A/N: To celebrate Halloween week I'm going to make up quality with quantity and make three posts this week. It'll be today, during the week, and this coming weekend. In other new, GUEST found what I forgot last time! Hank was apparently being unruly a few chapters ago, messing up my continuity, so I'll have to go back and correct him as soon as I figure out what chapter that was. Thank you Guest! When I first had the idea for this story it was sort of as a Horror Movie, but since then it's gotten so massive it's more of Horror Miniseries (thus all the episodic stops and starts). Much as it pains me to say, I doubt Guest's catch will be the last of its kind. If any of you find silly mistakes don't hesitate to PM me! Gotta get this stuff up to snuff :) Happy Halloween and happy reading!

Even when someone pressed stop the noise still swarmed in his brain, ricocheting there like an energetic bullet, to the point where he thought he was going to throw up. Erik, Erik, Erik! In his mind he still heard it. But that wasn't what was raking across his skin, wasn't what was pressing in on his eardrums till he thought his mind would burst under its terrible pressure. That was the silence. The complete stillness of a room full of people not making a sound, not stirring a muscle, just standing, and burning him with their eyes, and not allowing him to pretend he had not heard what he wished he had never heard.

"What?!" he shouted, loud enough for the entire group to give a collective flinch. There was something rewarding in it. That one good feeling was his only good feeling, the one spark of reward in the oppressing blackness that pressed in on him. He chased it, looking up, bridling, just itching for a fight, for some way to release the pent up terror within him.

Most of them looked away. Maybe they could see it in him, this desire to kill something, to maim and to rage. Maybe they were just embarrassed by his outburst, by his wrath. A few refused to be cowed, rose to meet him. Charles, for one, stood his ground, his eyes soft and calming, but Erik ignored him for once. The last thing on earth he wanted was to be calmed, to be pacified. The only thing that lay down that road was weakness, was the sinking beneath the waves of fear. At least if he was angry he could be strong, he could be powerful, he could cause fear.

Thankfully, Charles wasn't the only person who refused to retreat from a bit of shouting. His desire for bloodshed was taken up by Darwin, it seemed, whose steady gaze seemed to promise discipline, as of an unruly child throwing a fit in a public place. His tone did nothing to dissuade him of the notion.

"You need to calm down," Darwin bit at him over Sean's head.

"I don't want to hear shit from you!" Erik snarled, taking back the step he'd given up at his first jump away from the shock of the computer's recording. Darwin mirrored his act, shoving past Sean and Azazel towards him, but Erik anticipated him.

Afterwards, when he'd calmed down, when he was capable of looking back on it clearly, he realized he'd probably been a bit overzealous. He'd been standing there, after all, blocking everyone's way out. Darwin was an asshole, but he wasn't the meat-head beat-you-down-type. Probably he was only trying to get out—make a big show of being the better man, "I'll give you a minute to calm down," he'd sneer, throw into Erik's face what a child he was being. But Erik would never be able to say for sure what would have happened.

In the moment, in the heat and blind rage of it, it had felt pretty sinister, the man coming at him like that, pushing past the others and coming straight at him. So he met Darwin at the parting of bodies and shoved him back into the crowd hard, knocking people over like bowling pins, creating a cacophony of surprised yelps and pained shouts.

Everything that followed was a mess of limbs. He thought maybe Sean took a nervous swing at him as he was posturing forwards to further grind Darwin into the earth; he could definitely feel Charles and maybe Raven or Azazel trying to hold him back, and shook them violently away. Darwin's collar was already in his grip, his free fist already cocked back to drive at him, when suddenly there was a massive hand at his throat shoving him back and back until he hit a wall, and then driving him up-to the balls of his feet and then his tiptoes and then he was kicking at air and he realized it was Hank-that complete dork of all people, snarling at him, glaring through coke-bottle glasses and Charles was yanking at the man's arm shouting as Erik realized he couldn't breathe and started to thrash all the more, his heart not just racing, galloping, exploding in his chest.

"Let him go, Hank! Hank!"

