Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is a damp, icy day in deepening late January when Charles comes to himself, alone once again.

It is a soft, solemn waking— one borne into the world out of a great sadness, mild resignation playing at the corners of his exponential mind. Rain patters at ice glazed windows. In the morning light, his bedroom is lit gray, warm wood paneling and sumptuous blue drapes over tall French windows reduced to the basis of their light. He is still, considering the grounds, icy fog blanketing them with a pale glow, floating just above the earth, and the black trees on the horizon, shifting in the breeze, desperate to fly off, along with the wind, and drift alone above patchwork fields, before sleepily pulling himself into his chair and starting off, silent, along the hall.

In another corner of the Earth, rain patters against another’s ice frosted window.

Raven sits, solitary, as she had been since forcing down a late, light supper of a few cold olives and a bit of smoked salmon, on the secondary balcony of a hulking stoned house on a distant Irish moor.

The grass below her moves in large peridot waves, back and forth, closer, always closer, before the wind switches direction, and the tempest of wind pulls it away.

In the closest corner of her mind, creeping closer, is the guilt-stricken thought of her brother. Is he alright? Weeks ago, Azazel, who had been sent off to spy (though he preferred ‘watch’ or ‘observe’, the less insidious options) in the burning aftermath of Cuba, brought news.

The boys were alright, continuing with training, and having become doubly protective of their teacher. And Charles… He can’t be (alright). Not truly.

She worked to dispel the thought from her mind, just the way she’d been taught, but that pulled the whiplash of starved nostalgia closer to her still. Of course, Raven knew and understood the physical conditions of the situation. And similarly, guilt played in her chest in the dead of night— when all else was quiet. She knew Erik paced the study of the safehouse, plagued similarly. If she had turned around at the moment, and peered upwards, craning her neck against the steep slope of weathered stone, she would see his shadow, pacing, in the golden-lit room.

The mental condition, however, worried her. When she wasn’t tremendously young, nor tremendously old, her brother had begun to read her to sleep. She had been having nightmares of an expansive black space, perfectly empty. The air there wasn’t warm or cold or anything at all. The only tangible feeling, sensation, that permeated the plane was a soft crying, the voice of a boy, unfamiliar in its misery. Young, certainly, and muffled.

“‘Why was I forgotten?’ Mary said, stamping her foot.” A lanky, teenaged Charles read to her. “‘Why does nobody come?’” Tonight they began The Secret Garden written by a woman named Frances. “The young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly,” he continued, “Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes, as if to wink tears away.”

When he put her to bed, a few minutes later, having finished the opening chapter, she plaintively asked if such a thing would happen to her, mind returning to the nightmares. “I don’t want to be all alone.” The light, tender hand of her brother’s mind hovered over her subconscious.

Charles hugged her gently, before leaning back into the overstuffed armchair positioned close to her bedside. “You’ll never be all alone, dear. You’ll always have me— here.” He cut himself off at the look of doubt on her face, putting his right hand out. “We’ll shake on it. I promise that I’ll never abandon you.” In the present, her fingertips turn pale and her hair lengthens, tinged blonde.

Young–Raven, in the misty lens of her memory, shook his hand. “And I you,” in a mimicked English accent.

She receives a little grin, and a ‘sleep well’ before he switches off her lamp and retreats to his own room. Lying in the dark, the nightmares disappear.

Now–Raven crumples in on herself with a sob. She isn’t truly alone, but thoroughly lonely.

“Mystique.”

She hastily wipes at her eyes, before turning back completely to meet the scarlet–colored man’s gaze. “Hey, Azazel.”

“You have been crying?”

“Yeah.”

He sniffed. “You will get sick, out here in the coldness.” His accent clips at the edges of his words. She stares him down. (He looks a little afraid, an emotional note she relished) After a long beat, he asks, “May I sit with you?”

She continues to stare, which he seems to take as a begrudging yes. “Why were you crying?” His position is deeply uncomfortable, and, she supposes, this is likely unfamiliar territory.

“You want to know?” She spits it like a threat.

He nods.

“I miss him.”

Confusion briefly spreads over crimson features. “Your, eh, brother?”

“Yes.” She returns to staring out at the dark fields, still ebbing and flowing in the blustering winds. He pauses again, then, for a long while, looking out onto the moors along with her. It is an oddly comfortable silence that resides between them, empty of anything unsaid and uncharged with energy. The icy air traces frost along her eyelashes.

“Would you like to go see him?”

She looks over at him, a feeling without name spreading poisonously through her chest. “No.”

He looked up at her as if to say, ‘I’m here,’ as she stood and sped away to her own bedroom. Closing the door as softly as possible, she sunk to the ground against it, cool wood at her back. What was this? She was upset, she had the chance to fix that, and she kicked it away. She turned it away like she was closing the door to a warm, food–filled kitchen (“In fact, you’ll never have to steal again.”) and it was a dirt–caked stray with matted fur. She had her role in the world. She existed in the mold she had built around herself, but now, her brick walls became suffocating. The glorious feeling of freedom that had been present for months was quickly fading, and now she found herself running on fumes. She could hear Erik pacing upstairs.

Her brother was an egotistical, insufferably–idealistic bastard, and he was the sweetest, warmest, most loving person to ever live. He was too kind for his own good. He was too innocent. She couldn’t leave him like this.

She found herself outside Azazel’s bedroom door.

“Professor!” Alex calls after him. He pads along quickly in stockinged feet, coming to a stop beside Charles. “What are you doing up?” He hisses.

“Whatever could you possibly mean, Alex?” The child—only three years younger than him, Charles must remind himself—is far too concerned after him these days.

“We all get up at eight. It’s 6:32”

“I could point out that you are also up, running after a poor innocent man in his own home.”

That received a little grin from Alex, followed by the question, “Then let me help you? Hank’ll have my head otherwise.” A personal protectiveness was thinly veiled in his aloof tone, even less so in his eyes and most intense in his mind, all–consuming.

“Of course, dear. Walk with me,” Charles responded, warmly, though he pushed ‘I’d be alright’ gently into the boy’s mind. The two moved together, up through the mansion.

When Charles was very young, the observatory above the house had become his favorite place. To enter, one must pass through a cathedral library with tall, after two closed up wings of the house, and first ascend two flights of stairs, though lifts had been installed throughout the house since its original construction. When Charles was eleven and Sharon Xavier remarried, it became a safe–haven. And at seventeen, when he left for college, the observatory was forgotten.

