Chapter Text
Monday wraps up with a bullet and a bloody carpet that will need to be either dry cleaned about eight times or thrown out entirely. Erik eyes the destruction around his office dispassionately, noting the overturned chairs, the splintered desk, the smashed tumblers dripping liquor on the floor. His hand is bleeding, glass embedded in his palm. He’s gotten blood on his favorite tie. What a fucking mess.
Azazel pops back into the office with a swirl of smoke. “Sir.”
“Message delivered?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good.” He hopes Azazel left the body impaled on the spikes of Guerrero’s front gates. That’s a warning that could hardly be mistaken and clearly the idiot needs it. Sending an assassin—the man’s getting impertinent.
“How did he get a weapon in here?” Azazel asks, his brows drawing together. His tail lashes restlessly back and forth in agitation. If there’s one thing the Russian hates, it’s feeling that he’s failed his job, and that’s what Erik likes about him. That’s what Erik needs from him.
“He didn’t,” Erik tells him, pointing to what used to be a full glass tumbler by the foot of the desk. “Pretended to drop his drink and picked up a glass shard when he was cleaning it up. It was a good ruse, too; I didn’t even see him palm the shiv until he was coming at me.”
Azazel mutters an oath under his breath and glances at Erik’s hand. “Let me look at that.”
Erik holds out his bleeding palm, making and discarding plans as Azazel picks at the glass lodged under his skin. He can’t let this challenge go unanswered. Guerrero has been a tolerable neighbor for years, but he’s been growing bolder lately, bold enough to be irritating. His territory hasn’t grown—Erik’s made sure of that—but word is his forces are considerably stronger now than they were when Erik first rose to power, when they’d agreed on a strict “you leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone” policy. There have been suspicious encroachments on Erik’s borders, not enough to provoke any sort of retaliation but enough to draw Erik’s attention. He’s testing the Brotherhood, testing Erik’s resolve.
Erik hates being tested.
“I need to call Charles,” he says, casting his eyes around the ruined office in search of his phone. “I want to see him.”
“Is that a good idea?” Could be dangerous, is what his tone says. Someone just tried to kill you.
Erik wonders if telepathy can rub off on you if you’ve been around a telepath long enough. Sometimes it seems like he can almost hear thoughts, clear as Charles’ voice in his head.
“Guerrero wouldn’t send someone so soon after this one,” Erik replies. He wants to add that no one would dare strike at him so deep in his own territory but—well. Clearly that’s not the case.
The audacity of this attack. It’d be infuriating if Erik allowed himself to be anything but detached about events like these. Emotions get in the way.
“I’ll take extra security,” he continues, mostly to appease Azazel. “And we’ll stay close.”
Azazel nods after a moment. “Then let me put a bandage on this first. Don’t want you bleeding on your little myshka, do we.”
Erik barks a laugh. “I’ll tell Charles you called him that.”
“Please,” Azazel says dryly, “I would rather not die.”
*
Charles arrives, as usual, with little fanfare. Erik feels him coming from three blocks away, the thin circlet around his wrist burning like a beacon in the rest of the comparatively dull world. Erik gave him the circlet a while ago, even before they had been lovers. He’d told Charles it was so Erik could pick him out of a crowd, and that had been partially true. The other part had been that Erik had liked the look of his metal on Charles, liked that Charles had something Erik had made on his person at all times. He knows every smooth inch of that silver band. He knows how it feels against the heat of Charles’ skin.
The door to the café swings open, and Charles steps through, looking windswept and harried. He’s not wearing his cardigans today; instead he’s in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that says “Mitosis – I hope I have your divided attention.” Erik raises an eyebrow at it as Charles slides into the other side of the booth, pulling his satchel over his head and laying it aside as he does.
“Dressing down for class today?”
“No, you caught me on my day off,” Charles says with a cheery smile. Oh good. He’s chirpy today. “What did you need? You were awfully cryptic on the phone.”
“I wanted a little bit of time with you,” Erik answers, raising his hand to push the cup of tea he’d ordered across the table. As soon as he does, Charles’ eyes zero in on the white bandage around his hand, and he reaches out immediately to touch it. “What happened?”
“Would you believe me if I said I slipped in the shower?”
“Would you like to try a better lie?”
Erik grins sharply and strokes his thumb along the back of Charles’ knuckles. “A man tried to kill me today.”
There was a time Charles would have reacted in horror to that, but now, he only turns Erik’s palm over to examine the bandage and says, “They don’t usually get this close.”
“He caught me off-guard. It was my fault.”
“Is it deep?”
“Not too deep.”
“Good.”
Charles is quiet for a long moment, the usual teasing light in his eyes vanishing. He always gets serious at every sobering reminder of the realities of Erik’s activities. He’s told Erik a dozen times over that he understands the risks associated with what Erik does and over the last few years he’s become remarkably calm about attempted murders and the occasional blood spill, but Erik still has to remind himself that this isn’t what Charles is used to. Charles belongs in a university library surrounded by books too old to touch with bare hands, lecturing to dozens of bright-eyed students or giving brilliant papers at academic conferences.
Of course, that’s still his everyday life, but now he’s on a mob boss’ speed dial and that means dipping toes into a world that’s very different from microscopes and pipettes and test papers. When Erik had asked him three years ago, Charles had agreed to work with him of his own will, no extravagant bribes or coercion necessary. Sometimes he wonders if Charles regrets it.
