was useful to them to be able to communicate non-verbally, and Erik trusted Charles and would not snap every time he felt the telepath's presence, because it was just in Charles' nature to exude feelings the way other people shared facial expressions, and to pick up on the surface thoughts of those around him.

So of course Charles looked. But this, this was different than picking up surface emotions, this was going into Erik's head and consciously looking for a specific something, and of course he looked and how DARE he. How dare this pretentious telepath - who had already stood in front of Erik and announced that he knew everything about him - dig through his thoughts as if it was his right to know what was wrong? How dare he suggest that Erik had even a dream of lying to a fucking telepath? How dare he take that liberty, and how dare he make it feel comfortable, as if he belonged in Erik's head?

And so somewhere deep in Erik's subconscious mind, the anger exploded, and Erik imagined mental claws and grabbed onto the little thing in his head that was Charles and dragged him deeper in, into one of the boxes he'd made, ignoring the flare of shock that shot out electric blue from the mental tether connecting him to Charles. He ignored the fact that Charles was still standing frozen still behind him, and that a tiny strangled noise had escaped the telepath's throat.

He ignored all of this, and he dug down into the memories of his childhood and pulled out the worst one, the one that was filled with both physical pain so bright and white and shocking that it was blinding, and with the mental trauma of knowing that it was his mother's birthday in this memory and that Schmidt had killed her not a year ago and that he was still there in Schmidt's lab. He recalled that memory in as much vivid detail as he could muster, bolstered by his own raging fury, and he flung it against the mental connection that was Charles, forcing it into the foreign entity in his mind and feeling a twisting, dodging resistance to his mental attack, but still pushing and stuffing until the writhing piece of his consciousness that was Charles snapped out of his head with a shriek.

It happened in a matter of microseconds. Time was nothing in the mental world, and Erik snapped back to reality and out of his mind with a gasp, feeling slightly dazed, as if he'd forgotten to breathe. His anger was suddenly gone, sinking out of existence as quickly as it had come. Charles, too, was nowhere to be found in his mind.

There was a quiet sob, no more than a quick breath in, from behind him. Erik spun around and there was Charles lying on the floor curled tightly into the fetal position with his hands clasped around his head, over his ears. He was shaking visibly, drawing in shuddering breaths in a slow repetition, as if he were constantly reminding himself to breath. Erik could only stand and stare for a long minute, paralyzed, as the thought I did this beat a staccato tattoo on the inside of his skull.

Then finally the telepath began to uncurl, snapping Erik back into motion. "Charles… I… I don't…" He trailed off as he helped the telepath to his feet, hands fluttering unsteadily for once around the shorter man's shoulders. But Charles did not look at him once as he stood, pulling his coat tight around himself and keeping his gaze fixed on the carpet. The telepath took one more stunted breath in and pushed off Erik with one hand, stumbling out the door of the motel room and into the cold night.

Erik watched him go, unable to move or do anything, and then collapsed into a chair at the slam of the door. So many things he didn't understand – that Charles had been so affected by a memory that he should have already seen in his early forays into Erik's mind; that Erik had been capable of affecting the telepath at all; that Erik had just attacked his only friend and then left him to walk out alone into the night. How he loathed himself. This – this was not how it was supposed to go; this was not the way of the world. Charles was the strong one, the one who was solid and set in himself and his morals, the one who had complete control over his mind and whose mutation could not be used against him. Erik was never supposed to be able to do this, was never supposed to be able to hurt Charles.

He glanced over at the door again, still not really comprehending what had just happened. Surely – surely Charles just needed some space, and then he would be back and Erik could apologize and it would all blow over.

He waited another 5 minutes in the chair, staring at the door as if he could will the other man through it, anxiously turning a metal coin over and over again on his palm.

Finally he stood, thinking that perhaps if he showered he would emerge to find Charles inside again.

15 minutes later Erik reentered the room having gained nothing but wet hair for his troubles. He scowled at Charles' necktie, sitting draped over the chair where its owner had left it. Charles…? Charles, where are you? He cautiously projected the mental message into the air, aware that it was teeming with undertones of come back and I'm sorry, so sorry and a hundred other feelings that he wasn't sure he understood himself.

Nothing. He couldn't even feel the little niggling warmth in the base of his skull that signified the presence of his friend. It made him anxious. He'd grown protective over Charles and being able to feel his existence had become a reassurance to Erik of the other man's safety.

The mutant heaved a quick breath and then grabbed his coat and shoes and stalked outside, sending out mental feelers for the bits of metal that were Charles – zippers, metal grommets on his shoes, small Swiss Army penknife, the favourite fountain pen he carried everywhere, the small bit of spare change left over from their stop at a café earlier.

He was in their car, in the passenger seat.

Erik frowned, sent his intentions very loudly into the air, and then walked over to the driver side door and climbed in.

Charles was hunched over, hands on knees and head in hands, when Erik got in. The telepath flinched a little at the sound of the door shutting, turning to peer at Erik with red rimmed eyes that were dry now but seemed overflowing with every sadness the world had ever seen.

"Charles…" Erik trailed off, feeling completely out of his element, and not for the first time since he'd met the telepath. "What - are you – are you alright? What happened?"

Charles glanced over at his friend, looking more like a kicked puppy than Erik supposed anyone should ever have the right to look. "Erik, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry for what he did to you and your mother and I shouldn't have looked and I jus-"

Erik cut him off, reaching over to grasp the telepath by the shoulder and once more meeting his eyes. "Charles. Charles! I'm fine. Are you alright?"

Charles nodded faintly, his eyes mildly unfocused. "Yes, yes, I'm quite fine Erik, it's just… it's a lot. You have so much hurt in your past, I'm so sorry…" He focused on Erik again with a look of weary contrition. "Forgive me?"

Erik shook his head, eyes downcast, mind in a swirl. "No, Charles, it's I who should be asking your forgiveness. I am so sorry I've hurt you."

They sat there for a moment in calm silence – calm on Charles' part, anyhow; Erik was still a veritable maelstrom of emotions made worse by the fact that Charles was most definitely shielding him out quite strongly.

Finally the telepath spoke, with a little more of his usual vigor and optimism. "You know, Erik, I've always wondered if your mutation gave you some sort of latent telepathic strength – not telepathy in the least, but an increased awareness of your mental self that is quite rare among non telepaths. I should say that this confirms it concretely. It's quite interesting – we may have to play with it in the future, no?"

Erik glanced at him incredulously out of the corner of his eye. The ease with which this man moved past events that Erik considered momentous never ceased to amaze him. "I… I haven't any idea, Charles."

"Well." The telepath let out a whoosh of breath, turning away from Erik and playing with the door handle. "Supper then? I'm still quite famished."