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Out, in the street, the dawn is breaking through thin pale line above the trees. The sun is being born for the new and hopefully fine day.

Right now, Charles is absolutely blind to it, as wild ideas keep coming and going. For a long, too long moment he is seriously considering various painless methods to wake himself up.

Erik is not quite wrong, acting as he is now, thinks Charles then. For instance, it is impressive that he'd thought of fetching the blood test kit, which Charles happened to have at home. It went unspoken that Charles agreed to it, because, under the circumstances, truth was difficult and Charles, having thought better of it, was in no position to argue. And, besides, if Erik still hadn't called in an ambulance, he, probably, is not one hundred percent sure that Charles is… whatever he is. His doubt is Charles' chance. The chance to figure out what to do next.

"No, you keep that door open," says Erik just as he makes a move to swing the bathroom door shut.

This bathroom dilemma is just ludicrous, but he can't really protest, can he? Quickly going from embarrassed to rueful, Charles worries the inside of his lip, while pondering how to phrase it correctly.

"I could leave it ajar, if I must," he bargains, allowing just the right amount of compliance in his voice.

"And then, you will try killing yourself in my bathroom, this once. Charles, how on Earth I am supposed to watch you?" Erik leans on the wall, folding his arms.

"Look, I don't know how to reply to your question," Charles glances down, reflexively, at his bandaged forearm. It continues to throb, spreading tiny waves of pain. "I'm grateful, Erik. I'm really grateful for everything you've done for me, but —"

Something crashes just behind the wall. Though the sound is hushed, he and Erik exchange dubious, yet alarmed looks, because it has come from Charles' supposedly empty part of the house. Charles wonders whether his eyes are as round and startled as they seem to be. Erik, on the other hand, narrows his eyes and motions him to stay silent. He is visibly hesitating; he is considering his options — and by the way the lines on his face are getting more pronounced Charles can wager what troubles him.

"We can go and investigate together," offers Charles mildly, keeping his voice low.

"Unfortunately, that's what we'll do, it seems," mutters Erik and adds quietly still. "Stay back and, please, do what I say."

While following Erik through the yard and then inside, Charles tries not to breathe too loudly. The lights are out and dim natural glow is barely enough to prevent them from stumbling into furniture. It looks like everything is visible through a flimsy grey noise shroud. His eyes flicker to the kitchen door, which is half open. He is still confused out of his mind, but the remnants of memory appear to be there. Like faint flickers of light in the otherwise dark attic, they grant him nothing more than an outline, a feeling of memory, which used to be there.

As though pulled with an invisible thread, Charles sneaks through the gap and right into the kitchen. He takes a single look at the counter and realises that it's a mess: a water bottle is toppled over — its contents must have spilled on the floor; the cupboards and cabinets are open, the lids on jars are off. There's nothing on the table, though his memory claimed quite the opposite.

"Charles, will you stop testing my patience? What did I ask you to do?" Erik grabs his elbow, almost hissing into his ear, and Charles fails to jump out of his skin only because he suddenly feels like collapsing.

"Who do who you think you are, Charles. Look at your life, at your choices. You are dragging yourself down, in isolation," comes that voice.

The intonation then turns monotonous and the same voice asks him questions.

"Do your past failures still worry you? How often do you make efforts to get the others laugh and smile? I'm just wondering what is your honest opinion of you? What prospects do you see for yourself?..."

Charles looks into the eyes, which are shining with such intelligence and understanding, that any validity should go unquestioned.

"I know what you're doing," his skin feels tight and thin at once, mind is no better.

"Do you?" a smile. "Because, even if you do, it doesn't matter."

Charles staggers back: thankfully, he's aware once again. His eyes dart past Erik in time to see the moving shadow through the gap in the door.

There is a goat skull staring back at Charles with nameless intentions. Greyness is clinging to it, merging with it so well, that a lone gasp is stuck in his throat. The skull disappears in a blink and then there's the unmistakable patter of feet on the porch.

Erik, bless him, sprints after the shadow very fast, but, when Charles peers in the window to track him, he already can't see the person Erik is chasing. This window is, by far, a poor observation point.

He exhales heavily, hoping to clear his head from remnants of numbing shock.

Oddly uncaring, Charles gingerly climbs the stairs and heads for the bathroom. When Erik returns some time later, slightly flushed, but not quite empty-handed, Charles is already almost done packing.

"He has ditched the mask," he notes absolutely unnecessary, zipping up a travel hand bag. Surprisingly enough, his voice carries none of the traces of fresh panic and anxiety thumping through his veins.

"Yeah, threw it in the bin, so I had to do some digging. I swear, he is frigging fast and he seems to know the area better than I do," breathes out Erik. "Charles, can you explain me what you're doing?"

He wishes he could do that.

