The third and final installment in Police AU series: One Good Day, A Spark Will Now Ignite, Along We Go.

This one, I suppose, can be called an extended epilogue with a twist ^_^

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A wise man once said that there is no more comfortable frame of mind for the conduct of life than a humorous resignation. It is as simple as that, but, in meantime, you endeavor to live to numerous, truly unnecessary convictions scattered around and only obscuring the path. A pity, that serene, philosophical mood tends to manifest in the situations like this, making its' fleeting appearance and then ruthlessly leaving him face to face with unrelenting reality.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Well, this question is in desperate need of some originality.

Do I even look all right, wondered Charles, unusually subdued, as he turned to look at Jean, whose eyes were shining with worry he's already heard in her voice. A new addition to his team and his new responsibility.

"I'm fine," he said, in reply to her growing agitation. "This is a blind alley," Charles explained courteously and let himself briefly enjoy the unintended pun, "so his journey ends here."

She actually nodded and quickly strode along by his side; Jean was refreshingly serious: more cautious and possessing less audacity around him than her colleagues.

On a cool and breezy autumn day pursuit didn't become any easier. Or, well, it didn't become any easier for Charles, for his tricky luck was always making his life more and more interestingly complicated. Oh, here's their client. Checkmate. The man, displaying all evident signs of drug withdrawal was a shaky, hysterical and sweaty mess, fruitlessly attempting to jump the brick wall and screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs. Charles racked his brains in order to remember what made him come here in the first place. A rather dull routine arrest turned into a not so dull workout which wouldn't have happened at all if he were less distracted, and less tired, awfully tired.

"You can do the honors," graciously offered Charles, motioning ahead. He absentmindedly lifted his hand and gingerly touched the left side of his forehead, where he could feel a little trickle of something wet sliding down and reaching his temple. Upon retrieving his fingers he saw that they were indeed covered in bright red.

It seemed, they have been noticed.

And it also seemed that his protégé was unexpectedly tough, seeing as she's just demonstrated a fine head lock and instantly brought the screaming man to the ground. It gave Charles an odd feeling. Apparently, they all, meaning his team, are fighting as though they are in special corps, which is very nice and Charles is glad that his co-workers proved to be so physically capable. That was not the issue here. Erik would scoff at him and sharply point out that Charles has been neglecting field work, again. And, as a matter of fact, he would be absolutely right.

Good god, Erik!

He helped Jean push the wildly kicking and screeching murder suspect into the car and before he shut the door he saw his own disheveled reflection on the glass surface. For a moment, Charles had been harbouring a fairly coherent idea to catch a taxi and go straight home, where he could change into a clean coat, and, at least, wash his face. But that won't do, right?

"Sir," Jean confidently took the driver's seat, one more thing Charles had hard time using to, and noticing his frantic, all-too-common delving into pockets for missing handkerchief, politely offered, "Here, you may take this to clean up."

"Um, thank you," Charles gratefully took the pack of face wipes, produced by means of weird magic out of thin air, no less.

He quickly wipes the dried blood from his face, avoiding the tender area where the skin was broken earlier. It almost doesn't hurt at all, but it serves as a magnificent, mischievous amplifier for his general fatigue and thus adds to the crushing weight of profound exhaustion. His fringe, nearly falling into his eyes, has finally become a useful asset, as Charles decides that, if ruffled, it can effectively mask the minor cut along with the appearing bruise.

In the precinct, he reassigned their catch to the officer on duty and has nearly bitten his lip in half when he saw the clock. Erik's plane is arriving in half an hour. And he should have left twenty minutes ago.

"They are putting him into custody right now. By the way, he will be charged with assault too, right?" asked Jean, evidently still waiting for his instructions.

"Yeah," quickly nodded Charles, longing for escape. "In my absence you'll report to Logan, and, please, make sure that he actually reads the reports he submits. If you need anything, just call me," or be so kind and ask someone else — he added in his head.

"I wouldn't want to bother you, sir," she caught up.

"Well, in case of any emergency, you should. Though, I sincerely hope, there won't be any."

"So do I," she smiled. "Have a nice weekend, sir."

"Likewise. I'll try," he smiled in response.

But in the car, a smile vanished from his face; he knitted eyebrows in concentration. During the journey to the airport he though over the events of the last week, considering his distress more calmly. He just needed a rest, he needed to see Erik, to hold him close and forget about his job, his responsibilities, everything. Now that he is officially free from his duties, he has a chance to do it. Only one small thing is lacking — a long forgotten ability to relax.

The international airport meets him with bright, too flashy lights and overpowering noise, and lots of background hassle. Its' sleek, boisterous presence hits his senses with a subtlety of a sledge hammer. Only in retrospect, Charles realized that someone has been talking to him while he was peering at the information display, finding out with immense relief that Erik's plane was delayed.

"Excuse me, I didn't quite catch that," Charles turned to look at the policeman, a young blond man standing next to him, who was wearing a slightly bored, stony professional expression with admiring skill.

"Sergeant Moore, sir. We are currently checking…"

"Oh, one more prank call today," sighed Charles, digging up the badge from the inside pocket of his coat.

Does Charles fall into the suspicious category right now? Must be his recently dirtied coat, and, Charles darkly mused, haggard face.

After the sergeant took his time to attentively scrutinize the badge his expression shifted into that of polite apology and respect. Good god, this guy can give classes on facial control.

"I apologize for disturbing you, sir. Do you need any help?"

"Not at all. I'm actually off duty."

He received a curt nod, and then the policeman left. Charles caught himself mulling over the recent increase in prank calls in the city, resulting in many angry, frustrated policemen doing plenty of work in vain. No, no, sod it; he gave himself a stern, unsympathetic order — I'm not thinking of anything work-related. And I'm not going to do it tomorrow as well.

There was something of an exquisite pleasure in his waiting for Erik, and his spirits rose incredibly as he approached the necessary gate. He saw himself from a strange, romantic standpoint, and he was both hurt and happy, because in the end Erik always comes back to him, no matter how separated by distance and their new duties they have come to be. And, although, almost three years have passed since they got together, he still feels that familiar warm tingle every time they touch and at times he believes that now he loves Erik even more, having discovered new sides of him and new, utterly amazing degree of intimacy. There exists an indescribable pull between them, and it's been strengthened, not weakened by the time.

It's so natural that he catches Erik's grey eyes in a crowd the second he walks in. His thoughts become instantly occupied with Erik: Erik's beloved face, tanned and rugged-looking, must be that assignment in Syria paying off, and, oh joy, the light of recognition in his gaze. Erik's long, dark grey coat effectively accentuates the already dashing lean figure. The supple strength like that of a tiger. And, Charles is definitely keeping this simile to himself, of course, for Erik has extremely low tolerance to corny sappiness and petty metaphors.

Charles waits until a family with kids stops their little welcoming dance and moves towards the lounge area. Then, he takes a couple of fast steps forward, and each step brings him closer until he stands practically within arm's reach from Erik. Charles can't gaze his fill, being so emotionally hungry and yearning so wistfully.

"I missed you a lot," simply says Erik, the corners of his mouth are obviously halfway to a smile.

"I missed you more," says Charles, because he feels like it, and because Erik never buys his attempts at childish teasing anyway.

"It's good that some things do not change," with that Erik drops his handbag and envelops Charles in a tight hug, squeezing him really hard, to the point that he starts feeling the ferocity of the embrace in his bones. So he winds his arms round Erik's back too; in doing so, Charles puts his chin on Erik's shoulder, buries his nose in Erik's red scarf, breathless and totally overwhelmed by the familiar sharp, woody scent, which sort of screams of living on the wild side, he mutters:

"Welcome home, Erik."

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Charles knew that it was coming sooner or later. Therefore, when Erik, after stuffing his luggage in the trunk, demanded that Charles gave him the keys, he didn't even try to voice any protest. But he was worried all the same.

"Erik, you must be jet-lagged."

"And you are still the one looking like recent resuscitation has gone bad."

"I'd rather you didn't say that," fervor seeped into Charles' denial, but it was short-lived. "But, in fact, you are right."

Passenger seat has never felt that good. In a few minute's monologue Charles puts the short tale of his difficult week, briefly mentions an episode which occurred during the last arrest, sensibly simplifying the story for Erik's sake.

"Are you hurt?" Erik sweeps attentive eyes over his face.

"It's a scratch," Charles leans back into the seat, letting his head roll to the side. "Honestly, the only thing which was significantly hurt was my pride."

Charles feels the sleepiness approaching, threatening to swallow the last bits of energy he devotes to listening to Erik's retelling of his adventures. By giving in he will miss the evening with Erik, he was absolutely craving for.

Once they step through the front door, they are greeted by Cat, purring and rubbing herself against Erik's legs, giving him no chance to proceed into the house. Charles chides her and picks her up, thus presenting her with an opportunity to nuzzle and vigorously lick at his face. As usually, at first he cringes at the wetness and scratchy feeling of feline tongue, but bears with it as ticking sensation grows even stronger.

"She is literally holding you in her paws," Erik shakes his head in mock aggravation.

"That she does," reluctantly agrees Charles and tries to discourage her by gently moving her away from his face. "That's really endearing, love, but we need to unpack first."

"Charles, you're barely awake," Erik hangs his coat in the closet and also takes Charles', frowning at it. "I suppose, this goes straight into the laundry basket for now. Speaking of which, I will take care of the bags myself. You should go and take a shower."

Charles has yet to learn how to object in cases when Erik uses this inarguable, positively considerate tone of voice on him.

He stands under the shower spray for what seems like hours, before coming to his senses and reaching for the mint scented shampoo and, after thoroughly washing his hair, takes hold of that odd, dark and scratchy bar soap Erik's bought somewhere in Eastern Europe. It leaves a lasting refreshing effect on his skin; the scratchiness soon turns into revitalizing experience as he lowers his head and lets the pleasantly warm water cascade down his back, washing away the lethargy.