“I don’t,” Charles says, withdrawing his hand to cup the sides of the warm mug of tea. He leans down to inhale the steam rising from the drink’s surface, so Erik can’t see his face when he adds, “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
He says it lightly, but there’s real sentiment underneath. Erik smiles.
“Was there anything I could have done?” Charles continues, raising the mug to his lips for a sip. “If so, you should have called me.”
“A telepath is a trump card. I don’t want to use you when I don’t need to.”
“You say that as if I’m a tool to pull out of a drawer when you need me. Is that the way this works, Erik?” Charles arches a questioning eyebrow.
Erik shakes his head. “Wrong choice of words.”
“You’d think that after three years, you’d think of me as more than a means to an end.”
“You’d think that after three years, you’d know exactly what I thought of you.”
Charles smiles, conciliatory. “Good point.” He reaches down and traces his fingers over the wrist on Erik’s injured hand. “Well, use me next time.”
“I had no reason to think today’s visitor was dangerous.” He grimaces. “Well. Any more dangerous than usual.”
“Clearly.” Charles doesn’t say anything more, but the feeling that he presses to Erik’s mind translates to a firm be careful.
“I called you,” Erik says eventually, when he’s almost out of coffee and most of Charles’ tea is settled in his stomach, “because I will need you, and probably soon.”
“Oh?”
“Adrian Guerrero. He’s the one who sent the hitman. I sent him a message back, and I expect him to reply at some point with an offer to meet. Things have been getting out of hand between us lately. It’s time for a face-to-face.”
“Ah. You’ll want me there to monitor the situation then.”
“Guerrero is…” Erik shakes his head dismissively. “He shouldn’t pose much of a threat. But it never hurts to be careful.”
Charles’ eyes flick down to the white bandage again. “No, it doesn’t.”
They spend another hour in the café with Charles chattering to Erik about his current work in the lab, the biggest troublemaker in his class, the excellent paper he’s graded recently from a student he’s going to ask to go to a conference with him next month. It’s always nice to hear about a professor’s life, about a different kind of existence from his violent, manipulative, cynical one. Maybe he would have had that kind of mundane peace himself, if his mother hadn’t been killed when he was thirteen by a bunch of unruly Hellfire initiates who’d been trying to impress their higher-ups. Maybe if he’d listened to the detective who’d spoken to him afterwards, who’d warned him against seeking revenge, he wouldn’t be where he is today.
He’s content where he is. He isn’t unhappy. But he does imagine sometimes meeting Charles under different circumstances, maybe in a coffee shop on a Saturday morning, or at Charles’ favorite bookstore in the Upper West Side, or at any other place that isn’t the park bench they really met at, Charles standing with his hands in his pockets, shivering slightly in the wintery air while Erik had lounged on the bench sizing him up.
Funny, the sort of thoughts that get into his head when Charles is around. He’s never imagined another life for himself before. The mob is all he’s known and will ever know, and he likes it that way.
Charles, apparently, likes him that way, too, and that’s good enough for him.
“Do you want to come home with me tonight?” Erik asks after a while. A quiet night in with Charles sounds excellent right now, after the day he’s had.
“I wish I could,” Charles says with a sigh. “I’ve got to prep for an early class tomorrow though. Probably shouldn’t stay up too late.”
“That’s fine.” Erik pushes his right leg forward to curl his foot around Charles’ ankle. “Another time then.”
Charles leans his ankle back against Erik’s touch. “Yeah.”
He drops Charles off at his apartment afterwards, ignoring Charles’ halfhearted offer to just take the metro. Before Charles climbs out, he steals a kiss and says, “Call me when you need me.”
Erik waves. “Don’t I always?”
*
It’s four days later when Angel knocks on the door and presents him with an envelope addressed to him. “Someone paid a kid to drop it off,” she says. “Didn’t get a description.”
“That’s alright.” Erik pulls the envelope flap open and glances at the signature at the bottom of the note within. “I know who it’s from.”
Adrian Guerrero “cordially invites Mr. Erik Lehnsherr to the Flatiron District at 5 pm this afternoon, to settle any differences peaceably.” There’s a specific address underneath, which needs checking out before any reply is sent. Erik snorts at the note and tosses it to the side. Cordially. Peaceably. Adrian Guerrero is certainly a character.
“Thank you, Angel,” he says, and she gives him a lazy salute before fluttering out. He glances at the printed schedule tacked to the wall by his monitor, determines that Charles is out of class right now, and reaches for his phone.
“Mm,” Charles says when he picks up. “Listen to this for a moment: ‘If nothing else, the Mutant Registration Act would have helped put the American human populace at ease in a time of great turmoil, assuaging their fears by increasing mutant visibility.’”
“What,” Erik says. “Give that asshole an F. Are you too busy reading bigoted papers or do you have time for your side job?”
“No, not too busy. What’s up?”
“Guerrero sent a note.”
“He wants to meet?”
“5 pm today. Are you free?”
“I’m…” There’s a bit of rustling, which Erik takes to mean Charles is checking his day planner. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing. Where’s the meeting? Do you want to pick me up? I’ll be home at three.”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up at 3:30.”
“Alright.”