"Back in the kitchen, I've had a vague flashback, which, at the moment, makes no sense. This is only an assumption, but I think that I was being drugged throughout these couple of days, thus mild cognitive impairment and memory loss. Perhaps, it started since Monday or Tuesday even. I've been feeling weird, and, overall, that makes sense, in hindsight. I also packed some toiletries, like toothpaste, in here. You should get them tested. And fetch a sample of bottled water from the kitchen, if possible," the twitch seizes his right hand and Charles shoves it in the pocket. "I didn't trash my house on my own, but I don't have the answers. I wager, they were looking for something. I have no idea what it is. If you know a reason why someone in the damn scary mask broke into my house, I'm all ears."

"Okay, okay."

Erik runs a hand down his face in what, such are Charles' hopes, is a display of relenting.

"What I'm asking for is some degree of understanding and trust. Is it too much?"

"I don't know yet," Erik snaps, but clearly regrets it as he settles on grabbing Charles' bag, and says, straining to keep his voice mild. "It's dangerous here. Let's go."

"Fine, Erik. Go where?"

"Not sure we can discuss this in here. Look around, meanwhile. Is anything amiss?"

"Everything is," sighs Charles, sweeping his eyes all over his bedroom.

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It goes without saying that if they want to act they should act immediately.

Judging by Erik's words, he is not keen on going to police either. Indeed, he made a few phone calls and drove them to the glass-encased place downtown, where biology postdocs are rumoured to be changing the world. Apparently, there is someone who Erik knows, a lab assistant, who can be bullied into taking over forensics job and analysing both the bloodwork and the samples they obtained in Charles' house.

To keep himself alert, Charles chooses caffeine and a simple breakfast in a barely awakened cafe. From the window he can observe the entrance to Glirham Research Centre. That's not to say that he's very worried, but he is wired, which, given the odds, is understandable. He has to put as much faith in Erik as Erik in him and his claims.

A lot of hope is hanging on the outcome of his testing. If Charles' claims appear false, their deal will be off. It is wisely left unvoiced, but the weight of it is pressing heavily upon Charles' shoulders.

He opts to resist a tug of sleep by ordering another coffee. Because, honestly, what other means of composing himself he has got left?

When Erik crosses the street and finally, finally sits down across him at the small round table, Charles is capable of letting go some of gripping tension.

"Should be ready as soon as possible," Erik says, eyeing the menu.

Having ordered coffee, they wait until their waiter is out of earshot.

Charles clears his throat, before sharing his latest thoughts.

"About the suspect or, hm, suspects. This is someone, who knows their drugs. They must be rather familiar with my schedule and my habits. Seems, that most of the recent events, at least, are connected. I had something for you and I'm starting to think that it just might be something tangible. I mentioned that I vaguely remember this thing, this important evidence, being in my hands, then on the kitchen table. Otherwise, why sneak into my house? What do you say? And this particular question worries me quite a lot: do you think they know what you and I have been discussing? What we have uncovered?"

As Erik's coffee arrives, he falls into grim silence and doesn't hurry to respond. There is no use in denying that this lack of running commentary is bothering Charles.

"They probably know, by now, about us… I need to give my mind a rest. I'm having difficult time thinking about this."

Only, he can't stop his tired mind from wheeling and there is still one question he hasn't asked yet.

"Erik, I feel that I need to ask, so excuse me if I'm wrong. Are you hiding something from me?" Charles reads the answer in Erik's turbulent expression almost immediately and his voice falls. "You are. Will you tell me, now, that you see how willing to cooperate I am?"

"When I contacted my quarters, after I could not find you, I was told to let you be. Apparently, I could have jeopardised an entire operation. I probably did it anyway," Erik clarifies, boldly meeting his eyes.

"Odd man out," jokes Charles darkly with a wry huff and that actually makes Erik look at him differently, as if assessing him anew.

There can't be any mistake: the way he is regarded is frighteningly absorbing, like being in a weird spotlight of both apprehension and trepidation. It won't be easy to gloss over the way Erik's entire composure changes unexpectedly, Charles thinks. Goodness, no one has ever looked at him like that: it doesn't really matter how cheesy that may sound in his head.

"I don't think I was wrong. You are who you аre, Charles. For what it's worth, this still doesn't mean that I can abandon you and pretend that I never had a neighbour, who likes to listen to techno at midnight," says Erik airily.

Charles can spot an attempt at distraction when he hears one, he recognizes the implied truth of the statement, but, nonetheless, lets himself be distracted.

"Huh? That was not my music," rambles Charles under his breath as he stops resisting a smile.

"Ghost's, then?"

"Ah, yeah. In a way," Charles allows the implication to slide free, because he strongly feels that he owes Erik an exceptional degree of sincerity after what has passed between them.

"Charles," Erik pronounces his name like he would pronounce 'do you mind' or something equally dry.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to explain?"