The mirror is clouded with steam, so he wipes it clean with his palm, enjoying the contact with the colder than air glass. Charles supposes, hopes, that now he looks slightly better, and still, the one he sees with tired detachment, the one he observes in the mirror is a blue-eyed stranger, with unnaturally dark-red lips, rather distinctive nose and pinkish blush high on his cheekbones. His bangs, dark because of water, are plastered to his brow, slightly curling, creating the appearance of sagginess. Charles is capable of admitting that he is not the very picture of handsomeness like this, right now, yet he has quite a peculiar face. Recently, he leaned out considerably, not losing the remaining youthful chubbiness altogether, which had not only been a fairly embarrassing trait to spot, but also the main reason for people to treat him like a high school student. His features have never become sharper; they've just got a little more defined. Though he did make Erik worried more than once: he remembers it with affection mixed with dread. At one point in time, Erik has decided that Charles needed to be fed and nurtured for his own good and Charles was plainly torn between purposefully staying late at work or attempting to distract Erik with sex, which, unfortunately, didn't work well every time.

Having found a pair of clean sweatpants and a worn grey T-shirt, he puts them on, and leaves a large towel hanging next to the radiator. He silently pads to the kitchen, led by yellow homely light and the clinking sounds cutlery makes when touching porcelain.

Erik looks up, closes the fridge door, and arches a questioning eyebrow at him.

"I have warmed up the mushroom soup and discovered that you've got an entire roast chicken in a vegetable section," he says and then adds, making it more like an imperative, "Let's have dinner. Tomorrow, we'll need to go shopping, though. There's almost no food left."

"As you say," Charles catches Erik's hand when he comes past him, tugs him closer and kisses him full on the lips.

The hint of stubble Erik is wearing scrapes his soft, clean-shaved skin. Erik reciprocates by running his fingers through his slightly damp hair and angling his head up, delving deeper into his willing mouth. It's a start of a nice, wonderful rhythm and it is so tempting to continue like this, especially when he pushes Erik against the counter and lowers hands to his hips, but Charles breaks the kiss first as he feels the different kind of breathlessness. The one that promptly speaks of the wicked, lingering tiredness.

Charles pulls back a bit, makes eye contact and smiles a tiny, feeble smile.

Erik doesn't say anything; instead, he moves his hands to lightly caress Charles' back though thin cotton fabric.

"Come on, let's eat," he ushers Charles into the chair.

The bowl of steaming, hot soup is waiting for him and, yes, there's a chicken he'd bought yesterday and totally forgotten about it.

"I made you chamomile tea," Erik places a mug in front of him.

It smells heavenly, tempting him to try it.

"Do we have chamomile tea?" wonders Charles, closing his eyes and inhaling a delightfully soothing, herbal aroma.

"Now we do. I've brought it."

"You're amazing," murmurs Charles, taking a careful sip.

"Wait. You should eat the soup first."

"I can't," shrugs Charles, defeated, and fights a new bout of drowsiness. He feels like dozing off right here, at the table. "I must have really overdone it, because the mere thought of eating makes me sort of sick. Sorry. Tomorrow, I'm going to be extra hungry, but right now I can't even bear looking at it."

"Fine," says Erik, carefully considering his words. "You should go to bed then, and have a decent sleep. Will you be able to?"

"Yeah, I suppose," his eyelids are getting so heavy.

He finishes his tea, taking pleasure in the taste and warmth of it; and after that he has to cover a yawn.

"Go already," huffs Erik. "I'll clean up."

"Thank you."

Charles slips into the bedroom in half-daze. He snuggles under the covers, and happily curls up into a cozy position, relaxing his limbs. As soon as his body adopts the soft comfort offered by the large bed, he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep, dead to the world.

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He comes awake to find the covers on the left side of the bed rumpled and no Erik in sight, but, when he shuffles around, he feels the residual traces of warmth on the bed sheets, and, relieved, turns around to look at the digital clock, which promptly blinks 6 a.m. at him in hair-raising, red lights. Oh, thinks Charles, I was so tired yesterday that I forgot to cover this monstrosity. Apparently, Erik has a secret liking to awfully tasteless, flaunting things. This clock, for instance, gives him the creeps, for its' funkydelic design reminds Charles of old horrors, when horrors were still touching something primal deep within your soul, eliciting a true, all-consuming fear. Charles reaches out and switches on the bedside lamp — it bathes the right corner of the room in soft, golden light; weak, but nevertheless creating comforting, intimate atmosphere.

"Did I wake you up?" Erik asks from the doorway as he closes the doors with a quiet click.

"No," Charles shakes his head to emphasize the point.

"It is so quiet in here, early in the morning," reflects Erik and gives Charles a long, thoughtful look, which sends shivers down his spine.

It's surprisingly easy, the way he feels slow blush spreading across his face to his neck, the way his heartbeat quickens, as he feels the surge of desire, beneath the stress, expectations and burdens, like a dam breaking, potent and uninhibited.

"I owe you a proper welcome," he says, a touch hoarse, and holds Erik's eyes, silently beckoning him closer.

It works just great.

Erik is a man and that makes the most intimate experience very different. Yet, Erik is a man he wants. Charles knows that he's a tactile person, he craves it, he craves Erik's bare skin under his fingertips, Erik's lips on his own, Erik's everything. They undress each other in a sweet frenzy. Erik is the first to push him down this time, masterfully rolling his hips, while his hand pins Charles' wrists up to the headboard. Ah, so that's what he wants this time…

The weight of this dearly loved man on top of him is not simply exhilarating, it burns him on the inside like the best liquor and it is so arousing that Charles' mind gets clouded with heady lust. He is so far gone.

"Let me," Erik doesn't ask, he demands, but this is Erik for you.

"All right," softly breaths out Charles and gasps when Erik licks and then bites at the sensitive spot on his neck.

Erik grows bolder, fiercer, he doesn't let go of Charles' hands, and Charles absolutely loves the thrill which overtakes him — the messenger of more heat to come. Erik is too gentle with him for now, leaving a trail of hot kisses down his throat, and lightly sucking and nipping on bare, oversensitive skin. He pays special attention to his nipples, until the tender flesh gets raw and puffy, and Charles would swear that these small sounds escaping his throat are not actually his, for he sounds like a wanton, totally immodest being, lost completely in the throes of passion.

Being entirely unkind, Erik touches him almost everywhere, purposefully neglecting Charles' cock. Erik is a sadist, thinks Charles dazedly, as finally, at last, Erik lets go of his hands. Instinctively, he follow's Erik's unvoiced plea and turns around, into the position Erik wants him in.

"Your hands," he scarcely hears Erik through the wild beating of his overexcited heart. "Grab the headboard, so that I can see them."

"Erik," he pleads, panting, "please, I know what you are doing, but, please, just touch me."

"Later, I will touch you later, Charles. I promise."

When preparing him Erik is usually thorough and methodical, and Charles is thankful for such consideration right now. After all, he hasn't been touched in seven weeks, since the end of summer when Erik had left.

Charles has no proper words to describe how intense it feels: the moment Erik enters him is half exquisite pain, half keen, sensual pleasure. His body turns too heavy, his heart is going mad, his blood is boiling inside his veins and Charles is grounded only by Erik.

He gives a loud, shrill cry he can't contain, just when Erik is done pushing to the hilt.

"A minute," he gets out, feeling warm hand moving in caressing stokes up and down his spine, teeth lightly scraping at the exposed nape.

"I need a minute," he repeats.

Soon, a moan builds up in his throat, born of pleasure, so Erik puts his hands on Charles' hips, tightens his grip and starts thrusting, keeping steady, well-measured rhythm. It isn't long before Erik speeds up, gradually, and begins fucking him with wild abandon, groaning lowly. At this point Charles' vision starts swimming, and he holds onto the backboard with everything he has. Some words are being torn from his mouth, words with no meaning. The center of his entire universe is Erik, who is now devouring his body and claiming his soul.

When Erik's reaching his release, Charles feels it and almost follows suit. But Erik has different plans, for he roughly grabs the base of his cock to keep him from coming, and slides his other arm round Charles' chest, covering him with his body, as he shudders and reaches the peak.

"Let it go, Charles," Erik rasps in his ear. "Come on, I'll touch you now, as promised."

He sits back on his haunches, taking Charles with him, and Charles falls limply into his lap, overheated and fairly out of it, as fine shudders run up and down his frame. Erik murmurs his name, breathing heavily, before reaching around.

It takes a couple of strokes and Charles is coming. It's the euphoria of the purest kind, an instant of total serenity and calmness: he feels so damn great, so passionate, that he wants to verbalize it, to tell Erik how good he feels, if only his lips were obeying him.

Erik hugs him, holding him close, until Charles stops being a pile of very relaxed goo and his rapid heartbeat grows quieter; then, Erik maneuvers them down, onto the bed, dragging the covers up and over them. The aftermath catches up to Charles bit by bit, right after he is done putting his scrambled brain together, and the realization that he's just had one of the best orgasms in his life casts into shade rather unpleasant moist feeling the stickiness and cooling sweat leave on his skin, especially coming into contact with sheets.

"Screamer," says Erik, after a while. He slides his hand from Charles' waist lower and lower, spreading his fingers, he presses his palm, suddenly charged with delightful heat, just below his belly button. This particular, meaningful gesture right now is not so much an exercise of possession as the established reassurance.

"Oh, really?" hums Charles peacefully, still recovering from severe emotional shift. "It's only because of you, anyway."

Craning his neck slightly to look at Erik he sees a smile on his face, curiously emphasized by randomly falling shadows. I know that stare, realizes Charles and, again, there is a spark of arousal and excitement in his lower abdomen.

"One more?" he asks, cheekily, though he is already aware of the answer.

"Only if you insist," easily parries Erik, but naked hunger in his eyes speaks otherwise.

Left suspended in the weird realm, somewhere between a tempting surrender to sleep and unhurried, languid lovemaking, when they can't stop touching each other, Charles thinks that intense is fantastic, but so is this. This amazing exploration binds him closer to Erik, it transfers their relationship on a different plane: every single atom and molecule that compose their existing bodies draw them together with irresistible force.

Indeed, this is the most enjoyable way to overwrite the strain and chaos of everyday life, lazily ponders Charles afterwards, having positively melted into the bed. He's lying on his back, his legs are comfortably tangled with Erik's, who is leaning down on his elbow, facing Charles. And this is exactly one of these rare, precious moments when Erik looks outright relaxed, foregoing a shell everyone is used to, and this makes Charles all more ecstatic.