Twenty–three was reached, and his mother died.

Kurt had died of a stroke when he was seventeen, alone in his study, with no prior instances of cerebrovascular incident, and his mother was thrust even deeper into alcoholism when it happened. Liver failure is what got her in the end. Charles had been taking an exam on prehistoric evolution when it happened. The next morning, in bed with a lovely blonde woman who he no longer remembered the name of, he received mixed news. He got a perfect score on that exam, however.

Then, the house was opened up at last, emptied of dust and revitalized in the soft glow of the morning after mourning. No safe haven was needed. And the crystalized sunlight passing through the dome of the room faded from its rainbow spectrum.

The library, that morning, was inviting with its soft warmth in the cool ashen light of day. The ornate sconces lining the walls lit the space orange and glowing like the inner body of a firefly on a cool summer night, the gold gilt titles of various novels and volumes glittering like the scales of saltwater fish. He longed for the moth–bitten, dusty scent that the room once held, but it had faded entirely from all but the pages of the books it housed and the linens tucked away in a small closet off to the side. Charles moved to pull a book off of the farthest shelf, but Alex walked forward quicker. “Which one?”

“Alex, dear, you don’t need to—” he sighed.

“I know. Please, let me.” The child seemed desperate, and it was exceedingly clear—even to someone without telepathic abilities—that he needed this more than he feared Hank’s threats. “Please.”

“Alright. The Secret Garden.”

Alex quickly retrieved it for him, an oxblood leather bound volume with silver–gold lettering and the image of a bundle of tulips depicted on its front cover.

“Is there anything else you need?” The boy’s face really was concerned, creases having formed where they weren’t eight months ago, a constant worry behind his eyes. It was sweet, from an angle. It was heartbreaking head–on.

“There should be a white quilt in that closet. If you don’t mind, dear.”

“Of course.” Alex returned quickly, passing the blanket to him, before carefully pushing his chair through the next set of doors and into the conservatory.

They had been comfortably settled into the observatory for half an hour when Charles jerked his head up, staring wide-eyed at the northern wall. “What? What happened, are you okay?”

Serenely, he turned back to Alex, licking his lips and whispering, “Yes. Yes, dear. I’m fine. Would you leave me, please?”, playing at a relaxed exterior. Alex nodded, dumbly, obedience and loyalty taking precedence over his better judgement, and shut the door softly behind him. In his mind, however, sudden fear mixed with misplaced anger mixed with worry and grief. Charles felt his heart pang for the poor child, forced into such a position at his young age.

He squinted at the glass suspiciously, the shaky pretense of calm falling. The room seemed to turn brighter for a moment, the sunrise outside brightening as if filled with flurries of snow, before a burst of red smoke inhabited the room.

Chapter Text

When the crimson mist cleared, in a span of time that had more resemblance to millenia than microseconds, Raven and Azazel stood awkwardly before him. The three stared at each other for a while, the two visitors wide–eyed like deer in headlights, before Charles spoke.

“Hello.” The word, solitary, was spoken in a light, airy tone, betraying none of the would–be–calm behind it, now that his pretense was recovered.

“Hi, Charles… We didn’t think anybody would be in here.”

He raised a brow, questioningly, eying Azazel with renewed dislike. “I suppose not.”

“Not! Not for anything like that. She, eh, she came to see you. I am simply the method of transport.” Azazel was panicked as he said it, though afraid of what exactly (surely not him the only person in the room who wasn’t a terrorist, but really, who’s counting) he wasn’t aware.

“It’s just, y’know, it’s been empty for a while.” Raven scrambled, throwing Azazel’s hand off of her upper arm.

“Alright.” He leaned back, having skimmed through Azazel’s mind and finding nothing he would disapprove of (on this topic), satisfied with that. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you Azazel. More formally, of course.”

“Ah, yes. Nice to meet you.”

Azazel glanced at her, then back at Charles, as if asking him permission to leave. Upon surface examination of his mind, that proved accurate, and Charles dismissed him warmly, as if speaking to one of his students rather than an enemy. “You may. I assume you’ll be back for Raven?”

Azazel nodded, before disappearing. Charles returned to his book.

“I’m leaving?”

“Hm?”

“You asked if he’d be back for me. So you’ve already decided I’m leaving.”

He sighed, marking his place in the book before looking up. “Did you ever have any intention of staying?” She didn’t move. “That’s what I thought. Sit down, please, you look ridiculous just standing there.” Charles said casually, waving her towards another armchair, across from his own. (She was offended, the emotion floating at the surface of her mind.)

Raven sat down, cautiously, crossing her legs and practically folding in on herself. The room was silent and static, before, once again, Charles spoke first. “So, how are you doing, darling?”

“Fine.” She said, leaning forward on her elbows.

“Are you eating well?”

“Fine— Why are you acting like this?”

He sniffed, looking down at his mug of tea, the semblance of a relaxed attitude slipping. “How should I act?”

“Like anything has happened!” Her words bit at him, the mild sunlight streaming through the dome, transforming her skin into a pale gray.

He was shouting suddenly, “Raven, if I acted like what you have done has happened, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now! I wouldn’t let you, or anyone on your side, near my children.” Raven shrank back in her overstuffed gingham armchair, eyes wide. “You left me, to bleed out,” and then whispering, “alone.” (Her mind skipped back to the promise they had made as children, guilt bleeding into her lungs) He heaved out a large breath, his voice cracking just the slightest as he leaned back in his chair. In the short time he had spoken, Raven had reverted to her child–self, barely a five foot tall little blue thing curled up in the chair. But her eyes were tender in a way that betrayed her age. “Why are you here?”

She didn’t look up from her lap as she said, “I was worried about you.” Before adding, quietly, “I missed you.”

Charles’ icy demeanor melted then, “Oh, darling. You don’t have to be worried about me.” She didn’t look up. “I missed you too.” He added, hopefully. Dust swirled in the dimly golden air, streaming and surging in little ghost rainbows. A ray of kaleidoscopic light swims in the air between them, flushing the surface of Raven’s face all shades of midnight, turning her amber eyes the color of a dragonfly’s wings.

She sighed, heavily, changing the subject. “How have you been?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Continuing with the boys’ training and whatnot.”

“Really?” She smiled, and though he was still looking down at his almost–empty mug, he could hear it in her voice.

“Yes,” He said earnestly, before continuing with a slight chuckle, “They insisted.”

