Hello all! Thank you again for reading and since you have all been very kind I wanted to give you a head's up that the next update miiiiight end up taking a while, or being rather short, because FINALS. And I have soooo much homework to get done at the last minute, like the procrastinating procrastinator that I am! But rest assured I will continue updating this, because I have some cool ideas for the next chapters. ;)
Beta'd by idioticonion and the incredibly talented Subtilior, who flavors her Scotch with the tears of men.
Warning: Violence! Explicit sex! Possibly… Slightly above R? D: Well, I feel as if I would be doing you a disservice if I edited out the sex, because honestly? I trust you to be mature enough to handle it.
.
.
.
.
.
lxxxvii.
Charles had a fleeting impression—blood rushing through his skull, pooling there, swirling—god, was he going to be sick? There was something hard jammed into his gut. A shoulder, he realized; someone's shoulder.
Was he going to be sick?
But now he was sitting—when had that happened? This wasn't good—and Charles couldn't remember: had he been sick? Would he feel better if he had—if he did? He probed his tongue around his mouth. It didn't taste like that way, although that… That was the unmistakable tang of a bitten lip.
His head felt no less untethered than it had when he'd been dangling over someone's shoulder, and now it hurt as well; when he moved his neck Charles felt his chin roll over his clavicle. Then his head thumped into a wall and for a moment everything jarred to a stop—
"Jesus, how much juice did you give him?" a voice murmured nearby. It was unexpectedly loud; Charles cracked open his eyelids and peered out from them, squinting. Someone crouched over him, a dark blur; Charles tipped his head a little, facing them more fully, and the blur sharpened into something like focus.
Oh, right. It was Skink—Charles remembered now. He was close enough to see the uneven patches of black scales, a rough mosaic over smooth skin, and there was that damn helmet again.
"Look, see, he's coming out of it," Skink said, without moving his lips. Charles frowned; no, someone else was speaking now. Why couldn't he think…? "He's going to be fine."
What was wrong with…
Charles snapped his head up; the lights were off. Hadn't they been on just a few seconds ago? …Oh god, he realized, curling down until his forehead rested on his knee. I'm suffering the neurological symptoms of electrocution.
No, another part of his mind corrected, Electric shock. Electrocution only refers to an incidence of fatality caused by…
Charles heard, muffled, as if from another room: "The coast is never going to be more clear so I suggest we move now."
The symptoms… Symptoms of electrical shock. Charles drew his eyebrows tightly together and then ground them into the hard knob of his patella. There was actually some muscle on his legs now—no longer were they the sad, withered things he had imported from Canada, but they were still thin and of course his knees would always be knobby and hard, except for the rubbery bindings of tendon…
The symptoms, he repeated to himself, like a slap—They include… Headache… Which he had; Charles pressed his head into his knee again until it hurt almost enough to distract from the slow throb of his skull.
Nausea… Well. Suffice to say, Charles was fairly certain now that vomiting would not allow him to feel better—rather, he was sure that if he started, he might not stop for a while.
Fatigue, he mused, and rocked his forehead back and forth over his knee, considering. Perhaps not so much, but then there was… "Confusion," Charles muttered to himself, into the warm fabric of his trousers. "Short-term memory loss, and maybe, in severe cases… Delirium."
He didn't feel delirious—but then again, how would he know?
Charles picked himself up and set his back against the wall; opened his eyes against the gyrating pain lurking behind his retina. The room was still dark, and he didn't think that any more time had passed. He lowered his hands down to the floor, laid them flat and squeezed—carpet, but thin carpet. Concrete underneath. The air smelled musty, as if it periodically mildewed and dried.
He couldn't remember anywhere in the mansion like that.
His second realization: his hands weren't tied, and—Charles felt for his ankles—neither were his legs. That was good, right? But—he peered around the room, at all the lurking shadows—he didn't see his chair. They—Skink and Zeus, he reminded himself—must have left it behind when they'd taken him.
A bitter taste rose in Charles' throat, followed quickly by a warning spasm of his stomach; they'd taken his chair. His one mode of transport—essentially a part of him—and it was gone, unreachable. Even Erik had promised never to do that to him; had assured Charles that, no matter what else he might take from the telepath, he would never leave him without movement.
Erik… sighed Charles' mind. He was reasonably sure, by now, that his captors weren't working for the Brotherhood's leader; in fact, quite the opposite. Shocked into unconsciousness, taken from his chair, manhandled into a room and left there in the dark while they deliberated nearby—for he could still hear the vague noises of their talking—no, Charles did not think that they had come to rescue him from himself. At least, however… They did not seem to want him dead.
Yet, his mind whispered, and Charles exhaled shakily through his nose. Erik would not like that. Erik would find him; Erik would…
Charles blinked into the light, startled, but… His eyes were not as dazzled as he'd thought they would be, and there, in front of him, stood that duo: Skink and Zeus.
"—interested in your pleasantries, Xavier," Zeus concluded, and Charles frowned at him. What? His confusion must have been evident, because the man scoffed and turned away. "Useless," he declared, disgusted. "Useless to talk to him now."
"Yes, I'm rather concerned about that, now that you mention it," Skink snapped, narrowing his eyes behind his spectacles. The glasses were crooked, Charles noticed—they didn't fit well within the confines of the helmet, which was slightly too small for his head. Too small, Charles repeated to himself, frowning. Too small…?
"There's no point in having him if he can't hold a thought in his head for more than a minute," Skink scolded, and Zeus dismissed his concern with a roll of his shoulders.
"It'll wear off," he assured the other mutant. "It always does."
"Excuse me," Charles interrupted, and was alarmed by how thick and—and unwell his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and continued, enunciating carefully: "Just what, exactly, are you intending to do with me? I can't help but think that it is somewhat of my concern."
"I'm sure you've already figured it out for yourself, Professor," Skink stated, only barely glancing at him.
"I'm sure I haven't," Charles protested. "I'm a telepath, not omniscient, you know." But he inhaled slowly and looked around; now that the lights were on, he could see that there were two duffel bags on the floor outside of his reach, packed to bursting. One wall of the room was studded with hooks, from which several ratty-looking coats hung, and there was a line of use-softened boots underneath. They were going somewhere; that was clear enough.
He turned his attention back to Skink and his vision swam dizzily along the way. Charles pressed his eyelids closed, blinking a few times, and found himself with his chin resting sharp on his sternum.
Charles yanked his head back up and his stomach churned; he screwed his eyes shut tight against the searing pain driving into his temples. It took a moment, but soon it subsided again, became… Manageable, if not especially comfortable. He peered around the room; Skink was rummaging through the larger of the two bags while Zeus stood at the door, arms crossed and tense with impatience as he stared at his companion.
"Where are you going?" Charles asked, and god, it sounded so moist. He swallowed, and for a moment thought he might choke; he tried again and it went more smoothly. "Where are you—taking me?"
Skink stood up, arms dropping to his sides, and glared at Zeus, who now wore a small, twisted smile. The scaled mutant then turned to look at Charles, expression frank with exasperation. "I told you already."
"Obviously it didn't take," Charles observed, leaning back against the wall. "What did you tell me, again?"
"I'm not telling you again until I know that you'll remember. If," Skink directed another glare at Zeus, who grinned, "you ever start again."
Zeus shrugged. "I'm not worried."
"I can tell," Skink replied, coldly. "Trust you to go and fry the one part of him we really need."
"Oh, you want me for my telepathy," Charles commented, voice flat. "I can see why you'd have so much difficulty explaining that to me."
"Quiet," Skink ordered, without looking over at him. He crouched down over the bag again, and Charles saw clothing in there—tools; camping tools? Very plain. Military. Coated dull green.