"I'm in love with a wonderful man," big, and, he can bet on it, stupid smile lights up his face.

"Stop it," Erik leans closer and kisses him, sucks his lower lip between his teeth and, whilst distracting him, uses his free hand to rub his recently covered in loves bites neck, then, too sensitive area around his nipples in tantalizing, circular motions, and then he pinches one. Lightly. But it's enough to get his point across.

"Gods, Erik!" Charles gasps into the kiss and pushes at Erik's chest.

"Are you still sleepy?" conversationally inquires Erik, putting some distance between them.

"No more," frankly admits Charles. "But I'm famished. Do we still have that chicken?"

It appears there was some left, obviously not enough for both of them. After a quick shower and a dash to the nearest supermarket, they've fixed this disaster by stuffing the fridge full. As usual, they fall in an easy flow of familiar routine, as if they have not lived apart at all. While Erik took on cooking, Charles changed the bedding, did laundry and properly scrubbed clean the bathroom.

Outside, a new, sunny day was starting. Rather cool but pleasant nonetheless. There is a reputation for early winter in the city and Charles, when turning on imagination, can already feel a barely noticeable trace, like a looming promise of frost, in the air. Golden autumn has always appealed to him, its' charm and spectacular beauty roots in evanescence and is better observed, should be observed outside the confines of the big, overcrowded city.

Cat, perched on the large sunlit windowsill in the living room, doesn't take well to disturbance. Charles pets her generously warm fur in apology. Erik's house has large, old-fashioned windows with solid wooden frames, and in order to air the room Charles has to win a fight with stubborn construction. Frustrated, he bites his lip, when wood gives a screeching protest under the force of his insistent tugging. Goodness, and neither of them has free time for full-scale remodeling. It's a shame that Charles knows next to nothing about it; after all, he never had a house he could call his own, putting rented flats and vacant familial heirloom aside. Yet, Erik has gifted him one, casually and effortlessly.

The meal is substantial enough to feed approximately dozen hungry children from Africa. Well, those morning exercises definitely gave him good stomach for late breakfast or better call it early lunch, not that it matters.

Mundane house chores take up almost all day, and when Charles is on his way back from the dry-cleaners, darkness almost takes him by surprise. Night falls so quickly, as though someone turns an invisible, magic switch and — here we go.

Erik is in the living room, he is wiping his hands with a towel and Charles turns to look at the corner of the room, where a fireplace is coming to life with indolent reluctance. It's an old one, and earlier Charles had absolutely no idea that it could still be used. With wood, a certain skill is required to light a fire, and, what more important, wood. Where did it come from?

"Um, Erik, I didn't know that it was in, well, working order."

"Why don't you ask directly — why the hell did you start a fire in the first place?"

"I guess, you had a good reason," now Charles notices that Erik is wearing a wool sweater and the tips of Charles' fingers are not getting warmer. "The heating system isn't working, right?"

"It's nice to encounter a senior inspector worth his salt once in a while," sardonically proclaims Erik, and adds, abandoning the acid tone, "You should light it from time to time in any case. Damn, I forgot to remind you."

"It's all right," Charles comes closer and crouches near the fireplace. "I should have thought about it too."

"I've been told that they will send someone tomorrow in the morning. Also, something's wrong with the radiator."

"It never rains but it pours," melancholically replies Charles.

"Certainly."

Charles feels intuitively that now a minute display of affection will be welcome, so he straightens and heads to Erik. He does his best to convey the reassuring calm he wants to share by patting his shoulder or something. Charles didn't have much experience in this department, but, it seems, neither did Erik. Should try experimenting, then. Suddenly mischievous, Charles presses closer to nuzzle his face against Erik's neck. The skin there is warm, and his nose must feel really cold in contrast.

"You are worse than your animal," drawing back, Erik pushes Charles away, forcibly turning him around. "Kitchen. Bring the plates. We'll eat here."

"Yes, sir," with this small victory he beats a hasty retreat.

When he is done settling to sleep on the unfolded sofa and the darkness starts spinning, mind getting unfocused, Erik casually says, all of a sudden:

"Let's go on a road trip."

"Sure," dreamily murmurs Charles, burrowing himself deeper under the duvet, and marveling at the sheer intensity of reviving warmth Erik's body provides, like a furnace, along Charles' side.

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Next day in the morning Charles found out that he hadn't dreamt that up. All he said was:

"Um, Erik, so you were serious."

"Of course," not for the first time today, Erik gave him a dubious, unimpressed look. This one must be put into the archive in the section — Erik is being really obvious and Charles is being extremely slow.

"But, why? I mean, we've planned to —"

"I thought, it would be great for you, for us. Something spontaneous, a new experience to get rid of stress and what not," gods, Erik is devious when it comes to pulling at his strings. "Besides, you've never done something like that. Am I right, your Majesty?"

That particular joke is getting terribly and painfully outdated.

"Don't try to manipulate me," lightly scoffed Charles, and considered crossing his arms to emphasize his point, almost forgetting that he was actually washing the plates. "And, frankly, I used to believe that you are the one tired of constant trips. Shouldn't you be, by the way?"

"That's different, because we're going together," patiently said Erik, wiping the last plate with vigor better suited for other purposes.

When the road trip was a fixed decision so that no objection could be made to it Charles found out that his reluctant consent quickly transformed into cheerful anticipation.

It is always like that: everything starts with a single compelling thought, a fantasy about the future and then his imagination runs wild, creating a beautiful picture of how-it-is-supposed-to-be in his head. Somehow, Erik is aware of this particular trait; well, Erik knows him after all.

As far as Charles' dreams went, the first town they've stopped in was a perfect, picturesque autumn heaven on earth. It was great pleasure to explore the unfamiliar place without a guide, neither bearing any usual touristic expectations nor sticking to the definite route. The joy of it was intoxicatingly, refreshingly new, so Charles decided to thank Erik properly, which left both of them satisfyingly exhausted to the extent that they have even slept in the following morning.

Sometime later, in the afternoon, he remembers Erik regarding him with slightly worried face and telling him that he would take on driving. Then, Charles remembers dozing off while staring at the astonishing kaleidoscope of red, golden and orange foliage through the car window, mind wandering far, far away from here. Autumn beauty brings wistful deafness and numbness, the lull of it is powerful yet lenient.

Provided that his inner clock works in order, like always, he wakes up from his unintended slumber very soon, in half an hour or so. There's a dim, half-memory of falling asleep, so he just sighs, confused and a little embarrassed, brushes his fringe aside, rubs at his eyes and then halts on the spot, suddenly feeling the absence of gentle hum associated with the working engine. And, indeed, he is still facing the window and the scenery is the same, except that it's not in motion: the trees he sees are still, but for the breeze and Charles turns to ask Erik why he stopped the car. Only, Erik is not there. Charles despises himself a bit for chill despair he feels immediately upon discovery and laughs off his unease, berating himself for overreacting. Convinced that Erik has probably stepped outside, whatever the reason may be, he opens the door, too quickly, maybe, because he has every fair right to be nervous. Straightening, he sweeps his frantic eyes around, surveying his surroundings with caution. No one is here. Charles tilts his head up. The sky is very, very blue, air is cold and smells of foliage and road dust, the faint ruffling of leaves is reaching his ears and… nothing else. Making tactical decision, Charles carefully walks around the car, awkwardly stopped as it is, in the middle of the fairly narrow road, he thinks how unusual it is for Erik to ignore the wayside, and where is he? Goodness, where?

He suddenly feels like screaming Erik's name, a naïve, truly childish desire to break the stale, oppressive silence of the lonely road, surrounded by thick forest, turned unfriendly and threatening in an instant, but he can't, as the very first syllable catches in his clogged up throat, rendering him mute and helpless. Charles feels so utterly alone, like he's lost everyone and everything dear, like his world has been brutally shattered. Sharp panic stabs at his chest, and he can feel a poisonous, deep fear rising in him.

Among deathlike stillness she appears out of nowhere — a young, slim, dark-haired woman. Charles blinks in surprise, before his eyes widen considerably at the sight, for he can't ignore the truth and she stands right here, in front of him, and he can see tears rolling down her blood-stained cheeks, he can discern multiple scratches on her dirty hands as she clenches them defensively, staring at something over his shoulder with wild, vigilant eyes. A victim of recent assault — Charles' professional side supplies. Probably, traumatized out of her mind. Then, she grabs his hand, cold, so cold, and Charles gets a disconnected impression of the mind-crashing sorrow, then running through the forest, whipped by undergrowth, deeper and deeper, away from the road. Among the despair and numbing grief he sees-hears the name Elizabeth and comes awake to Erik firmly clasping his forearm and repeating his name for what seems like neither the second nor the third time.

Badly startled, Charles flinches and gasps, loudly, stranded in between his horrific dream and reality where Erik is getting more concerned and where his vision is clouded with silent tears and he has no fair idea why. And thank god it was only a dream — he thinks, shuddering in the aftermath of an awfully vivid nightmare the likes of which he hasn't experienced in ages.

"Charles, how are you feeling?"

Erik's hold on him relaxes and it is almost like a caress, the way his hand starts subtly stroking Charles' shoulder. His grey eyes are alight with shifting emotion, searching Charles' face for any traces of concealed ailment.

"I believe, I'm okay… um, just a bad dream. A very bad dream," he breaths in greedily, as if surfacing for precious air from the ocean depths, noting that his skin turned disgustingly clammy and the shirt he wears under the cardigan is sticking to his back like cold, tacky second skin he wishes he didn't have.

"You're bleeding," Erik's words cause a feeling like that you get in a shower when warm water suddenly turns freezing.

Now, he feels it too, the wetness on his upper lip and Charles lifts his fingers to it, but Erik is faster. He confidently clasps Charles' icy fingers round the handkerchief, which, Charles learns, smells exactly like Erik.

"Hold it there. I'll be back soon," glowers Erik, his voice gets lower, rougher, touched already with a hint of apprehension and urgency. He reaches for his coat, left on the backseat, and Charles finally understands that the car has stopped.

