.
.
.
Dimly, Charles remembers the agony of strangulation, when your chest is wheezing and you fight the terrible losing battle for every breath of air, as sickening horror settles deeply inside and you're drowning in panic, like in the deceptively safe quicksand because struggles only worsen your state. For some time he was simply lost in terror and filled with a vivid sense of noninvolvement. This is a quintessence of his life and all the humor of it, decides Charles, when crushing pressure on his chest easies a little and oxygen fills his lungs. Gods, it hurts. The restored ability to draw in air hurts so much that he involuntary coughs in breathless agony and his body writhers in a dreadfully painful spasm. Everything burns and brings him nearer to the difficult choice he has to make. Either he tries to wrestle with the pain and grapple his swimming consciousness into obedience or he can already give up and go under. Naturally, he chooses the hard way.
Recovering consciousness is not something you can expertly master, even in this line of work. Nevertheless, Charles tries to follow a humble pattern of gathering as much information on his surroundings as possible, and, if possible, without alerting people to the fact that he's come around. You never know where you may be waking up, grimly thinks he, mindful of revealing experience of the past.
Soon, voices are coming into focus. Gradually, they become less muffled and he can hear separate words.
"Please, don't hover, sir. Look, he is breathing, he will be fine."
"Then why isn't he waking up, McCoy?"
"Do I look like a doctor to you?"
Ah, Erik is going to verbally abuse poor Hank again.
Joy instantly rises in Charles, warm and rich like wine.
Finally, with effort, he manages to open his eyes a little, enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of handsome face. Erik is really hovering too much.
"Charles," simply says Erik, sounding absolutely exhausted and worn out.
"I think, you've had a respiratory arrest," informs him Hank's shaky voice, clueless of the moment. "I've called an ambulance, but, um, I'm so glad that I learned how to perform CPR."
Charles is even ten times gladder.
"Where…" he weakly attempts, gazing into Erik's eyes — and Erik understands.
"Stryker is fine. For now," he harshly says with sudden violence and orders. "McCoy, go check on him. Hurry up!"
When Hank disappears from Charles' peripheral vision, Erik carefully sneaks his arm round Charles' shoulders and slowly leans in until their foreheads touch. The closeness is truly intoxicating; it grows beautifully inside: an amazing, blissful spark within him turns into a flame. Charles senses and recognizes the gentleness of the gesture, the unspoken awareness of the mutual bond. It seems as if they can talk without really exchanging words, reaching the stage where words turn into useless, crude imitations of real communication. Just by touching him Erik shows Charles how important he is for Erik, and enables Charles to read his mind like an open book. Embracing this wonderful gift he shudders, dazed from glee and overjoyed.
The spell is broken by the paramedics rushing into the room, tailed by ruffled Hank. It is rather funny, tiredly muses Charles, when Erik starts ordering them around as well. But all the same, he has to step aside and now a young man is kneeling by his side, taking his pulse and carefully probing the swelling on his longsuffering throat. He asks questions which Erik immediately answers, while injecting Charles with something akin to liquid fire. To counter the allergic reaction, he explains, which caused the airway blockage.
Charles knows the term anaphylactic shock tossed around by the young doctor and his assistant. Splendid, he has nearly died because of a mere allergy. Neither fire nor bullets and crazy maniacs were able to kill him. But allergen? A piece of cake.
"I can stand on my own," persistently repeats Charles and using Erik's arm for support he does. He generally feels as though he's suffering from a particularly offensive hangover: he is nauseated and his head is pounding, but at least he can speak, as the medication starts taking an effect.
"McCoy," Erik calls and Hank immediately jumps to attention. "You'll accompany him, understood?"
"Yes, sir," replies Hank.
"I expect you to tell him what the hell happened here," adds Erik lowering his voice, only for Charles to hear.
When in two hours and a half Charles was left alone in the hospital room with the every intention to leave it as soon as possible, Hank has slid in. Charles was in the middle of putting on his jacket, so his plans were as clear as a day even for someone much more thick-witted than Hank. It occurred to him that Hank was the one to save his life directly and to Charles this fact seemed excessively awkward. Inside, he was torn between the stunning realizations how worried he made his friends without meaning to and rather reasonable fear of how close he came to losing his life again. In the agitation of the previous events he has disregarded the issue completely.