“And you?”

“Well. Eh, it’s nice to be able to putter at life for a while without having anything specific that needs to be done.” He knows intimately how depressing his response sounds.

“Yeah.” She says it so sadly, so deeply forlorn that he knows she must understand. “You know… Erik misses you too.”

He laughed fully at that, dry and hurt. “Is that so?”

“You shouldn’t be surprised by that.” She pointed out.

“I’m not.”

“Charles…”

“What?”

“Nevermind. It’s fine. What are you reading?”

They spoke for a very long while about varying topics, him interrogating her about Azazel, in the protective fashion expected of an older sibling, her bitterly asking after Moira only to find out about the erasure of her memories. In the time since Cuba, she had learned a similar hatred for the woman as Erik. At the first appearance of these thoughts in her mind, however, Charles frowned slightly—an all–too–common microexpression of his, and one she had learned to spot long ago—and he changed the subject.

The boys made no appearance, though she assumed that Charles had communicated to them, perhaps not the true nature of their visitor, or even that they had one, but certainly that he was not to be disturbed.

It was later, in the stormy, dimmed light of late–day, that Raven returned. Charles had easily called Azazel to the conservatory, leading Raven to worry about the true scope of his powers (a topic that had remained beyond either her or Erik’s minds, and now, with their new role in the world, posed a viable threat), before he pulled her into a tight hug and bid her adieu, as soft and comforting and thoroughly himself as he had always been.

When she stalked into the big stone house on the moor, light–footed on the dark wood floors of the foyer, Erik was waiting for her. There was something painfully parental in his stance, though a motherly disappointment (one that she, most likely, would attribute to Charles) was replaced with metallic anger. He didn’t say anything, merely looking her over for a long while, hands in pockets, rather relaxed looking, before sending Azazel off with a flick of his head, beckoning her and turning sharply on his heel to walk up the levels towards the study, cat–like.

She followed.

Erik was waiting for her, with the door open. Raven sat, carefully, folding her legs, as he crossed the room to stand behind the coffee–toned leather seat opposite her. The room was warmly lit, comforting in a way that betrayed the man before her, while gray sheets of rain fell beyond the large bay windows that lined the wall to the right of their chairs, across from the door. The walls were a faded green wallpaper, with shining threads outlining embroidered scenes from myth. Haloing Erik’s head were a circle of fey. A similar pattern fell along the curved line of her indigo shoulders.

“So?” She spoke first.

“Hm.” He scowled, looking down briefly, before regaining the intimidating eye–contact he favored. “How is he?”

“Who?”

“Don’t do that. Idiocracy isn’t your best shade, Mystique. Who else would you have snuck out to see?”

“Fine. He’s fine, nothing we didn’t already know.” She bit the words out, defensive. Erik raised a brow, suspicious and judgemental. “He’s— He’s sad. He seems depressed, but other than that, he’s okay.”

“Hm. Well,” He clicked his tongue, frowning and moving towards the little tray of alcohol sitting on a long side table beside an armoire. “Brandy?”

“Sure.”

After Erik handed her a glass filled with dark, almost toffee colored liquid, which she took a large swig of upon receiving. It was overpowering. She hoped to get drunk on it. A long, uncomfortable silence passed before she spoke. “I hear you, at night, y’know. Pacing.”

He ‘hm’–ed again, while she continued. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you— Charles, I mean?” She had tacked the clarification on at the end, not to simplify her statement, but rather to avoid the insult that followed the implication that Erik thought about Charles as often as they all knew he did. Emma, having become much more casual since their meeting (Raven, in truth, quite liked Emma. She respected the casual elegance that the white queen exuded, a sort of french loveliness that infected her every word.), had posited the possibility of obsession over infatuation, or both, which Raven had fought not to nod along to. Truly, it was an increasingly likely answer with every day.

He paused for a while, staring at his drink in silence. “Yes.” He said, almost whispering. It wasn’t an ashamed whisper, though, or that of thoughtfulness, but rather the careful consideration that went along into planning a murder.

Emboldened by the alcohol (of which, it was her first time consuming), she asked, “Are you— are you in love with him?” She had seen, for months before Cuba, the way that Erik looked at her brother. It wasn’t kind, per say, but softer, and more protective than with her or her counterparts. It gave the impression that kindness could be lurking underneath, beneath the splintered shards of glass that made up his militant demeanor.

He tilted his head, staring at her judgmentally.

Sobered, slightly, by this non–answer, she leaned back, a jagged shard of fear in her raw, black lungs. “What are you going to do?”

“In general, or to him?”

“Either.”

He clicked his tongue, leaning back too, calm and feline once again. “I’ve been…” Erik paused, glancing up at the ceiling, before looking back to her. “Considering, what might be the better place in the world for your brother.” She raised a brow, as he continued. “Charles is a painfully kind person. To the point of fault, and it makes him weak. Too weak, in fact, to be left alone to his own devices. He’d take anyone in. He’s not cautious enough. And he is going to get himself hurt with that mentality.”

“So?”

“So, Mystique, what I’ve been thinking for quite a while indeed, is that he shouldn’t be trusted with that choice.”

She stiffened, a mild sense of alarm infecting her. “You intend to kidnap Charles.” She spoke with mild disbelief.

“That’s one way to put it. I think of it as forcibly protecting him from himself.”

Raven sniffed at her drink, throwing her head back and downing the final drops. When she looked back at Erik, she nodded. “I find it hard to disagree, Lehnsherr.” And she did. Everything he said had its own cold, ringing truth to it, a truth with which she had made herself familiar with many years ago. One, small, ringing problem;

In seconds she lunged across the gap between their chairs, knocking Erik and his over and coming to crouch on top of his chest, small, obsidian dagger (one that she had found in a small ornate box in the attic of a previous safehouse) in hand. His glass spilt its contents with an artistic flourish beside his head.

“But I promise you, if you hurt him? I’ll kill you, slowly. And I will inflict every, even miniscule, bit of pain you have on him back on to you. Do you understand me?” Erik only smirked, unmoving, barely sparing a glance for her threats. ”Do you understand me?” She shouted.

“Quite well. Now please, move, you are not as light as you look.” He said, smugly, sweeping her off easily with an outstretched arm, before coming to stand tall above her and lightly brush invisible dust off of himself. As he moved, to stalk out of the study, he called to her, “I do hope you’ll behave yourself in the coming weeks, Raven.” He clicked his tongue. “If not, I would hate for something to happen. It would upset Charles, you understand, and that isn’t a priority of mine.” He paused, again, looking down at her. “However, I will kill you if you make it necessary.”

