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Part I: The Setup
“Erik, you can do this. I promise.” Charles’ voice is firm, full of conviction and faith in Erik that Erik himself cannot fathom. The taller man shrugs Charles’ gentle hands off his shoulders and turns partially away, staring out the small window of the grubby room they share, and Charles sighs heavily.
“Charles, you are the one that can communicate with the people,” Erik says, and the barest lilt of an accent on the carefully spoken words is enough to make Charles forget his frustration for a moment. He goes to his friend—his lover, now, he reminds himself—and put his arms around Erik’s waist, buries his face in Erik’s warm back.
“You know why I can communicate with them, Erik. It’s because I know how they feel and what they’re thinking, because I can put them at their ease. Unfortunately, this man knows that, and it’s exactly why he doesn’t want me talking to his daughter. He feels as if I’ll…manipulate her.” His full lips twist into a wry smile, and Erik turns around in his arms, lacing his fingers together behind Charles’ back.
“He does not even want her to come with us, Charles. Why are we bothering?” his mouth turns down at the corners slightly. Impulsively, Charles kisses him. It is quick and chaste, but it brings light to Erik’s eyes and the ghost of a smile to his face.
It’s the first time anyone has ever actually called Charles and Erik to see a mutant child; Charles usually finds them himself through Cerebro, but he supposes that word has been getting around. The man who called had introduced himself as the father of a young girl, whose given name was Sarah. He said that he had heard of them, Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr, two men who were rumored to “take care” of some particularly “strange” children. He wanted them to come look at his daughter, to talk to her, but he didn’t want her taken away from him. Of course she could go, if she wanted, but he didn’t want anyone to influence her one way or another…
“So you’ll understand, Mr. Xavier, if I’d rather Mr. Lehnsherr speak to her, instead of yourself. I have heard that your particular, ah…skill…is of the telepathic variety,” the man had said.
“I assure you I would never use my skill in such a way, Mr. Jacobs,” Charles had replied, for that was the name the man had given him.
“All the same,” Mr. Jacobs replied, “I love my daughter and while I’ll comply with her wishes, I won’t risk having her influenced. It may be purely unintentional on your part, of course, but you understand, don’t you?”
Mentally preparing himself to inform Erik that he would actually have to interact with strangers outside of Charles’ presence, Charles had assured Mr. Jacobs that he understood. While he would accompany Erik to Edmonton (the town in Canada that Jacobs gave him) he would not visit the girl himself.
“Thank you for understanding, Mr. Xavier,” Jacobs had said.
“May I ask you what sort of…skill…your daughter possesses?” Charles had asked, before Jacobs could hang up.
“It’s quite difficult to describe, Mr. Xavier. I’m sure that Mr. Lehnsherr will tell you all about it.” And he had hung up without another word.
Charles had decided to go to Edmonton first, and inform Erik of Jacob’s stipulation once they arrived. As predicted, Erik is not taking it well.
“He doesn’t want her to come but he will let her come, don’t you see? If she wants to, if she believes that we can help her, she will come to us and he’ll let her.” Charles explains, for what must have been the tenth time that night.
“And the man gave no explanation of her powers?” Erik is frowning again.
“He said that they were difficult to describe. You know how it is, Erik…no one quite wants to believe it. Sometimes they can’t even put it into words. I mean, how do you suppose Alex felt as a child, the first time he tried to play with a hula-hoop?”
Erik snorts laughter, looking down at Charles’s smiling face, and Charles knows that he is close.
“I just want to help them, Erik, and I know that you do, too. And someone sought us out, Erik! That means that we’re becoming known, that we’re doing our job and doing it well. We’re starting to make a difference, Erik.” Charles is grinning now; the thought of doing something like this, of actually making a difference in the lives of many, always makes him grin.
Erik will never be able to say it, but he loves to see that smile on Charles’ face. He loves that the man in his arms is so inherently bent upon improving the world he lives in, on changing the lives of so many for the better. If Erik can help him, and make him happy by helping him, then he will do it.
“All right, Charles. You win. I will go see the girl, and I will go alone...but you will do one thing for me,” he adds.
Charles tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Go on,” he says.
“You will stay in my head…please? I may not know what to say to her…or I may…well, it’s unlikely, but I could…”
He can’t finish, and looks down at Charles, frustrated with himself.
“Ah, Erik,” Charles pulls him closer, wraps him tighter in his arms despite their difference in height. “You so rarely do that anymore. You’ve made amazing progress.”