"We should get a move on," Zeus grumbled, glowering over from the doorframe. "My contingent will be waiting, by now, and it's only a matter of time—"
"No," Skink snapped. "We need to wait for an escort. We can't carry him around and deal with security."
"But we can't stay here; the entire hive's been kicked into action now and it won't be long until we have to deal with them anyway. It won't be long until we have to deal with him," Zeus hissed, and Charles understood that he, himself, was no longer the "him" under discussion.
With a huff of irritation, Skink threw himself to his feet. "They're your people. If you're so impatient then yell at them for being late."
Charles cleared his throat. "How long have you had this plan, anyway? If my guess is correct, not long at all. Did you get the idea when you saw that helmet sitting on the table?"
Skink sneered. "Planning ahead, sadly, isn't a virtue where telepaths are involved. The opportunity presented itself, so we took advantage of it." He walked over to Charles; loomed over him. "I must say, you did complicate things by not being in your rooms like you were supposed to, but at least we didn't have to go far. I suppose you'll be relieved to know, since you were so desperate to get away, that you'll be leaving Magneto for good. If you remember, of course."
Charles tipped his head back to stare up at the other mutant, jaw tight; in one corner of his mind, he was reaching out—out to Zeus' mental shield, where it buzzed and crackled at the edge of his awareness. It was only a matter of finding the correct—the correct resonance, to break through. Of being subtle, so that Zeus didn't have warning. That part of his mind sidled up to Zeus'; pressed up against it and hummed, testing the barriers.
Aloud, Charles replied, "Is that what this is, then? You're rebelling against Magneto? Are you sure that's something you can afford to do?"
Skink's eyes glittered; they were human, like much of his skin, but they seemed somehow still reptilian in their calculation. "By ourselves, of course not; but with you… We can make an army."
Just another minute, Charles told himself; his eyelids drooped and he snapped them open again. His vision wouldn't focus, and he faltered against the wall of Zeus' thoughts; almost tripped right into that electrified shell. No, no, not now, he mumbled in his mind, and surged toward concentration; focused hard on meeting Skink's gaze. On the crystalline sparkle of his spectacles. Hung onto them, like a rope tossed to—to—a drowning man, his subconscious offered helpfully, and Charles rolled his eyes internally. Fine, sure, that works.
"That's… Very optimistic of you. And tell me; how do you intend on controlling my army, in that case…?" Charles asked, hoping that his squinting appeared inquisitive and not… As if he were trying to work his telepathy on Zeus, or as if he were maybe about to pass out again—which he wasn't.
The scaled mutant hmmphed. "If we control you, we control your powers. Easy enough."
"And how do you plan on doing that?" Charles barely heard himself; too much of his attention was bleeding out elsewhere—into that part of his mind that was still humming, humming away alongside Zeus' shields, trying to blend in. Why is this so difficult, he asked himself, and immediately heard the reply, like an echo: Fatigue, confusion, delirium…
Skink's answer came from somewhere outside: "Well, you're just an academic, after all—I'm sure we'll find a way—"
There. He was in; Charles sank through Zeus' thoughts and alighted on: anger, impatience, fear—not so unfamiliar really—and pulled, drew those emotions along on a curled finger of power and held them against: snooty pompous fucking lizard—
And then Charles retreated to watch as, behind Skink's back, Zeus suddenly scowled and picked himself up from the wall, uncrossing his arms. There came the crackle of electricity as sparks arced between the man's fingers, danced over his skin—
Without turning to look, Skink drew back his scaled hand and slapped Charles.
The telepath only just caught himself on an elbow and then hung, for a moment, panting; his ears rang. He no longer felt in any danger of passing out but his stomach twisted and he focused on controlling it with a grim determination. Somewhere, he could hear Zeus swearing in shock and fury, but Charles couldn't feel him; had slipped out from his head.
Rough fingers wrapped around Charles' jaw and pulled him upright; Skink knelt before him, face drawn in tight lines around the mosaic patches of his scales. Charles kept his own expression neutral; not innocent, perhaps, but… Inoffensive.
Skink held up his human hand—the smooth-skinned one, without claws. "You're a geneticist, right?" he stated. "I'm sure you know what I am."
Charles tried to pull his chin out of the other mutant's grasp, but his head was pressed into the wall and he couldn't move away. He moistened his lips, tracing the edges of the scales with his eyes. "You're a chimera," he pronounced, finally. "The product of two genetically distinct embryos fused together into a single transgenic organism." Charles paused, then offered: "You really are quite extraordinary."
"Sure," Skink commented, disinterested. His voice was a low, dangerous purr. "Neither of my mutations are especially useful in combat, or I wouldn't be… Have been… The Brotherhood's accountant. This—" he shook his scaled hand, and therefore Charles' head— "doesn't cover enough of my body to protect me, and this—" he waved the fingers of his smooth hand— "isn't strong enough to do any serious damage."
"Except…" Skink brought that hand up to Charles' face and set his first two fingers very gently to either side of the telepath's nose, just beneath his eyes; Charles blinked and twitched back slightly, but did not look away. "…For when I'm very close," Skink finished, and pulled his hand away sharply.
It wasn't the pain—no, that was dull, and nothing compared to the headache—but something in Charles sinuses gave and then there was something else tickling down through his nasal cavity, along the back of his throat, and Charles gagged—smelled blood—flung himself forward and coughed. There was blood—blood in his mouth, in his throat, and now—he drew breath through his lips—seeping down through his nose and ah, yes, there it was: a drop—two—more pattered down onto his trousers, one after the other.
"It's only a slight affinity for water," Skink explained, somewhere above him. "Not much, but, well… If I rupture the veins in your eyes, you can be sure they won't work any more. After all, we really only need your brain and an ear for you to hear out of—the rest is expendable."
The blood wasn't a stream, but as Charles hung his head—watching the dark material of his trouser stain even darker—it didn't slow, either. He curled down, and rested his head against his knee again, feeling something like—like a sloshing in his nasal cavity, and then a warm damp spreading out along his thigh where his face rested. He didn't doubt Skink—didn't doubt that the other mutant cared about his wellbeing only as far as Charles' usefulness as a telepath went; that he would, if he had to, fulfill that threat.
What have I gotten myself into? Charles asked himself, but of course—he couldn't have known, although maybe… Maybe he could have guessed, if he'd been more diligent.
"—know how you expect me to stay in here with that—"
"—will do this, you don't have a choice—"
Charles' head hurt. He'd noticed before, of course, because it was inescapable, but now… Now there almost wasn't anything else; just the hard slide of his patella over his forehead and pain. It came and went; it washed over him in waves. Charles imagined himself as a shell—no, as a snail, tucked away inside hard calcium carbonate and refusing to emerge until the world went still, rocking with each pass of the water. Maybe I do have a touch of delirium…
Charles woke for a moment; started to struggle. Someone had a hold of his head, was doing something to him, something that hurt, and as he slapped out with his hands Charles thought, my eyes, they're taking my eyes—
But no; there was some swearing, soft, close to him; a rasped, "Stay still, damn it," and then a long line of friction, of tearing up through his nose and Charles couldn't breathe, it was all plugged somehow and he couldn't smell but all he tasted was blood—
Zeus' voice, farther away, observed, "Oh, so I'm the one who doesn't know how to control his powers, huh?"
"Be quiet—it's not that much blood and you know it. This is all your fault; you were so eager to electrocute him—"
"It's only called electrocution if he's dead," Zeus pointed out. "Besides, I've done it to loads of people, he's the first one who's gone all—all wrong like this; it's probably a telepath thing. He's probably walking around half-fried anyway."
But then it was dark, and still. Charles brought a hand up to his face and felt around, expecting a gaping hole, surprised when—no—there was his nose, just as protruding and irritatingly bumpy as ever, except that—oh. There was something—two somethings—stuffed up his nostrils; fabric, it seemed.