With that, he walked out, and down the hall, his quiet footsteps fading into the growing dark of the ever–present night. Her heartbeat held steady.

Chapter Text

And so, in the cool aftermath of their threats, Erik and Raven each went back to their routines. For those three months, they had been close confidants, if not friends, and provided comfort and stability to what was new ground for both of them. Such a positive relation between them, was now over. He paced upstairs, through all hours of the night, while she stared out at the soft moors, a velvety blanket of green and blue and gray. Some nights, some days, she wanted more than any other earthly desire, to walk out into the grasses and walk and walk until her legs gave out and she would lay still in the soft lushness, and become one with the mud and earth. Raven, vaguely, imagined the heathers and orchids and cotton grass all growing up around her, growing tall and purple as the world blossomed into mid–Summer, leaving only a slight dent where she once was.

Erik, in turn, was restless in the following week. Pacing, of course, made an appearance in his daily behavior (forward, backwards, forward, backwards, forward, backwards, ad nauseum, until the dark wooden floors that expanded through the house bore dents and dull spots where he walked).

Worry. That odd, foreign concept that had escaped him since he was so very young. It is not the role of a child to feel worry. A child is to be worried after, but the final defining moments of what could still be considered adolescence were bursting with the feeling before hatred set in and made its home in his red, raw lungs.

Now, in the winter of the only, however brief home he had ever possessed in his adulthood, that emotion too, returned. With Raven’s news of depression, something, certainly, had to be done. Upon first meeting he had decided that Charles was weak. How else could he justify himself being saved? Since he was barely twelve, Erik had operated solely on the mentality that he existed only as a particularly specialized killing machine. Companions of any kind weren’t necessary, and so he didn’t take any on. Wherever his hunt led him, he would go and the presence of others, especially those of such an innocent caliber as Charles, would only get in the way. When he was very young, his mother told him a fairytale about a brutish man who would invite beautiful women to live in his sprawling estate, to bathe in his extreme wealth. One day, he would embark on a trip, leaving the sweet–faced women with a key that opened every door in his castle, and the instructions never to go into the highest room of the western–most tower, despite the key being adequate to unlock that door as well. For the early days, the women would simply enjoy the luxury of the home, gorging themselves on rare and exotic foods, sprawled out on exquisite furs and tapestry— incandescent in their pleasure. But curiosity would always win out. The women, sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes dressed in silvery moon–like gowns, would ascend the stairs to the highest room of the western–most tower, turn the key in the lock, and open the door. Upon entry, they would drop the key, seeing the bodies of women who looked just like them. Rotting. Sat down in a row, wearing silvery, moon–like gowns. Each sporting a slit throat and a look of horror frozen on their faces by rigor mortis. When they kneeled to pick up the key, a small bloody splotch would have appeared in the cast iron, and no matter what they did, the red would stay burned into the metal. Boiling, burning, rubbing, nothing changed it. The red seemed to get brighter with every attempt. When the grizzly man came back, he would kill them for their curiosity. One woman, the protagonist of the story, broke the cycle, killing him, pushing him out of the window of the highest room of the western–most tower, and the bodies of her kin seemed to smile. Erik, now, felt like that key. Crimson–stained. And no amount of frantic polishing would change that, so, to be saved, to be believed in with such obvious, devout hope (and maybe, for that red to fade just the slightest)— It was wrong. The only logical solution was that this kind stranger with warm hands and beautiful, intelligent eyes was weak. Especially to taking in strays. In the night that followed, this was proven even clearer. He had chosen to leave in the night, to rid the stranger—who’s name he now knew was Charles—of all the concern and guilt that would follow a less delicate departure. When Charles stopped him, though he was thoroughly composed, even casual, there was a certain sadness in his voice. Erik had learned, on his travels, how to recognize minor vocal cues, as doing so could separate him from failure and other less desirable outcomes, and in that moment, Charles communicated desperation much louder than any specific request to stay. That was weakness, to be so easily read, to be unable to let go of a stranger because of some foolish belief that they were worth more than they thought. As time went on, it became clear that Charles had a tendency to prove Erik right on this topic. His inane need to take care of those around him, the type of narrow, fragile pacifism that should come crashing down in jagged, shining shards after a child graduates college, but in Charles, remained stubbornly persistent.

He had surprised Erik in Russia, because when he abandoned mission to pursue what some might consider petty revenge, Charles didn’t flinch away but followed, with curious eyes and care for all, even the fallen soldiers and Ms. Frost. It became obvious that he was more so Bluebeard’s wife, clad in silver and staring into the gray faces of her sisters. But that too, a moralistic tenderness, towards both enemies and friends, was, in the end, a liability.

He knew what needed to be done. Besides the various reasons with which he justified his plans to himself, he needed Charles. Every day, every waking second, he needed and wanted and lamented Charles’ absence. It was a hollow, aching lack of presence deep in his soul, one that had always been there, but hadn’t begun to throb and rot with it until he had met, and subsequently lost Charles. He hated that need. He had taught himself that strength was independence, a mindset necessary given his longest line of work.

At the same time; that horrifically weak sense of kindness, it balanced him out. He felt too sharp, too violent now, though he hadn’t changed (only stepped briefly into the doorway of a softer way of life, felt the warmth radiating from a comforting fire that always burned there). Charles had come, as if an angel, to him. His Patron Saint of Lost Causes. And there the answer lay; Charles was his salvation. This infatuation, it was just a want for balance, he told himself.

He was worried about Charles like this, but a smaller, quieter part of him was worried about how Charles would react when he took him. He would be furious, certainly, and scared but that was to be expected for a time. Erik was concerned that if he didn’t do this perfectly, that time wouldn’t end and the odd, living thing that had grown between them would be smothered, at least one–sidedly. Erik knew that his feelings wouldn’t fade.

Though, of course, on the other hand, guilt was out of the question. He had warned him. On the beach, he had promised what was to come. He had told Charles, whispered it and watched the other man’s eyes widen with apprehension— ‘I’m coming back for you. Whether you like it or not, I’m coming back for you and you will be coming with me when I do.’

His depressive thoughts were disturbed by a knock at the door.

Looking up, it was Raven. “What do you want, Mystique?”

