A/N: This chapter goes out to kind reviewer Gabriel42, whose fun and detailed discussions inspired a plane-themed chapter!

Chapter 4: Flight from San Francisco to the City of Sin

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This has got to be a form of torture.

At the moment, he doesn't care that the thought's unworthy of him. A man can only be expected to endure so much. It's growing impossible to ignore Erik's long thigh, splayed carelessly out into Charles' space, inescapable against Charles' own leg. Erik is unfairly elegant in his traveling clothes, suit pants holding their crease in spite of the foggy damp that'd worked its way inside the San Francisco airport as much as anywhere else in that ridiculous city. That alone would have been enough to distract anybody sane, but it's ever so much worse for Charles, forced to endure Erik's rumbling awareness of the metal tube they're currently occupying, all of the tiny parts and minute shifts in this or that that keep them aloft and pointed eastward against the wind, the way he catalogs each one, feels out whether it's doing what it's meant to do to counteract an endearing spate of nerves about flying which, in retrospect, is obvious as anything. It's minor torture for Erik as well, forced to place his physical safety in a stranger's hands, forced to accept that the only exits are quite impassable at this speed and of course he needs to know that he could control it in a pinch. The strange, seductive mechanisms of that control zip along Charles nerves, maddeningly out of reach unless he's willing to pry a little harder than he ought to under the terms of their truce. And then there's the flattering percentage of Erik's attention that's caught up in Charles, the smell of his soap and the way the fashionable suit that Raven and Moira had conspired to send him skim his figure in a way that his usual sweaters do not, the way his breath judders – ugh, how embarrassing – when Erik shifts that thigh. Which he does. Often. And worst of all, there's the shouldn't-be-thrilling undercurrents that keep teasing across the top layer of his thoughts, hints that he's working to feel Charles out like he's one the little shifting flaps in the wings of the plane. And that's if you leave the tick-tick-tick of Erik's planning out of it, the ways and means of looking for Shaw and somehow that's bound up with thoughts of Charles and oh, he wants to press in and find out why, exactly. Add in the swirling atmosphere of holiday, nice drinks, the way the stewardess' silly pink-and-red miniskirts ride up when they bend to pour them, the casual lust and blurry warm buzz emanating from practically every passenger on this plane and Charles is about to shimmy right out of his skin.

What's worse, Erik seems to know it, if that smirk is anything to go by. "Having fun?" he asks, as casual as the stretch of his legs.

Charles smiles in what he can only hope is a normal fashion and raises his glass. I don't like it in here. People's thoughts… They… echo, somehow. He takes a swallow of his scotch, and god, he's trying not to look but he can feel a slight surge of warm interest as his throat works. Distract me?

Erik's eyebrows fly up in surprise and oh, but… That isn't what I meant, he says, a little hastily and probably too loud. I was thinking we could use the time to plan.

All right, Erik thinks. Very loudly. And some of that must bleed through, because his I have been wondering about some of your… tactical capabilities, is a little quieter, if no less commanding.

Ask away, Charles says, and tries not to edge into the pool of excitement and calculation that wells up in the other man.

Can you… Will you be able to tell if anyone has been there recently?

Perhaps, Charles allows, a bit cautiously. I can't tell just from standing in an empty room, if that's what you're asking.

Hmmm, and it feels like mild disappointment. But you had something else in mind?

I can check the staff. Someone must keep the place stocked, if it's in use. I can check if anyone remembers the faces, whether they've been around recently.

Erik frowns, and a passing stewardess takes that as a sign to pour him another generous measure of bourbon. "Thank you, love," Charles beams once it's apparent that Erik intends to ignore the poor girl. "Don't mind him," he stage-whispers. "A bit of airsickness, poor fellow." He winks and she giggles, moving him up a few notches in the list of Best Prospective Husbands that doubles as her passenger headcount, leapfrogging him past Erik. He does his best not to look smug about it. It's also possible – I don't know if I can tell if that woman has tampered with them, but I wouldn't rule it out. I might be able to… feel her work, if I touched it. Perhaps even un-do it. Erik raises an eyebrow, clearly frustrated by the uncertainty. I'm sorry I can't offer something more concrete. This is rather new to me, you know.

I know, Erik says, and Charles wants badly to banish that undercurrent of disappointment.

I'll definitely be able to feel her coming, he offers, but the grim thrumming doesn't cease.

She'll be able to feel you as well?

Probably, Charles admits. I'm not sure how far she can reach, but I would suppose she can recognize me.

We'll just have to hope you're stronger, and that's even fiercer, louder than Erik's usual. Or that she's not alone, and decides to come after us, and that's quieter, like it's not meant to be heard even though it's clear as day. Maybe someday… Maybe they'll have the time to practice, and Erik can learn to use his brain as subtly as he uses his voice. And if Charles is a little sad about the near-certainty that Erik would be glad to learn to keep things hidden, well… There would be consolations.

I think it would be best if we walked by the casino during the day. It'll be mostly staff then, underneath, and I can try…

Agreed. We don't want to fight on his ground, and oh, ouch, that's forceful enough that it's… Well, it's like his ears are ringing from the inside.

He must've winced, because Erik's fingers brush his elbow apologetically. Charles tries to smile normally, and the sharp smug of Erik's mouth lets him know he's failed at that as well. Oh dear. And now the attention of the man across the aisle is catching on him, faint tinges of suspicion and… Oh dear. Suspicion and interest. Charles nudges his attention away as politely as he can.

Erik must have guessed the general gist of his activities; this smile is all teeth. He says something out loud, blasé and purely for show. The loud and frankly fascinating tenor of his thoughts drowns whatever it might have been right out.

Charles lets his most bland, agreeable smile slide onto his mouth. Too many people, too many by half. He'd better stick to business. If the afternoon doesn't yield results, we can go back in the evening, see if the place is occupied.

Are you suggesting we enter a den of ill repute, Charles? I'm shocked at you.

I'll try anything once, he replies without thinking, and oh, that smile is wicked. He tries not to shiver too obviously. If this keeps up, he's going to have to nudge the whole plane's attention away from them.

Is that so, and even the jarring tenor of Erik's mental voice can't hide the lasciviousness. How will we occupy ourselves for all of those intervening hours in Vice City?

I'm sure we'll think of something, Charles sends, helplessly, and oh, that smile.

I have a few ideas, and there's a quick barrange of half-formed images that Charles is very interested in indeed, but…

Not here, he hisses, jerking his head to indicate the bored businessmen seated around them.

Spoilsport, Erik returns. Charles squirms in his seat and Erik lets out an amused huff, but rummages obligingly for the novel in his bag. It is, of course, pure coincidence that this procedure requires him to jostle his thigh repeatedly against Charles.

Not here, but not never, he can't help but add, and Erik favors him with a deliciously slow smile.

I look forward to it, and that's just unfair.

But he turns his attention to Hemingway, warm elbow pressing into Charles' along the armrest. The words flickering across Erik's attention are mesmerizing, and if he can focus on them, on the rather boring gentleman sitting catty-corner to them with his stocks and strange preoccupation with onion casserole…

It's not such a long flight. It will have to do.