"If you insist," he nods, forgoing hesitation. Talking about something so personal is disturbingly effortless, this once. "Those are just mental manifestations. The fruits of my… pondering over things. You might be tempted to ask a question: can you consider me sane? But, rest assured, I am quite alright. Conventionally speaking. After all, I wouldn't have got the job, if there were any doubts in my ability to manage my own psyche."

And, this once, Charles can't tell whether his explanation is satisfying enough, — Erik does his best to smother any reaction, as if afraid he's already given away too much.

"Let's not waste any more time and start with my office. Can you drive me to university?"

"Someone is looking for you," deadpans Erik, deliberately quiet. "I'm just doing my job, but, Charles, are you okay with showing up in the open? Where you can be spotted?"

Here, Erik surprises him again, because he expresses more thoughtful concern regarding Charles' safety than Charles himself.

"I owe you, Erik. And I owe myself the truth. I'm fine with being your amnesiac bait," Charles forces out and even if he's feigning it a little bit, Erik doesn't have to know. "In any case, inaction is worse at this point. I say, let's try to get to the bottom of it as fast as possible. Together."

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Since Charles has got no keys, he has to wait until a custodian gives him a duplicate, which she eventually does, but not after taking her sweet time and making him and Erik escort her to basement floor.

This hidden part of building looks rather modern compared to the rest of the old fashioned campus. Out of necessity, lights are always unfairly bright in here and Charles' eyes, extremely sensitive right now, water immediately. It's more than enough to multiply his discomfort as Misses McGee keeps bombarding him with statements, which echo along white corridor like pebbles thrown into murky well.

"I heard you were bed-ridden the day before," she says, looking Charles up and down, "you certainly look unwell, Professor. A nasty bug, huh?"

"Yes, a very nasty one," coughs Charles into his fist, silently marvelling who he should thank for spreading the word. His voice is rough and scratchy and last time he checked in the mirror he was sickly white, so he doesn't need to try that hard.

"Your girlfriend came looking for you, you know. She seemed worried," she reproaches, while unlocking the doors and guiding them in.

Charles is not proud of a pang and a burst of heat spreading in his chest. Erik, who has been a silent, albeit solid presence at his side all this time, shrugs and gives Charles an encouraging nod.

"There must be some mistake," Charles takes the key she is holding out for him. "I'm not dating anyone."

Misses McGee gives him a you-can't-lie-to-me smile.

"My, my, no worries. It's not like you're breaking the code or this… Erm, what it's called?"

"I believe, the phrase you're looking for is "rules of ethical conduct"," offers Charles helpfully.

"Yes, exactly," she inclines her head. "No problem at all. She isn't your student. Doctor Rogers, old rascal that he used to be," she chuckles fondly and Charles doesn't get to hear the rest of the story, because Erik steps in.

"Ma'm, you've got us intrigued. Who was the mysterious lady?"

"The red-head. Jen, er, – "

"Jean?" asks Charles and lets out a relieved sigh when she nods.

Until then, he didn't realise that their easy friendship might come across as something else.

"That reminds me," ponders Charles on the way upstairs, "do you have any special means to locate my phone?"

"I do. Already tried to no avail."

"Okay."

"You want to call her?" asks Erik when they stop in front of Charles' office.

Charles senses some sort of underlying motive, which he can't quite place.

"I need to call Jean, my department head and dean's office if I want to keep the job. As for Jean, last time I've spoken to her I hurt her feelings. That wasn't my intention, and we haven't talked since then," Charles steps aside to welcome Erik in.

Everything looks untouched. His desk is tidied up. A computer is off. A corner plant is unwatered, because he's been having a crazy week. Charles looks down at the carpet, soaking in the quiet of trivial, ordinary things.

"Before you ask," he tells Erik, "bear with me for a while. Perhaps, it's best not to hope that I'll recall everything, but I'll start with fractions anyway. For instance, here is the place I come to every day, here are things I'm accustomed to… I wasn't feeling particularly well on Thursday. Been awfully busy, so I left late. It was dark. I recall locking this very door and thinking that I needed to take some pills. My head was killing me."

Charles crosses the room and touches the door handle. It is cool and it leaves a rather pleasant imprint. It also inflames tiny cuts on his index finger and on the thumb of his right hand. Erik said he was clutching a shard of glass, when he found him. No wonder it stings.

He turns around and his gaze falls on the envelope lying on the edge of his desk, on top of the journal. Thus comes or, better put, strikes the moment he's been fishing for. A piece of memory comes to light.

"Erik, I – I got it. There was something in my correspondence, stashed among letters. A map, goodness! It was a map: printed out, folded somewhat carelessly."

"And where is it?"

Erik interrupts his inner struggle; however, Charles can't form a coherent response yet.