“You’ve helped me,” Erik mumbles, his lips buried in Charles’ thick hair.
“I’ve done nothing but remind you that it is in your past, Erik,” Charles replies.
Erik can’t explain to him that he’s done so much more than that. He can’t explain to him that the flashbacks have tapered off not because of Charles’ reminders that his past is behind him, but because Charles somehow makes him feel safe.
And I haven’t felt safe in so many years.
Part II: Wooden Walls
Erik can feel the gravel crunching beneath his booted feet as he walks down the driveway, but he cannot see it; it is buried under a beautiful blanket of snow. He’s wearing a turtleneck and gloves and over it all, Charles’ coat. It’s slightly too small and the material is rather tight around his shoulders, but Charles insisted that he wear it.
“The house is quite a bit away from the road, Erik, and you can only take a cab. I don’t want you to freeze,” he had said, holding the coat out to Erik as he had been for the past five minutes, because Erik would not take it.
“I will be in the house soon enough,” Erik had replied, averting his eyes from the offered coat. He knew why it was being offered, and Charles knew he knew, and they clashed wills for another five minutes until Charles had said, “Please, Erik.”
“Can you keep in touch with me, being this far away?” Erik had asked, shrugging into the jacket, testing the strength of the slightly worn material as he moved.
“Once I’m in your mind, I won’t leave you, Erik,” he had replied. “I’m sure I will become quite the nuisance.”
Erik had smiled, said “Never.” Then he had kissed him goodbye and left.
This is quite bizarre, you know, Charles. Erik thinks, as he trudges along the snowy driveway.
((It is, isn’t it?)) Erik feels Charles laughing. ((Trust me, you will be all right, as long as you don’t let on that there is a voice in your head telling you what to do.))
I think I’ll be able to keep that to myself. I don’t want to be sent to the loony bin. Can you feel anyone else’s mind while you’re so focused on mine?
((I haven’t tried, to be honest. Give me a moment.))
Erik feels the warm presence in his brain slipping back slightly, becoming less of a participant in his mental functions and more of a spectator. He remains quiet, not wishing to disturb Charles’ experiment.
Gradually, he feels Charles come forward again, hears his voice inside his own head.
((I can touch Jacobs’ mind, I believe. The poor man seems very nervous. There’s another presence with him that I can’t touch, probably his daughter. Perhaps she’s a telepath as well.))
The trees are spreading their branches over the snowy pathway now, and Erik walks into a tunnel of shadow. His heart steps up a beat and he scans the area thoroughly, out of habit. The cold suddenly seems a bit colder, the snowy ground more sinister than beautiful.
He gets a sudden rush of feeling from Charles; it isn’t pity, because Erik cannot and will not endure pity from anyone. It is pain, pain that the smallest things, such as snow or a shadow, can put Erik on the defensive so quickly. There is even a momentary spike of negativity, of bitterness—that is the closest Charles can come to hate—for those who did this to Erik, for the Nazis that have been defeated for twenty or so years now but still manage to live on inside Erik’s mind.
Really, Charles, I didn’t know you cared. Erik smiles, alone in the snow. It is a bitter smile.
((I should have come with you.))
Erik realizes that the thing about inviting Charles into his mind, allowing him to hang out there for such an extended period of time, is that it enables him to convey emotions that he would never be able to put into spoken words. It pleases him, in one way, but in another it embarrasses him fiercely and he can feel his cheeks warming despite the chill.
I am all right, Charles. I am. Auschwitz was a hell of snow and shadows, but I am not in Auschwitz and nothing can fool me that I am, because I feel you here with me.
Charles is silent, but Erik feels the wave of warmth that lets him know just what that means to Charles.
It isn’t long before Erik is emerging from the umbrage of the trees into the tiny front yard of Jacobs’ cabin. The wooden walls are smooth and shiny from years of weather, and a few child’s toys sit half-buried under the snow: a tricycle, a Fisher Price play kitchen, a plastic baseball bat and tee. Erik notices a dent in the tricycle’s shiny red exterior, waves his hand at it, and mends it easily. There doesn’t seem to be much else made of metal lying around, save the doorknobs, and Erik takes a deep breath before mounting the steps to the front door.
((You will be fine, Erik.)) Charles says.
As long as you put the words in my mouth, Erik thinks back to him.