He pinched the ends between his fingers and tugged, experimentally; hissed between his teeth because ah, that hurts, doesn't it. The skin must have inflamed around the cotton and wedged it firmly in place, but… At least everything was still intact.
Charles tried to sit up; wavered and almost fell until he propped himself up with a hand. Even so, everything tilted alarmingly, and he inhaled fast and shallow through his mouth. His breath, where it stirred back up through into his nasal cavity, was foul, almost carrion. How long had it been…?
"Hello…?" he croaked, voice whiny to his ears without the resonance of his nose, and swallowed thickly. Blood—but at least it wasn't fresh, really, anymore; he wasn't still bleeding.
Staring blankly into the darkness of the room, Charles thought: I can't stay here. No, because if he stayed—then there was a good chance that he might end up injured further, whether by Skink and Zeus' hands or by accident, and as much as Charles didn't want to stay under Erik's control… He shuddered to imagine himself trapped somewhere else, under another tyrant—an incompetent tyrant at that—coerced and… And tortured? …Tortured into ravaging the minds of unlucky conscripts for their army.
No, that… That did not bear thinking about, so Charles leaned over onto his arm and shuffled over a little—he thought he remembered a table over there; yes, he could see its shadow. He half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward it, and soon his hair brushed against the wood of a chair.
Charles reached up and groped around for the back of it, and then for the table, and pulled, clambering up to his knees; then, shaking, trembling, to his feet. He wasn't standing, really—he leaned heavily against the table, almost sitting on it, and found the outline of the door with his eyes: the white edges of a rectangle, unbroken except for the black of the hinges.
Not far. Not all that far; if he was fast, maybe… Maybe he could make it over there, catch himself on the wall, open the door—then, well…
Did he really need his eyes?
Charles made a soft, involuntary noise in his throat. Yes! his mind railed at him, Yes of course you need your eyes! But the truth was… He didn't, really. He could… He could see through other people's eyes, if he needed to. In the future.
You're quite possibly delirious, another part of Charles' mind told him. You can't make judgments like that now, not like this.
He drew breath, long and juddering. "Be quiet," Charles replied, on the exhale, and threw himself toward the door—
—Took three marvelous, glorious steps—
—And then his knee wobbled, quivered, and gave and Charles crumpled to the ground with a betrayed gasp and lay folded over his legs, staring sightlessly at the carpet rough under his palms. What had he been expecting? That despite the fact that he could barely walk on crutches, despite how he was currently weak and sick, that he would simply get up and magically be able to walk?
You're a fool, Xavier, his mind sneered, and Charles closed his eyes, resting his chin on crossed wrists. He puffed air through his cheeks and the pressure built up behind his nose, pushing on his blocked nostrils. They throbbed, and the swelling seemed to go into his sinuses, too, merging seamlessly with the bruise across his cheek and into his headache. His entire face hurt, but more than that—it made him feel sluggish and sticky. Slow.
Where are you when I need you, Erik? Charles asked, and reached out, but his power only coiled around the room, nudging at the walls for a way out—and even if he could find Erik, he couldn't get through the helmet. And of course—he had chosen this night specifically because Erik would be gone.
How silly of me was that, he thought faintly, sinking further to the floor. Well. He would simply have to try harder, next time…
A boot prodded at Charles' ribs, and he woke again. His throat tingled as if he'd just recently groaned, and he looked around for the owner of the boot; ah, there. Zeus stood over him, surveying Charles' sprawled body with a raised eyebrow.
"Feeling adventurous?" Zeus asked, and without waiting for an answer bent down, seized Charles in a vice-like grip around his upper arm, and pulled. "Up you go," he grunted, and without any more warning than that set his shoulder into Charles' stomach and pushed upright, lifting the telepath with him.
Charles' eyes went wide and he held his breath against the sharp spike of nausea, and he could see, vaguely, his own pale hands splayed flat against Zeus' leather jacket; could see himself struggling, even if he himself had made no conscious decision to do so.
Blunt fingers jammed themselves deep into the junction of Charles' femur and tibia and pain flashed down both of those bones; he froze. "Wriggly bastard," the chest he hung over rumbled. "Surprisingly heavy for a guy who only uses half of his body."
Charles started at a metal stud inches from his nose, embedded in the leather. Metal; if only—
No. He was going to have to save himself; he couldn't rely on—on the very person he'd been trying to harm. He'd have to risk—risk being harmed, in turn, but… But it was something Charles had to do—
"—Got him secured? Don't know where your damn escort is—"
"Stuff it, lizard," Zeus growled, unaware of Charles at the edge of his mind again, looking in—bracing himself, because he didn't know if he could concentrate well enough, even if he ground his fingers into his temple hard enough to bruise—which he couldn't.
So scattered, Charles mused, and felt himself begin to drift again—no, come back—he had to do this now; had to, before there were others, before they left the mansion.
He heard the door open, and then… Silence. But not, not the silence of unconsciousness.
Charles turned his mind away from Zeus' and looked out, tripped and fell into another mind—he felt a shock of recognition. Oh hello, Azazel, Charles whispered, and gazed through the teleporter's eyes to see: himself, or rather, well… His backside, really, slung over Zeus' shoulder, and both of those men with their eyes wide with surprise, staring back at Azazel and… And Charles couldn't quite feel for whoever Azazel stood next to, although he was there, he didn't wear a helmet—but Charles didn't get the chance to look because he could see himself slip from Zeus' shoulder, could feel himself slide, and then—
All the air left Charles' lungs and his vision snapped away from his eyes; all of his bones seemed to have crashed into each other, but still he squinted up to watch as Zeus flared in a shower of sparks, listened to the crackle, smelled the searing air. Electricity flashed past his face and he realized that he was the closest to that mutant, and in danger of being shocked again.
Charles heaved himself over and rolled away; finally saw the other man that Azazel was with and his mind insisted: bear. But no, he appeared human enough—bear, his mind repeated—but he had claws; sharp black claws at the ends of his fingers and sharp teeth bared in a snarl. He had a mane of pale hair and his eyes were dark with nothingness but glittered with a horrible intelligence; too much intelligence for something so savage.
Charles peered beyond them for a third figure but saw no one. Erik? he wondered, and reached out to feel with his mind—but of course he wouldn't be able to find him. Of course not. It had been a long time since he'd been able to.
Azazel vanished in a rustle and a wreath of smoke and Charles blinked; remembered: oh, yes—there were more serious matters at hand. He frowned at the spot where Azazel had been and saw the feral man leap at Zeus, clawed fingers readied for gouging.
Then red hands seized Charles' lapels, dragged him up, and an arm wrapped tight around his torso—there was an instant of insubstantiality and then gravity, a terrible squeeze all inward, crushing Charles as if he had to fit through the narrowest seam in the fabric of the universe, and then—
They re-emerged in the quiet of the hallway, and Charles hung from Azazel's arms as he emptied the contents of his stomach over the tile. Azazel leaned away as delicately as he could while still holding onto the telepath.
"Sorry," Charles gurgled, and fumbled for Azazel's jacket, squirming around to meet the teleporter's startled blue eyes, to assure him that he was, in fact, sorry.
"It is nothing," Azazel murmured softly, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of Charles' skull, seeming at a loss. "You do not need to apologize."
Charles blinked at him; peered through the stinging of his eyes at Azazel. "No," he explained, in a rush: "No, I mean, I'm sorry—the other night—the coatroom—"
"There is no need," Azazel assured him, pulling Charles' head down to his shoulder. The telepath closed his eyes and breathed in through his mouth, tasting cigarette smoke. Azazel's voice spoke near his ear; not smooth, but close enough to bring the memory of smooth. "He is nearby—I brought him here from Virginia—he will be here soon…"
.
.
.
lxxxviii.