As though a curtain covering the world around him was just lifted, so sounds and sight rush back in, threatening to shake the unsteady placidity he wills himself to maintain. Their car is on the wayside, and Charles notices the reason as soon as his eyes get fixated on the welter straight ahead, right at the turning. There are two police cars, an ambulance and, he squints, trying to discern the vehicle in the distance. A road accident?

The urge to see intensifies by the second as he snatches his coat too and quickly exits the car, mindful of carefully wiping the traces of the sudden nosebleed, which went away as soon as it has appeared. Cold wind outside adds to his discomfort, for Charles is not in love with the moistness it blows into his face, and he regrets leaving behind the scarf, but it will wait. The pull he never stops feeling grows stronger and stronger, beckoning him, calling to him like never before, and bending his awareness to the point that his feet are, sort of, carrying him on their own volition.

Upon approaching Erik talking to the policeman in the black formal jacket he hears the fragments of the conversation: his mind latches onto armed assault and the third one and he can't keep it in any more, he must ask.

"Where is she?" words are leaving his lips without any conscious effort.

Young man with stunned surprise on his features swiftly turns to him. Erik, in turn, meets his eyes with a frown.

"What do you mean, Charles?"

"Sir," Charles is regarded with caution, but the question is addressed to Erik. "Who is this?"

"He's with me, Munoz."

"I mean Elizabeth," conviction comes so easy. "May I see?"

Charles actually doesn't wait for the approval; he slides between the two of them, using the moment to cover the remaining dozen of feet obscuring the crime scene from him.

The car he sees is the new model of Ford; it is white and the shocking splatter of blood against its side, where the dent is situated, seems more terrifyingly palpable. The driver and passenger's doors are wide open and experts are already busy with the car and, yes, Charles grimly turns to the left, the black body bag is still unzipped. Short hair, broad, angular male face is all he is able to notice, before someone roughly grabs his elbow, spinning him around.

"Where the fuck did you spring from?"

The husky, bronzed, moustached man with guttural speech gave him a brief once-over, shaking him for emphasis.

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry…"

Charles is finally coming back to his senses just as Erik literally swoops down like an eagle.

"Get his hands off him right now," he barks a sharp order, glaring imperiously.

In such fashion Charles gets his arm back, because outraged Erik in the authority mode usually encourages weaker people to appreciate the merit of the compliance.

"What's going on, Munoz, Blake? Why are these people loitering here?"

Tall, thin man in brown trench coat, a local detective — wagers Charles, regards them with snooty expression one may reserve for especially ugly, annoying insects and Charles knows that detective Ripley is ready to snap, because a strange whisper echoes in his head one last time, telling him about the recent divorce, a heated argument with his lover and now his goddamn, fucking job which he has always despised.

Good god… blood drains from Charles' face as he perceives painstakingly clearly, for the first time since waking up, what is happening to him; moreover, the most horrible assumptions come rushing into his mind. He has to clench his hands into fists in order to control the strong impulse to clutch his head instead, in vain attempt to restore his slipping mental concentration.

"Charles," Erik steps up closer to him almost noiselessly, ignoring the rising commotion. "Go back, alright? I'll deal with this".

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" detective Ripley became positively livid after being ignored.

Not keen on the idea of staying here and cowardly admitting to himself that trespassing was really Charles' fault, for he can't and won't deny this, he lets Erik deal with the consequences for once.

Back in the car he tried to relax, blindly switched on the radio only to hear the weather report. It wasn't long before Erik came back, accompanied by gesticulating Munoz. Charles watched them through lowered eyelashes, whilst pretending to look at his firmly clasped hands resting on his lap and at the same time feeling incredibly useless.

"We need to turn around and go back, there's a detour we can use," tells him Erik, sitting down and turning the key in the ignition.

For many different reasons Charles is simply unable to bear the silence, hence he musters the last vestiges of courage, safely stored under all the shame.

"Sorry. I don't know what has got into me… I'm really sorry, Erik," his words are sloppy and his voice hitches pathetically.

"You're not well," Erik turns to throw him a mild look. "So, you'd better stop fooling around and tell me what's wrong. I can't read your mind, you know."

It's funny, in a cruel way.

"You are right, something's wrong with me. Either I am crazy or I've just heard someone else's thoughts, and I've seen this girl in my dream, the one who escaped the murderer and I'm very sca-confused, Erik, I don't know what to do, what to think anymore."

At that, Erik swears loudly, stomping down the brakes, and for one long, suspended moment it occurs to Charles that he should have phrased it better. Fortunately, seatbelts save them both from imminent injury.

Charles shifts weakly on his seat, wary of meeting Erik's eyes, all the nerves in his body are buzzing and his head feels heavy with abrupt dizziness.

"I'm sorry, Erik," he chokes out. "But, please, believe me, because I'm telling the truth. I'm not crazy," he adds after a moment of careful consideration, "I, I think."

"You think, huh? And quit apologizing so much, Charles, I already told you before," Erik sighs resignedly, he leans back into the seat and shuts his eyes, "I was more worried you would collapse right there, staring at that damn car. Putting this dream stuff aside, Munoz told me that this is the third accident on this road. There were two similar episodes in September. The driver and the passengers were shot, although nothing was taken."

"Killed just for the sake of killing?" Charles is thinking quickly. "How do they make the driver stop the car? Hitch-hiker? No, I guess not. Spike strip or something like that?"

"Right," that familiar smirk does wonders to Charles' mood. "You see, your grasp of situation is satisfactory, which is a solid proof that you can think clearly. So, start from the very beginning and explain what's wrong. I need the unabridged story, if you please."

After Charles is finished telling him everything point blank, Erik absently rubs the back of his neck, digesting everything he has heard.

"Do you believe me?" timidly tries Charles.

"Definitely," a nod, "I believe that you've given a detailed account. From your perspective. But — "

"But, what?"

"You've got hurt before, a nasty concussion, you remember? Also, you've been exhausted lately, mentally and physically. One thing is as clear as day to me — you need medical treatment and rest. All in all, this trip was not such a good idea, I have to admit."

After hearing these words his heart aches for Erik, so Charles leans closer and rests his hand atop Erik's knee, patting it lightly.

"Ah, so that's what you think," all objections die on his tongue as he forces his voice to stay more or less level. "But, no one can foresee the future. And I enjoyed it a lot, I did."

Yet, lately, a flood of bitterness washes over Charles, and intellectually he realizes that Erik's sound, logical reasoning can be well understood, especially in such circumstances, but neglect and detachment start corroding him from the inside. Perhaps, he complicated everything himself: he should have approached the detective and could have fabricated some plausible story, anything to tell the police about the missing girl, who is now scared, alone in the woods, could probably be chased by the shooter or shooters, while Charles was busy making an idiot of himself.

And, what exactly has he done?

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The entire town was safely squeezed in the valley between the hills. Charles does recollect reading about it earlier. Nothing special: one rather large lake, a lot of farms, two manufacturing plants and little more than ten thousand inhabitants. The cottages around the lake were described as "efficient and charmingly simple", which was an odd combination in his humble opinion and initially they didn't plan to stay there at all. So, naturally, here they are, enjoying the perks of a really simple cottage, and the barely civil attitude of the owner. Charles dryly mused that if the man wasn't intimidated by Erik, they wouldn't get a room under some foolish pretense at all. When he slid out of the cottage later, while Erik was in the shower, he learned that stairs to the dock were suspiciously rickety. You shouldn't use them in case you are not eager to test the hardness of all bones in your body, indeed. In his predicament, though, he'll do anything to get a proper head start.

Guilty doesn't even begin to describe how he feels, when he drives in the supposed direction of the local police station. His selfish pride, which was feeding upon a simple rule of never betraying Erik's trust appeared empty, like that house he remembers: majestic outside but abandoned for good, devoid of any life. He sent Erik a short text saying — Forgive me, but I need to make sure, grimacing internally at the crude wording.

No price is too high to pay when it comes to saving a life. Even the one as painful as this.

By chance he runs right into Munoz exiting the station and talking on the phone. Young man drops the bag he was carrying and gapes at Charles with his mouth hanging open. Well, Charles expected to be recognized, but such reaction was a bit too much to his liking.

"You're that psychic!" he exclaims, as Charles makes a gesture that indicates that he wants to keep this little piece of information to himself.

They have started to receive some weird looks.

"Please, I beg you, not so loudly. Also, I'm not a psychic, it was a mere lucky guess," Charles hushes him and smiles, shakily, "And call me Charles."

He is lucky, realizes Charles. Lucky to meet someone willing to talk to him in the unfamiliar place.

"I'm Armando," he gets in response and shakes the offered hand.

"Armando, so may I see detective assigned to that case?"

"That's not a very good idea," sheepishly says Armando, shooting a sideways glance in the direction of the station entrance.

With a sigh, Charles shows him his badge and Armando immediately reacts by straightening his posture. It's a bloody magic wand, reflects Charles idly, putting it back into his inner pocket.

"It's still not a very good idea, sir."

Aha, this is becoming more interesting, then.

"It is Charles. I was, I am on vacation, after all. Care to explain why I shouldn't speak to detective Ripley?"

"Okay, sir — Charles, he's," Armando gets interrupted by no one but husky Blake, who, upon noticing Charles, sneers in a very unpleasant way.

"We're, we should be leaving," Armando intentionally gestures to the side and Charles hastens to keep up with his long strides.

"What is going on?" questions him Charles, throwing a confused look at his colleague.

"There's a gossip that the captain's son is mixed up."

"A gossip?" dubiously repeated Charles.

"My gran used to say that there's no smoke without fire," solemnly nodded Armando. "In a town like this, it seems that you know almost everybody or have heard about everybody, but, in fact, you know no one."

"That's, hmm, very deep, but moving on to murder…"

"Yeah, you were right about the girl," Charles feels a pang in his chest, partly crushing relief, partly fear. "They were siblings: Brandon and Elizabeth Braddock, uh, were travelling to visit their aunt and uncle… detective found the brother's ID in the jacket. Fortunately, his phone, I mean the murdered brother's, was intact and Ripley called a recently dialed number. We have yet to identify the body, you know how it goes. And someone tried to cover the tracks around the car and in the surrounding forest too. A good job, Blake says and Blake is from a dynasty of hunters."