The hand finally dropped him, his heels bruising as they connected hard with the floor again. He spun straight out the door, coughing painfully, moving blindly, as a rabbit sprung from the fox's teeth, as the room was exploding into shouts behind him. Charles' voice carried above them all: "What on earth were the lot of you thinking? Can't you see he's upset?!"

Hank's hand was off him but he could still feel the imprint of the man's hand on his throat, feel the choking tightness off it. He stumbled on the stairs, hitting hard on his knees, catching himself on the metal bannister, fumbling back into a sit and rocking, rocking air into his lungs as one did when they had the wind knocked out of them. He pressed his brow to his trembling knees, feeling sickness welling up in him, knowing he was going to throw up, feeling it rising up in his chest, he was going to—with a gasp a sob escaped him, tears escaped him. His throat closed in on itself, an agony worse than any geek in glasses could bestow, and he was suddenly fifteen all over again, sitting at his mother's funeral wanting to be as stoic as a man and crying like a child.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there. He wasn't sure how long his painfully stifled crying jag lasted. Not long, he hoped. He'd had enough time, let it runs its course enough, it seemed, that when someone scuffed on his steps, when someone sat down beside him, he was capable of stopping himself fully, of biting back the sobs, of suppressing his tears. All that remained was the dampness on his face, a tight, choking pain in his throat, a suppressed fullness in his chest, the exhaustion of having succumbed too deep to fight back completely.

Charles didn't say anything, was maybe thinking of the right words to say. For all his silence Erik still knew it was him, knew by his silence and the weight of his company. He was only proven right when the man touched him, tenderly, tentatively, his fingertips at his collar, stirring the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking his overheated skin with fingertips, cool and slightly calloused.

Shivering, Erik unlatched his hands from their painful grip on the gravelly concrete steps, reaching back and taking Charles' hand in his. This. This was real, the weight of Charles' hand in his, the scrape of the faint calluses, the sturdy bones beneath the cool, pale skin, the short, untended nails that Charles should take better care of. Those voices, how could they be real? How could they be real when they were absolutely nothing like this hand in his? He didn't have to believe in them if he didn't want to, regardless of the irrefutable evidence, he decided. There were people out there who denied the Holocaust ever happened and there was way more evidence for that than there was for this. He was allowed to ignore the evidence for this if his mind couldn't support it, and it couldn't.

"What you need," Charles murmured softly, scooting closer, pressing to his side, resting his head on top of his shoulder. "Is a stiff drink and a good fuck."

He laughed, short and sharp, but it may have ended as a sob. Wiping his eyes on his knees, he reigned enough strength to sit up, looping his arm around Charles' knees, not taking the risk of Charles thinking he was well enough to pull away. Charles wasn't under any such delusion, it seemed. He put his arm around Erik's shoulders, leaning his brow against his cheekbone.

"What was that?" he whispered, shaking. "I mean-what the fuck was that?"

Charles caressed his arm, chest expanding slow and steady against his shoulder.

"Honestly...I'm not entirely sure."

Erik pulled back, eying him darkly. "I don't want honestly."

Grin fading, Charles scraped his teeth over his bottom lip nervously, darkening it. Because it seemed by his silence that Charles couldn't lie just to make him feel better, couldn't say it was nothing or that it was a glitch, a mistake. He couldn't manage, or stubbornly refused on grounds of principle, to give anything but honestly. "I'll look into it."

Frowning bitterly, Erik watched an ant toiling on the concrete and wished he had a cigarette. Something to do with his hands, his mouth, something to distract him. He hadn't smoked since his last finals week. He'd never missed it so much as right then.

"Why me?" he questioned, breath hitching, straining almost to the point of breaking. "I'm not the only Jew in town. Why is it saying my name? Why not Kitty's?"

"Maybe it is," Charles placated. "Maybe we just haven't gotten to that part of the audio yet."

Erik shook his head. It was the same as in the vent; it was his name and no one else's. The house had attacked Kitty but it downright stalked him.

"I don't understand. I just don't understand. I've never even been to the house before now. How does it even know my name?"

"We'll get to the bottom of this, Erik. I promise."