Charles could feel the back-and-forth swing of steps, knew that he was being carried again, but—not over someone's shoulder, this time. His cheek rested against the scratchy front of a jacket, warm and firm. He turned his face into it and tried to sniff, almost panicked when he couldn't breathe—
A hand that had been braced on Charles' arm now circled it and squeezed deliberately, twice, and released. He heard a soft, furtive hiss of shhhh; felt it tease over his skin.
Charles relaxed.
He heard a voice, female and ornery: "For fuck's sake, Charles, stop pawing at me or so help me I will give you a reason to struggle—"
Charles frowned, and realized—oh. He seemed to be lashing out rather aggressively, didn't he? Without opening his eyes, he stilled, and someone took hold of his wrist; pressed fingers to it, and waited. Don't make them wait long, he told his heart, and sank down, under the waters.
He lay anchored, heavy at the bottom of an ocean—in the coastal margin, perhaps, amidst the kelp—a rocky bottom, perfect for algal holdfasts—and his brain was a cold stone cradled in the living heat of a small hand. Whose was it? Charles roused, and sent a fishing-line tendril winding up around those fingers, over the wrist, along arm and elbow and shoulder and found himself in the bright tidal pool of a young girl's mind.
Charles watched for a little while, hiding in the crevices; he could see the ripples of his face through her eyes and he didn't look that bad, really; not as bad as he'd thought. There was a bit of blood around his nose, which itself looked a bit inflamed, and there was a dark bruise on the left side of his face. He was also very pale, but then, when wasn't he?
The girl—she couldn't have been older than twelve—sat next to his bed, and her hand rested above his ear, fingers in his hair. She was too young to recognize him, but old enough now—Charles saw the tiny curl of his lips—to be intrigued by the vulnerability of a sleeping face.
She was nervous; she had worked with the Brotherhood previously, but only in the service of refugees and militia. When a man who had looked like nothing less than a demon had appeared in the Brittany clinic and presented the appropriate paperwork to her father, however—well, the compensation was prodigious, but more importantly: no sane twelve-year-old would have ever given up the chance at such a story.
The girl, after all, was not so young that she didn't recognize the shadow of a man who stood back against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every movement as she used her gift on the man who lay under the covers.
His brain isn't so badly injured, she told that man, her French subdued with a courtesy that did not entirely hide her curiosity. Because it was true—especially now, when the refugees had taken what boats and ships still functioned after the waves and moved up the coast with their hurts and fevers. All he really needs is sleep.
The darkness gathered around that figure, vivid in her young imagination. She shrank back on her wooden chair.
Fix him, the shadow commanded. Eyes glinted out at her until she turned back to the man on the bed, and even then, the hair on the back of her neck rose. She looked at Charles' face and wondered who he was, to command such stern attention.
Charles pulled back, creeping from her mind without leaving a single eddy to show his presence. He plunged back down to his ocean floor and rested there, watching the light above dapple red from his eyelids.
.
.
.
lxxxix.
Charles' eyes snapped open, and he recognized the plaster of the ceiling over his bed. There was a dim circle of yellow up there, cast through the lampshade. He glanced to the window: dark.
The bedcovers were pulled up to his shoulders, and Charles ran his hands up beneath them—felt bruises along the way, as well as bare skin—winced, and investigated his face cautiously. He found it sore, but… Not terribly so, if he didn't press on it. The cotton had been pulled out from his nostrils, the headache was gone—the nausea as well—and really; the worst of it seemed to be the bruise Skink had given him.
There was a noise, a subtle shift of clothing, and Charles flicked his gaze to the side. His pupils tightened as they focused on Erik's face—he was sitting back by the wall on a wooden chair that Charles vaguely recollected from his seldom-used study. He wore a black turtleneck and dark gray pants, dressed like a normal person except for the red and purple helmet, which now looked even more outlandish than usual. The wheelchair leaned against the wall beside him.
Charles' hands curled around the covers, pulling them up tight around his neck even as he berated himself—what, did he think that Erik would see bare skin and just, just fall to? No, he was being ridiculous, but… Charles couldn't bring himself to let go while those shadowed, gleaming eyes stared back at him.
A wry smile twitched at the corner of Erik's mouth; then he bent down, picked up the tall dark bottle next to his boot, and stood. As Erik walked near Charles hurried to sit up, letting the sheets slip down his torso with studied nonchalance. Better to be exposed than to lie on his back, he told himself, as his skin prickled with the cold.
"I brought you this because I thought you might need it," Erik stated with a quirk of his lips, presenting the label for Charles to read.
Scotch. Fifteen-year. Charles' eyes darted up again, and his brows dipped, just slightly, at the sight of that smile. Surely—surely Erik had to know…
But Charles didn't comment; just shuffled over as Erik sat down on the bed with his legs draped over the edge. The mattress sank and the geneticist steadied himself with a hand, curling his fingers under when they strayed too close to the curve of Erik's trousers.
Erik took the glass from the bedside table, poured a finger of whiskey into it, and stopped.
Charles arched an eyebrow. "Feeling stingy today?" he asked, hand half-poised to accept the glass; reluctant to take so small a bribe.
Erik's lips curled furtively. "You've just had head trauma. You probably shouldn't be drinking at all, but it might help you sleep."
Charles plucked the glass from Erik's fingers and breathed a laugh into it; the fumes washed back cool over his face. "Oh, this isn't nearly enough to make me drowsy. A little taste like this will only keep me awake wanting more," he remarked, then sipped; let his eyes flutter closed as he rolled the Scotch over his tongue; swallowed. It washed over his throat and left a coat of pleasant, buzzing heat. He hadn't realized, until then, how little he'd liked the taste in his mouth.
When Charles opened his eyes, Erik was watching him sidelong in such somber contemplation that the telepath felt a flare of panic—What if the whiskey was drugged? What if that was why Erik wouldn't give him more?—except that, no, he was being ridiculous again, wasn't he?
No, Erik was watching him like that because Erik knew; of course he knew, and he was trying to decide how much Charles knew.
Suddenly not very thirsty, Charles frowned and looked down past the glass, lifting his wrist to check the time—then his frown deepened and he turned his wrist over, as if the watch might have hidden on the other side.
"Ah," he heard from Erik, as he explained: "They took it from you. I… Retrieved it." Erik paused, then requested, softly: "Give me your hand."
It's quite all right; I can do that myself, Charles wanted to say, but his throat stuck; so, mutely, he held his right arm out, hand bundled into a loose fist. He kept his eyes on the back of that fist; on the undulating line of knuckles and the tributaries of veins. Dimly, he saw the movement of Erik reaching into his back pocket; the flash of gold as he brought out the watch.
The last of Charles' possessions, and now Erik was giving it to him—taking the telepath's wrist in hand and laying the head of the watch flat against his skin, case warm from Erik's body. Erik turned Charles' hand over and fed the leather through the clasp, then covered both watch and wrist beneath his palm, staring down at them.
Charles saw the elegant point of his nose, the curve of his neck as he pressed the watch into Charles' arm. He knew that, in Erik's mind, the two were becoming one entity again. For Erik, everything had at last returned to its place.
Once Erik's fingers had slipped away, Charles brought his wrist close and looked at the face of the Rolex; at the long golden dashes of numbers. The hands still jumped along their course and he could hear the beat of the movement, functioning perfectly. It was five thirty-seven and earlier that night someone had finally succumbed to the temptation to take his watch—and Charles didn't even remember it happening.
A hand came to rest on the back of his neck and Charles closed his eyes; let his hand fall down to the sheets. "How much do you know?" Charles asked, finally.
A pause, then the low drag of Erik's voice: "I know that when someone came to check on you at eleven thirty, you were gone. I know that a guard attested to seeing you with Beast and an unknown female scientist, going down the stairs toward the physics lab."