He knocks. A moment later, a man answers the door. He is shorter than Erik, and much thicker in the middle, with a brown beard and a mop of brown hair that is beginning to recede. His eyes are bright, twitching this way and that, as if he’s frightened of something.
What’s wrong with him, Charles?
((I think he’s nervous about you…)) There is the momentary feeling of Charles pulling away, then flooding back. ((He seems to think you’re very dangerous, Erik. He doesn’t want anything to happen to his little girl.))
Erik tries to smile, and hopes that it looks sincere. He puts out his hand and introduces himself, saying, “You must be Mr. Jacobs.”
“Yes, yes, I am. Come in, and I’ll take you…” the man swallows heavily. “I’ll take you to my daughter.”
“Thank you, sir.” Erik follows the nervous old man inside. The cabin is made up of exactly four very small rooms, but the doors to three are shut. The one Erik steps into is the living room, decorated with rustic wooden furniture and the heads of dead animals. The wooden paneled floor gives way to the bright white tile of the kitchen, with its wooden counters and small wooden dining table and chairs. Eric finds himself frowning slightly; he dislikes being in places that do not have an abundance of metal.
((Erik, I don’t believe this old man is out to hurt you. Stop looking for weapons.)) Charles chuckles slightly in Erik’s mind, and he relaxes.
“Please, follow me down cellar,” the man says, and pushes on one of the walls in the kitchen. The wooden panels of the wall snap apart, and Erik narrows his eyes at the man.
“A hidden door? What use have you for that?”
“Architect’s idea,” the man says quickly, already walking down the cement steps revealed by the doorway. “The door blends in, makes the kitchen look flawless.”
Erik feels the hair on the back of his neck begin to stand up as he descends after the old man. The cement walls are cold and there is a musty, mildewy smell all around him. There are no lights on down here, but he sees a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Erik is just about to open his mouth to ask the man, “How about a little light?” when Charles begins screaming inside his head.
((Erik! Erik, get out now, do you hear me, get out of there before that secret door closes! Now, Erik, NOW!))
But the door clicks shut, and the darkness takes over.
Part III: As If He Never Left
The pitch blackness makes Erik’s heart race, and sweat breaks out on his brow and palms despite the chill of the room. For a moment he is frozen, his abused mind roiling with images of what could be in the dark, what could be waiting for him, what could happen to him with no one there to see or hear…
For a moment, Charles’ presence in his mind is no longer the calming warmth that he is used to, it no longer provides the sense of safety that Erik so desperately needs in these heavy shadows. It twists instead to a knot of emotions that deepen Erik’s panic and paranoia, and Charles is a disorganized mess of guilt and terror and anxiety.
Voices—real voices, not the voice in his head—distract him. He turns himself sharply toward the direction of the first voice, and it belongs to the old man, and it is more nervous than ever.
“I brought him,” says the man into the darkness. “I brought him to you, now let her go! Let my little girl go!”
((Erik, love…it was a trap.)) Charles’ presence is slightly more collected now, but it pulses guilt like the throb of an infected wound. ((I am coming to you as quickly as I can, Erik, and I…oh, Erik, he was blocking me, and I…))
Charles’ words dissolve into Erik’s own thoughts, because Charles is now in too much pain to speak, and Erik can feel Charles’ sobs for only half a moment before he realizes what exactly is happening.
The name comes to him shrouded in Charles’ guilt, just as the man speaks.
Shaw.
“Why yes, yes you did. And I suppose I did say I would give you the girl back, didn’t I?” Shaw’s voice grates into Erik’s eardrums, and rage to rival that of Achilles floods Erik’s now-bulging veins. He can hear the voice, but he can’t see it, and—
Are his eyes closed?
Erik blinks them open, feels the flutter of his long eyelashes along his bruised skin, but the darkness does not lift. It remains pitch black, and Erik tries to move his hand, to see if he can locate it in front of his face, but his hand raises perhaps eight inches and smashes hard into something hard and unyielding.
Erik tries to bend his elbow, to bring his hand to his face in another way, but his elbow is already pressed tightly against the hard barrier, and terror dawns on him as he realizes that the barrier is everywhere, it is pressing into his elbows and against his feet and the top of his head and if he raises his head ever so slightly it smashes into his nose, and suddenly there doesn’t seem to be enough air and Erik is thrashing his small body around in the box. His elbow breaks, his head begins to ring, his nose gushes blood that trickles down into his throat and chokes him until he is certain that he will die, he will die alone and broken in a box…and then the top of the box explodes outward and Shaw is laughing at him and showing too many teeth—
((ERIK! Erik, please, love, come back to me, you aren’t there, Erik, I swear it! You aren’t there!))
