Erik stares out at the dark ocean as a brush of metal glides across his consciousness.
"A submarine," he mutters as a mirthless laugh brushes up against his lips and tumbles out. He listens to the world, mute as the voices of his mutants bicker and converse with one another. Their voices reverberate off of the metal in the house and form a low, dissonant rumble that thrums at the back of his cognizance. A brief, thoughtless swipe towards his head in an attempt to rake through his hair catches him unawares as the unfamiliar, metallic helm comes into contact with his skin. Ever encasing. Always blocking out.
Or was it blocking in now?
Protecting him from the thoughts he knows only too well?
Charles.
A wave of anger, hurt, betrayal and constant friendship crashes over him for the moment, but the feeling and drain of remorse tears and claws at his psyche as it drags him further and further into the darkest pits of despair and anger he has tried so desperately to bury deep within himself.
He remembers the beach and the bullet. The haze of denial that clouded his own actions and turned his hatred and anger on MacTaggert until Charles had spoken, his words halting and shaken and the sword that cut Erik's denial into millions of microscopic pieces.
'She didn't do this Erik. You did.'
God, even months after the incident, chills run up his arms and spine. He squeezes his eyes shut at the images of Charles lying prone on the sand. The awful look in his eyes. The scream that preceded his collapse. Erik feels a whisper move across his mind like an old friend and a thought pass over the predatory consciousness of Erik Lensherr and he grasps at it desperately. His eyes flash open.
Open your mind. Let him in, he goads himself. His throat squeezes as the air escapes him and leaves a dull, aching pain behind. His eyes press together as he raises his hands up to clamp around the helmet until he doesn't know where the helmet ends and he begins. He feels the cool pressure of the metal against his fingertips and knows that, with just one movement he could fix everything. He could go back and say he was wrong. He could tell Charles to rearrange his mind so that he forgot all about the past year.
But Charles wouldn't do that. His morals wouldn't allow him.
But Charles would take him back.
Wouldn't he?
Terror-filled bile rises up, uncalled, out of his gut. Terror of the uncertain. Terror of the rejection he feels sure lies in wait for him if he attempts to make contact.
"Erik?" Raven's – no, Mystique's voice calls out to him from the doorway, calling him out of his moment of insecurity.
He opens his eyes and looks out at the dark ocean, the insecure chance to open up to contact erased. He blinks once before removing his fingers from the helmet. He breathes in once. Twice. He turns around to look at the young woman behind him, her blue skin coated in the dusky white of the moonlight.
"Yes?" His voice cracks in his ears. Mystique does not comment. Instead, she tilts her head before replying softly.
"Are you okay?" She looks calm on the front, but he knows her. He knows she worries about him. About all of them. He blinks at her from under the rim of the helmet once before he turns around, back to the window.
"Everything's fine. Don't worry so much." He hears her step forward once before she retreats into the lighted hallway. A sigh passes over his lips as he listens to the squabbling of the mutants all over the compound pick up again. He allows his eyes to glaze over and stare out into the dark night and choppy waters.
Erik settles into the leather wingback chair with an acquiescent sigh as he settles himself into the long haul of another long, sleepless night of facing his demons and angels. Another insecure time to wonder about the ifs and maybes and might have beens. He glances down at the chessboard and its pieces once before his eyes stare once again into the dark void. The dull ache behind his heart the only companion he counts tonight.