"I think, I panicked. Can't remember why, but I grabbed it. I know. I must have been in a hurry to leave."

What he recalls is a sudden and very intense flash of fear and the feeling: that of a cornered animal.

"Even most vivid memories are not as reliable as we'd like to think. Sorry, I digress. I'd like to point out, I know myself, Erik, I would have tried to conjure a backup plan. This is what I do. In spite of my poor judgement at that moment, I must have thought of something."

Erik makes a little explicit show of sitting down, with one leg crossed over the other.

"How good is your memory?"

"Usually? Highly precise, when no mind-altering substances are in game."

"Hm, so you get dressed in a hurry and leave your house in the middle of the night with evidence you afraid might end up in wrong hands. Blank space. And when you come to your senses, you claim that someone was in your house," he sums up.

"No, someone had been in my house. Before."

While his scrambled memories of the rest of the week are more or less lining up, Charles describes his dream, which, he believes, was but an altered, hypnotic pattern.

"Their intentions are obvious. Had I said something, or tried to, all my words would have been compromised. Who in their right mind would take my words seriously? You said I was almost catatonic?"

"Probably, yes," Erik hangs his head low, "it would be a perfect bloodless elimination. The mask adds up. If you had been out of it, I bet you'd have had no doubt that the monster had broken into your house."

"One more nail in the coffin of my sanity."

"I have to say, it's a valid theory so far," nods Erik – the but is left hanging in the air.

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The staffroom has happened to be deserted when they strolled in. Charles just turns to ask Erik whether he would like more coffee, when Erik's phone buzzes.

"Lab?"

"Chief," Erik comments, looking at the screen, purely annoyed, and Charles, momentarily discouraged by the news or, rather, lack thereof, waves him off.

"May take a while," warns him Erik and then walks out of the room, phone pressed to his ear and his voice deliberately flat.

Not for the first time this morning, Charles pauses to wipe his forehead: stands of hair are persistently clinging to his temples. Despite feeling cold, he breaks into chilly sweat — his body's attempt to get rid of toxins is decidedly less than pleasant.

Before approaching a table and picking up a receiver, Charles hesitates. But, he has to overcome his doubts sometime and it better be sooner rather than later. Thankfully, his mind is helpful in this case: it is full of phone numbers, so he can speak with everyone he needs. And, now, while he is more or less composed, he controls his voice and has enough sense not be perplexed when his department head inquires him how he is feeling. One of his lines might suggest that Charles called him early on Friday morning, asking for a day off.

Work-related issues dealt with, he dials Jean's number. He wonders whether she will answer a call from a landline. That's why he chooses to leave a message. Simple and quite short.

He puts the receiver down and turns. There is a sofa in the corner and Charles takes a step in its direction, longing for plush comfort it offers.

Behind him, the phone breaks into ringing.

With hunch which appears almost on the verge of supernatural, Charles turns, closes his hand upon the receiver and picks it up. His hands are true to the purpose where his heart and mind aren't. Therefore, his disordered faculties do register this moment as extremely long.

"Hello again, Charles," that softness and intonations are chillingly familiar.

Charles' reaction is visceral. It almost feels as if he has been punched in the stomach.

"How come you have Jean's phone?" asks-guesses Charles levelly, and goodness, how much this fake calm cost him.

"It's hugely irrelevant. It matters that I do and it also matters what implications you can draw."

Now Charles remembers, although dimly, sitting opposite this man and holding his gaze and focusing on shadows falling across the room as the sun goes down.

"— you're not a stupid man, Professor. Besides, she is not really necessary, as you may guess. And, how are you feeling today?"

"Been better," Charles grabs the pen and paper, lying on the table, and begins drawing, as he simultaneously tries to comb through his words.

It has already been said, hasn't it? Yes, certainly.

If you were true to the whole of your bargain: that they give their lives out of their own volition, that they seek demise and corruption at your hands… but we both know that it's no more but ungracious lie. You've had your chance of facing me and, yet, you needed to render me mentally and physically helpless. Your ritual is a poor travesty, aimed at fulfilling basic need to establish control over death.

"I know that you are keeping silent and I wonder why. Are you trying to figure out who is who in the police department? Or, have you finally realized that your allegations are unfounded and inconclusive? Oh, and is your babysitter still nearby?"

"Is Jean?" echoes Charles.

"Be careful," he says in warning. "You forgot who you're talking to."

As an unintentional truth of the statement swats at him, Charles sucks in a deep breath. Steady, he reminds himself. Don't give in.

"You will profit from telling me the truth."

"Clearly not," cuts off Charles and hangs up.

Goodness, don't let him be wrong.

For a single moment, he contemplates what to do next. That is, until matters are taken out of his hands and the door swooshes open.

"Erik — ," he starts, but when he turns, air gets stuck in his throat.

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