She walked in, gracefully, head held high and settled in the chair across from him. “I’m not going to apologize.”

“How surprising.” Erik drawled, annoyed at her presence and smug tone.

“Don’t interrupt me. I’m not going to apologize to you because I believe everything I said. But I believe some of the things you said too.”

He leaned back, wondering how quickly he could get across the mahogany desk separating them and stab her. Non–fatally. “Oh?”

“What I am concerned about is what you’ll do to him. So, tell me.” Raven fixed him with a stolid look, daring him to say something not in her favor.

“I’d leave, you all could do so as well, and we would likely meet once a month to divide work and deal with any threats directly to us. We would continue as we have been, simply not all in the same house for two reasons. It’s not necessary, and I assume you are aware of how volatile he can be when needed.”

“Ah. Yes. I suppose he can be.” She nodded, briskly. “Then, I have one condition.”

“Oh?” He smirked, astounded at her possibly misplaced confidence.

“I am going to visit him, at least every two weeks, and more likely every week.”

Erik grit his teeth, as she continued. “And when I do this, you will make yourself scarce. I am worried about him, and how you will treat him when you are left to your own devices, so I am going to talk to him alone, regularly and if I see a single bruise on him, if he isn’t calm and happy, if he says anything that makes me think you’ve done something, or if he seems even minorly like he isn’t thriving? Well, I think I’ve made myself clear.”

Erik rolled his eyes, before nodding. “Alright. I’ll allow it.”

She scoffed, crossing her legs, and continuing. “Also, I’ve got some warnings.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Don’t tie him up, he’ll freak the fuck out, and you can’t afford a panic attack like that.” Erik felt his face heating up at the implication. “I don’t mean like that. I mean at all. He’s got some weird mental block surrounding it, he can’t handle being properly immobilized in any way, and you’ve already done a lovely job with that. If you drug him, similar reaction, but I understand that that may be unavoidable.”

“Why?”

Raven sighed, running an indigo hand through her hair, and looking down briefly. “It started sometime when we were kids. I didn’t find out about the ‘being–tied–up–thing’ until I was fifteen and he was sixteen. We were at this gala thing that his mom forced us to go to, and while I was talking to this incredibly boring old guy who thought I should go into law, an older woman—who had been looking at him the whole night, not weird by the way, there were at least ten other ladies old enough to be his mother looking the exact same way—got him tipsy and took him upstairs. I suppose she had some fucked kink or something and cuffed him to the bed, because a couple minutes later I, and it seemed like everybody there, felt this horrible wave of pure terror and he came rushing downstairs to me and we left. It’s one of the only times he’s ever lost control like that. His mom was pissed too, about us leaving like that. Not a great look for an eligible bachelor, to leave a party early with his shirt unbuttoned a little too low and flushed.

“Sharon was like that, though, before she died.

“The drug thing, that either started or I noticed it much earlier, when whenever he was sick, he refused to take medicine of any kind if it had a chance of knocking him out. This was only weird, because if I got sick, he would push that and soup that he made himself— he’s a pretty good cook by the way— on me like he was my mother. I suppose on some level he sort of was.”

“What happened?”

“Mm?”

“What happened to make him like that?”

Raven sighed again. “I don’t know. There’s this big, cloudy gap. I feel like I should know, I think he fucked with my brain at some point.”

Erik asked, interested. “You aren’t angry?”

She looked him in the eyes, suddenly very serious. “Whatever it was, it was something that must have been bad enough to remove.”

Chapter Text

Erik prepared well. A beautiful, single–floor, secluded house just outside of Colmar, with big french windows looking out onto the desolate, snowy mountains and trees. He had chosen this particular one for the extensive, untouched library in the South wing, one that Shaw had built but left alone, the books more as decor than intellectual material. The massive room housed a wide catalog of classical novels, a poetry section that he knew, particularly, Charles would be fond of. He sent Janos, Emma, Angel and Raven off one at a time, scattered to various safehouses they had each chosen, with addresses provided between. Raven was the last to depart, that morning. He had politely bid her adieu, not expecting her to throw her arms around him and hug him tightly. “Good luck.” She had whispered. “Don’t fuck this up.” For good measure she pressed a small, obsidian dagger concealed in her sleeve—the same one she had pressed to his throat a week earlier, he presumed—to his back, reminding Erik of what she would attempt to do if provoked. Erik didn’t believe she would succeed.

Erik planned carefully. The kitchen contained antidepressants, painkillers and sedatives, if they proved to be absolutely necessary. If Charles tried to hurt himself. With three little white pills concealed in one pocket, a sharp steel blade, and Azazel in tow, he and the scarlet man in question disappeared to Westchester.

The house was dark, when they arrived, at midnight. It had been accidental, but he supposed that the timing was appropriately dramatic. They had appeared first, far out on the lawn. Shrouded by ancient oak trees and shadows, they were appropriately hidden from sight. If someone were to look out on the grass, to scan the landscape, they wouldn’t notice any discrepancies.

The next second, they were within ten yards of the terrace, and up close, the house seemed just as devoid of light. Azazel asked, “What room?” in his thick accent.

“Third floor, southern side.” Erik whispered back, pointing up at the large window far above their heads. It looked out over the grounds from the dead center of the gorgeous building. He glanced back at the satellite, turned back towards its original position—no longer facing the house—, before he and Azazel disappeared in another burst of red smoke.

Charles had known for days. He hadn’t known exactly what, but he knew that something was coming. Erik’s promise had haunted his dreams, souring simple images with the phantom pain of everything. He consistently found himself laying in a wide open space, void. It wasn’t cold, or warm, or tinted with color. It was scentless. It was more the feeling of being blind, deaf, dead to the world, if he wasn’t able to look down at his own shaking hands and feel his pulse and hear his heartbeat and be viciously reminded that he was very much alive. Eventually, his consciousness would grow restless and he would stand, trailing his way through empty lacks of shadows. (what would there be, with no light?)

Always, it would come to him. The almost imperceptible tenderness of a silky, sarcastic voice. Not sound, but the sense of hearing something. There— words would follow.

Or, sometimes, the vague scent of gunmetal, brandy and velvet.

Rarely, Erik himself. Those were the most painful, because they never fought in these dreams. The Erik of his mind didn’t listen to him enough to argue with him. He simply walked closer, and closer—and Charles could never will himself to move away. He protested softly, but he never moved, and a pathetic part of him, that he pushed ever further into the abyss, liked that. The pain always came from being cradled and shushed gently.

