(awfully thick at the moment)

There's an echo in Erik's head: a clear, quiet undercurrent, like the one at the back of his mind when he's reading a book. He pauses at the end of the hall a moment, then shakes his head to clear it and continues on his way.

He barely sleeps at all that night, too wound up, too intent on poking and prodding at her with his mind when she goes too long without fidgeting at him. He can't relax enough to settle, though she seems all too happy to go to sleep on him after her little stunt (whatever that was, he can't deny even to himself that it scared him. Not knowing what it was scares him more; not knowing if she'll do it again scares him the most).

For the next few days, Erik remains on edge, waiting for something - for anything - to happen. When not much does for days, and then a week, he's finally able to relax enough to try for a good night's sleep.

Except that she's taken exception to his interrupting her beauty sleep all the nights in-between, because from then on, every time Erik lies down for the night - or even, when he grows desperate, for a mid-afternoon nap - she waits until he's just drifting off, then jerks him awake with a barrage of kicks or a somersault.

As strange, as alien to him as her movements still are, they don't bother him - a good, strong kick means all is well with her. Erik is used to physical discomfort, and this at least has a purpose, a meaning other than suffering for the sake of suffering.

What does bother him is the dreams. He'll realize later than they actually began weeks before he first identifies them as what they are; that while they come in fully realized sequence now, they also came in snapshots before that, a flash here or a flash there and then gone, crushed beneath the weight of his own nightmares.

Erik knows his own dreams, the old enemies and the new ones; knows their weight and texture, the jagged edges of them. So he knows, too, when new dreams come to him that cannot be his own.

He dreams, the first time, of mirror shards all around him, reflecting back a beast at monstrous angles: blue fur and yellow eyes, huge hands with blackened fingernails, all staring back at him no matter where he turns.

On another night he dreams of flying, soaring in the air on his own breath, a triumph that turns on a moment to horror as he begins to fall; he tries to scream, then, to regain his control, but no sound emerges and he continues to plummet, waking just as the ground surges up to take him.

Later still, he dreams he's examining his wings, the one whole again to cautious hands and disbelieving eyes, a perfect twin to the other as ever it was before; but even as he holds them out before him in wonder, they begin to shrivel between his fingers, both of them, touched as if by his own poison until they're nothing but crusted nubs between his shoulder blades.

He wakes from these dreams disoriented, unsure of where - of who - he is. But as bad as they are, they're no worse than any of his own dreams, and far better than most of them. There's a foreignness, a disconnect about them that's almost welcome, once he pieces everything together again, when he remembers that he is Erik and not Hank or Sean or Angel; then, they're not his anymore, not his dreams to worry over, not his problem.

They're not his dreams, and, when it comes down to it, they don't bother him.

But then, one night, he dreams that he wakes one morning and swings his legs out of bed. Examines the carpet, revels in the once-familiar rough softness of it between his toes, beneath the pads of his feet. Stands with care, noting the extension of his knees, the way his center of balance shifts as he trusts his feet to hold him. Takes a step, and then another, toward the door, pausing halfway there for a few moments within the pane of light from the window, registering the heat bright on the backs of his feet, radiating underneath them.

Continues across the room again, raises his hand to the doorknob; then draws it back, looks back down at his feet, feels an edge of panic slicing through him as he realizes that something is missing, here, that something is wrong - that if he's made some bargain for this, he may have traded away something far too dear -

He reaches again for the doorknob, twists it, steps out into the darkness of the hallway beyond -

And sits up in his bed gasping and shivering, bathed in sweat, his sheets kicked down and strangled around his legs, constricting him. It's a minute or two before he's calm to reach down and unwrap the sheets, to cast them aside so that he can stand on shaking legs, stagger toward the bathroom to take a piss as he's had to wake to do so often lately with or without dreams to wake him.

Afterward, he flicks on the bathroom light and throws water on himself at the sink, and rubs and rubs the salt from his face, out of his eyes. He dries off with a towel, then sets it down and stares at himself in the mirror, almost startled not to see a different face looking back at him.

When he lies back down, he falls immediately back into sleep, too tired and too drained to keep himself awake wondering what's going to happen next. If he dreams further that night, or if she tries to punish him with more of her wild rattling around, he doesn't know it.

Erik wakes in the morning and looks down at his gut, and says, "What are you doing to me?" But it comes out sounding too - hard, accusing - and so after a moment he adds, "My dear."


Week 27

When Darwin calls, Charles is already sitting at the desk in his study, and picks up on the second ring.

He listens to the story - stranded, car broken down, no money for a tow and never mind repairs - Darwin's voice steady as he explains, Alex's voice sharp in the background as he clarifies or challenges Darwin's points.

Charles waits until Darwin comes to a full stop, then says, "I'm sure I'll regret asking this, but even if your car won't run, what's stopping the two of you from driving the Corvette back?"

There's a long pause at the other end of the line, and then Darwin says, "Well, there was this explosion..."

"What? Don't tell him that!"

"And we're not sure, but the cops might be looking for us..."

