prompt | shared dreaming
Author's Note: Um, so, this is clearly post-beach since the Beast is the Beast rather than lovely dorky Hank. And obviously That Scene didn't happen as it should have, since Erik's still at the school with everyone. So, uh, just pretend that someone's doing jazz hands and that makes it all okay?
Based on this prompt over at 1stclass-kink, which was already filled, so I really hope that the prompter and other writer don't hate me. It's just been nagging me all day and has been written in bits and pieces in my head and needed to get out.
It's a familiar scene that he awakes to. Pitch black, the taste of terror sharp on his tongue, sweat pooling around him, sheets tangled around his body. He's no stranger to nightmares, after all. He rests his head on the pillow for a moment, thankful that he can't still hear the screams of the camps or the smell of the smoke or the laugh of the doctor- whatever it is that woke him up. Usually it haunts him for a bit. This time all that lingers is terror. He breathes deeply, solidly, counting and trying to relax.
When this doesn't help, as it usually does, he begins to worry. He's still frozen up a bit, unable to convince himself that it's safe to move. This doesn't prove to be a problem until someone knocks at his door. He manages to work up enough power and control to open it, revealing Mystique standing there, robe gathered around herself.
She looks terrible- exhausted and terrified with a tear streaked face. She bits her lip for a moment before blurting out her problem, "It's Charles."
He still can't work up words- closer now, but not quite, so he raises an eyebrow instead.
She puts a hand to her forehead, taps two fingers against the side of it, "I keep... we all keep... we keep dying."
He rolls his eyes, because of course that's what Charles has nightmares about. A few deep breaths coupled with the understanding of just what is going on help him pull it together, and if he uses a bit of power to pull himself toward the metal of the door handles so that he can get upright? No one has to know but him.
"We've tried to get to him," she continues, fidgeting with her robe a bit, "It's just too much. We can't even make it to the door- it just gets worse as you get closer."
He nods and tries not to note how badly Charles' mindless terror is affecting him.
As he steps into the hallway he sees the children all huddled together in a pile on the floor, and he has to huff a laugh when Alex nods towards Charles' door and brags, "I got closest."
"Yes, well," he says, voice raspy and a bit more breathless than he cares to admit, "I'll handle it from here. You all run along now- his reach can't encompass the whole place, now can it?"
Mystique shakes her head in agreement, and they scatter off, probably toward the kitchens since Banshee is leading the way.
The kids were correct, though- the closer he gets to Charles' room, the more vivid the terror gets- he can see Mystique bending brokenly, red staining her beautiful blue skin... which blends into blue stained fur as the Beast is hunted down, wailing brokenly... which transitions smoothly into what can only be Banshee's death scream as Havoc explodes into a nova of red. He's somewhat thankful that he's nowhere to be seen, and that the most he gets of Charles himself is the utter helplessness and paralyzing fear. He pauses against the door, leaning his forehead against it.
Charles' fear and terror, it's palpable- he can barely make his way through it. Luckily, though, he thinks with a sort of morbid satisfaction, even the worst things Charles can imagine pale in comparison to Erik's own darkest days. If he can survive the Holocaust coupled with Shaw? He can survive the telepath's bad dream about some brats deaths, no matter how endearing the little shits are.
"Charles. Charles, I'm coming in," he calls out, expecting (and receiving) no reply. The door's locked, but that doesn't stop him. Quick jiggle (longer, admittedly, than usual courtesy of having to sift concentration from that screech of pain Banshee keeps giving off- he keeps having to remind himself that the headache it's caused is not the real Banshee's fault and he should not teach him any sort of lesson regarding it), and he's in.
Charles is curled up in his bed, in the fetal position, whimpering and twitching and pale, and that alone hurts more than the pain he's broadcasting. It takes a while to get to him- having to stop every few steps to clutch his head in pain, or kneel down and practice breathing exercises to keep from being physically ill from the terror, or take a moment to remind himself who he is and where he is and that it's okay and just a dream (and not even his damn dream, at that). The whole way he keeps repeating himself, "Charles, Charles, can you hear me? You need to calm down, wake up, Charles, come on."
Nothing. Not even a twitch in his direction to show he's heard.