After hanging up, Erik summons Azazel and Alex to discuss meeting details. They look up the address, which turns out to be a recently-abandoned warehouse that’s likely been chosen because it’s a neutral location. It’s isolated but that suits Erik just fine; he’d rather not be conducting business out in the open, with witnesses within earshot. Especially if he’s going to have to take care of Guerrero once and for all, which he hopes won’t be necessary.
“I will go,” Azazel says, “and Summers, Hawthorne, Salvadore, Tress, Chen. Janos will drive.”
Azazel always handles logistics, so Erik nods in agreement and pulls up the warehouse in question on Google Maps to ascertain its exits. They burn the rest of the time until 3:15 examining possible choke points in the streets, weak points in the building, and coming up with a couple of contingencies. Then at 3:15 they load up into two SUVs and head out.
“Intimidating,” Charles remarks as he climbs into the backseat next to Erik. “It’s the Serious Business cars today, is it?”
The capital letters are audible. “Guerrero needs to be reminded who he’s dealing with,” Erik says simply. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. How long do you think this will take? I actually want to eat dinner before eight o’clock tonight.”
“Probably no more than an hour or two. We’ll pick something up for you on the way back.”
“Ooh, excellent. I want Chipotle.”
“Done.”
The ride to the Flatiron District isn’t long, even with the traffic. They’re fifteen minutes early because Erik wants to scope out the area beforehand and get settled in before Guerrero arrives. The SUVs pull into an abandoned street in front of the warehouse and when they get out, they find the padlock on the door already unlocked.
“Stay close,” Erik tells Charles, who’s craning his head back to stare up at the windows on the building’s façade that are rusted shut.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Charles says affably. He’s wearing a black suit as he always does when he goes out with Erik on business; that way, he blends in with Erik’s other men, making it harder for any enemy to target him. He even has his gun holstered at his hip, completing the disguise. He hadn’t wanted a gun at the beginning, had protested against it vehemently. But Erik had gotten his way in the end, and Charles hasn’t ever used the weapon in all the times he’s carried it, so they’re both content with the arrangement. It might be time to take him back to the firing range though, Erik muses as he glances at the shape of the gun under Charles’ suit jacket. They haven’t practiced in a while.
“I don’t feel anyone inside,” Charles says as Alex removes the padlock and pulls at the rolling grille. It slides up rapidly until it hits the top frame with a clang, and they’re greeted by a gaping darkness.
“Should have brought flashlights,” Angel remarks.
“I could go back and get some,” Azazel offers, but Erik shakes his head and just closes his eyes for a moment, searching out the building’s generator. When he finds it, he switches it on with a nudge of his powers. A hum fills the silence of the street and lights flicker on, illuminating the vast, empty space within.
“Let’s go,” Erik says, gesturing for them to follow.
A few crates and wooden pallets are pushed against the left wall, but other than that, there’s nothing in the warehouse but an expanse of gray concrete floor beneath a high-vaulted ceiling. There’s a solitary door on the opposite wall, which appears to be the only other exit aside from the way they just came through. With the lack of cover in here and only two exits, a firefight would end badly for both sides. Or it would, if Erik were worried about guns at all.
“What’s the plan then?” Charles asks by his side as they walk the perimeter of the building. “Are we making peace or taking a less…conciliatory tack?”
“We’re not compromising, if that’s what you mean,” Erik replies. “He’s been in my territory. He sent a man to kill me. If you think I’m going to welcome him with open arms, I think I need a new telepath.”
Charles bats absently at his arm. “Oh, hush. You’ll never get rid of me.”
They finish examining all corners of the rectangular warehouse and eventually gather by the empty crates. At least if there’s any trouble, they’ll have some sort of shelter behind the stacks of wooden pallets. As usual, Azazel takes Erik’s side while Charles slides to the back, hands in his pockets as he observes the scene mostly hidden from view. Sometimes, when Erik wants it clearly known that he has a telepath at his disposal, he’ll have Charles lounge near him or at his shoulder. But sometimes, like now, he prefers an element of surprise.
Erik feels Guerrero’s approaching cars before he hears them. Three vehicles, each as large as an SUV, which means Guerrero likely has him outnumbered. Not particularly worrying but something to keep in mind.
“Ready?” he asks as the sounds of the engines cut just outside.
The scars on Azazel’s face stretch with his grin. The others say nothing but Erik feels them tense behind him.
Charles’ mind brushes across his with the barest tinge of concern. Erik.
Hmm?
Something’s off. Their minds feel...odd.
Odd? Erik’s hand drifts toward the gun at his hip. Like what?
Mm, hard to explain. Muffled might be the word.
Can you read them?
I don’t know. Give me a moment.
They don’t have a moment; in the next instant, the door on the opposite wall swings open, and six tall, powerfully-muscled men step through, their attention narrowing in on Erik’s group immediately. Erik runs his power over them and feels out several guns and the occasional knife. Standard bodyguards. Guerrero himself follows behind them, sauntering in like a sun-warmed cat, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his coat, a pair of aviators perched on his hooked nose. The door slams shut behind him.
Six men, Erik muses. Not likely enough to fill three cars. The rest must be waiting outside, to provide for a quick getaway should one prove necessary.
“Lehnsherr,” Guerrero greets, sliding off his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket. “Long time no see.”
“Years,” Erik agrees coolly. Charles?
I’m having a hard time reading them, but I can do it. Bits and pieces here and there, which is better than nothing.