Charles looked to see that Erik was regarding him with a raised eyebrow, waiting to accept any clarification the geneticist might be willing to grant. Charles, however, held his gaze steady, and Erik sighed, unsurprised; massaged his fingers into Charles' hair. "Shortly after that, a search team apprehended Beast in the pharmacy, and they were in turn attacked by my… Former Lieutenant General and Secretary of State."
Charles turned his head sharply. "Is Beast all right? And… The others?"
The fingers on his scalp stilled, and Erik scrutinized him. "I'm afraid Beast will be in the clinic rather longer than he intended, but since he was already sedated, he wasn't directly targeted. The others didn't fare as well."
Charles nodded, and relaxed—but not entirely.
When Erik continued, his slouched shoulders and easy tone were at odds with the grim pull of his lips. "From there, Skink and Zeus must have carried you most of the way to the north entrance of the mansion, where about two dozen renegade civil defense soldiers were under siege by state security agents."
He gave Charles a small, grim smile. "Then I arrived. I'm sure you can guess how the rest went."
Charles swept the tip of his tongue over his lip. "Did you kill them?"
Erik tilted his head, studying the telepath. "Who?"
He needs me to be more specific, Charles realized, feeling a new twist of nausea. He looked at his glass of Scotch, shook it a little to watch it slosh up the sides of the glass, and then drained the rest in one draught. He took a deep breath. "Skink and Zeus, I suppose. And their associates."
Erik nodded, once, slowly. He took the glass from Charles and twisted slightly at the waist, turning in a long deliberate arc to set it back on the table. His turtleneck pulled tight over the muscles of his chest and Charles followed their outline with his eyes, unaware of his own staring until Erik turned his head back; a wry smirk twitched at the corner of the other man's mouth and Charles looked away quickly.
"I never saw your captors alive," Erik admitted, finally. His voice sank to a growl as he continued, "And they wouldn't be dead yet if I had. As for their followers—some of them fell to state security; I killed most of the rest. A few remain alive. …For now."
"Don't do that," Charles sighed, letting his eyes slip closed again. Beast was injured, Hannah apparently missing, and Erik was on his way to exact some gruesome revenge on people who probably didn't deserve it—and all before breakfast. Or sleeping, for that matter. He wanted to bury himself back into the comfort of his bed and forget everything for a while, but… "Don't be cruel, Erik," he admonished.
Breath gusted onto Charles' shoulder, and he shivered. "Someone has to be punished," Erik rumbled. "Someone has to be, or they might do it again."
Charles turned his head blindly until he felt Erik's warmth against his cheek; except for the hand on the back of his neck Erik wasn't touching him at all, but Charles could feel him—could feel his body along his own bare skin. Charles slit open his eyes to see Erik's legs angled away over the edge of the bed; a much steeper angle than when Erik had first sat down next to him. He had moved closer since then.
He pulled back and met Erik's gaze. "Discipline them if you must," Charles advised, weariness creeping into the words, "but… Not for me. Not like that."
Erik blinked; for a moment those gray-green eyes went wide. "I have to," he whispered. The hand on Charles' neck migrated; moved to the telepath's jaw. Then, even quieter, Erik said: "I wasn't there. I couldn't save you."
Charles remained motionless. "You didn't need to," he said.
Erik stopped breathing, and he shut his mouth into a thin line. He looked over Charles' face, and the telepath felt his bruises ache as vividly as if the other man had touched them. "They'll be dealt with," Erik stated, definitively. "Beast will be dealt with, when he wakes up. The other scientist, when we find her, will be interrogated. Which leaves—" he traced the backs of his curled fingers up the side of Charles' face— "you."
A leaden weight settled in Charles' stomach. "I expected as much," he admitted, softly—because it did not take a genius to realize that, even if Charles had not been seen in the pharmacy, he was no doubt involved. And Erik… Well, Charles considered himself to be intelligent—and he feared that the other man might well be smarter.
Charles straightened under Erik's scrutiny, because it would not do to run from the consequences now, when he had already claimed to accept them. Charles waited, and soon Erik, without breaking eye contact, held his hand out toward the open door. A moment later a bolt of bright something shot into Erik's palm, and he snapped his fingers closed around it.
Charles barely inclined his chin to look down at Erik's hand when the other man offered the gold necklace to him, coiled in obedient circles over his callused skin. The geneticist shook his head. "No," he said. "I'll wear it, but I'm not going to put it on myself."
Erik stared at him intently, silent, and then nodded; he looked down to the chain, eyelids curving thin around the swell of his cornea as the metal rose from its loops, flowing along his fingers. He brought his hands near to each other and the necklace hung there, suspended between them.
Charles held perfectly still, chin held high as Erik curled his hands loosely to either side of the geneticist's neck; didn't flinch away from the icy cold of the chain as it draped itself over his skin.
He watched as Erik's brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused beneath Charles' throat; felt the weight of Erik's hands resting on edge over his shoulders. The chain shifted against Charles' skin, and he resisted the urge to shiver; it was drawing tighter, shrinking, dragging up his chest toward his neck until finally—finally—it stopped, resting ticklish in the notch between his clavicles.
As Erik's hands withdrew, Charles lifted his own, feeling around the circumference of the—the collar; because whatever it had been before, now it was unmistakable. The links, his fingertips told him, had melted together and reformed, thicker and flatter and, because of that—much shorter.
There was no clasp.
Charles let his hands fall to his lap and looked away, toward the other end of the bed, teeth clenched tightly together. He had known. He had known that there would be consequences; and really, this wasn't the worst that could have happened. He was, in truth, no less restricted than he had been before.
The collar lay heavy across the back of his neck, real and solid in a way his foresight hadn't predicted.
"Charles."
He didn't mean to jump—hardly even moved, really—but the touch under his ear was sudden. He hunched his shoulders, a little, and didn't look back at Erik.
Erik's hand snaked back behind his head, into Charles' hair, and Erik pulled Charles to face him. His eyebrows dipped low with concern. "You were trying to kill me, Charles," he offered, in place of an apology.
"I wasn't," Charles whispered, because—no, he hadn't been, but whatever he'd been trying to do… He couldn't, now. It didn't matter.
Erik frowned at him, and gripped Charles' hair tighter; shook him firmly, but not without gentleness. "Charles," he repeated, ducking his head down to stare into Charles' eyes; keeping them there as they tried to wander. "Charles…"
Charles blinked, and smiled weakly. "Yes, I'm sorry. I'm over-reacting."
Now Erik brought up his other hand, to frame Charles' face; his frown softened into something unhappier. "You have a right to be upset."
Whatever had been raw and exposed within Charles' ribs crusted over now, freezing with the ice of an early winter. It felt good; it felt like nothing. Charles curved his lips ironically, almost secretively as he said, "It's nothing that I didn't invite on myself."
Erik exhaled slowly through his nose; his thumbs fidgeted over the telepath's cheeks, careful not to put pressure on the bruises there. "No," he disagreed; "You shouldn't have felt the need to do it in the first place. If you felt more comfortable here…" His lips fell together and stayed there; his eyes focused intently, strangely, as if he were looking through Charles—
Charles realized, suddenly, that Erik was looking at his nose.
One of Erik's hands left, and he held his thumb up to his mouth; he spread his tongue over it, and then held Charles' head in place as he rubbed the saliva into the crease of Charles' nostril. The telepath winced away, but couldn't move far as Erik drew the sleeve of his turtleneck up over his thumb and scrubbed it into Charles' skin.
"Ow," Charles remarked, sullenly.
Erik lowered both of his hands, and his fingers came to rest in a feather-light line across both of Charles' clavicles. The other man met his gaze helplessly. "There was blood," he explained. Erik leaned forward until his own nose rested against Charles' temple, and his lips moved against Charles' brow. "On your face, there was…"
"I heard you," Charles assured Erik, staring unseeing at the black fabric around the other man's neck.