When he finally reaches Charles' bed, things have gotten worse. He can see the bloody ways Mystique is being ripped to shreds, can smell the fear on the Beast's fur, can- no. No, no. It's not real. He reaches a hand out, snagging one of Charles', and lets himself collapse to his knees by the bed, forehead resting against the edge of it.
"Charles," he manages, "Charles, come on, you need to wake up."
More screaming- this time he can see another figure- a shadow of a mutant, blasting something toward Mystique. He can see Charles, frozen in fear, completely still, across a room from her.
"Charles, Charles, she's fine- Mystique's fine, Charles. She's fine. Charles, Charles, come on, Charles. Raven is fine, Charles, she's downstairs, with the others. No one else is here, Charles," he says, repeating his name as many times as possible, hoping to jar him awake.
It's no use, and he cringes in the worst bout of pain since the ordeal started as Mystique ends up shredded again.
"Fucking Hell, Charles," he murmurs, more for himself than for Charles. He contemplates for a moment, before being struck with an idea. He rearranges himself, shifting so that he can press his forehead to Charles', getting as close as possible so that he can exert as little energy as possible, since fighting off the terror is draining most of his energy. When his forehead bumps Charles', he stops.
He pictures himself standing next to Charles, and thinks as hard as he can toward Charles- something he's never understood, despite many (incredibly boring) lectures he's received about projecting himself and the appropriate times and how to and how not to. (Honestly- one small mishap with one small daydream, and suddenly you're Public Enemy Number One of the Projection Police)
When he's quite sure he's got it, he pictures himself picking up a piece of metal and blocking the energy bolt heading at the Beast. Dream-Charles looks at him, jumps, startled, and he manages just barely to withhold the satisfied sigh.
"E-Erik?" Dream-Charles asks, and Erik pictures himself nodding, deflecting another beam.
"Come on, Charles- we can do this. Get in there, convince him he doesn't want to harm the children," he replies. As he falters next to him, Erik pictures himself reaching out to squeeze his shoulder, "You've got this."
It takes a bit more coaxing, but together they stop him- deflecting and redirecting intentions. The dream-children huddle together much as they did in the hallway, except for poor broken Mystique.
Dream-Charles kneels by her, body beginning to shake with grief. Real-Charles is mirroring it, and Erik lifts a hand to squeeze at his shoulder in reality as well as the dream.
"She's just faking them out, Charles," he whispers, and he's pretty sure he's spent enough that he's whispering aloud as well.
"But she's-"
"A chameleon. She's not really hurt, now is she? She just needed a reprieve."
Thankfully, oh so thankfully, dream-Mystique blinks herself awake, murmuring about the rips in her suit. Charles hugs her, and even in dreams, Erik feels like an intruder watching the familial love as Charles coos at his Raven, making sure she's whole.
He lets the illusion dissolve, embracing the utter nothingness that hits him as he comes back to himself and quits focusing on it.
Charles' voice is raspy when he speaks, "You... I... fuck. Thank you, Erik. I don't know... it just..." He's trembling, and Erik knows that this is the part of the program where he'd want to lick his wounds in peace, so he nods.
"It was nothing. The children, they were worried, is all," he replies, moving to get up.
He's pretty sure he'll never understand the differences between Charles and himself, though, as Charles lunges for him, latching on and pulling him into a hug, murmuring into his neck, "Please, don't... don't leave me alone? Just, for a while at least, Erik?"
Erik nods, and tries not to think about how right it feels to let Charles pull him into bed, how perfectly content it makes him feel to feel Charles curl up against him. Because those thoughts? Those thoughts are always for another day.
Based on this prompt over at 1stclass-kink, which was already filled, so I really hope that the prompter and other writer don't hate me. It's just been nagging me all day and has been written in bits and pieces in my head and needed to get out.
It's a familiar scene that he awakes to. Pitch black, the taste of terror sharp on his tongue, sweat pooling around him, sheets tangled around his body. He's no stranger to nightmares, after all. He rests his head on the pillow for a moment, thankful that he can't still hear the screams of the camps or the smell of the smoke or the laugh of the doctor- whatever it is that woke him up. Usually it haunts him for a bit. This time all that lingers is terror. He breathes deeply, solidly, counting and trying to relax.