Erik comes out of his flashback to the sound of Shaw’s laughter, to the sound of the old man’s moans.
“Well, how do you like that, Erik? You seem to have clipped off the poor man’s hand. Tsk, tsk…I told him not to wear that watch around you.”
((That was not your fault, Erik.)) says Charles, but Erik is paying next to no attention to the shadowy man dying of blood loss nearby. His eyes are adjusting to the darkness and he is seeing Shaw, seeing him relatively clearly, and he is twisting the metal rod in his pocket into something sharp and deadly. It’s the only metallic object in the room, it seems, save for the little bit around the dim light bulb and the remnants of the old man’s watch, but it will work just fine. The coin he will save, the coin he will shove down Shaw’s bleeding throat—
((Erik, no!))
Erik isn’t listening. He hears only Shaw’s laughter, Shaw’s damnable laughter, and he’s rushing him with a scream in his throat, and dimly he hears Charles begging him to stop, to think of what Shaw can do, but Erik is beyond Charles now.
He slams into Shaw, tackling him into the ground, raising the metal spike, and Shaw is still laughing…still, incredibly, laughing…
…and Erik is hurled into the concrete wall.
He feels his skull connect to the bricks with a sound that is very dull and very wet. Warm blood spills down his neck and back, soaking into his turtleneck, and for the moment all Erik’s foggy mind can process is I’m ruining Charles’ coat before Charles himself is screaming in fear.
((Erik, love, be all right, I’m coming to you as quickly as I can, the cab’s not far, I will get you out of this, Erik, I swear it!))
Erik’s mind is still too dazed to make a reply. He feels Charles at work, trying to reverse the affects of what surely must be an impressive concussion, but he hasn’t quite regained himself when Shaw kneels in front of him, kneels closely between his splayed legs and actually puts one repulsive hand on Erik’s upper thigh.
“I think we need to get you under control, don’t you?”
And Erik is gone again, with Charles screaming after him.
The room in in shambles around him. His bed is a melted mess of iron and fabric, the concrete walls are gouged and torn through straight to the peculiar barrier underneath, the one that looks like metal but isn’t, the one he can’t pierce no matter how heavy the iron objects are that he hurls at them. He is on his knees in the middle of the mess, exhausted and crying bitterly when Shaw comes to him.
Erik tries feebly to raise an iron bedpost at him, to fend him off, but he’s weak now, weak from exertion and despair. The iron bedpost does no more than twitch.
Shaw laughs at him.
“Well, now, we can’t have you doing this every night, can we? I think we need to get you under control, young man.”
Something snaps around his throat, so tightly that he can barely get air, and he claws at it like he will later claw at the box that will be his prison. It does not budge, and when he tries to lift a thin piece of metal with which to pry it off, it does not budge.
Not a single piece of it will budge, and Shaw laughs again while Erik cries in sobs that choke him.
He comes out of this one to Charles’ voice, pleading with him, begging him to remember that he is not there, but Erik suddenly smiles weakly.
He fingers the collar around his throat, the collar so tight that breathing is a chore.
Ah, but Charles…I am there.
Part IV: He Never Knew
The warmth of Charles’ presence in his brain is the only thing keeping Erik’s mind from drifting loose from his body. He can feel it, like a desperate hand, clutching him back from the edge of some abyss…or a desperate embrace, saving him from drowning.
But he can also feel Shaw’s hand on his thigh, can feel the strength in it, the superhuman pressure of it embedding a bruise into the skin, into the muscle, and suddenly he wants be sick.
“I have missed you, you know, Erik,” says Shaw, still kneeling closely between Erik’s legs. Shaw’s foul hand creeps further up Erik’s leg, the fingertips now pressing so deeply into the skin of his groin that they disappear in fabric-covered flesh. “You always showed such promise, and I see now that my persistent training paid off for you.”
Erik bites down into his lip so hard that it bleeds. He’s busy in his mind, busy trying to throw up a barrier between Charles and the memories, the memories that have never, in all these years, fully surfaced, but Shaw’s voice destroys each new attempt.
((Oh, god, Erik…))
Get out, Charles. Get out. Now.