"Do you hate it here that much?" Hank appeared unusually concerned.
"You have no idea."
"You know," slowly said Hank, deeply immersed in thought, "when we saw you there, on the floor, and your skin has turned almost blue, like that of the corpse, I became so scared. It was, um, all was so terrible. I gathered that we were too late, but…"
"Erik doesn't give up unless he tries every option available," Charles foresaw that it would be difficult for him to continue. "You too, by the way. Thank you."
"Should I say don't mention it?" flushed Hank, as he ran his fingers through his hair.
"I don't know," answered Charles, with an encouraging smile. "Sounds fine to me."
They ended taking a taxi together and Charles briefly wondered where he should go from here. It wasn't late enough to come back to the hotel and Erik is not going to let him get back to work without a doubt. Well, he decides then that he needs to fetch his car anyway.
"It's extraordinary," remarked Hank. He seemed to be still thinking over everything Charles has told him. "Human mind has such great complexity, both structural and functional."
"The downside of that complexity is that sometimes we're completely unaware," Charles fell silent abruptly. He was casting the first stone and was powerless against the guilt welling up in him. Falling into the trap of his personality disorder was not Jason's fault. He did try to make the acknowledgement of the sorts and Charles was the one he was willing to speak to, to tell that something wrong was going on. He probably felt himself slipping then. And at the time Charles was busy planning a rescue mission. Again, considering his strange fixation on Charles... Uncomfortable and saddened, he rationalizes that probably he'd be better off if he stopped dwelling too much on it. His mood quite sorrowful, Charles looked out of the window at the city contentedly going on living, lying and loving.
If anything, he learned from this life-threatening experience that even an innocent glass of water offered by a deceptively sane neighbor can possibly hold drugs, which can possibly result in him falling victim to violent allergic reaction. Lately, he chooses to throw basic caution to wind too often. That won't do. From now on he will be responsible for the others, and only now Charles started to comprehend the weight of the burden, which he accepted earlier without a word of protest. Being in charge meant so much. Erik, despite his tough, no-nonsense, and, let's not bend the truth, discourteous approach, pulled it off remarkably good. He kept others safe, he commanded and yet he drilled them in everything they needed. Goodness, Charles really loves the man. But will he ever be able to do the same?
.
.
.
"It's too soon," sulkily complained Charles, when Erik pushed the box full of different shit, that kept accumulating in the office for some time in his direction.
"What is there?" curious, Charles didn't wait for his answer, instead proceeded to dig into the box, letting out a displeased hum. "Erik, are you sure that you want me to throw it away? Look, this is a lovely photo, hmm, is that you in the uniform? We absolutely can't dispose of it."
"Do whatever you want," grunted Erik and immediately regretted it as Charles looked at him with cheerfully sparkling eyes.
Personally, Erik can't bring himself to understand what was making Charles so elated. Those keepsakes meant literally nothing to him; they were lifeless pieces of crap, merely collecting dust and mostly good for nothing. What was new and interesting for him, what he could understand and appreciate was the present he had right here and now. Living like this made things less complicated.
"Wait! I will take it," Charles hurried to his side, when he noticed that Erik was unsuccessfully attempting to shut the damn drawer on the top shelf, holding a stack of holders in his right hand. Although out of the sling, his arm has been still bothering him, not that he expected anything else.
Charles leaned closer to help him, the faint blush on his cheeks was hardly there for anyone who was not as observant as Erik and could be mistaken for the one which usually accompanies exertion. He smelled nicely too, discovered Erik and stifled a sudden desire to pull Charles into his arms and… he forcefully stopped a mental image from taking shape, wary of untamed ferocity stirring in him at the thought. Something wrong was going on with him. How else does one explain these sharp impulses? He couldn't recall losing his mind over the prospect of sex to the degree that it was bordering on the obsession.
"You could have agreed to have a dinner with us," starts Charles, obviously being under wrong impression that if he repeats it often enough, Erik will miraculously agree to spend an evening in the company of people who grudgingly tolerated him and whom he barely tolerated at all.
"There is no need for any farewell dinner and you know it," he casually remarks. "Besides, don't let them make it into practice. You will regret it later."
"I'm afraid, I can't hope to master your ways," laughs Charles and in doing so he rests his hip against the desk, sweeping his eyes round the almost bare room.