"Don't tell him that either!"

"Marvelous." Charles pinches the bridge of his nose, then rubs his eye sockets for a few moments. Then, in a voice that is, all thing considered, exceptionally level, he adds, "All right. We'll be there for you in just a bit. Don't you worry, and sit tight."

"Thank you," Darwin says. "We really appreciate it."

"Bye now." Charles hangs up the phone, offers up a moment of silence to the ghost of his Corvette (he would never have driven it again, but that's not to say he wouldn't have gone down to the garage to look at it, every so often), and then begins to try and figure how, exactly, he's going to get there. Over these past few months, it's always been Alex who's driven him when he needs to venture off the grounds for this doctor's appointment or that one.

Charles thinks through his options. Hank's out, no question about that, too self-conscious of his new form even now to so much as leave the house. Sean's not an option either; he can drive, is even enthusiastic about it, but has the most unfortunate tendency to drift over the center line and then overcompensate, shrieking all the while.

Which leaves Angel, or -

Which leaves Angel.

Charles seeks about the mansion with his mind. He finds Angel with no difficulty and takes the teeniest, tiniest peek to see if - yes. Yes. Angel can drive. Quite well, in fact. She observes the posted speed limit, uses the turn signal, slows for yellow lights; and if she occasionally cuts around other drivers with a sense of impatience for going well under the speed limit, well, she's not dangerous about it, and that's good enough for Charles.

It's most unfortunate, then, that it's not good enough for Angel.

"No," she says the moment she sees where this is going, shaking her head vigorously and backing away. "No. I'm not taking you. You can forget it."

"But," Charles says, and, before continuing, takes a second peek into her mind, this time to try to work out just what, exactly, the objection is, and how to overcome it. The first thing he comes across is a remarkably vivid image of himself with his hair on fire, which is alarming for several reasons. For one, he really doubts that charred bald would be a good look on him. "Never mind then."

He wheels back out into the hallway - thinking, as he does, about guilt and grief, and about anger as a mask. He wonders if he ought to try speaking to her about it later, once Alex and Darwin are safe back home again.

Charles lingers mid-way between his study and Erik's room, debating whether he wants to go on and bring Erik into it, or if it would be better to give in and call for a car instead. The latter is something he's managed to avoid thus far, cringing away from discussing his newfound limitations with strangers except where absolutely necessary; and further, shying away from placing himself in any situation where he must depend upon anyone he doesn't already know. It hardly matters that he'll never be helpless, regardless of appearances, or that there's no such thing as a stranger when he can seek out anything he needs to know about anyone in the blink of an eye.

It hardly matters, because there are still days when he looks out the window at a clear blue sky and sees shadows clustered on the lawn, and missiles overhanging in the air; and though it only ever lasts a moment, it always looms over him the rest of that day.

In the end, even as tense as things have been with Erik, his decision is never really in doubt.

So Charles turns toward Erik's room, where he senses Erik's presence, and hopes that Erik will be willing to help. As he gets closer, he can't deny that he feels an ache of anticipation as well. He's kept his word about not stalking Erik by proxy, and hasn't gone out of his way to run into him in person either. Outside of the occasional peek into other heads to see how Erik looks to other eyes (irritable, for the most part; and tired, underneath it), he has remained entirely hands-off out of respect for Erik's wishes.

He knocks at Erik's door, and after a minute or so Erik opens it. Though it's past noon, he's still in his bathrobe, and looks even more tired to Charles' eyes than he has through other people's memories.

And even more irritable as well, judging by the stink-eye he immediately levels at Charles. "What do you want?" he demands.

It's not the opening Charles could have hoped for, but he'll take it. "I've had a telephone call from Darwin. Seems he and Alex have broken down off the side of the road, an hour or so away from here."

Erik's stink-eye gets a bit stinkier. "And?"

"And," Charles continues, "as I obviously can't drive to get them on my own, I need someone to take me. There's no one else, and it's life or death." This latter may be a bit of a stretch, but Charles has never been too terribly concerned about little white lies.

The stink eye remains unwavering, and Charles can't begin to guess what's going on behind it.

Erik is going to say no, Charles realizes when the moment drags on and on with no softening of Erik's expression. He's going to say no; despite everything else he's ever said about mutants sticking together, protecting and helping each other, he's going to say no.

But then, after what feels like another three months but in all actuality is probably no more than thirty seconds or so, Erik's expression clears up - well: becomes slightly less overcast, at any rate - and he says, "Let me get dressed first," and shuts the door in Charles' face.

"I'll be down in the garage," Charles calls, moments later when he's managed to process what just happened. He turns himself around and wheels in the direction of the lift. For the first time in weeks he actively notes the lift doors, still melted around the edges and inclined up against the wall to gather dust.