Erik's nose slid into his hair, and his fingers settled more firmly onto Charles' shoulders. "When I came back and they didn't know where you were yet," he breathed against Charles' skin, "I thought that maybe you had been…"
"I wasn't," Charles muttered, and found that one of his hands had pressed into Erik's chest. He frowned, and pushed gently—felt the firm give of muscle to either side of his fingers, through the soft turtleneck. He could feel the other's pulse, too; a faint rattle between his phalanges. In the ligament.
Erik seemed to accept that answer, for he leaned into Charles; the edge of his helmet dug into Charles' scalp and he cringed back from it until Erik moved; brought his lips caressing down, over Charles' temple and along his cheek. Hot breath shuddered over Charles' skin and he closed his eyes as the tip of Erik's tongue traced slow and wet over his lower lip.
Charles huffed a laugh, short and almost silent except for a small desperate note of cynicism, and Erik's hands tightened on his shoulders as the man responded with a noise not entirely unlike a growl and pushed his mouth into Charles', tongue sliding between the geneticist's lips and curling up behind his teeth.
The hands on his shoulders released their grip and flattened down over Charles' pectoral muscles before sweeping out to his sides; then around to splay out over Charles' back and pull him close, up against Erik. The fabric of the turtleneck wrinkled between them as Erik drew his fingers down Charles' spine, and Charles allowed himself to groan, his own hands spread over Erik's waist and flexing greedily.
Erik reached up to tug at his hair, pulling Charles' head back to nip at his neck—carefully, but with sharp attention. His other hand shifted to Charles' side again, squeezed, and pushed down to settle in the notch of his waist. Erik moved the hand in Charles' hair to his other side, and Erik's thumbs pressed in at the junction of ribs and abdomen as he pushed his bared teeth against Charles' throat; held them gritted tight against each other, enamel slick on muscle before opening his mouth entirely and molding his lips to that curve.
Charles bent his neck against the stroke of Erik's tongue and remembered, suddenly—prompted by those thumbs caressing over the smooth skin of his stomach—that he was mostly nude except for a pair of briefs and the blankets gathered around his lap, tugging over now as Erik twisted on top of them. Erik—who was still fully clothed. Who hunched over him, now, encircling him in his hands, face pushed into his neck and teeth at the ready should the metal around Charles' neck not suffice.
Erik held Charles there, for a moment—with his spine arched, head tipped to the side, hands on Erik's chest—before exhaling in a gust over Charles' skin and moving his face to capture Charles' lips again, pressing into him almost too hard to move. Charles slid his tongue against Erik's as it plunged into his mouth, hoping to have his own turn, and gasped around him as Erik's fingernails scraped over his flanks. He couldn't catch his breath because then Erik pushed his hands still lower, until the web of forefinger and thumb stretched out over the iliac spine of Charles' pelvis, thumbs going… Somewhat lower still.
The sound that Erik made was definitely a growl this time, as he pulled his mouth back far enough that, when he spoke, his lips merely brushed Charles', rather than grinding into them.
"I want to jerk you off," Erik said, and Charles' mind froze.
Oh, that's interesting, he observed. Because—because he would never have anticipated just how his body would react to those words.
Charles swallowed thickly. "Um," he managed, after a moment, pulling back. He licked at his lips, looking down to where Erik's hands held onto him, dipping just out of sight below the covers.
"I want to," Erik rasped into his ear again. "…If you'll let me."
Charles cleared his throat and shifted to meet Erik's eyes, trying to clear his head—which didn't exactly work, because Erik looked… Well. His mouth hung very slightly open as he panted through it; the line of his lower teeth lurked just inside. His eyebrows were low over his eyes, and his pupils were huge and black. He was clearly very sincere.
But Charles frowned, because: "What are you offering in return?"
Erik's eyebrows tightened in confusion, all in a flash of movement, before he said, "No bargaining. This is my offer—" he flexed his thumbs into the dip of Charles' abdomen— "to you."
Charles stared at him, shocked. "I…"
Swaying close again, the edge of the helmet brushed Charles' face as Erik murmured into his sideburn, "Even if you close your eyes. Even if you imagine… Someone else. I want to give that to you."
Whatever it was that had lodged itself in Charles' throat, it was stubborn—he had to give it that. He tried to swallow again, and readied his refusal on his tongue, but… But when he met Erik's eyes again, he saw that they were wide, not with arousal, but with…
Fear, Charles mind told him, from very far away. Those thumbs were still wrapped around his hips, distracting, but he could still think, coldly, clinically: he wants to reassure himself that I'm still here.
Because Erik… Erik, despite everything, cared about him, even if the way he went about showing it was entirely wrong.
Think of all the ways he's hurt you, a part of Charles' mind said. Think of all the ways he's hurt the people you care about.
But when Charles drew breath, when he went to tell Erik that… Maybe it was because he was tired; maybe it was because he had gambled everything and lost; it might even have been the fear in those eyes, or the fear of his own heart galloping headlong into its personal abyss, but he found that he whispered: "All right."
Then Charles fell silent, shocked at the sound of his own voice. He stared at Erik, waiting—watching the other's shoulders fall gently with a last, slow breath.
He didn't have to wait long—Erik made a low animal noise of satisfaction and his hands left Charles' hips to shove the telepath down to the mattress. He wasn't gentle—Charles lay stunned, for a moment, watching wide-eyed as Erik pushed the bed covers aside to curl his legs up next to Charles' and lean down over him, propped up on his elbow.
Charles could feel the heat of Erik all along his side, and though he had been much closer in the past—even before their difference of opinion—it had never—the intention had never been there; that crackling purpose. Now… It was like having a dragon coiled up in bed next to him, all heat and tension and fury, and who knew where all that energy would go next?
I do, Charles reminded himself faintly, looking into Erik's eyes where he loomed above. They were hooded and dark and flicked away a moment later to trail down the telepath's chest; drinking in the sight of him. Erik did not touch him except for where Charles' arm pressed into the turtleneck, and Charles himself glanced over Erik's body—at the long slope of his ribs down to the narrow waist, hips not much wider where they lay canted next to Charles' own; knees bent and boots hanging off the bed—small mercies, Charles thought.
Erik spread his hand over Charles' sternum and he realized, with a shiver, that the other man intended to remain fully clothed. Whereas Charles… He took a quick mental inventory of himself, to double-check. He didn't know who had done it, but at some point he had been undressed for bed, and all he wore beneath the covers were the briefs he favored during the day—not the boxers he slept in.
So that was convenient, at least; he didn't have to take the time to strip—or be stripped—and nothing impeded the caress of Erik's hand down his chest except for the friction of his own pale skin. Charles watched, with Erik, as the other man explored him from this new angle; as Erik's short nails dug in and dragged down the shallow line of his abdominal muscles. It seemed almost as if it were some other organism that jumped and tried to slither away—some other person, and Charles observed with detached interest as pinkish tracks fled out behind from Erik's fingernails.
Erik traced a ticklish circle around his navel and Charles saw his stomach draw tight again; it was a relief when Erik's hand then swerved out to his hip, gripping around his pelvis to gauge the firmness of bone.
Then—Charles held his breath—Erik tilted his head for a better view as he nudged back the bed covers, fingers passing over the briefs and then trailing along the outside of Charles' thigh as he drew the covers down—past the swell of the femur's great trochanter, down almost to Charles' knee. There Erik paused, and for a long moment, simply… Looked.
Charles shivered—it was cold—and turned his eyes away from his thin, still-atrophied legs; focused instead on the line of Erik's neck above him, as the other poised motionless. He wasn't watching when Erik stroked over that leg, and then moved his hand to the other—cupped it around what muscle Charles did have—and ran it up the inside of his thigh.
