Author's Note: I've read so many fanfictions dealing with Erik's nightmares. And I'm not complaining because most of them are excellent fics. But I wanted to do something a little different, so in this chapter, it's Charles who has the nightmares.

Warning: Although nothing graphic happens and I tried to keep it as subtle as possible, slash is hinted at in chapter. So if slash really isn't your thing, then you might want to skip it. All the other chapters are slash-free.


Chapter 4
In the Bedroom

"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break the bonds of our affection."
Abraham Lincoln

It's as if a few months of knowing Charles has undone years of living by himself. They spent nights at hotels often while they were traveling to meet other mutants, and they always shared a room. Whatever cheapest room that the hotel had available with two beds. And even though they only spent a few weeks traveling around, Erik got so used to listening to Charles's quiet, even breathing at night that now...

He can still sleep alone, of course. He can do it... but he simply prefers not to, and since his and Charles's rooms are on the same floor of the mansion, just down the hall from each other...

Erik wonders if Charles is staying in the same bedroom that he lived in as a boy. Charles rarely ever mentions his mother or stepfather, and it makes Erik wonders if perhaps his childhood bedroom had memories in it that he wants to get away from - sorrow over his mother's death, dislike for his new stepfather, lonely homesickness for England. It's his mansion, after all, and no one but Raven would know if Charles chose a new bedroom for himself.

They maintain separate bedrooms for appearance's sake, and they try to be as discreet as possible. If anyone has noticed - and Erik wonders sometimes if Moira doesn't suspect - they haven't said anything.

Every evening, Erik retires to his own room and waits until a late hour before slipping quietly down the hall. His feet make no noise on the thick carpet, and he has plenty of experience in silently turning doorknobs. The door to Charles's room is never locked, which surprised Erik the first time. He hasn't slept behind an unlocked door in a very long time. Not since he was a child. But Charles apparently does it every night.

Erik slips inside and closes the door behind him without touching it. He pulls off his light jacket - the leather one, the one he wears around the mansion if he's not in sweats or long sleeves - and throws it onto the chair beside the door. Charles already threw his jacket there earlier, and Erik pauses, smiling, at the sight of their two jackets lying there together, comfortable, the sleeves draping down haphazardly over the arms of the chair.

It's one more thing that Charles does but Erik doesn't. He never wears short sleeves, except rare sometimes when he and Charles are alone together. He wore that polo in Argentina, so the people he was tracking down could see his arm before he killed them. But even that had felt strange and uncomfortable, after keeping his arms covered for so long. It was like being naked in public. In front of Charles, though, it doesn't feel strange. Probably because Charles already knows all about the number on his arm and its horrific origins.

What do you know about me?

Everything.

It was never the invasion of privacy that bothered him as much as the pity in Charles's voice when he said it. He doesn't want pity, not from Charles or anyone else, which is why his arm stays hidden under long sleeves and jackets. Once, Sean burst in on them when they were playing chess in the study, wanting to ask Charles something. Erik was in short sleeves with his bare forearm extended over the chess board, moving a bishop to capture Charles's rook, and he quickly drew his arm in against his body, which immediately struck him as too panicked. Charles was calm, but Erik saw him track the motion with eyes before he turned his mind to Sean and made sure he hadn't seen anything that Erik didn't want him to.

Charles's bedroom is dark and cool and quiet - no more so than Erik's room down the hall, but somehow, the night always seems stiller and heavier in here. Charles doesn't say a word, but Erik can tell that he's still awake from the way he slides over in bed to make room. They don't talk about it. They never do. They barely even touch each other. Charles's bed is big enough to allow plenty of room for both of them. Charles inches closer after Erik is settled in beneath the blankets, but just close enough for Erik to feel his warm breath on his skin. They simply lie side by side until sleep claims them, breathing in and out, happy to be sharing the same dark, quiet space, the same cool air.

Then Charles smiles because, just before Erik drifts off to sleep, he hears the metallic click of the door locking. Soon, he's asleep too.

It's always much worse in his dreams than it was in real life. That should be enough to tell him that he's dreaming, but it isn't. Almost every night, he's pulled into the same nightmare, desperate and panicked because he always thinks that it's real.

The water is colder, rougher, and darker. He can barely make out the outline of Erik's body in front of him, black against the ghostly light from Shaw's submarine. Charles tries to swim towards him, but the fierce current pushes him away, while his heavy, wet clothes seem determined to drag him down. Still, he kicks desperately, stretching out his hand... Please, he prays to whoever might be listening, come on, please... But Erik's fingers slip through his, and he disappears, pulled away by the suction from the submarine. And Charles wants to go after him, but his lungs feel ready to burst, and God, if he could just get another breath -

The rush of air to his lungs startles him when he jerks awake, sitting up in bed, gasping.

He checks himself quickly, remembering just in time that Erik is there and that he doesn't want to wake him. His cheeks and pillowcase are damp with tears, and Charles hastily wipes them away. His body slowly relaxes as he takes deep gulps of the cool air, and once his breathing has gone back to normal, he turns and looks at Erik, close beside him in bed, still asleep.

Usually, people don't show up in Charles's dreams until he's known them for a while. But since they first met, Erik has been a regular. It's always the same: a replay of that night in the water, except that Erik never lives. Never. Every time, their fingers slip through each other's, and Charles watches Erik drown in front of him.

Erik is sound asleep, his face quiet and peaceful in the moonlight, his body warm and still beside Charles. Charles props himself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. There's no trace of the angry, distraught man he found in the water that night. The first night that they stayed at a hotel, Charles was hesitant to share a room with Erik, certain that he would wake up screaming from a nightmare at some ungodly hour. But he didn't, not that first night or any of the ones that followed. Charles soon stopped waiting for it. Erik apparently doesn't have nightmares. Charles supposes that maybe he's seen too much for nightmares, but for the life of him, he can't understand how a man who's been through what Erik's been through can sleep so soundly every night.

Charles carefully scoots closer, so that his chest lightly brushes Erik's back. He lays one arm over him, reaching across his body until his hand lands against Erik's bare wrist, just above the dark blue numbers on his arm. His heartbeat thrums softly beneath Charles's fingers, lulling his worried mind. Erik is right here. He didn't drown in the water. He's okay. He'll be okay. Five minutes later, Charles is asleep again.

In the morning, there are no tracks of tears on Charles's face, no hint of redness in his eyes, no sign at all that he woke up crying in the night. Charles still has one arm lying across Erik, but neither of them say anything when they wake up in that position.