There, each dream ended.

So, Charles, paranoid—he told himself—looked for what he knew was there. The fourth floor of the house, closed up for years, and the only place, as directed by himself at the time, to stay locked after his mothers death. His father’s study resided there. Not Kurt’s, but that of the late Brian Xavier, who had known so much more than he should have. Than he needed to.

Brian had realised, very early on, that something was fundamentally wrong with his child. He never did anything about it, playing the role of the perfect, oblivious father, but, even as a toddler, Charles had heard his thoughts. Brian, in the fleeting years of his life, had chosen to find others. He did truly care about his child, and was determined to find another of such gifts. Charles had convinced Sharon that she should adopt Raven, but neither of their parents ever learned what she was.

Brian had written pages on the need for a companion for his son. Raven was, as he wrote, sufficient for the time being. As he termed it, ‘Charlie, the sweet child, needs company of the same kind. The girl Sharon chose is merely a sister. He needs a real counterpart.’ Towards the end of his life, it became an obsession of his to leave a legacy for his son. This was only a piece of that goal.

Brian traveled the world, anywhere he heard rumors of gifted children.

He had visited Poland after the war, alone, to tour the shells of certain concentration camps. That was his job, he was a doctor, and he had argued that to help any of the survivors, he needed to properly understand the injury. He was lying. It was never as simple as that, in any facet of the situation, but Brian had always enjoyed using his charm and riches to get what he wanted under the guise of morality. In his office, on the fourth floor, Charles had found photographs. Many were of Dachau, especially of the 1945 Easter Service, a makeshift celebration arranged by the liberated prisoners. They wore makeshift vestments made from the towels of the SS Guard. Photos taken of Sachsenhausen included experimental killing facilities, especially the Genickschussbarackes, Majdanek pictures of crematorium ovens and gas chambers. In his time in Poland, Brian had catalogued a narrative on human cruelty. The hopeful photographs of the Dachau service were overshadowed by brutality, and even looking at the photos now, Charles could feel misery coming off in waves.

However, despite the grim fame of Auschwitz, only one photo existed of the main camp complex. One of an odd angle, pointed up at the gray sky, a crooked metal fence. Charles didn’t make much of it, initially, before uncovering a separate series of documents, a letter from a metalworker detailing the method of this particular injury to the fence. There were typical signs of wear and tear on any metal, especially that found in the camps, and this— due to location (at the top, far out of anybody’s reach, and taking a great deal more strength than those would have to offer) was not only very unlikely, but displayed no signs of gradual damage.

This was done intentionally. With that conclusion, scribbled at the end of the letter, Charles began to have a very good idea of what had happened.

In a page of his journal, Brian looked at the specific fence material and drew the conclusion that it was the result of magnetic–related telekinesis of a long forgotten victim of the Holocaust. In the final pages of his research, before he was shot at a gala, a quickly scribbled note questioned if this person was really dead, given the incomplete death records. Of course, Brian was fond of failsafes. If this panned out, as he had intended it to—already beginning to look over records of who had survived both the camps and the liberation—he would need one.

Underneath the thick stack of research, was a small ebony box with an engraved lid, tied with deep blue ribbon. Charles slid the lid off carefully, and dropped it with shaking hands.

Azazel was standing in the dark hall, alone. Inside, Charles slept lightly, while Erik watched. He felt wrong, standing here like someone he would’ve put out of their misery under regular circumstances. In the same breath: Charles looked peaceful. His chestnut hair was tangled against the pillow, sleep–mussed. He had dark circles under his eyes that shined in the cold moonlight, and curled against himself protectively under the heavy blankets. If not for the wisp of dark hair and pale skin peaking out from under his quilts, he would simply be a heap of bedding. It was sweet.

Charles was a perpetually deep sleeper. He would sleep through almost anything.

It had seemed to Erik, in his time at the mansion, that Charles would only be rousted by one particular thing. Nightmares. Not his own, but those of others. It seemed in sleep, the man’s already lax mental barriers faded, and he picked up on the dreams of those around him subconsciously. More than a few times, Erik had awoken to the soft sound of padding footsteps, hurriedly making their way down the hall to the others’ rooms.

Once, after a particularly nasty memory— of the camps, being tattooed and not fighting. He carried that with him, that until they had pulled him from his mother, and after too, he had never fought. The dream wasn’t clear anymore, the images had long since faded and he was ashamed of that too. It was just fear, and confusion, but that was enough. Enough to recognise. He had woken with Charles already by his bedside, ice water and chamomile tea (despite Charles’ personal objections to floral teas) both in hand, and nothing but concern on his face. That had made it hurt more, that Charles had seen all of his mind that night and had responded with cooing and comfort rather than shying away. They had gone to sit downstairs in the kitchen and not talk about it, as Erik had very pointedly requested, in silence, till dawn.

Even his own nightmares, he would just roll over and push away. It was always others.

How easy it would be, to beckon Azazel now, take Charles in his sleep and explain in the morning. So simple, and clean, but no. He owed Charles more than that. Erik owed him a real explanation, an apology, if he was going to do this. Charles deserved to be held through it, shushed at and consoled the way he would if their roles were reversed.

But first, material comforts. He already had clothes for Charles, knowing his size and preferences—especially with Raven looking over his shoulder to be sure that any and every preparation he made would go over well with Charles—but above all, people are animals, and just a few shirts and trousers only helped smooth the transition. Books too, though the safehouse contained a sprawling library. He quietly pulled a small case out of the closet, packing the items away neatly. Erik was very pleased with himself that he still knew the layout of Charles’ room so well.

Finished with this, though he knew he was only putting the inevitable off, Erik quietly opened the door, already moving to sit beside Charles on the bed. The moonlight turned his crimson lips frostbitten in the low light, a sight that upset Erik for reasons he couldn’t identify. It ;eft with the feeling of plague blooming in his chest.

Tentatively, he reached out one hand, brushing dark hair from Charles’ forehead, shifting the blankets down from his face slightly. “Charles. Wake up, please.” Erik spoke softly, attempting to sound calm.

In the next few seconds, many things happened.

Charles jerked awake, violently and startled in a way Erik had never seen him before,

He made his way to the opposite edge of his bed very quickly, rolling to his feet with a small box in his hand,

He opened that box deftly, pulling out a shining metal handgun, of which Erik couldn’t feel the sharp buzz of the metal,

Erik panicked.