"If you know that she's missing, why aren't you looking for her?" goodness, he'll get grey hair from this.

"Because the captain hadn't ordered. But, we'll start tomorrow, I guess."

"Oh, of course, he is probably busy," sourly drawled Charles, "he must have dozens of extremely grievous crimes at his hands."

Stop sounding like Erik, he chides himself, — condescending doesn't suit you.

"Sir, er, Charles, we just do things differently here," blurted Armando and they fell into rigid silence.

"Just don't forget: there are wolves out there this time of the year," he added in warning.

"Wolves, you say? Splendid."

What are the chances that she is still alive? In the wild forest, alone, probably, without any supplies. It's getting darker, and she's already missing for about six hours. Not much, but surviving the night is quite a great deal, darkly thought Charles, considering his options. Now, a hint, like the one he had in the afternoon, would come in handy. But his mind is working just fine, no strange whispers and nothing extraordinary. Anyway, now Charles knows for sure that everything he had seen, felt was not a by-product of his overacting imagination, and this knowledge, in fact, was a great relief.

He should have asked more questions, but, before he assembled his thoughts in order, Armando bid farewell and quickly disappeared around the next corner.

As it was a nice evening, Charles chose to stroll along the street, thinking on his feet, paying no special regard to rare pedestrians and small shops he passed. There were a lot of puzzling things on his mind, all the probabilities and possibilities he had to take into account, as well as the mystery of this ill-timed bizarre phenomenon pursuing him. Knowing Erik well, Charles supposed that his car has already been located and seeing that the lack of keys never stopped Erik before, he may as well text him and ask him to pick Charles up. God help me to find the words to placate him — comes a sad, remorseful thought. He tips his head up and to the right to look at the street name and the house number, while his fingers are typing the short text. Someday, Erik will give in and buy himself a proper phone, the one with GPS at least, hopes Charles. But Erik can boast a marvelous sense of direction and visual memory without any technical assistance.

Maybe, he marvels, Erik also has a gift he's never used to full extent. No, it just sounds ridiculous, but, Charles briefly imagines Erik doing something awesome, like moving cars or bridges, for instance, with a flick of his wrist and mighty frown. Oh, it would look utterly amazing, magnificent even.

Whispers return with overwhelming force and the assault nearly brings him to his knees as he instinctively covers his ears with his hands, for this time there are two different voices screaming violence and murder at him and the dive into the very essence of these presences is fast, repulsive and is making him sick. They are going to attack him any moment now, he must move this instant. Charles bites his lower lip so hard that he tastes salty blood on his tongue, but spark of pain helps to clear his mind enough to let him dodge the grip he felt coming his way. Charles turns around, throws his whole weight into the move and kicks the side of the attacker's knee. There's a grunt of pain and the man, the masked man, loses his balance just as Charles jabs an elbow into the ribs. Right then, he misses a wicked punch into his side from the other attacker and it's unfair how much it hurts. Luckily, Charles manages to ignore the devastating need to bend down and cough his insides out and thus being pummeled to the ground.

The second assailant is masked too. Well, what a surprise. Charles backs to his left until he leans on the wall of the building, and now, with his back protected he can counterattack more effectively. As if. Trying to punch that guy back is like hitting a brick wall. Such amazing abdominal muscles have always been the subject of his petty envy. The guy doesn't even jerk backwards, and Charles feels something crack in his neck when he tries to twist away from the incoming jab to the head, which would have knocked him down for good.

Everything is a mess then: he registers more noise, more running and some shouting as he slides down the wall, grateful for its' support, and sits down on the ground as though in a heap. Pounding in his head dissipates a bit and turns more focused: it now resembles a tight, steel band squeezing his head.

"Hello, Erik," he slurs happily, squinting at the approaching shadow, dancing before his eyes, and suddenly hears the onslaught of feelings, emotions, extraordinarily structured and bright like thousand, billion suns. Please, don't be hurt, please, be all right echoes in Erik's head and Charles lowers his head down, ashamed, because love that washes over him is too fierce, too much for his guilty conscience.

"Oh, Erik," he concentrates on the light of Erik's brilliant mind as Erik bends down, seizing his collar with both hands and pulling him up.

"Unforgivable," snarls Erik into his face. "You hear? Taking off like that is unforgivable!"

"Uh, I know, Erik. I deserve the blame… But still, please, forgive me, my friend," whispers Charles feebly and fixes him with a look of intense, devoted affection.

I love you too

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This time blood refused to stop quickly, so Charles' voice comes out weirdly muffled, it's all this paper towel's fault, as he proceeds to tell Erik what he discovered. He is sitting on the bed in their rented cottage and Erik is taking care of the scratches on his hands, which could have waited till morning, and Charles had already said that a couple of times without any reaction from his self-appointed caretaker, that's why he dropped the issue.

"It was truly fascinating, a flood of all verbalized and not verbalized ideas, thoughts, emotions, even memories, but unfortunately it was very loud: imagine two different radio stations switched on in your head simultaneously, top volume. Not only you can't discern a word, but you also can't endure the noise. Ouch! By the way, you do believe me now, don't you?"

"I might have heard something. Maybe…"

Glaring at him, Erik presses so hard on purpose, because, surely, applying ointment doesn't mean rubbing it into the area where the skin is torn.

"Bandage?" asks Erik, holding out a fresh paper towel for him.

"Thank you," Charles lifts it to his nose and notices with relief that the bleeding, apparently, became less intense. "No, I don't think bandage will do; air will heal it better than covering it up. Well, regardless, I have a hypothesis."

"Charles, look at me. Please."

He had no choice but obey, with crimson blush high on his cheeks.

"You said that you know what I feel, right? I need some confirmation," says Erik evenly, but in fact he's agitated, evidently preserving his composure by a desperate effort.

"Calm down, Erik," Charles reaches for his hand on the blanket between them and squeezes it firmly. "I'm not going anywhere, if I can help it."

"Why is there always if with you?"

"This is how life works, I reckon," he shrugs and attempts a grin but his lip hurts, a painful reminder.

"You deny me the right to protect you," stubbornly continues Erik, more insistent.

Their eyes meet and lock.

"Not intentionally," observes Charles somberly when the weight of understanding with a note of misery settles upon his chest. "But, just think about it, it's something we do, because we care about each other. You also have a habit of dealing with your messes on your own and so do I. Say, do you believe it is ever going to change?"

"And you?" Erik is quite visibly considering the question.

"I honestly have no sodding idea," he confesses and adds, "Where was I? Ah, well then, I have a nice hypothesis, which may shed some light on this curious phenomenon."

"Be so kind and share, will you?"

"I suppose, I know why it happens so occasionally. Maybe, I'm not sure, this is just a mere hypothesis, please remember that, but what if I can, how do I phrase it," Charles finally put the bloodied paper towel aside and gingerly touched his puffy, busted lower lip, contemplating his next words. "What if I could hear those people and you this once because they were mentally unbalanced at the time, extremely agitated, very nervous, like they were screaming, only screaming inside their heads, needed to be heard?"

"But you still don't know how to control it or how to, well, induce it?"

"Nope. I wish I did."

"And now you're going to tell me that you decided to go looking for that missing girl, even despite the fact that it's almost midnight, right?"

"Yeah. My intention, exactly," confirmed Charles, and, besides, Erik's expression signified that he was already resigned. "And there might be wolves. Real gray wolves, I checked on the Internet."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"We have to leave this town as soon as possible, it's evident," ponders Charles aloud, "The negligence of police here is fairly disturbing."

"And it is not our business," Erik stood up and strode to the window, carefully peering outside through the gap in the drapes, "I don't understand why you insist on contacting this Ripley."

"Precisely." Charles leaned forward, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "I want to try it because Armando told me not to. You see, he was lying. Protecting someone will be my presumption. Lies tell so much, too much actually, that's why I decided to let him continue that little charade. In the end, he did warn about wolves, which was really sweet of him."

"What the hell, Charles! So, you were not sure about the ambush?"

"Erik, I'm not a prophet," who knew that his taunting would work so fast, — impossible, must be an unfortunate coincidence, "I do have a couple of plans as a rule, but, as practice shows, it rarely works out: too many variables, mm, people, who are generally considered predictable, surprise you and the list goes on and on. In any case, I need to get the grasp of the current situation at least a little before attempting anything."

"Yeah, you are something else," Erik said, very evidently amused.

It was decided that Erik would be the one speaking to detective Ripley, because Charles has already left an unpleasant first impression, which, he firmly believes, was not his fault. God bless Hank, who has got him his address and phone number, and sent him the reports related to earlier murders from their database without asking unnecessary questions.

While Erik was busy talking on the phone in the adjoining kitchen, Charles cautiously laid down on the top of the blanket, staring at the white ceiling; he was a little sore, but he reasoned that one blow to the liver couldn't possibly be that serious. To be frank, all he was longing for was curling up under the covers with Erik and resting for days to come.

He tightly closes his eyes, trying to shut out the outside world and concentrate.

There is a riot of emotions inside him — Charles is keyed up to such a pitch of great anticipation that his brain is running light years a second and all his attempts to rein it in have failed, for fire burning him from the inside is a force beyond anything he's encountered. Indeed, he's enraptured with it, with his new awareness and with the senses that woke up so abruptly, lying dormant for years, he bets, and waiting for the right time. An internal battle between healthy skepticism and simple curiosity is lost. He doesn't know what is happening, and it is the strangest he has ever felt decides Charles, but, but if he can use this to do something good he shouldn't hesitate, he may accept it like an unexpected and confusing gift, which is a gift nonetheless. If you can't change the circumstances, change the attitude they say.

Don't resist he tells himself, let it flow. Before his mind's eye there slowly crystallizes an image of a swift-flowing, great river, torrents of water drifting majestically past him, the depth and the raw power of the infinite stream is luring him closer and closer. Amazed and intimidated, he approaches it, kneels down and looks into it and his mind starts reeling. He could see everyone; he could hear everything; the world…

"Damn it! Charles, wake up!" his cheeks sting and Charles snaps back to the room, to Erik's bright presence next to him.

"You weren't responding," notified him Erik through gritted teeth, his face completely devoid of any color.