If Guerrero’s found a way to block telepathy, that means he knows about Charles. Which means he’s done his research, because the Brotherhood’s telepath isn’t common knowledge. Erik’s inclined to be the least bit impressed—and the least bit anxious because the only thing he knows that can block a telepath is another telepath.
It’s not that, Charles comments. It doesn’t feel like that.
Well that’s more worrisome. Erik hates unknowns.
“Sending a man to kill me,” he says aloud. “Not your brightest idea.”
“Not my worst one either,” Guerrero says genially. He’s relaxed, or making a good show of it, which is strange because the last time they had met, Guerrero had been pissing himself with fear. For him to regard Erik with such calm, he must think he has the upper hand now, or something close to it.
Guerrero’s dark eyes rove over Erik’s retinue. “Where’s this telepath of yours then? I’ve heard so much about him.”
“Have you? From who?”
“Oh, I promised not to tell.” Guerrero makes a zipping motion across his lips. “He’s the same one who gave me a few gifts. Said I’d need them if I wanted to meet you on equal footing.” When he holds up his arm, his sleeve slides back to reveal a band around his wrist, black and bulky as an ankle monitor. “How does it look?”
“A little fancy for you, to be honest,” Erik replies. Charles, is that…?
Some sort of psionic blocker, I think, Charles answers. He sounds grim, which raises Erik’s hackles. I’ve only heard rumors of them, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.
Erik’s heard the rumors, too. The people he’s got plugged into the black market have heard whispers of devices in development that would offer protection against telepaths, but there’s been nothing concrete. Nothing that would suggest such devices would already be in circulation.
Guerrero laughs. “Charming as usual, Lehnsherr. Shall we talk business then?”
“Let’s. I trust you received my message?”
“Like I said, charming. It took my men a while to get the body off the gate, and the blood on the driveway might not wash out completely. Really a shame.”
“Sorry,” Erik says dryly. “Maybe if you hadn’t sent him to kill me, you could have kept your driveway clean.”
Guerrero shakes his head dismissively. “Let’s put that misunderstanding behind us. I’m sure we can come to an understanding if we start with a clean slate.”
Guerrero certainly has a gift for understatement that Erik doesn’t remember. “I’m not sure how a hitman could be understood any other way,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “But alright, a clean slate. Here’s the deal, Guerrero. You stay off my territory. You keep your men away from mine and away from me. You don’t interfere with my business. Is that too difficult to understand?”
“Not at all. But I was thinking. You’ve really got more turf than you know what to do with. It wouldn’t hurt you to hand over some parts to the south. Say, three or four blocks.”
He’s asking Erik to willingly cede territory. Has he absolutely forgotten the nature of their business? “No,” Erik says, keeping the incredulity out of his voice, “I can’t see that happening.”
“You can’t?” Guerrero smiles. His silver tooth glints in the light. “Here’s what I see happening, Lehnsherr. You either sign over at least four blocks of your territory to me right now, or I figure out which one of your boys here is your telepath and put a bullet in his head. It’s up to you.”
Only years of experience in maintaining his composure under the most trying of circumstances keeps Erik from lunging for Guerrero’s throat. Steady, Erik, Charles whispers.
Very carefully, he says, “Do you really think it’s a good idea to be threatening my people?”
“I don’t think it matters much to you if it’s a good idea or not,” Guerrero replies, unperturbed by Erik’s glower. “What matters is your telepath. Let me guess. Is it him?” He points to Alex and watches Erik’s face. Whatever he finds there makes him shake his head. “No, I don’t think so. Him?”
“If you think I’d ever give you even a square inch of my territory out of the kindness of my heart,” Erik growls, “you need your head checked. I’ve never taken you for an idiot, Guerrero.”
Guerrero’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it widens. “You’re the idiot, Lehnsherr, if you think this is a negotiation. Pity. I told you I wanted to come to a peaceful resolution. But you aren’t being very cooperative, now are you?”
I don’t like this, Erik, Charles says. I can’t get a good read off their minds.
I don’t like it either, Erik answers, uneasy despite himself. Guerrero’s newfound confidence raises the hairs on the back of his neck, filling him with a visceral, instinctive apprehension. Something’s wrong here, and he doesn’t want to stick around to find out what. They need to withdraw, reassess, and return to the matter when they’re better informed.
At the same time, he’s loath to give Guerrero any ground. Even asking for time to think will be a sign of capitulation.
“Mr. Lehnsherr,” Azazel interjects quietly, “the other matter…”
Take the out, Erik, Charles says.
“Oh,” Erik says, glancing down at his watch. “We’ll have to pick this up at another time. I’ve a prior engagement at six that I can’t miss.”
Guerrero’s smile turns cold. “I’m sure you can miss it. You aren’t leaving until we come to an agreement.”
“Another time,” Erik repeats icily. “Unless you’d like to come to an agreement on my terms now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
“Then we’re leaving.”
“I’m afraid,” Guerrero drawls, “that’s not going to happen either.” Before Erik can react, Guerrero’s eyes flit over Erik’s shoulder. “It’s him, isn’t it. Cute.”
He hadn’t noticed Charles inching his way past the others toward the front, but the next thing he knows, Charles lets out a sharp exhalation just behind him and shoves him down, hard. A gunshot rings out as he loses his balance and stumbles to a knee, followed by a second crack. Erik twists, grabbing blindly for the bullets, for metal—but there is no metal, there’s nothing to grab at, and Erik wonders for a bewildered split second if Guerrero’s men are shooting blanks, of all things.