As quickly as possible, he pressed himself up against the opposite wall, raising his hands to eye level, not afraid for himself. He was more worried as to what Charles—such a smart person as Charles—would do to himself when agitated. “Put that down.”

“No.” The other man was still a little drowsy, blinking himself out from the fog of sleep, but his demeanor was stubborn.

“Yes.” Erik fought to keep his voice calm.

“I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t. You can’t shoot a friend at point blank range, remember?” With the affirmation of Charles’ intent being focused on self–defense rather than anything that would derail his plan too much, he felt much more confident.

“I can shoot an enemy, just fine.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” He took a step forward, purring out the words. If he could force confidence, he could certainly wrestle the gun from Charles’ hands.

“This is pure titanium. Non-magnetic, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Put the gun down.” Erik said, now rounding the edge of the bed nearest to him while Charles began to inch to his left, aiming to run.

“No.” Charles’ voice and hands were steady, eyes darting to the door behind Erik.

“Please. So we can avoid other, more distasteful methods.” Charles had positioned himself with an out, the both of them having turned in a circle, and was beginning to edge backwards, with careful steps.

“What do you mean?”

Erik lowered his hands slowly, and Charles, brow now furrowed with concern, never governed him to put them back up. “We really wouldn’t want any of your children to be harmed, would we?” Charles took another step back, glancing to watch his footing and realizing he was running out of room before he reached the door, before staring intently at Erik, desperate, wet eyes blue enough to make you forget that storms exist. “Your children, darling. I’m sure you remember Ms. Frost? She currently has quite a tight hold on their minds, and I doubt you would want them to be hurt.” That was a lie, but Charles, in such a panicked state, may not recognize his bluff. This had gone deeply wrong, but he didn’t regret not taking the quiet route.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, no doubt searching for the children’s minds, and Erik took his chance to tackle him to the ground.

“Get— off of me!” Charles hissed, kicking at Erik’s legs sharply. Clenching his teeth, Erik wrestled the gun from his left hand, adjusting his position so he was crouched on top of Charles, pinning his arms and hips down.

Erik adjusted his weight so that it was more evenly distributed across the other man’s body. “Just—scheiße—stop fighting.”

“Why in under god would I do that, Erik?”

Erik shifted his hands to free one arm, pinning both of Charles’ wrists down with his right hand. He hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t accounted for the possibility of a fight. And under him, Charles had stilled, looking up with big, pleading blue eyes. “What are you even afraid of?” The vague thought played in his mind, “Is it me?””

Charles stared at him, stunned. “I’m not afraid of you.” Erik tilted his head questioningly.

On the lower floor, he could hear Hank’s quiet footsteps padding upwards. He was running out of time, and this endeavor had already gone wrong in enough ways. “Look, we don’t have time for this, are you going to go nicely?”

Charles nodded, shakily.

Erik shuffled slightly, pulling one of the three pills out of his pocket. “Alright. Will you swallow this please? It is a sedative.” Despite Raven’s warning, he thought that if he warned Charles, it would be okay.

Charles opened his mouth slightly, and Erik placed the small white pill on his tongue, feeling the warmth of his breath brushing against his fingers as he did. It was a painfully intimate interaction; as soon as Charles swallowed he moved to his side to hold his hand through it. It was an intense drug, and one pill for someone of Charles’ weight and height was going to put him out in the next two minutes.

His hand was aching from the tight grip Charles had on it already, white knuckled. Covering Charles’ hand in his other, he stroked him gently until the other man went lax.

Erik beckoned Azazel in quietly, and they disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

Charles was floating in dark water, a taste in his mouth not entirely unlike apples. Slight currents pushed at his body, buffeting him in the dark. He couldn’t see an end in any direction, no light or further darkness, just the crystalized image of his hands in front of him and the salty void stretching in front of him. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid. In fact, calm permeated every corner of his mind. Every once in a while, far off in the murky green darkness, Charles thought he could see something pale moving, but always it evaded his straining eyes and the world went back to darkness.

So he drifts, vague, caught weightless in the undertow of this great ocean. But that dream ends, and he’ll forget it. He forgets all his dreams.

Charles awoke first to quiet.

Quiet was an unfamiliar thing, the absence of not only other’s thoughts, but the gentle buzzing of life. Even microorganisms feel. Much more, quiet was oppressive.

It was like an amputation, the palpable lack that permeated the air around him.

Second, more painfully, comfort. Coming back into awareness as if a newborn fawn, he found himself cocooned in soft, warm bedding. Charles could feel a cold little cable around his throat. Drowsily, and with mild confusion, he pulled himself fully into the cold air of morning.

He is in a large, high ceilinged room, flooded by early morning sunlight. Outside, snow covers leafless trees before the landscape gives itself over to evergreens and a mountain range Charles has seen once long ago and can no longer recall the name of. The bedding is downy white silk, flowing out like the snow on the ground, forming a sea or shining pearls that reflected the rising sun onto the ceiling. A marble fireplace dominated the left wall, flanked by a gingham armchair and a small table. The opposite wall— a tall bookshelf and a door before chestnut wood paneling gave way to tall french windows that wrapped around to end beside the edge of the marble fireplace. A table with two chairs formed a slight boundary between him and the glass door leading out into the snow. A wheelchair sat near the bed, well within his reach.

Charles reached up to feel the metal cord, loose enough so that he would not be choked but bound tightly to the fibers it was made up of, so that he was completely unable to remove it. He assumed then that it was some haunted relic from Ms. Frost’s days as a victim rather than a co–oppressor.

As memories rushed back to him, strangely he didn’t feel panic. He felt perfectly calm. And his head was throbbing as if someone was trying to split it open with an axe.

The door clicked slightly. Charles jerked towards the sound, staring. Erik stood in the doorway, perfectly still and shocked. “You’re awake.”

Charles nodded. “So I am.”

Erik walked in further, coming to sit awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” He asked in a low voice.

“Fine.” Charles sighed, fatigued. “Where are we?”

Erik ignored his question, instead asking,“Your head doesn’t hurt?” He tilted his head, mild concern coloring his features, reaching out to feel Charles’ temperature.

Charles leaned back out of reach, rolling his neck away and gritting his teeth.“No.”

“Truthfully?”

“No.”