Charles sucked in air, softly—but Erik's head turned in one smooth movement and that intent gaze met his. Charles went still under that stare, except that he had to breathe, and his chest jolted with the pounding of his heart—because Erik's hand sat nestled right up in the junction of thigh and body.
Erik trapped his eyes, studying Charles' face for a reaction as, far away, he squeezed his fingers beneath the scant curve of the geneticist's arse—and was rewarded when Charles gasped and his legs—those traitorous things—pulled up and apart.
A languorous, predatory smile curled over Erik's lips, and then he plunged down to introduce that smile to Charles' mouth; muffled the small, startled noise Charles made, because it seemed that Erik had satisfied his curiosity—he had moved his hand again and now was palming Charles through the cotton.
Charles hardly felt the click of Erik's teeth against his; he noticed, instead, that one of his legs had pressed up against Erik's thighs. He could feel the warmth, the relief from the cold air as—despite the fact that this was Erik, and furthermore, Erik was not being gentle—his legs spread of their own accord, because… God, it had been so long—so long since any hand other than his own had touched him there—but too rough, and his leg pressed against Erik's almost in self-defense, in an attempt to push away, even though he wanted—mostly wanted—
Charles winced and turned his face away from the kiss; Erik let him, and simply pressed his nose into Charles' skin and breathed there, deep drafts of air as he focused instead on his hand and—oh, thank you—slowed somewhat; did not so much press anymore as pull, and Charles felt his knees drop back to the mattress—or against Erik—no longer trying to curl up in self defense.
Charles exhaled slowly through his nose, then hissed back in through his teeth because—oh god. That was much better, now—it was actually good, and how terrifying was that? He felt his lips stretch into what almost became a laugh, because: fairly terrifying, his mind replied, and then subsided into dazed silence because Erik was daubing his tongue along just under his jaw and it was really too much to ask to keep up a running commentary.
Erik's teeth scraped at his neck just below his ear, and for the first time—Charles heard his own whimper break out through his throat and felt his cheeks flush crimson, as if that would be the thing that betrayed him—as if Erik couldn't feel the evidence between his legs.
But then Erik's hand peeled away and traced up along the inside of Charles' thigh, along his—Charles fought for the word, remembered, foggily: gracilis—unerring even though Charles squirmed beneath him, trying to follow, frowning, eyes closed—
Erik's mouth brushed the shell of his ear. "Charles," he whispered.
"Mm?" Charles responded, hoping that his displeasure was clear from that mild sound.
"I'm sorry, but I have to ask you…" Fingers plucked at the band of his pants and Charles pressed his hip into them invitingly, letting his eyelids slide open just enough to check if there was something really, drastically important delaying Erik—something life-and-death, preferably.
Erik's breath whuffed into his ear. "…When was the last time that you were tested?"
Charles paused; his eyes opened the rest of the way and his brows furrowed as he turned his chin to peer at Erik. "…What?"
Erik's expression was earnest. "For venereal diseases. When was the last time?"
His mind had gone blank. No: remained blank, because Charles felt rather more inclined to think about what he'd like Erik to be doing, instead of… He blinked, and considered, squinting. "Um." When had the last time been? "Four… Four years ago? In British Columbia."
Charles let his eyes start to slide shut again, but then, low, nearby: "And since then—has there been anyone?"
Charles snapped his eyes open to glare up at Erik. "No," he bit out. "I dare say that no one's been interested, considering."
Erik's eyebrows fell low in thought. "'Considering…'" he echoed. His expression darkened. "…Your legs."
Erik wrapped his hand around Charles' thigh and held it tightly against himself as he hissed, "How shallow. You're—" he leaned down and nuzzled into Charles' hair— "more than your legs; than your body."
This time Charles did laugh, sharp and bitter. "I'd like to see you say the same thing if the cure hadn't worked—if I were still paralyzed."
There was a growl from his hair. "I would have found a way," Erik told him. "I would have—researched. …How to make it work for you."
"How touching," Charles muttered, and Erik tensed against him—let go of Charles' leg and brought that hand up to push into Charles' shoulder, shoving the telepath down into the bed as Erik dove into his mouth, all tongue and teeth and Charles grunted in pain as Erik's nose smashed against his.
Charles was just beginning to wonder how he should breathe—because his nose was having none of that—and then Erik was up, sitting next to him and Charles wound his fingers into the back of Erik's turtleneck as he lifted Charles' hips with an easy flick of his wrists; as he tugged the briefs down to Charles' knees and abandoned them there, stopping to look, and Charles' fingers clenched tighter around the fabric. He couldn't breath, because—because he could peer down his own chest and see everything and so could Erik.
Charles stared, wide-eyed, as Erik reached out his hand and—very, very gently—almost hesitantly—traced his fingertips along the length of Charles' cock, where it lay half-hard amidst dark curls of hair. Erik tilted his head and Charles couldn't see his face behind the helmet as his thumb brushed over the foreskin, pulling a little, curiously, and he remembered suddenly that—oh, right, Erik probably didn't have—but what about… Previous partners…?
Then Erik wrapped his fingers around his cock and Charles froze—this was going to happen, wasn't it?—and he searched for something new to grab onto as Erik lay back down next to him, his hand tugging experimentally until Erik went still again because…
Charles realized, suddenly, that his own hand had patted and then stuck to the curve of Erik's helmet, clinging desperately—leaving smudges on the shining red. The telepath managed a twitching smile and pulled his hand away, fingers spread innocently as he lifted his arm back above his head to move it around Erik's body and back to his own.
Erik seized Charles' wrist before he could manage it, pinning it just above Charles' head with the hand whose elbow he leant on.
Charles pulled at his wrist and frowned up at Erik, who smiled, eyelids dipping in the lazy contentment of a cat crouched over its still-living prey. "The other, too," Erik murmured, as he squeezed the telepath's wrist for emphasis.
Charles stared at him in incomprehension until Erik's languid smile curled and he took his hand from between Charles' legs to capture the geneticist's other wrist, pushing it down on top of the first; then he looped his fingers around both of them and pressed them into the pillow.
Immediately Charles tried to twist out of the hold, head framed between his arms and feeling more vulnerable than ever, stretched out and exposed as he was, until Erik leaned down to nose into his temple. "Shh," he urged, voice a low rumble. "Relax. You don't need your hands for anything right now, do you?" Then he withdrew a little to study Charles—considered him—and reached with his free hand to push the collar up from the telepath's chest until it draped heavy over his throat.
Charles swallowed, and felt the pull of the chain against the side of his neck.
Satisfied, Erik returned his hand to between Charles' legs and resumed that leisurely movement there—but he didn't look away from Charles' face, and the telepath stared back at him with his chin tipped up; making no effort to hide the chain even when, now and then, Erik's eyes darted back to it and shone.
But it was difficult—unsurprisingly—to maintain that defiant stare with Erik's hand around his cock, calluses rasping over sensitive skin; difficult, when the muscles of Charles' face kept trying to contort away from his careful composure. And Erik's gaze wasn't… Confrontational, really; it was more… Observant.
Charles flinched as some of those calluses caught against something a little too sensitive, and Erik's eyelids creased with consideration; then he adjusted his grip, slightly, and… Better, Charles thought, and realized: Erik was watching his reactions. He wasn't just trying to get Charles off—he was trying to do it well.
At this, Charles decided: it was all too much to think about at the moment. So he let his eyes fall closed again—after all, Erik had given him express permission—and tried to forget who was touching him in favor of the fact that someone—not necessarily Erik, no, it could be anyone—was, and that was a sentiment his body could agree with.
Charles relaxed, and—and let the man who had destroyed the world and stolen his life give him a nice, enjoyable wank. But… It was easy not to think about, lying next to the warmth of Erik's body as he was. He could smell him—no cologne, now, because morning had been an entire day before, but a sort of pleasant masculine muskiness. It was a healthy sort of odor, Charles decided, flexing his wrists in Erik's grip. The other's breath puffed over his cheek, but Charles ignored it.