“I should think you would show a little more gratitude, you know.”
Erik’s eyes flash open and for a moment he is afraid that he will be sick; his gorge rises into his throat but cannot make it past the confines of the collar. He swallows, acidic bile burning its way back down into his esophagus and turning his stomach into a firestorm of nausea.
He knows he’s in trouble when Shaw’s helmeted head seems far too close to his face.
The lips on his taste like blood, and Charles’ screams are deafening even from inside his head.
Erik doesn’t know that his struggles are only making his opponent stronger. He hasn’t realized yet that the man keeping him locked away like a lab rat is absorbing the energy Erik is creating, translating it instead into superhuman strength. Erik doesn’t realize that every time he tries to get away, he’s damning himself more deeply than ever.
The hand around Erik’s wrists pins him to the floor, arms above his head, and Erik’s hands feel numb and very far away. He is kicking, screaming, twisting and writhing, but Shaw is heavier and Shaw is stronger and Erik is only giving Shaw more to work with.
He feels his trousers rip like tissue paper in Shaw’s other hand, his underwear is suddenly nothing but shreds. He feels bile rise in his throat, then trickle back downward, unable to get past the collar, and through his watery eyes he can see Shaw looming over him, and he feels the heavy, bruising press of Shaw’s knees on his thighs, and he hears Shaw laughing—
CHARLES GET OUT OF MY HEAD GODDAMN YOU!
Erik brings himself out of it this time, fights his way to the surface, shoving with all that’s left of his mind against Charles’ presence, barely registering that Shaw has maneuvered him to the concrete floor.
((I will not, Erik. I will not leave you, do you understand?!))
Erik feels Shaw grip his wrists and screams as the tiny bones shatter. His next thought borders on hysteria.
Get out Charles please I’m begging you I don’t want you here go go go go get out you don’t need this you don’t want this get out get out get out—
“I don’t think you’re little telepathic friend will be much help to you down here, son,” says Shaw, and his voice is low and rough and preoccupied.
Erik remembers the inner walls of the prison of his childhood, how he could never pierce them. His collar is made out of that same material, and the collar negates his mutant powers. If the walls down here are the same…
((Stay with me, Erik, please, just stay right here with me, I’m running up the driveway now--))
I said GET OUT!
Shaw’s knees are digging deeply into his spread thighs, and Shaw is not laughing now, but breathing like a winded animal, panting, and the last thing Erik sees before Charles shuts his eyes for him is Shaw’s face, smeared with the blood from Erik’s bitten lip, and Shaw’s flushed cock springing forth from the zipper of his trousers.
Charles I am begging you, leave my mind. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, the bones in his wrists are shards of broken glass shifting around inside his skin, and he can feel every blood vessel that bursts beneath the weight behind Shaw’s knees. Don’t watch this.
((Erik, love, I’m not watching you…I’m living it with you.)) Erik can sense the sobs lurking behind the words.
He has no time to retort. Pain shocks through him, flashes through his body like lightning as he is invaded, and he screams into the darkness, his voice nothing but a meaningless extenuation of sound. Each thrust sends aftershocks of agony through him. Blood begins to flow somewhere inside him, slicking Shaw’s way, and he screams again when he realizes that Charles is still there, still in his mind, watching, witnessing, knowing…
Part V: Teamwork
((Erik…))
It’s only the one word, his name, that comes through clearly; the rest is nothing but a tangle of guilt and shame and pain. He can feel Charles inside his mind just as acutely as he can feel Shaw inside his body, and right now he hates both intruders; one for humiliating him, the other for witnessing his humiliation. For a moment he fights them both, shoving at Charles’ presence in his mind with all the mental power he possesses while trying with all his remaining strength to buck Shaw off him, but Charles’s brainpower is like a brick wall before his own; Shaw simply grinds his knees deeper into Erik’s spread thighs, thrusting with such force that Erik screams again as a red haze of pain covers him. He can feel Charles’ pain, his hurt, but he cannot stop his fury even at its most futile.
He can feel Charles inside his mind, trying to shut down his senses, trying to numb his body against the pain that must surely be wracking them both now, and knows that his friend is close. The idea fills him with both hope and rage, a mixture as senseless as oil and water, but he cannot help what emotions swim to the surface any more than he can help what is happening to his body.
((Erik…I will need your help to get you out of this.))