Erik tutted, looking at him with a half–lidded, unimpressed gaze. “Charles, I mean no offense by it but you are a truly terrible liar.” He spoke slowly, and quietly, something for which, despite his apparently obvious lie, Charles was incredibly grateful. His head throbbed. “Tell me the truth.” Erik added, his tone taking one a worried tinge.

“Fine. Mildly.” In truth, Charles simply wanted Erik to stop acting so motherly. It was unnatural.

Erik nodded, pulling away and speaking in a normal tone, which Charles winced at. “You’ll take some painkillers after eating.” He smirked at the proof of his claims.

“Will I?” Charles asked, mildly incredulous.

Erik leaned in, whispering, “Yes. You will.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Charles hissed, leaning in as well so that their noses were only inches apart.

“Don’t act immature and I won’t.”

“I’m not acting immature.”

“I beg to differ. You’re being thoroughly childish.” Erik spoke as he leaned away, walking gracefully to the opposite side of the bed.

“Oh piss off.” Erik smiled at that, taking Charles’ hands and helping him into the wheelchair. His hands were warm. And Charles was wearing different pyjamas than he had been the previous night, a thought which he shuddered at the thought of. The thought of being vulnerable and exposed to this man.

“How have you been?”

“Really?” Charles almost smiled at the pure hilarity of that question. It was purely absurd, purely insane. Beyond the realm of reality and far into that of inexpressible lunacy. Erik moved to push him out into the hall but Charles elbowed his hands away angrily with a quiet, “Get off me.”

Erik seemed just infuriatingly amused at him. “Yes, really. Please answer the question, darling.” He answered in a silky tone, voice still low enough not to drive the axe further into Charles’ splintering head. It was an incensing variety of considerate.

“Fine.” And though he wasn’t fine, per say, he was just fine for these purposes. The painful part was that Charles wanted to know the same. “You?” The hallway was dark wood, baroque paintings lining the walls.

“Alright. I’d tell you more about it if you weren’t against me. For now I think it’s preferable that you don’t know.”

“Perfect.” Charles stopped sharply in the middle of the hallway, the wheels well–oiled enough not to screech at the sudden halt. “Now that we’re through with pleasantries, what is God's name?

“Hm?” Erik blinked at him slowly, stopping a few feet ahead.

“You abandoned me, to bleed out. You took the person dearest to me in this world with you. You left me, injured, mourning, to finish raising the poor, sweet children that you left as well.” Charles’ voice was shaking as it rose.

“Charles—”

“I am not done! You kidnapped me, and trapped me in who knows where, without the use of my mutation. An act which, by the way, you would happily murder the perpetrator of, if it had been done to you. So let’s also be clear that you are not only a murderous, psychotic bastard, a war criminal, but a hypocrite too. And a bloody annoying cunt while we’re on the topic.” He took a deep breath, leaning back and swaying slightly. “There. Now, you may say whatever it was that you so rudely interrupted me to say.”

Erik looked stunned, a tremendously rare and satisfying emotion that Charles had learned to recognize the subtle signs of a month into this cursed relationship. “I did warn you. I told you that I want you by my side, that sentiment hasn’t changed. I told you exactly what was to come.”

“And why? Why must you and I be so close?” After Cuba had been the first time in five months that he wasn’t within a mile of Erik. It was painful at first, but he had grieved and made peace with it. This was wrecking all of that work. To lose mental connection with someone, especially if it had been solidified through months of companionship— that was an unbearable pain. Physical, especially, a burning sensation spreading throughout the whole body and eating at what was left of it.

“I want you safe.” Not, I don’t think you can keep yourself safe. It was the less inflammatory option, Erik reasoned to himself. He had no problem with lying or omitting information.

“I don’t feel safe. I feel as if I was taken forcefully in the middle of the night, from my own house.” Charles murmured accusingly, then adding, “You drugged me.”

Erik moved to push Charles’ down the hall, eager to get him to eat. He had felt his limp body last night, the man was concerningly light. He spoke clinically, “I gave you the opportunity to fight, you let yourself be drugged.”

“No.” Charles shook his head slowly, shying as far away from Erik as he could. He couldn’t acknowledge the small part of him that had governed last night, that did in fact let himself be sedated and carried off like a lamb.

“It would have made no difference if you kicked and thrashed, this was always going to happen.” And Erik did believe that, that this was, not fate, but something more innate and ungovernable.

Charles’ voice took on horror now, rather than anger, “You drugged me.”

“Yes. I suppose I did.” Erik sighed.

“You drugged me,” Charles whispered, with feverish panic, beginning to hyperventilate and shrink back, “Oh God. Oh God.”

Erik looked down at him, attempting to understand what was happening in Charles’ head that would cause him to be as dismayed as he was. He remembered how Raven had warned him but had not expected such an intense response. This was more akin to the more anxious varieties of shell shock that he had met towards the beginning of his hunt for Shaw. Higher ranked ones who would have been privy to the smaller details in the Nuremberg Military Trials. Erik had never seen him react to anything like this.. Charles was the bravest person he had ever met, as unlikely and incredibly odd as it was, whether that be the result of obstinance, or sheer cockyness.

“Erik, please. Please just let me go.” His breathy voice rose in pitch, shaking. “I— I’ll do whatever you want, just please let me go.” He was crying.

Erik panicked, rushing to kneel in front of Charles, hands covering his wrists. “No, liebchen. Calm—calm down.” He pleaded, raising his hands to cradle Charles’ face. “I can’t do that; please stop crying.”

“Get off of me!” He snapped, Erik startling away from him. Then, in a small whisper as he shrunk further back into his chair, “Just let me go. Please. Please, let me go.” His voice broke at the end of the plea, tears still running down his face.

“Charles, listen to me—” But Charles wasn’t. He was looking down at his lap, sobbing and gasping for air. “Look!” He grabbed Charles’ face tightly, fingers digging into his pale skin. “I… scheiße. Please just calm down for a moment. Beruhig dich jetzt, es ist alles in ordnung?” He had no idea what to say in this situation. “Can you breathe? Take a breath with me, eh— alright?”

He mimed the rise and fall of his chest, and the second time, Charles followed suit with a shaky breath in. “Gut, good, you’re doing so well mien liebe.” He loosened his grip on Charles’ face, the other man jerking backwards out of his grip, big eyes wet and red and darting.

“Please, just be calm.”

Charles was sucking in deep, feeble breaths, shaking his head faintly.

“No?”

More shaking.

“That’s alright der liebling, why don’t we get some food for you?”