"I believe, you've just saved my life," weakly says Charles and his whole body starts shaking as Erik slips his arm beneath his shoulders, drags his torso up, grabs him tightly, and hugs all air out of his lungs.

Charles feels strangely bare, as though skinned alive, as though being back in the physical body is too painful, almost unmanageable for him right now. Something intangible in him latches on to Erik and Charles makes a titanic effort, barely in time, to keep himself from what his new-found instincts are up to in a survival mode. Surprisingly enough, it helps. Charles is not unfamiliar to shock, has some firsthand experience, and can probably offer a few tips of his own in case the emergency arises. Only this time it's different, this time it is not about overcoming, fighting or simply bearing with it. It's all about controlling his mind. Yeah, like a chessboard. Manageable, like chess pieces he wields.

"I am not ready to dive yet," his lips are grazing up the side of Erik's neck and then normally such position is a lead on to teasing and mounting tension of the best kind, now he gladly bathes in the sense of security and care his partner projects.

"What are you muttering there?"

"Never mind, it was only a metaphor."

Erik made a strangled, very uncharacteristic sound, not exactly a laugh, but close.

When he helped Charles to his feet after a verbal plea to release him, Erik gave him a promising look, which didn't downplay his unease and confusion, perpetually pursuing both of them all day long in a form of plenty mischievous accidents and revelations.

"I hate this… This is so fucked up, beyond any reason, any semblance of control whatsoever. Do you realize that earlier I wanted to leave you here, probably handcuffed to something as a precaution, so that I could finally sort this shit out? Now I know that leaving you on your own is the worst idea ever," heaved a groan Erik, returning to his full familiar self.

"You're not joking," flatly says Charles, but the indignation isn't strong enough to sweep aside the bitter remnants of guilt.

"Hmm, if only," after glancing at Charles, a cunning expression, followed by a rising eyebrow, dawns into Erik's eyes.

Charles scowls and turns his back on him, stifling a smile, because there's no need, in his opinion, to make Erik smug.

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They left their car parked next to the cottage. On such a short notice Erik bargained an old, grumpy vehicle belonging to no less grumpy owner of their rented cottage, which was expendable according to Erik, and was plain terrible according to Charles. Also, the crunchy upholstery smelled like soured, bitter milk, some odd flavor it was, and the aroma of cheap cigarettes was just a cherry on top.

Nothing spells imminent danger so far, reflects Charles, eyeing the trees. If anything, the bright moonlight accentuated the disheveled beauty of the wilderness. Mostly unspoilt, deprived of human presence nature. Well, almost deprived.

"I know that I can find her, Erik."

Little does Erik know that the basis of his optimism is sheer panic that everything may go horribly wrong. Yet, he has hope. With Erik by his side he always does.

"Charles, if I had doubted you, why would I come with you?"

"To make sure that I don't get into trouble will be my guess."

"You do have a point, but that's not it," remarks Erik, watching the road.

"Stop here," says Charles when they approach the place where the murder occurred. He takes in the area restricted by the yellow signature tape, though with no car in sight, of course. "I think we'd better start from the very beginning."

Okay, here goes nothing; Charles gives Erik a firm nod and faces the trees, taking a first measured step forward.

Not surprised by the fact that Erik appeared to be armed and having been scolded for leaving his firearm back at home, Charles still received the gun of his own, for Erik tends to carry a spare one lately, so no harm was done. At least, Charles was secretly glad that his boots were sturdy and comfortable enough for an unexpected walk in the woods. Such little niceties comfort him immensely when nervousness takes possession of him more and more.

"Did you notice?" asks Erik in a carefully hushed, collected voice, as their shoulders bump together.

Charles listens. Dear god, there are so many different sounds: their intruding footsteps are terribly clumsy in comparison to the organized noise his ears register around them. The more he strains to hear the more enchanted he becomes. There is a low murmur of wind playing with the leaves of the tree crowns, the ground mysteriously shuffles and breathes under their feet, and Charles is on the stage of determining whether or not trees are alive, because they are surely emitting very distinct grating and creaking. Trying to ignore the parade of goosebumps down his back, he diligently takes Erik's advice and mentally sorts the sounds into categories, starting by the ones which are the closest and moving on. Surely, in the distance, behind them, he hears something disturbingly resembling footsteps.

"I do now," a dry twig snaps beneath his foot with a startling crack and Charles cringes in distress.

At the same time he feels a spark of recognition, a short pulse, at the very edge of his perception, as yet tiny and barely there, but there nevertheless. It is curiously buzzing, but he chooses not to dwell on that, and catches Erik's hand to attract his attention.

"What happened?"

"To the right."

"Fine," Erik is a shade too calm. "But I'll deal with whoever is tailing us first."

"How can I help?"

"Be a good bait and make a lot of noise."

"In other words, go on like you always do," mutters Charles to no one and pats the rough trunk of the nearest tree absentmindedly.

As soon as Erik has left, Charles' fervid fantasy got to work, filling forest with suggestive shadows moving across the trees and the outlines of something or someone lurking behind the trees he quickly passed by. Stop this suggestive thinking this instant and pay attention to the fact that you're being followed, for god's sake. It is alright to be enveloped by fear, but it is not alright to submit to it and let it occupy your mind and badly thwart your judgment.

Footsteps were getting nearer before they disappeared completely, followed by a dull, vague sound a body must have made when falling down. Hoping that Erik didn't resort to serious bodily harm, and hoping that the one who fell down was not Erik, Charles drew the gun and prudently made his way back, keeping his head on a swivel and thanking the rich, silvery moonlight for illumination. Lately, these little precautions, seemingly trifles, have started to blend in his habits, changing his nature; they were common and yet scarcely evident: like his choice to sit with his back to the wall and facing the entrance when in a room, constantly thinking about "ifs" and doing mental calculations how to stop possible trouble from happening. Previously, he used to think that Erik was paranoid, but now he understands him a lot more and the mindset he inherited has saved his life not only once.

Charles subsequently strolled up into the clearing, overgrown with small pines, and first of all his eyes fall on Erik's silhouette cut with a distinct sharpness and then he notices another person, a man Erik had spun round and whose arm he'd twisted behind his back, drawing a painful groan and promptly pushing the man to his knees on the ground.

In a couple of strands Charles covers the distance separating them. He doesn't hide the gun, however, clearly realizing that one can't be too careful in this situation.

Armando looks up at him, grimacing. Shadows are more pronounced thus Charles is unable to properly see the expression he's wearing.

"What are you doing here eludes me," nonchalantly informs him Charles. "Unless you have forgotten your own warning you have been so kind to offer."

"I already told him that I, I can explain," he grunted.

By referring to him Armando quite obviously meant Erik, who was hardly in the mood for conversation at the best of times.

"Well, I'm listening. Please, be brief."

"Can you tell him to let go of me? Uh, sir?"

"I'm afraid, I'm not in the position to do so. Different jurisdictions, you see."

"Huh?"

"Speak," Erik expresses his rapidly increasing displeasure by forcing Armando's arm upwards and eliciting a high-pitched cry. "Speak or I'll break your arm. Who teaches you dumbasses self-defense these days? Your grandmother?"

"Erik, don't overdo it," Charles crouches in order to be on the same eye-level with their catch.

"I know, I know it was Max who shot them, everyone is talking about it," he splutters. "He's been to the Far East, troop-carrier forces, he, he returned recently and I talked to him, the bastard is nuts, like one hundred percent nuts."

"Max, the captain's son?" Charles is beginning, he believes, to grasp the general picture.

"Yep, I told you, didn't I? Why didn't you listen to me and leave?"

"It should be clear why, really. And what is your reason?"

"Okay, fuck this, you're an inspector, maybe you know what to do," Armando stutters, gulps down a lump. "Max's brother, Danny, um, he is, he was my best friend, he was going to be a detective, to go to the academia. I know that he's not like them, he isn't."

"A sob story to remember," Charles can tell by the shift of the tone that Erik is scowling at the moment as he cuts off the slightly hysterical monologue. "I'm already fed up. Who is the third member of the merry threesome and how in hell are you still a policeman?"

"Not sure, please, let go, it must be Paul, he and Max have graduated the same year, they have been hanging together ever since, covering up each other and now Danny —"

"Look here, Armando," standing up, Charles met uncertain, wavering stare, "It's a bit foolish and irrational to let your concern obstruct the investigation, and what kind of investigation, only consider it. It appears, your friends are hunting people, aren't they?" he asks, coldly.

"What do you think I was doing?" cries Armando desperately. "I actually believed you, I was looking for her! I'm trying to save her before they…"

"They what?" urged him Erik impatiently.

"The dogs," mumbles he. "I overheard Max speaking on the phone, ran into him just before you, sir, near the precinct. He mentioned it in passing and I put two and two together."

Charles' anxiety manifested anew, making him more determined to continue the search before it was too late. It was incredibly fortunate, that Erik understood him without any words.

"Get lost!" he pointedly told Armando and released him.

Without looking back Charles darted to the right and into the thicket. Fear made him lighter and swifter on his feet. As he and Erik were crossing the shallow creek that splashed around his ankles, Erik confessed:

"I didn't know what to do with that fool. Did you?"

"So problematic, I agree," Charles grimaced, clasping Erik's offered hand and climbing up the fallen log with his help. "I loathe admitting, that I found myself at a loss, though he did tell the truth this time."

"He's probably trying to follow us," grimly said Erik.

He turned on the flashlight for the forest grew thicker and darker.

Charles could swear that a hint sticky, tingling sensation something left on his face was or were, most likely, spider webs. That's why he doesn't do walks in the woods. As a rule.

"We're very close, Erik," Charles sees an opening before them, moonlight spilling all over the scratchy shrubs again. Elizabeth, at last.

Next step forward and his heart stops as a realization slams into him. A ravine, hidden from view by the bushes. Too late. His foot finds no purchase and at the same time the stubborn force of inertia promptly pushes him ahead, forces him to slip.

"No, Erik! Get back!"

Why can't he listen to me, why?

Remotely, Charles feels the grip on his forearm. The momentum meant to spin him around brings Erik closer to him instead. And the pinch adds to the dismay, because Charles knows what Erik's main intention is and inside he is cold, petrified, for Erik really spins him around, swapping places with him and envelopes Charles in his arms.