Then he hears it. He won’t forget the sound Charles makes for the rest of his life.
“Charles!” he shouts. CHARLES!
He turns, reaching for the silver circlet around Charles’ wrist, reaching and—
The world lurches dizzyingly. When his vision has stopped spinning, he’s kneeling in his office, on the bare hardwood floor by his desk.
“Are you hurt?” Azazel demands, releasing his hold on Erik’s arm.
Erik grabs him in a fury. “Where’s Charles? Take me back!”
Azazel breaks his hold and steps back, tail whipping. “No, stay here. I will get Charles.”
He’s gone before Erik can open his mouth again. In the sudden silence of the office, Erik sags against his desk, breathless with adrenaline, the unfamiliar taste of fear bitter on his tongue.
Oh, fuck. Charles had been hit. Charles had been hit, and Erik is crouching here dozens of miles away in safety, absolutely fucking helpless. His mind seems frozen. All he can think of is Charles’ strangled cry, caught between a gasp and a yell; it echoes in his ears, deafening as his pulse, drowning out every rational thought in his head, and he knows, he knows this has happened before, his people have been shot before and hurt before but not like this, not like this—
A whump. It’s Azazel, supporting Tress by the arm. The man’s bleeding from his shoulder, but he’s conscious and alert. Erik barely notices him, barely even cares. “Where’s Charles?”
Azazel hesitates, only for a second but even that is enough to send terror spearing through Erik's heart. "He was bleeding. Bad. I did not think it wise to move him."
"So you—you left him there." Erik stares at him, almost speechless with rage. "You left him there?"
"Alex has him. They secured him. Erik, you must—" He seizes Erik's arm, pulls him close, and drops his voice, low and commanding. "Erik, you must calm yourself."
Calm. He's going to laugh. He can feel it bubbling in his chest, in his throat, a clawing thing that might actually be a scream. He wants to tear Azazel’s head from his shoulders. He wants to rip Guerrero’s still-beating heart from his chest.
Somehow, he says, “Go back.”
“Erik—”
“Go back and help them bring Charles back or don’t come back at all.”
The Russian looks him in the eye for a long moment. Then he nods and disappears without another word.
Erik leans against his desk, fists clenched on its surface. There must be something he can do. No time to send reinforcements, no time to phone for favors from friends in the area. He can’t think. He feels like a hurricane is shaking him apart from the inside. He can’t focus.
“Sir,” Tress says from behind him. His voice is ragged with pain but lucid. “A doctor…”
Of course. Stupid, stupid.
“Sit down,” he orders as he digs his phone out of his jacket. “Put pressure on that shoulder.” Hitting speed dial 5, he jams the phone to his ear and holds it there with his powers as he jerks off his tie and balls it up. As the line rings, he pushes Tress down into the nearest armchair and peels off the man’s jacket. Underneath, blood blooms across his shoulder in a sticky red spread. Erik presses and holds the tie to it, watching as the silk darkens with blood.
The line picks up with a gruff, “Lehnsherr.”
“Logan. The favor—I’m calling it in. I need you ready to go in five minutes. Bring…” Surgery. If it’s bad, Charles will need surgery, and from what Azazel said, it’s bad. He wipes sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and tries to steady his voice. “Bring everything. I’ve got two men who’ve been shot and one is serious.”
“How serious?”
“I don’t know, just—be ready. I’m sending Azazel your way as soon as he gets back.”
He hangs up without waiting for a reply and checks Tress’ pulse. It’s fast but doesn’t feel out of control. He’ll be okay.
“Did you see Charles?” Erik asks him, lifting the tie to examine the bleeding. “How badly was he hurt?”
“I saw him go down but not much more than that. Got nailed in the shoulder right after.”
It takes an effort to shove down the frustration that swells tight in his chest. Emotions get in the way, he reminds himself. Stop forgetting that.
By the time they eventually get the bleeding slowed to a trickle, a few of his people have arrived at the office, no doubt summoned by Azazel or one of the others. Erik wants to be angry that attention is being diverted from Charles, but he’s glad to leave Tress to their care so he can direct all his focus on finding Charles and getting Logan to them. A glance at his watch tells him it’s been at least fifteen minutes since Azazel left him. It can’t be taking this long to secure the warehouse. Alex alone can take out every man Guerrero brought with one concentrated blast. Something must be wrong.
Before he can really work himself up into a terror, Azazel reappears. His white dress shirt is soaked through with blood all down his front, and Erik’s heart lurches.
“We think he should only be moved once if we can help it,” Azazel says. “Where?”
“Take me to him,” Erik orders, and this time, Azazel takes his hand without protest.
They’re back at the warehouse before Erik can take another breath. Alex is on his knees, missing his suit jacket and his belt. It’s clear in a moment where they’ve gone: Charles is on the cold concrete floor next to him, belt tightened around his left thigh and jacket pressed against his stomach.
Stomach. Erik knows stomach wounds. Scheiße.
“How is he?” he demands, pushing Angel to the side to get a better look. His heart nearly stops when he realizes Charles’ eyes are open and staring straight at him while the telepath breathes raggedly, chest rising and falling with jagged, unsteady gasps. “Hey,” he says, reaching for Charles’ hand, which is sickeningly slick with blood. “Hang in there, okay? Keep your eyes open for me, Charles.”