On his way down, he notes, too, the motion of metal all around him, buzzing with life at the back of his mind. His sense of it ebbs and flows, softest when she's sleeping, loudest when she's enthusiastically awake (the latter often occurring in the middle of the night, when he'll wake to her insistent kicking, the metal objects on his stomach tickling as she moves them about at her whim). It seemed a bit odd to him when it first began happening a few days ago - though not as odd as it could have, had he not spent a considerable amount of time exploring Erik's mind, way back when.

Charles reaches the garage, wheels around to the passenger side of the Ford they'll be driving, and sets to getting himself situated. Some of the first modifications Hank made to anything to make his life easier were made to this car. Charles is more grateful for the extra handles every time he goes anywhere, even more so now that his mobility, which had improved so much for months with practice and the new strength of his arms, is decreasing again, courtesy of the increasing bulk around his middle.

Even so, by the time Erik shows up, Charles has had time enough to get himself settled, and enough time beyond that to lean backward and close his eyes, slow his breathing and wait on his heart to stop trying to beat its way out of his chest.

Erik opens the door, slides into the driver's side, and begins to fiddle with the seat, first pulling the lever to lurch it as far backward as it'll go, then bringing it back up, back and forth and back and forth until he's satisfied with it. Then he begins adjusting the mirrors, first the driver's side mirror and then the rearview - and Charles could swear that he takes a moment to admire his own reflection. The man is vain, he's always been.

Not that Charles is complaining - he's always loved watching Erik's pre-driving ritual, always performed at the beginning of each day on the road whether or not he was the last person to drive the car (and generally speaking, he had been, claiming that Charles' own driving gave him a headache). In fact, Charles is so absorbed in watching it - so occupied in realizing, for the first time, that there's something underneath the ritual; that the metal is humming to Erik's touch as he inspects it with his powers, making it react so minutely that Charles never noticed it before, never could have - that he entirely forgets one other small detail right up until Erik stops fiddling with things and turns the key in the ignition, bringing the engine roaring to life.

And once he does remember, glancing to the open passenger door and the wheelchair still sitting on the concrete, he remembers something else too -

("throwing that in my face, rubbing my nose in it")

- and he actually considers reaching over, nudging the wheelchair out of the way to close the car door and have them on their way. But the mere thought of going anywhere without it shoots off a spark of anxiety deep in his gut. He's never felt so uneasy at the prospect of separation from any inanimate object; but then, he's never so wholly depended on one before either. As much as he knows, as much as he's already reminded himself several times today that his own gift means he'll never be powerless (at least in situations involving neither Emma nor Erik's hideous helmet) - well. He is simply unwilling to leave without it.

"Erik," he says, going for casual, unconcerned, as though he hasn't just gotten the feeling, a dampening of his palms and a sinking in his stomach, that this is going to go over badly. "My apologies, I should have mentioned this before you got comfortable - but my wheelchair has to come with us, so I need you to put it in the trunk before we go."

Erik turns to look at him then, slowly, slowly; then looks past him, to the chair. "You're serious," he says, voice thick with suspicion.

"No, Erik," Charles says, and he's tried so hard, he has, to be understanding - but this is too damned much, it really is; he can't help the scorn that drips from his lips. "I arranged all of this, Darwin and Alex and everything else, for the sole purpose to sticking it to you about the damned wheelchair." He allows Erik to take this in for a moment before going on. "Yes, I'm serious. I can't do it myself or I would. Clearly."

Erik stares at him for a long, long moment, then struggles out of the car - not so trim about the waist himself anymore, Charles notes; it's possible he's even bigger around than Charles at this point.

Though Charles worries for a moment that Erik will simply stalk back into the house, he doesn't. Charles looks resolutely forward as Erik rolls the wheelchair back, as he struggles quite audibly to fold it up, not so much as glancing at the rear view mirror to see what all the particularly dramatic banging and grunting is all about. He doesn't look, and he finds himself fuming, silently, at Erik's gall, Erik's nerve to make this all about Erik when it's Charles who has to live with it every day of his life.

He's still fuming when Erik drops back into the driver's seat, still fuming when they somehow manage to slam their doors closed in sync, still fuming as Erik directs the car out of the garage.

Still fuming, when he looks down at his hand and realizes that at some point he's plucked up a wheat penny from off of his stomach; and that it is melting around the edges into his palm. This ceases at almost the moment he notices it, and cools and hardens in the span of another moment into a new, identifiable but misshapen form.

"Are you done," Erik says, jolting Charles out of his own head.

"...What?" Charles asks.

"I'm not going to listen to you the entire way," Erik says.

In his shock, it takes Charles a few seconds to catch up to this. "I am so sorry, Erik, for thinking things and having thoughts," he answers when he does. "Let me assure you, I will endeavor not to do so any more. Now, turn left out of the drive, if you would."

Then, he proceeds to think, loudly as he can without actually projecting it: Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium...

And underneath it, he fumes a little more; while also marveling on how it can be, that he held melting copper in his hand without being burnt.

A little while later, around the second time he gets up to Bismuth, he runs out of steam for fuming, and can't help but glance once or twice at Erik, wondering how it is that he can be so near, and yet so far away. It's not a barrier he has the first idea how to breach.