"Don't lie to me. It's bad enough without you fucking lying to me. You're leaving, remember? You're bailing at the first opportunity and leaving me holding the bag. What the hell do you think you can get to the bottom of in twenty-four hours?"

"I can think of at least one thing," Charles joked, squeezing his side. Erik bit the inside of his mouth to force himself not to smile, and just managed it, keeping his face as cold as he felt.

"You're leaving tomorrow and this is what you're leaving me with. A house that's out for my blood and so many questions with no pleasant answers that my fucking head could explode. This is not what I fucking signed up for."

I'd have never even stepped foot in that house if it weren't for you, he thought, and like a wormhole it opened in his mind a glorious alternate reality, where he'd written a dumb article about a church bake sale or the latest Boy Scout swim badge, he'd never gone to the Gone-Away House, never heard anything, never seen anything, could sleep at night without ghosts or demons or poltergeists even once crossing his mind.

But even in this state, he knew better than to say it out loud, could see the line he shouldn't cross. Because even in the back of his mind he was going to bed alone not thinking of ghosts or demons or poltergeists. In the back of his mind there was no brunet at his side with his arm persevering around his waist, knee pressed to his, his jeans hanging loose over the other man's heels. For all the horrors of these recent days, that seemed the biggest horror of all.

"I…" Charles struggled. "I can still help. I can…call people or…everything's online now. I can still investigate this."

Erik allowed a helpless smile then, a roll of his eyes. "I'm the journalist. Interviewing people, tracking down histories, these are my fortes, not yours. You're facts, right? Data and numbers. Quantifiable and well-ordered. How is that supposed to help me?"

"Well then maybe it's time I learned new skill set," Charles said softly, and the press of his hand over Erik's on his knee seemed determined, downright demonstrative. Erik turned, couldn't help but turn, and stare, and Charles held his gaze, scared, something very deep in him obviously scared, but overlaid on top of that was layer upon layer of a breathtaking strength that maybe wasn't constantly, readily available, but was powerful in its own right when it could be unsheathed. It put into stark contrast how frail, how exhausted Erik felt by this whole experience.

Charles was meeting these obstacles and growing stronger with each hurdle. And Erik was getting knock down after knock down.

"I don't have to deal with this, right?" he whispered desperately, hand tightening on Charles' loose jeans. "It can say my name all it wants. Who cares? I'm never going to be there to hear it. I'm never going back there. It don't have to remember. It can't make me remember." He was hyperventilating he realized, which was strange because it felt as if he weren't getting enough air, if anything.

Charles held him tighter, massaging his lungs until he could breathe again. "Erik," the man murmured quietly into his hair. "This...this isn't something you can just forget."

Eyes closed against Charles' throat, Erik knew better. He could forget if he wanted to. Maybe he wouldn't be able to forget the facts, but the facts would lose their power without the emotions behind them, and he could change the emotions. He didn't have to be afraid. He could be angry; he had proven that just now. He didn't have to fear that house, he could just hate it; hate it and stay far away from it.

But this concept seemed unattainable at the moment, when he was still so raw and shaking from the brunt force of everything that had happened to him in the last few days. He knew that if he were in top form he could convert fear into hatred no problem, but at the moment he felt so much like either crying or going insane from frustration, from confusion, from antagonization, that he could hardly see the path towards rage. He was walking blind, with only Charles as guidance, and Charles' path never seemed to veer towards rage. But his path was good too, would do in a pinch-at this point any trail that lead away from how he was feeling right then at that moment was worth it. And it wasn't like this mode of escape didn't come with definite perks.

Resolute, he pressed close to Charles' body and shifted up, pressing in. But he went still when Charles shied away before their lips could meet, not enough to keep himself from getting kissed if Erik was really determined, but enough for his objection to be noted.

His eyes were wide and wary when Erik joined their gaze, and the man explained softly, "I don't actually have the authorization to prescribe anything, much less alcohol and sex. You could sue."

Grinning, Erik stroked Charles' hair back and assured, "I waive my right to an attorney."