Charles grips his hand, surprisingly tight, which Erik takes as a good sign. The telepath’s eyes are starting to go foggy, though, and his telepathy itself is blurring in and out of focus like a bad radio station interrupted by static, unintentionally leaking some of his pain. Erik would gladly shoulder all of it, if only to take it away from Charles.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Alex says, his eyes wide and frightened. “He needs a hospital.”
“He’ll get Logan,” Erik replies. To Azazel, he says, “Find Logan. Bring him here. He needs to assess Charles before we move him.”
He doesn’t wait for the telltale pop of Azazel’s disappearance before turning back to Charles, who’s swallowing with difficulty. “Don’t talk,” Erik says before Charles can even try to open his mouth. “Don’t.” Without looking away from Charles, he asks, “Is the building secure?”
“Yes,” Angel replies. “Hawthorne and Chen are sweeping the area again, just in case.”
“Guerrero?”
“Gone.”
“Verdammt! You couldn’t get him?”
“No, he was—”
Before she can finish, Azazel returns with Logan in tow. The surgeon takes a knee immediately by Charles’ shoulder and bends to study the wound in Charles’ leg, then moves to his stomach. When Alex pulls his jacket away, Charles hisses in pain, his fingers clenching painfully around Erik’s. “Careful!” Erik barks.
“How long since he’s been shot?” Logan asks.
“Fifteen, twenty minutes?” Alex guesses.
“He’s in bad shape. He’s going to need surgery for sure.”
Erik nods decisively. “Okay then. Where do you want to do it? Azazel can get us there.”
“It’s not that simple, bub,” Logan mutters. “This kind of surgery’s going to be complicated. I need more supplies than I have.”
“I can get any supplies,” Azazel says.
“And I’ll need extra hands. Nurses, trained nurses.”
There’s fear in Charles’ eyes. It shakes Erik to his core, and Erik is never shaken by anything. You’ll be alright, he pushes at Charles. You’ll be okay, I promise. I promise you. He hopes Charles can’t feel the way his hand is trembling.
Aloud, he says, “Tell us what to do. I’ll get you everything you need.”
Logan digs into the small kit he’s brought, pulling out a small vial and a long needle, snapping off the sterile cover. “He got any allergies?”
“No,” Erik says. He’s had Charles’ medical charts memorized for years now.
“Good,” Logan says frankly, “because we’re gonna have to risk traveling with El Diablo over there—” he nods to Azazel, “—if you want to get me to an open OR fast enough.”
“Then what’s that for?” Alex dares to ask, looking at the large needle with trepidation as Logan fills it up with the clear liquid in the vial.
“To knock him out before we try moving him,” Logan says grimly, reaching down to find Charles’ other arm, “because I don’t think any of you are gonna want to hear him scream.”
*
It’s a long seven hours before Logan eventually emerges from the OR, swiping his surgeon’s cap off his head as he approaches Erik, who’s sitting with his head in his hands in a plastic hospital chair by the wall. The look on Logan’s face tells him nothing, and for a moment, Erik thinks furiously to himself, Stay calm, whatever happens stay calm.
He stands up when Logan reaches him. “Well?” At least his voice comes out steady.
“I can’t say he’s out of danger entirely,” Logan says, “but he’s over the worst of it. The bullet in his leg made a bit of a mess, but it could have been worse. With some time and PT, he should walk fine again. The bullet in his stomach tore him up pretty bad, but we managed to stop the bleeding and patch him up. If he fights through the first two days of recovery, I’d say he has a good chance.”
Erik releases a sharp breath. Okay. Charles is going to be okay. Charles is a fighter. “Thank you.”
Logan’s brows climb. “Never thought I’d hear those words from you.”
“First and last time for everything.”
The surgeon smiles humorlessly. “Consider my debt to you paid now.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Erik gives him a cool look. “I know what you said.”
Logan mutters something that might be “bastard” under his breath, which, oddly enough, makes the knot in Erik’s chest relax. Charles is going to be okay.
“Can we see him?” Alex asks. He, Angel, and Azazel are here, ostensibly for protection. Erik knows, though, that they’re just as concerned for Charles as he is. Charles’ friends in the Brotherhood are many and loyal. If Erik weren’t absolutely certain that Charles had no interest in ever entering a life of crime, he might be worried about a coup.
“He’s still out,” Logan replies. “Maybe in a few hours when the anesthesia wears off.”
Reassured now that Charles is out of danger, Erik’s mind begins to work properly again. Slowly, other responsibilities start to filter in, as well as other concerns. “And Tress? My other man?”
“I took a look at him. Not nearly as bad as Charles in there but still a little torn up. The bullets used, they were plastic of some sort. They shattered on impact, which left a lot of fragments to dig out. I pulled out all the pieces and slapped a bandage on him. He should be fine as long as he gives that shoulder a good rest.”
Plastic bullets. That explains why he hadn’t been able to grab a hold of them, why he hadn’t been able to stop Charles from getting hurt. Guerrero had come prepared.
And now he knows Charles’ face. Erik feels his hand clench into a fist.
“Start talking logistics with Azazel about moving him,” he says shortly, pushing past Logan and taking long strides down the hall.