He'd wondered, previously, whether it would be worse to get to this point and take a long time to get it over with—to have to endure it in awkward silence—or if it would be worse to not take a long time; to appear eager. Charles found now, however, that—that he didn't really care; heard the noise of Erik's hand on his flesh and didn't think to be embarrassed, because of course it would make a noise—it was real. It had consequences, and not—not all of them were bad.
Charles made a face—started to wrinkle up his nose until he thought better of it—and shifted his hips around to find a different angle as those calluses scratched over him, over and over, and it—it felt nice, to a point, but… But he winced away again, because it also hurt, in a way, but maybe he could—
Erik's hand left, and Charles made a low noise of protest in his throat; then he peeked out from behind his eyelids to watch as Erik considered his palm, held flat before him—turned it slightly—then ducked his head forward and spat onto it, seeming almost self-conscious. Erik glanced over to check if Charles saw, but the geneticist closed his eyes again and waited until he felt the saliva cold and slick against his cock.
Charles hummed his approval; much better. Then, because he wasn't fighting against the chafing anymore, he sank back into the mattress and the muscles of his back unwound. He sighed: so much better.
He felt Erik reposition himself above him, leaning over Charles more as he increased his pace, and Charles arched into him—pressing his chest into Erik's as well as he was able to. He wanted to grab onto him—tugged at his wrists again, and Erik's grip tightened—but he made do with shoving his head against Erik's mouth as the other man rested his lips against Charles' temple.
Charles drew his leg up along Erik's thigh; felt the tension in the other as Erik held still against him. He wanted—he wanted to be closer; he wanted to taste Erik—but Erik was clothed; fully clothed, even his neck was hidden, and Charles was held too tightly to change that. So he focused on where Erik did touch him; thrust up blunt into the palm of Erik's hand slightly before Erik had anticipated, and in response Erik twisted his palm around the head of Charles' cock.
Charles grimaced, and Erik paused—although Charles stubbornly continued rocking into him.
"Did that hurt?" Erik whispered, near his ear, and Charles shook his head sharply without opening his eyes. Erik waited a moment longer, then pushed his nose back into Charles' temple, drew his fingers up around the shaft of his cock, and then palmed the head again, grinning against Charles' skin as the telepath shuddered beneath him.
Erik paused once more to spit into his hand again, but Charles hardly noticed—accepted it as a necessary annoyance—and snuck a look down, to watch Erik's long fingers encircling him—shivered—and closed his eyes again. His arms shook in Erik's grasp, and the skin of his chest felt hot, but those were—minor inconveniences. Not even relevant—pulled away down into his abdomen with the rest of his problems, building in the muscles of his thighs and tugging at his navel.
Charles opened his eyes again, and met Erik's—because Erik had resumed watching him, eyebrows tilted up in fascinated concentration, but Erik's gaze sharpened against his and the geneticist was unable to look away. Charles' bottom lip crept between his teeth but Erik never glanced down at it; only stared—stared into his eyes—
Then Erik bowed down to kiss him, just a soft caress of lips, and Charles opened his mouth—but not to kiss him, and not to gasp, because Charles couldn't, and maybe he had meant to do one of those things but he forgot, and what was—he was—
Charles tore out of the kiss and pressed his face into his arm; he arched his back and pushed his thigh into Erik's, pulled at his wrists in Erik's grasp. He felt his own teeth on his skin as he choked out a groan; felt Erik's tongue hot and wet on his throat, sliding over gold and skin alike. Charles thrust into Erik's hand in short jerks as fluid fell onto his stomach and began to pool there, and the slide of fingers over his cock was slick and smooth, now—until Erik slowed, stopped, and finally…Took his hand away.
Charles let all of his muscles go and simply lay there, panting and staring at the inside of his eyelids.
Fingers unwrapped from his wrists and Charles' eyes snapped open; he pried his face up from his arm and his bruises twinged a reminder as caught sight of Erik staring down at his belly. Erik reached over and trailed two fingers through the come collected in the dip around Charles' navel; then raised those fingers up to his mouth and—glancing almost shyly over at Charles' astonished face—tasted them, delicately, with the tip of his tongue.
Charles shut his jaw with a soft click. A slow, pleased smile crept to the edges of Erik's lips, just behind his come-smeared fingers.
He had just had sex with Erik, Charles realized.
Of course, he could tell himself that it didn't really count—that it wasn't real sex—but Charles had never had much respect for the people who used that excuse. He had laid himself at Erik's mercy and allowed that man access to his very brain chemistry. It was sex, and it was very much reality.
And not an unpleasant reality, a part of Charles' mind mused appreciatively, but Charles shoved that part away because—because this had been a bad idea, because… He…
But what do I have to lose, now? Charles asked himself, bringing his arms back down to his side from above his head—well, the one that wouldn't end up wrapped around Erik, at least. That stayed up by the headboard.
And Erik… Charles scrutinized the man lying next to him. His helmet still gleamed over his head, marked with the prints of Charles' fingers, but Erik's eyes were dark and shining underneath. Sweat glistened where Charles could glimpse skin. He had gone back to breathing through his mouth—shallow, irregular puffs of air that cooled by the time they reached Charles' face.
Charles understood, suddenly, that Erik had not been unaffected by the… Sex. Which made sense, of course, but… Was Charles expected to…?
Charles reached over with his opposite arm, crossing over his torso and careful not to move in such a way as to make a mess of himself or the sheets, and felt along Erik's thigh; found a bulge that… Appeared to extend a good way down Erik's trouser leg—which was exactly the sort of thing briefs were good at preventing, really.
Charles frowned, and cupped his fingers over the shape of Erik's cock; felt the ridge of the head. He experienced a momentary, primal fear: oh god, have I been small this whole time and no one's told me? Which was ridiculous, really, because his partners didn't have to tell him and nobody had ever, so to speak, complained.
So Erik was simply, evidently, well-endowed. Interesting. Charles rubbed his hand along the length of that bulge, to see what would happen, and—
Erik plucked his hand away and set it back down at Charles' side. "I'm fine for now, Charles," he said, and Charles wanted to laugh—because that was anything but "fine," and if it was, he didn't want to know what wouldn't be fine. Still… Who was he to argue?
Erik picked himself up off the bed and set his boots to the floor. When he stood, he paused there, and appeared almost to—sway? But then he was walking across the floor toward Charles' bathroom and his steps were steady enough, if slightly awkward.
He vanished through the door; the light inside flared on and Charles waited, rubbing absent circles on the parts of his chest that were dry while he listened. There was a sound of running water; of a washcloth being wrung out over a basin.
A moment later, Erik re-emerged, carrying both a dry and a wet cloth over his hands. The outline of his erection was still visible, but not quite as pronounced—thankfully, because Charles couldn't count on himself not to stare.
Erik, when he reached the bed again, held out his hand as if he were going to clean up Charles himself, but the geneticist intercepted him neatly and plucked the dry cloth from his hand. He dabbed it over his stomach and pretended not to notice when Erik sank back down onto the chair next to the bed and watched.
After all, what did it matter? What did it matter, now, when Charles had no plan for the future and nothing to bargain for? He had no way to remove the collar around his neck unless he could convince Erik that he was trustworthy again—and Erik knew him too well to believe that, not for a long while at least, so if Erik was going to make a habit of offering free wanks then Charles might as well enjoy them. He might as well admit that he enjoyed Erik, while he was at it—because it was after six in the morning and Charles still hadn't really slept and it was all over.
And if this wasn't the end… Well, Charles would think about that later in the morning.
Or whenever he woke up.
.
.
.
.
.
.