Charles’ voice is flat inside his head, as if Charles is trying to shove away all the emotions flooding him; as if he is trying to avoid letting Erik know how deeply his rage wounds him, but Erik has no room in his heart or mind to feel remorse.
((I am at the secret door now. I have only to touch it. Whatever it is that is blocking your powers is designed only for you; it has not weakened Shaw nor me. Now, Erik…when…when he is…))
Erik wants to laugh; it would be his most mirthless, most cruel laugh, but he cannot even manage that.
When he’s close, you mean.
Even inside his mind, Erik can see Charles blushing deeply, can see him cringing at the idea. This time, he does manage a small, sick smile.
((Yes, Erik. When he is close…his strength will likely let up. You may be able to free your hands. Use your forearms and snatch off his helmet. I will take care of the rest. With our minds linked, we can act in unison and take him by surprise.))
And if this plan doesn’t work, Charles? He can’t keep the edge out of his voice, but he is surprise when Charles’ reply is laced with an edge of its own, an edge slicked with what might just be hatred.
((Then I will come downstairs and tackle him and snatch the fucking helmet off myself.))
Erik can feel Charles throughout his mind, can tell that Charles is trying his best to tone down his own feelings of fear and hysteria in order to calm him, and Erik stops fighting. He hates the feeling of giving up, of letting go, of letting in, but he hurts so badly and Charles is taking that away, shielding him from the physical pain until they can make their desperate move. They both know that unless they can remove Shaw’s helmet, neither of them are likely to leave the cabin alive.
But you could, Erik thinks, You could escape, Charles.
((Hush, love, and be ready.))
Erik hushes, and Erik is ready. Though he cannot feel pain, he can hear Shaw’s ragged breathing, can sense his tormentor’s loss of rhythm; it sickens him. His mind teeters on the edge of another flashback, a memory of Shaw raping his mouth, smashing his head into the wall with the movement of his hips, and then Shaw’s hands are loosening from his crushed wrists as something hot and foul spurts inside of him and Erik moves like lightning.
He rakes the helmet off Shaw’s head with an awkward jerk, dropping it onto his own chest and leaving a long scrape down one of Shaw’s cheeks. He recognizes the haze of pleasure in Shaw’s eyes and grins like a shark when it gives way to panic. Shaw reaches for the helmet, fury already overriding alarm, but then he begins to scream.
He rolls off Erik, screeching and clutching at his temples, clawing at them, as if trying to tear out his own brain, and when Erik sees Charles coming down the stairs he thinks that perhaps it would be best if Shaw could tear out his brain.
Charles is utterly gone from his mind now, and the pain is creeping back in, but Erik does not spare it a thought. His eyes are locked on Charles.
The light from the kitchen shines behind him, casting his long shadow onto the floor in front of him. The first two fingers of his left hand are pressed to his left temple, their tips disappearing into the shaggy, disheveled mop of his dark hair. There’s snow melting on his shoulders, and his perfectly proper loafers are soaked with it as well, but Charles does not seem to notice nor care. His eyes blaze from his face like twin furnaces and his teeth are set so tightly that Erik can see the bones jutting from his jawline. He seems to have forgotten that Erik is there at all; his focus is on the screeching, shrieking Shaw, who has clawed his cheeks to ribbons.
“He’ll kill him,” Erik whispers to himself, struggling into an upright position and watching as Charles advances, step by step, on the Nazi who has haunted his nightmares for a decade and more.
Abruptly, Shaw ceases his screams. His eyes roll back into his skull and he falls limp, blood spreading beneath his head from his torn face, and when Charles drops his hand from his temple he looks haggard.
“We must get out of here,” he says, and his voice makes it seem as if speaking is a great effort. “Emma Frost will know what has happened, because I could not block her and attack Shaw as well.” He turns to Erik, and Erik does not have to have Charles inside his mind to know that the sight of him cuts Charles to the heart.
“Can you stand?” Charles asks, trying not to look at the smattering of blood between Erik’s legs or the already-purpling bruises on his inner thighs.
Erik starts to answer, but everything has become rather hazy now; he is pain, more pain than he ever thought he endured in childhood. The pain is demanding, insistent upon taking first priority in his mind, and instead of speaking Erik only moans.
“Then sleep, love,” Charles whispers, and Erik can feel him inside his mind again, can feel him slipping his arms beneath his neck and knees, but before Erik can open his mouth to protest he has slipped into a blissfully warm and dreamless darkness.