And then they fall.

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Rather wobbly and dazed, Charles tried to scoot over to the side, to get his weight off Erik's chest. The dull thud of their fall, the corresponding pained sound Erik made before going entirely limp, was firmly etched into his mind and doomed to stay there forever. Charles' head was thrumming, he was disorientated: his grave confusion was gradually bleeding into fear; more so, the ominous tightening in his throat was the worst.

"Erik!" he rasped dizzily, and trailed his trembling hand up to Erik's neck, fingers frantically pressing down, looking for the pulse.

Thank god, oh thank god. He's alive.

"Erik," he called, meekly, one more time, reaching out to swipe a thumb over Erik's cheek. "Please, please…" his body was racked by a violent, single sob.

He didn't even get a stir in response to his pleading. No help will come if he simply stays there — it stung him into attempting to regain control. Bracing himself, Charles looks up, not without lingering trepidation, toward the edge of the gorge. From this point, it looks like an overhead brow and Charles quickly blinks, chasing away the insolent, welling up tears; he estimates, roughly, that the ravine is at least twenty or twenty five feet deep. The sight of the sky bejeweled with occasional bright stars and the moon, visible through the gap, instead of installing peacefulness in him, threatens his state of mind, as a matter of fact, rendering every aspect of the situation more nightmarish. Turning his head around, with a sudden revulsion, he discovers that there is a sharp curve to his right, so he can't see what lies ahead. Though, he can feel one more presence not far from where he is. Oh god, she must be injured too, he understands.

"I'll come back soon, Erik. Hold on for me, just hold on," the painful knot is forming next to his heart as Charles begs, gently lifting Erik's head from the ground and pushing his folded scarf in between to form a make-shift pillow.

Undoubtedly, there is now blood on his hand, but Charles refuses to acknowledge it, otherwise the fierce panic will eat him alive, already reaching for him, its' cruel hand ready to grab him and drag him under. With redoubled energy he focuses on silent inventory: his phone smashed beyond repair, checked, Erik's seems to be working, what a relief, firearms are here, check, one remaining flashlight, check. Well, at least, it's something. No signal coverage here, which is sort of expected, so he will need to try and climb out if he wants to call for help.

Faint moonlight assists him when he haphazardly staggers forward. In truth, he barely contains the trembling. And that is very inconvenient right now. After all, he has two lives depending on him.

Behind the curve he finds a little cave, covered by the shrubbery. Charles can't see what is lying there, because the shadows protecting it are deep and dark, but he can just tell.

"Elizabeth!" he exclaims, softly but empathetically. "My name's Charles and we, I came to help you. I know that you are there, and please, don't be afraid. I mean no harm."

By raising his hands up, willing to emphasize his earlier statement, he demonstrated that he was unarmed. Then, he stilled. Charles counted ten heartbeats before his eager ears caught a weak, shuffling noise.

"Can you come closer?" he hears a frightened whisper. "I want to see your face."

He immediately complied.

"Oh my, you are Charles, right?"

"That's right!" Charles nods in confirmation. "How badly are you hurt?"

"M-my, my leg is broken."

"I'll help you, Elizabeth," offers he. "Will you allow me?"

"Yeah."

He hastened to approach the shrubbery, where his eyes have fallen on the huddled form of the girl he finally met for real. Not wasting more time, he quietly instructs what to do. With a wounded gasp, Elizabeth grabs his hand and leans on his side, while Charles wraps his hand round her waist and carefully hoists her up.

"I was trying to climb down, to hide in here," she whispers shakily, "but halfway down I slipped on the rock… I hit my head, blacked out for a minute, not more, and, and then I saw you. Like in a dream. And now you've come for me… You've come, oh my god…"

When moonlight illuminated her features, Charles was struck by the resemblance. She looked exactly like she did in his dream or, he supposes, it's better to call it a vision.

"The same here, I fell asleep in the car and I saw you. Only, Elizabeth, can I ask you to do me a little favor?"

She glanced up at him through messed strands of hair, hanging limply round her face, and her dark eyes were unexpectedly clear and determined. Even looking like this, she was extremely beautiful.

"Please, don't tell anybody about your dream," he softly asked and went on. "Let's keep it a secret for now, shall we? I don't know what may happen and don't know what did happen, so…"

"No problem, Charles," she said solemnly. "Where are we going?"

"I need you to keep an eye on my friend, we've been looking for you together, and he," Charles' voice hitched, "he is injured, unconscious. Sorry for asking so much of you, when you, yourself —"

"No, no, don't say anything," Elizabeth hissed and gave him a livid sidelong glance. "I have been thinking about it enough as it is."

In such manner, they have slowly stumbled to the spot where he left Erik. Upon seeing his unmoving form on the ground, Charles didn't notice that he tugged Elizabeth closer, until she made a small noise of protest.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," he stammered then, helping her to sit on the flat stone, tucked next to the wall of the ravine; from here she will be able to reach Erik if needed.

"I get it," she heaved a breath and lowered her head, recovering. "One more person hurt for my sake. You don't want to move him, right?"

"Right," Charles kneeled next to Erik, but what else he could do except uselessly hovering over him. Nevertheless, he took Erik's hand and clasped it. Very tightly. "I'm going to climb up and make a phone call."

"Please, be very careful," Elizabeth uttered anxiously and jerked her head, chin pointing up and ahead. "What is his name?"

"Erik," Charles let go of his hand with regret and stood up.

"You are… right, right," she muttered dejectedly and stared at Charles with alarm. "Are you sure you were alone?"

"Well, no," he huffed and held out a gun he borrowed from Erik. "This is for you, in case of emergency. Can you shoot?"

"I can, I guess…"

"Here, I'll show you," Charles came closer and moved her hand in the position with practiced ease. "Keep your finger off the trigger, until you have pointed it on the target. Use both hands, keep them steady. Disengage the safety first and then fire," he showed her by slowly going through the motions.

"Oh, I see."

"Are you cold?"

Her hand was icy to the touch.

"If you think about giving me your coat or something, think twice. Just remember that now I know how to shoot a gun," she joked darkly. "My jacket is just fine, besides, you need it yourself."

"When I get back, I'll tend to your leg. Take care," Charles shot her and Erik one last look and turned around.

Before five minutes have passed he saw a slope that seemed quite manageable and less fatiguing than the one he, putting it diplomatically, stepped into, dragging Erik with him. Charles gritted his teeth with resolve and got to work. He chose to move slowly, carefully measuring each and every movement and every protruding piece of rock he used to hoist his body up. A few times rubbles giving up beneath his foot or hand had nearly given him a heart attack. His unprotected hands were an itchy, biting mess of scratches and abrasions when he reached the top and pulled his body up.

Gods, but it was tough.

He summoned up the remaining strength and sat up, got out Erik's phone. Goodness, he felt a smile stretching his lips when he looked at the display. Alright, everything is going to be fine, he reasoned. First things first, Charles called the emergency service, dictated the last coordinates he remembered when checking his deceased phone, and got a reassurance that they'll come as soon as possible. This done, he dialed the last number saved by Erik and waited.

"Detective Ripley," he said into the receiver after a groggy voice barked an incomprehensible interjection. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you at this hour. Do you have a minute?"

"Who's this? What happened?" asked Ripley in puzzlement.

"Charles Xavier, I believe we've met this afternoon, if only in brief."

"Inspector, my apologies," grumbled detective. "How can I help you?"

"Erik has told you who we are and what business we have here."

"With all due respect, sir, I told agent Lehnsherr that you can't interfere, especially without any solid evidence. Especially he —"

"Good, that you realize how troublesome the situation is. But, look here, we have located Elizabeth Braddock, and though injured, she is otherwise fine," and he proceeded to tell the detective about their run-in with Armando and everything that happened afterwards. Moreover, Charles got carried away a bit when he dove into the analysis of the crime, which, upon consideration, will turn into a speedy and public trial, now, after the witness has been found.

Suddenly, he stopped in mid-sentence and turned towards the dark mass of the trees, looming over the edge of the ravine.

"Good grief," he breathed out in terror. "The dogs. I must go, try to intercept them."

The distant barking was unmistakably vicious. All Charles' senses screamed at him to flee from imminent threat. Apparently, he is afraid of dogs, he muses bitterly. Who knew?

"Hold on, sir," something metallic fell down and Ripley cursed too quickly to decipher the separate words. "I'm on my way, I'll get help."

"And what should I do meanwhile? Outrun them?"

"Where are you again?"

"The ravine, about three miles to the south-east from where accident took place."

"I know it," by the sound of it Ripley was starting the car. "There should be a beck, not big —"

"Thank you, detective, but your main priority is to secure a witness, and, please, take care of my friend for me. Do we have a deal?"

"We do, sir."

"Thank you."

At that Charles pocketed the phone and ran. It was a crazy thing to do, to charge towards the danger, not from it, and it took all mental determination he had not to back out and take flight.

They will find them. Elizabeth's pursuers will find them, and despite the fact that Charles has left her a gun, untrained, she posed more danger to herself than to her actual attackers.

And Erik.

He will do what he can and what he can't to save him. End of story.

The greatest mystery was how he managed to avoid all fallen logs and tricky bumps, and it proved to be a useful lesson, one more time, that when pushed into the corner, a human being is capable of many remarkable things. Luck was on his side, because the first dark shadow darted from the thicket when he was crossing the clearing, so he was able to see it fairly well. The dog didn't even slow down. The minute delay had nearly cost Charles his life, for the beast jumped straight for his throat. Instinctively, Charles' left hand went up, covering his neck when at the same time he pulled the trigger with his right. Everything passed too bloody fast. He found himself on the ground, with powerful jaws munching and tearing at his coat's sleeve, thank god he was wearing a lot of layers. Dog's back legs were violently scratching his thighs, ripping his jeans and reaching the skin. The wounded animal was whining, as if crying in pain, and it was tearing Charles into small agonizing pieces, when he firmly shut his eyes and shot the dog in the head.

Warm splatter on his face, the iron smell of blood did their job and Charles rolled over, struggled to his knees and promptly threw up.

Always a hard way for him.

There is another one, stand up, please, stand up. What's the matter with you?!