“Move him? Again?” Logan asks. Erik doesn’t have to look to know that the doctor’s bushy eyebrows are raised high. “Bub, he’s not going anywhere till he’s in a more stable condition.”
“He can’t stay here,” Erik snaps over his shoulder, “and I’d rather move him again while he’s still under, before he wakes up. Figure it out.” That said, he pushes through the OR doors and steps into the room, gaze seeking Charles immediately.
Charles is small and pale where he’s laid out on the table still, and the heart monitor that he’s still hooked up to beeps slowly but steadily as he sleeps. Erik feels the absence of his telepathy acutely, as if there’s a sliver of his mind that’s been carved out and left empty, an aching hole where Charles should be. It’s the anesthesia, because when Charles sleeps normally Erik can feel him even then, and Erik finds himself wishing for the medicine to wear off quickly even though Charles needs the rest.
He looks so fragile. If Charles were awake he’d be protesting the label, because he’s certainly anything but, except here and now after Logan has dug a bullet out of his stomach and Erik can’t shake the image of Charles’ wide, frightened eyes out of his mind, Charles seems nothing short of porcelain and Erik is almost afraid to touch him as he approaches the table. He gives in, more out of the visceral need to prove to himself that Charles is still real and alive, and gently cups the telepath’s cold, pale cheek.
Too close. Today had been too close, and it’s utterly inexcusable. Some of the medical tools in the drawers of the room begin to rattle as some of Erik’s control slips, frustration and nerves pouring out in the form of his powers. He forces himself to take a deep breath, slowly breathing in and out in time with Charles’ monitor, until the shaking stops and he’s in control again.
“Erik.” Azazel pokes his head in through the doors. “Logan refuses to allow transport via my way, but says if you can lift a stretcher we can work something out and take one of the cars.”
Erik grips the edges of the operation table that Charles lies on, careful but testing. He can lift the whole thing if need be. Anything, at this point, for Charles. “Let’s do it.”
“Very good,” Azazel acknowledges with a nod. “Where are we headed?”
Erik considers, several options flickering through his mind. In the end he settles on the one place that will be absolutely, unquestionably safest. “My place.”
*
Erik isn’t there when Charles wakes. He’s halfway across town, of all things, following up personally on a lead brought to him by one of his more reliable informants. The last three days have been consumed by the hunt for Guerrero and his men. Erik’s mobilized every resource he has, scouring the city with the intent of flushing Guerrero out from the streets like a rat from a sewer. But for all his considerable reach, he hasn’t come up with much and it’s as frustrating as it is a blow to his pride. He would rip up the foundation of every building in the city if he thought it would help and if he weren’t worried about jeopardizing Charles’ safety. No doubt if he goes crashing through high-rises, the police will find his house, which means they’ll find Charles, which is completely unacceptable. Only that fact keeps Erik from resorting to more extreme measures in the pursuit for Guerrero.
He’s in Harlem meeting with a streetwalker who claims she saw Guerrero skulking through the alleys when Azazel appears at his elbow. The girl shrieks at his arrival, but Erik barely pays her any attention. “Did you find something?” he demands, more than ready for action, for violence.
“No,” the teleporter says, “but Charles is awake.”
It’s amazing, really, how rapidly his mind switches gears, from murderous intent to deep concern. Before Charles, he hadn’t even believed himself capable of caring so much about the fate of another person. Now he can barely remember a time before Charles.
“Take me to him,” he orders, “and then come back and talk to Miss Katherine here. Get what you can from her and follow it up.”
“O—our deal,” Miss Katherine manages, her eyes fixed on Azazel’s flicking tail, which wanders near her until she flinches away with a shudder.
“We agreed on 50 bucks if she comes up with something useful,” Erik explains to Azazel. “Come on.”
The Russian takes his arm and the world dissolves around him. An instant later, it solidifies again into solid ground under his feet, and he has to blink twice before the blurry shapes around him resolve into the familiar view of his bedroom. Shaking off Azazel’s grip, he makes a beeline for the bed, where a cluster of people are already gathered. Logan is the most prominent among them, shouldering the others aside as he assesses Charles’ condition. They’re all murmuring softly and Logan’s gruffly asking Charles if he can remember his name and what’s the last date he recalls and if he’s in pain, but the only voice Erik truly hears is Charles’, weak but audible as he answers, “Charles Francis Xavier. April 17, 2013. Only a little bit, though my head’s a bit fuzzy.”
Logan checks a box off on the folder in his hand. “That would be the drugs.”
Erik wedges himself in between Alex and Logan. “How is he?”
“Stable,” Logan replies, just as Charles smiles and says, “I’m feeling pretty marvelous, actually.”
“That would also be the drugs,” Logan informs him dryly. Turning to Erik, he says, “He’s in good shape for having been shot twice three days ago, but he needs plenty of bed rest. That means alone.”
He glares pointedly around the bed at the company, who immediately scurry for the door without Erik having to say a word. As the door snicks closed behind them, Logan raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got them whipped.”
“You have no idea,” Charles rasps. “Could I—can I get something to drink?”
When Logan nods his assent, Erik darts to the bedside table, where he’s been leaving glasses of fresh water just in case for days. Picking it up, he sits down on the edge of the bed and slides his arm under Charles’ neck to lift his head enough to set the glass to his lips. “Careful,” Logan says as Charles swallows, some water dribbling out along his cheek. Erik carefully wipes the trickle away with his sleeve and then lays Charles back down into the pillow. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Charles murmurs. “How long have I…?”