This pledge was all Charles needed apparently. He smiled back, and then struck forward, kissing Erik so rough and pitilessly that Erik gasped, unwittingly breaking open for Charles' tongue to drive inside and completely dominate his own even on its home turf. The man kissed him so hard and unexpectedly that he was pushed back against the railing, and then Charles' hand was digging into the collar of his shirt and he was being shoved down against the craggy concrete steps, the man sliding over him and slipping a thigh between his legs, dragging the appendage over his swelling cock so ecstatically that Erik had to break away to breathe, staring in awe as Charles grinned down at him mischievously, licking his own saliva off those abused-red lips.

Erik didn't think he'd ever gotten so hard so fast in his entire life.

"What the hell?" he gasped, and immediately wished he hadn't said it because Charles might take it the wrong way and think it meant some dislike at this treatment, when in actuality Erik was only shocked that he had never thought of it himself. What enjoyment was it to hit Darwin, get in a brawl, prove his strength with fists? When Charles' mind had immediately struck on a much more enjoyable to prove to oneself that one wasn't going to break: let someone try to break you.

Erik got the uneasy, trembling feeling that Charles knew because he'd experienced it first hand before, but was forced to stop when Charles pulled him forward by the collar.

"Get up," the man rasped. "Before I take you right here on these steps."

Erik knew, as he scrabbled to do exactly what he was told, that he should be surprised, scandalized even that he liked this as much as he did. He was sickly, battered and bruised by these last few days. It wasn't strange to want to be taken in hand after all that, that wasn't so shocking, but he thought most people in Charles' position would have tried a bit of tenderness, tried coddling and murmuring. And most men in Erik's position would have taken it, too run down and exhausted to desire anything more active. But Erik felt without a doubt that if Charles had tried it he would have left, gotten in his car and driven off, furious and unfit to man a vehicle.

He did feel exhausted and torn down, but treatment like that could have only underscored it, proved it. On top of everything else, he didn't think he could have taken that.

And luckily, Charles didn't seem keen on offering it.

It felt good, better than anything, to hand himself over to the smaller man for safe-keeping, to take all responsibility out of his own hands and shove it off onto Charles until he was strong enough to take it up again. He thanked his lucky stars that Charles was willing, eager even, to take it on-to take care of him and please him without that tenderness that hinted at pity. It had been so long since he'd had this, since he'd been driven to seek it out, and he couldn't tell if it had always felt this amazing and he'd simply forgotten, or if this heady sort of power was new. And it was a sort of power, strangely. Not the same as when he topped where he took everything open to him, but the power of baring himself open and deciding what he would allow to be taken.

Despite an immodest amount of groping on the stairs, they were soon fumbling with the door key at Charles' room, Erik pressing up behind him and palming him through his jeans, soon working him into a fervor, rolling his hips against the man's pert ass, hissing into his hair, chomping at the bit. He wanted this, god he wanted this, this headlong roller coaster barreling him further and further from where he had been, emotionally, a sobbing child on a motel staircase.

"I should add a disclaimer," Charles gasped, head kicking back against Erik's shoulder and baring his neck, hips working against him instinctively. "It's immodest for me to claim that this will count as a good fuck. Who knows what the future may hold? You may hate it."

Charles, he realized, was babbling. Grinning, his teeth catching at the man's throat, his dug his deft fingers fully into the fork of those wishbone legs, massaging that cock to absolute attention. With his other hand he turned the door card the correct way, pressed it in for the correct amount of time, opened the door while the light was green, and shoved the both of them inside.

Charles, for all his inattention at the door, was perfectly capable once they were inside. In one graceful move he had Erik out of his ignored satchel and jacket, gripping him by the waist of his slacks, and was walking him backwards over the discarded clothes littering the floor, flinging him onto the bed and clamoring up eagerly. The few times Erik had allowed himself to be dominated so fully (mostly when he was young, all when he was feeling especially stressed the fuck out), he could see in his partner's eyes how seriously they took their job of calling the shots. To retain their authoritative stance, they tended to look as if they were there to audit him rather than fuck him mindless.