Overcoming light-headedness, Charles rose to his feet, in time, because the second dog was already there. He fired. This time the bullet found its' target in mid-air. Charles had to back away, wary of stepping on his first kill, and felt a rising wave of nausea hitting him again.

There was a loud shout, hideous in its fury; after it he heard more curses: somebody was bursting through the thicket, crashing everything in the way. A husky, muscular man, who attacked him in the back alley, sprang to his mind. Charles shuddered; he turned on his heel and dashed off to the left, desperate to lead the pursuers away from the direction of the ravine.

But, as swift as he was a few moments ago, now the nervous and physical exhaustion was consequently prompting him to stagger as adrenalin was gone and, therefore, Charles braced himself for the inevitable. The thoughts about Erik, charged with strong emotions, kept occurring time and again, always calling up his image, like seen the last time, and Charles absolutely refused to let this particular image occupy his mind. Erik will be fine. Sure, he has to be.

Disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, he didn't take a chance to look around. Owing to the fact that he had lost his precious flashlight when attacked by the dog, he was left without any source of light. And it would have been hard, unforgivably so, the navigating through this part of the forest even with the aid of the flashlight is a challenge, surely. Charles hustled out of underwood and stumbled, pitched headlong forward and barely managed to catch himself on the elbows. He felt a pop in his ankle, and then severe pain laced the inner side of his right foot, as though white-hot nail was driven in. He yelled, because it hurt a lot, and because his stock of tenacity was running low, almost nonexistent. Having risen to his knees he decided not to risk putting weight on the ankle, and shuffled to the side, closer to the huge tree trunk, absolutely out of breath. His throat was stuffed with an edgy thorn or two, he imagined, his knees all but gave out. So long, so wearing.

How many people are following him? Two, three? Unfortunately, he could scarcely concentrate. That unsettling feeling inside him, no longer dormant, stirred. Charles clenched his head in both hands, curled up into the ball; he couldn't afford to lose any minute now, but in the moment of hurry and confusion it was all he could focus on. Calm your mind, it's all about control, you did it when Erik woke you up from diving into that river, you can do it one more time. Yet, that serenity was eluding him for some reason though, transient and ephemeral like quicksilver. He was hurting himself by clawing at his temples and some tiny, rational part of his brain has registered it, but its' voice was too feeble.

In the midst of his turmoil, a rush of noise was heard, in the startling vicinity, reaching the place where he was, wildly trembling, with his side pressed to the tree. Charles' heart had quite literally frozen as he, being sure that running was not possible for him, grew strangely indifferent. Unlike him, they had flashlights. Also, they were probably armed. So was Charles, although there was one crucial difference, — however, the difference was the size of the moon, indeed, for Charles didn't want to kill, and they certainly did.

If only he knew more about the forest, he could have thrown the dogs off the sent or something like that; had he more time, he could have found a shelter, oh, how he wishes he could. One more effort — he makes a daring promise, and should he die here today, he will, at least, do it with the sense of accomplishment. With these dark musings in mind, he dragged himself up, careful not to step on the injured food, still using the tree trunk like a cover.

Sudden light cut through the darkness, just missing his tree by a bit.

"Where is that fucker?" the man, sounding less winded than Charles had hoped, asked.

"Shut your trap and start looking. I heard him screaming. Bad for him, don't you think?"

This one was panting and wheezing continually.

"Hey, you, asshole! When I find you, I'll break every bone in your body. Every bone, you hear me?"

"You, moron, shut it," there was a furious hiss and the flashlight turned to the left.

All over again, Charles was attacked by the outpouring glimpses of images, screams and hushed whispers and tons of frightening recollections.

They came like a cascade.

He had killed Armando, shot him in the chest two times: Charles saw it through Danny's eyes, enjoyed it. Uneasy and a touch excited he listened to Armando begging him to stop, telling him about the newcomers, warning him. He was there when Max punched him, relived a moment of rage when Charles himself had knocked down Paul, his true friend Paul. He felt fury, when Elizabeth tore off his mask and slung hook, felt his sexual desire enhanced by the rush of adrenalin, saw Max dragging Elizabeth out of the car, kicking and screaming. Please, make it stop, please, he doesn't want to see, doesn't want to relive — he viciously pleaded, tasting despair like burning acid, pure, liquid torture filling up his entire being.

An idea, one silly inkling he can hardly put his finger on. Swimming. It's akin to swimming, this mental reading he can pull through, he only needs to tame it once and then he'll never forget how to invoke it. Charles felt it in his bones, in his blood, like a song, a melody long forgotten, and yet oddly familiar. Up till now he was always taking it in, what if he could, what it he really can push back.

Upon opening his eyes, he takes in the unforgiving light piercing his eyes, triumphant voices, solid ground beneath his back, hard weight of the boot stomping on and crashing his hand, and pain, lots of shocking pain.

Charles takes a single breath and wills it to stop.

The world bends to his will.

Now sleep he says-orders and two bodies smoothly fall down, hardly making a sound.

Goodness, he is awfully drained and so hollow. Fight rushes out of him in one go. Done my share, he concludes, and, for the first time in ever, blanketed with merciful impassiveness, Charles blacks out experiencing nothing else but strong, profound relief.

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Knowing that Erik is there, at arm's length, before he even opened his eyes was such unbelievable bliss. Albeit, something seemed not right. For an instant, before trying to claim back his body, Charles realized that he was more like a prisoner in his own head, for all the senses have already returned, bringing back the distinct awareness of multiple stimuli, but not the control over his body. Weirded out, he found himself looking at his own sleeping form on the hospital bed. It was nighttime and the corners of the hospital room were swamped with deep shadows. The one source of light, white luminescent lamp above the headboard, was subdued. Honestly, Charles had never considered himself as being fragile, although surrounded with white, crisp sheets his deathly pale features come out painstakingly frail, almost delicate, accentuated by the dark, thick locks which encase his face in the halo-like manner and, indeed, hair is the only thing about him that looks alive.

Oh dear, he is watching himself through Erik's eyes, feeling Erik's fatigue and long brewing resentment at the world, at himself, and anger, which is laying low for now, coiled with barbed wires, accumulating and growing potentially stronger.

Never in his right mind would he have envisioned that he could become the cause of such cruel sadness. In response to this realization, there appears a queer feeling of vacuum in his lower regions. Too much for him. As Charles further notes that without any conscious efforts, his state as a silent observer will not change, he makes a second attempt to come back. This once, however, he manages it, so he tries to stir, very slightly. Only his hand twitches. Who knew, thought Charles inanely, that mere movement is so ridiculously complicated affair?

A touch he detects enables Charles to progress, as a warm, calloused hand covers his. Thus, the impact is immense for his general disposition.

Erik is his beacon of light, his guide in the dark. That and so much more.

Eyelids weigh like the heaviest metal, while he opens his eyes, gradually.

"You… Charles?" a grating rasp makes itself known in Erik's voice.

Charles rests his eyes on Erik, but soon discovers that he is unable to say a word. Erik quickly reaches for the glass on the bedside table, unscrews a bottle of water standing there as well and pours some into the glass. After going through the motions and helping Charles to drink and, oh, this water, by the way, tastes bloody fantastic, Erik stills awkwardly, half-bend over the hospital bed, not letting go of his hand. His eyes, Charles notes, are red-rimmed, and, what more, the lines on Erik's face have never been so deep.

"Erik," he tries one more time, "Erik, please, don't worry so much."

"Is that all you have to say?" asks Erik blankly.

"How," he has to stop to clear his throat, "how long?"

"Twelve days. Twelve fucking days, Charles," repeats he in a rush and that's better than strange emotionless tone he used a moment ago.

"My god," what does one say in such situation. "But, but I feel fine, as if I was sleeping, and," his gaze falls on his left hand, with IV needle and all, and now he sees — his hand is encased from fingers to wrist in thick bandages, "What else? I'm not entirely sure I remember."

"You have twisted your ankle, badly," retorts Erik. "God, Charles, you should have seen yourself: you were all covered in blood and bruises."

"Well, it was quite a predicament, so naturally… Wait, you speak as though you were there? How are you even standing? Goodness, you are alright," it finally sinks in, thus Charles is not even embarrassed anymore as his eyes get swollen with tears.

"I've escaped with a concussion, because, as paramedics put it, sometimes crap like this happens. You fall from god knows what height and you get off easily, you fall from the bloody bed and brake some important bones in your body," Erik spares him a trademark smirk, which quickly disappears though. "Come on, you don't have spare energy to waste it on crying. Hey, Charles, it's fine. You know it, right?"

Charles hiccups in agreement, uses his free hand to drag Erik lower and hides his face against his shoulder. Erik sighs and sits on the bed, allows Charles to fall apart a bit longer, while he proceeds to pat his back.

"When you didn't wake up in twenty four hours, doctors were at a loss. Suspected a head injury, but the scanning showed that you were just, you know, sleeping," he tells Charles quietly. "I figured it was connected to your new ability, so I was ready to wait. Although, I hadn't been expecting to wait for so long. Of course, I hadn't told them anything. The girl will keep silent too."

"Good, it's so good to be back," murmurs Charles, clutching the fabric of Erik's turtleneck in his fingers.

"Ripley thought the bastards were high, feeding him lies or hallucinations. They really smoked a joint before engaging in the hunt, but I think you did knock those two down."

Either Charles is dreaming or there is awe, pure and unmistakable, lacing Erik's words.

"I guess, I did. See how well that worked."

"You'll learn," assures him Erik and Charles looks up at that. Erik smiles. "Aren't we in this together, you and I? Life without any challenges is dreadfully boring, after all. This is just another one."

"Just one more? Already seems like a piece of cake," chuckles Charles.

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It's not simple, it's incredibly complicated to get used to life anew. Sometimes he knows what a person wants to say before they actually say it. Hence, he congratulates Hank on the job he did to bring into custody the gang responsible for recent prank calls and one real explosion before Hank opens his mouth. Erik is with him at the time, and Erik turns it into a slightly harsh joke. Hank and Angel shrug it off as a result. Charles, in his turn, learns to be more careful.

Without a doubt, life will never be the same again. But, as Erik points out, it will never ever be boring.

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The End