“Three days.” Three horrible, long days that Erik never wants to repeat. “It was touch-and-go.”
“Three days?” Charles echoes. A spike of alarm lashes across Erik’s mind like a whip. Erik doesn’t even mind, so relieved to have Charles’ presence back in his head again. It’s been an awful, hollow emptiness these past few days. “My classes!”
“Easy, easy,” Logan reprimands, restraining him by the shoulder before he can even attempt to sit up. “You’re in no condition to be sitting up, let alone getting to any classes.”
“I can’t just miss class! I’ve got to call in, give them notice and ask for leave—”
“I already called,” Erik interrupts. At Charles’ confused glance, he repeats, “I already called. Well, I had Alex call. He can do a passable imitation of your accent.”
“What...what did you tell them?”
“Not what really happened, of course. I had Alex tell them you’d come down with the flu.”
“In April?”
“People will believe anything with a doctor’s note. Won’t they, Logan?”
Logan heaves a sigh. “I’ll write you one. Just come to me when you’re ready to get back. We can even make a case for pneumonia so you can stay home longer.”
“Pneumonia it is,” Erik agrees, just as Charles says, “No, I need to get back to school as soon as possible.” Erik fixes him with a glare and growls, “You’re not going anywhere until Logan says you can, and he’s not going to say you can until you can run the New York Marathon in three hours.”
“Isn’t that a little extreme?” Charles asks faintly.
“You’re lucky I trust you enough not to chain you to the bed.”
That draws out a smirk. “Kinky.”
Logan groans. “I’m done here. Call me if anything else comes up and you—” he levels Charles with a look that even leaves Erik slightly impressed, “—be careful with your stitches.”
“Thank you for everything,” Charles tells him, and now Erik smirks at Logan’s clear discomfort at being subjected to Charles’ sincere and earnest blue eyes. He’s half certain that Charles could bring down an empire with his eyes alone, never mind his telepathy. “You saved my life.”
“Just doing my job,” Logan says gruffly, and gives Erik one last nod. “Lehnsherr.” He shoulders his way out the door, leaving them finally alone together.
“How do you really feel?” Erik asks as soon as the door is shut.
“Honestly, fine for now,” Charles answers, his voice scratchy and tired, “whatever painkillers Logan has me on are working. They’ll wear off eventually, though.” He pauses, blinking wearily as if staying awake is a huge drain of energy. “I’m glad you’re alright. When I just barely caught Guerrero’s thoughts about plastic bullets…” He lets out a small, shaky breath.
Erik reaches over and gently wraps his fingers around one of Charles’ hands. “When I heard you go down…” He shakes his head, still unable to fully approach the wild tangle of emotions still running just beneath his skin from three days ago. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
Charles makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Believe me, I have no intention of ever getting shot again if I can help it. That’s not my idea of a fun weeknight.” He simply looks at Erik for a moment, his chest rising and falling at a reassuringly steady pace. Then his brow furrows. “I didn’t even ask—is anyone else hurt? And what happened with Guerrero?”
“Tress got hit in the shoulder. No one else was seriously injured. And we’ve been looking for Guerrero for three days but…” The way Erik grinds his teeth is enough of an answer to that.
“Did you see him?” Charles murmurs after a while. “Guerrero. I didn’t know he was a mutant. Usually I can tell, but with the psionic blockers…”
“He’s not.” Erik exhales sharply and stands up, rubbing a hand over the stubble of his jaw. “I don’t understand it. The others told me what they saw but it doesn’t make sense. He’s human. I’ve dealt with him before, and he had no reason then or now to hide his mutation, if he had one.”
“Whatever he is, he isn’t human. He threw those crates at Alex by raising his hand, Erik. He nearly brought the roof down on us. It’s some kind of telekinesis if I had to guess but it must have just manifested because he had poor control over it.”
“Just manifested?” Erik frowns. “That’s rare, isn’t it?”
“It’s something like only 2% of mutants manifest after age 30. At Guerrero’s age, it’s…well, it’s unheard of, as far as I know. I’d have to check though. I could do a little research—”
“Oh no.” Pausing in his pacing, Erik fixes Charles with a stern look, the kind that normally has people leaping to do his bidding. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Exasperation rolls off Charles in a wave powerful enough to startle Erik. Charles usually keeps his telepathy more restrained. “I don’t actually have to move to do research, Erik. Just give me a laptop. Better yet, give me my laptop so I can get some schoolwork done while I’m bedridden and…”
He’s interrupted by a massive yawn that nearly looks painful. Erik’s mind, which had been settling firmly onto the business track, derails in an instant. “That’s it,” he says, striding back to the bed. “You need to rest. You’ve talked too much already.”
“Just because I was shot—”
Erik, who’d been pulling the comforter back up to Charles’ neck, stills. Something in his expression must be telling because Charles cuts himself off, protest dying on his lips.
“Yes,” Erik says quietly, “you were shot.” He reaches up and runs his thumb over the curve of Charles’ cheekbone. His chest tightens when Charles turns into his face into his touch. “Rest. For me, if not for yourself.”
Charles smiles sleepily. “You say the sweetest things.”
Erik rolls his eyes. “Just sleep.”
Charles’ cheeky grin, smug as it is, is heartening. “Yes, sir.”