He should have known better with Charles, of course, but he somehow hadn't, and so seeing Charles' gleeful, ecstatic expression as the man slid him further up the sateen bedspread was surprising, and exciting as hell. Charles' lips were on him hard and plying, sucking him clean, cracking him open like a frail egg, tongue rough and savory in his mouth, lips working him over till he couldn't think of anything outside of their scope and promise. On top of that were the hands scraping lines of heat into his skin, over his neck, his shoulders, into his hair and dragging, making him moan low and wanton into Charles' mouth. Charles settled over him, flexing his hips over Erik's, settling between his splayed thighs and giving him a dress rehearsal of what was to come, how the man's cock would flex into him, how his hips would coil and relax in a rhythm slow enough to be maddening but deep enough to be rapturous.

Not bothering with the pretense of control, Erik thrust back, rapid and pleading, scooped his hands down and gripped the swell of Charles' gorgeously curved ass, dragging him in closer. The man shifted, one arm tucking under Erik's shoulder and gripping hard into his hair, yanking his head back roughly to allow access to his throat, the other hand pawing his shirt loose and shoving up until he was tweaking and massaging a nipple, dragging blunt nails over his rib cage in a way Erik had never known could be so damned pleasurable.

"Please," he groaned out long and wrecked, twisting under the assault. "Please, Charles. I need it, please."

Charles didn't reply, but slid heavily down his body, and fumbled, with much purposeful palming, until his fly was undone.

He'd never been good at figuring out where to put his hands during a blow-job. Mostly when it was good he ripped bedding or tried to weed his scalp, when it was bad he cleaned his nails, and when he just didn't give a fuck he gripped hard into his partner's hair and dragged them in just further than they were exactly comfortable going. Afterwards he blushed and felt badly, but somehow at the time it always seemed like something he could get away with.

When Charles gripped him gently at mid-shaft and lapped at the leaking slit of him, there was no room for planning. He huffed and writhed and yanked on the man's hoodie. When Charles engulfed him, sucking just the head of him and then bobbing back, returning just scarcely further along, again and again until his lips were grazing his transfixed fingers, Erik's hands moved on their own accord. One shifted up, thinking there was something helpful in clutching his own abdomen. The other was actually capable of making informed decisions without the input of his brain. It wisely moved to the top of Charles' head and simply rested there, reveling in the rise and fall, the gorgeous rhythm, the textured curls.

When his eyes could find the strength to stay open, he stared adoringly down at this man who could instill pleasure even in the most harrowing of times. He was a Civil War nurse delivering aid, a Red Cross worker bringing peace. He was making Erik babble like a loon even within the confines of his own skull, dear god...

"Charles," he moaned as the man created a vice with his rosy-red lips and saintly mouth, gasped when he relented. "Charles, fuck me. God, fuck me. I need you to fuck me. Please fuck me." The babbling would not be confined to his mind, it seemed.

Charles fisted his cock a moment, spreading his leftover saliva down the shaft, the point of his thumb dragging up the underside, circling the head and about making him writhe right off the bed.

"Didn't you hear me?" he about shouted, yanking Charles' shirt petulantly. Grinning back at him, the man slackened his hold and crawled up, caressing their mouths together and acquainting Erik with his own desperate, salty taste.

"I guess this would be a bad time to tell you I've forgotten my overnight bag in the other room?" the man laughed weakly, looking as if he might throw up, or crawl into a hole in the ground and hide there until Erik could forgive him, possibly after a few years or so.

"So?" Erik panted, sitting up on his elbows to gain enough altitude to think clearly. "I think you can go a little while without Jane Eyre for fuck's sake. Literally."

"I think you're forgetting that all of my condoms are in my overnight bag."

Erik shook his head with a dumb laugh.

"Well, you're a man, aren't you? Get the one out of your wallet."

Charles frowned at him suspiciously.

"This must be a Yankee tradition. I don't believe I've ever heard of it."

"Thank god I have, then," he sighed, dropping back against the bed, and motioned lazily towards the door. "My wallet's in there somewhere."