Erik is a good listener, so he hears the unvoiced uncertainty, very poorly masked by that teasing tone, but he shrugs it off. He has seen people start from doubts and rise to confidence and vice versa. And Charles, truly worthy in every way, doesn't really need his reassurance. He will figure it in no time on his own.
"Everyone will be missing you, even if they don't want to admit this," seriously says Charles, but his blue eyes twinkle a little as he finishes his sentence.
"I'm sure they will," replies Erik in the same fashion. "How is your search for accommodation going on? Any luck?"
"Actually, I think, I'll settle on the second variant. The place is bigger than I need, but…"
"Move in with me," offered Erik mildly.
"Erik," Charles' refuses to meet his eyes. "Don't you think that we're doing it backwards? We hadn't even, you know…"
"Yes, I do know, but I also don't have any doubts. Charles, don't make me say it aloud."
"Okay."
"It's settled then."
"So fast," murmurs Charles, ruffling his hair.
"I'd say that it's not fast enough," points out Erik frigidly and then adds, just to prompt the reaction, which, he knows, will be pretty amusing. "Either way it's more convenient. At least now we can have as much sex as we want and nobody can say that you're sleeping with me solely for the job."
Charles doesn't disappoint him — he turns as red as tomato. Well, what Erik views as good-natured fun causes anxiety for unsuspecting victims.
He doesn't want to stress Charles further though, if further is possible.
"Relax, I didn't mean to embarrass you so much."
"No," it is Charles' turn to surprise him this time, "I'm actually glad that you want it as much as I do. What I wanted to say earlier," he laughs again, lightly, "we've not even kissed yet and I didn't want to impose, seeing as you asked me to give you time."
"We're damn fucking stupid," summarizes Erik and to his delight Charles gives him one of his best genuine smiles.
"We truly are," he says in mock disbelief.
Someone knocks at the door and Charles sighs, exasperated.
"No privacy at all," he mutters and there's a promise in his words.
.
.
.
"So, they put him in the madhouse?" bluntly asks Logan, pretending that he doesn't notice Angel's acid looks.
"It's called institution nowadays," drily says Charles. "And yes, you are right. Can we move on to something else?"
Whatever objection Logan was ready to utter, Sean has beat him to it.
"Here's a toast," he exclaims. "To the best team!"
"Neat but not gaudy," quietly comments Hank and raises his glass.
Angel rolled her eyes at them and quickly clinked glasses with Charles.
Beware the repetition of Moira's wedding, Charles was drinking juice and was also watching his glass like a hawk. He had already experienced enough embarrassment to last a lifetime, thank you very much.
Evening was progressing swiftly, so swiftly indeed that Charles' watch was proudly displaying midnight when they finally walked out of the restaurant. Hank lived nearby, so he dragged stumbling Sean along. Angel refused his polite offer to give her a lift and said that she has always wanted to meet Logan's girlfriend. While the man was in the bathroom she snatched his phone, called her and told a whiny tale, masterfully painting the night of drunk debauchery in bright colors. According to Angel, she will be arriving any minute. Goodness, Charles didn't want to witness that. Pranksters, all of them. At times, Charles felt subjectively older when something like this happened. Thus, he made himself scarce.
The decision, however spontaneous, suddenly seems impeccably rational. He needs to see Erik. Charles realizes that he agreed upon moving his things tomorrow in the evening and Erik shouldn't expect him late at night. He stops questioning himself and here he is — standing at Erik's door.
Night sky is ideal for stargazing, lit with millions of stars glittering brightly throughout enormous distances. There is a whole universe out there, eternal and majestic, marvels Charles.
Erik opens the door. He stands dark and tall, silhouetted against the illuminated doorway. An afterimage briefly floats before his eyes as Charles tilts his head up and asks.
"May I come in?"
"You don't need to ask anymore," Erik makes a brusque, but welcoming gesture.
Charles steps in and Erik closes the door behind him, as if cutting off the rest of the world.
Without giving Erik time to properly turn around Charles bravely puts his hands around the back of his head, brushes short hair on his nape and softly pulls Erik closer. Erik immediately responds by placing his hands on his back and in instant they are caught in a lip lock. It tingles, and warm soothing sensation in Charles' heart continues to grow as Erik presses him closer and kisses him deeper and impossibly harder.
Perfect.
.
.
.