When this doesn't help, as it usually does, he begins to worry. He's still frozen up a bit, unable to convince himself that it's safe to move. This doesn't prove to be a problem until someone knocks at his door. He manages to work up enough power and control to open it, revealing Mystique standing there, robe gathered around herself.
She looks terrible- exhausted and terrified with a tear streaked face. She bits her lip for a moment before blurting out her problem, "It's Charles."
He still can't work up words- closer now, but not quite, so he raises an eyebrow instead.
She puts a hand to her forehead, taps two fingers against the side of it, "I keep... we all keep... we keep dying."
He rolls his eyes, because of course that's what Charles has nightmares about. A few deep breaths coupled with the understanding of just what is going on help him pull it together, and if he uses a bit of power to pull himself toward the metal of the door handles so that he can get upright? No one has to know but him.
"We've tried to get to him," she continues, fidgeting with her robe a bit, "It's just too much. We can't even make it to the door- it just gets worse as you get closer."
He nods and tries not to note how badly Charles' mindless terror is affecting him.
As he steps into the hallway he sees the children all huddled together in a pile on the floor, and he has to huff a laugh when Alex nods towards Charles' door and brags, "I got closest."
"Yes, well," he says, voice raspy and a bit more breathless than he cares to admit, "I'll handle it from here. You all run along now- his reach can't encompass the whole place, now can it?"
Mystique shakes her head in agreement, and they scatter off, probably toward the kitchens since Banshee is leading the way.
The kids were correct, though- the closer he gets to Charles' room, the more vivid the terror gets- he can see Mystique bending brokenly, red staining her beautiful blue skin... which blends into blue stained fur as the Beast is hunted down, wailing brokenly... which transitions smoothly into what can only be Banshee's death scream as Havoc explodes into a nova of red. He's somewhat thankful that he's nowhere to be seen, and that the most he gets of Charles himself is the utter helplessness and paralyzing fear. He pauses against the door, leaning his forehead against it.
Charles' fear and terror, it's palpable- he can barely make his way through it. Luckily, though, he thinks with a sort of morbid satisfaction, even the worst things Charles can imagine pale in comparison to Erik's own darkest days. If he can survive the Holocaust coupled with Shaw? He can survive the telepath's bad dream about some brats deaths, no matter how endearing the little shits are.
"Charles. Charles, I'm coming in," he calls out, expecting (and receiving) no reply. The door's locked, but that doesn't stop him. Quick jiggle (longer, admittedly, than usual courtesy of having to sift concentration from that screech of pain Banshee keeps giving off- he keeps having to remind himself that the headache it's caused is not the real Banshee's fault and he should not teach him any sort of lesson regarding it), and he's in.
Charles is curled up in his bed, in the fetal position, whimpering and twitching and pale, and that alone hurts more than the pain he's broadcasting. It takes a while to get to him- having to stop every few steps to clutch his head in pain, or kneel down and practice breathing exercises to keep from being physically ill from the terror, or take a moment to remind himself who he is and where he is and that it's okay and just a dream (and not even his damn dream, at that). The whole way he keeps repeating himself, "Charles, Charles, can you hear me? You need to calm down, wake up, Charles, come on."
Nothing. Not even a twitch in his direction to show he's heard.
When he finally reaches Charles' bed, things have gotten worse. He can see the bloody ways Mystique is being ripped to shreds, can smell the fear on the Beast's fur, can- no. No, no. It's not real. He reaches a hand out, snagging one of Charles', and lets himself collapse to his knees by the bed, forehead resting against the edge of it.
"Charles," he manages, "Charles, come on, you need to wake up."
More screaming- this time he can see another figure- a shadow of a mutant, blasting something toward Mystique. He can see Charles, frozen in fear, completely still, across a room from her.
"Charles, Charles, she's fine- Mystique's fine, Charles. She's fine. Charles, Charles, come on, Charles. Raven is fine, Charles, she's downstairs, with the others. No one else is here, Charles," he says, repeating his name as many times as possible, hoping to jar him awake.
It's no use, and he cringes in the worst bout of pain since the ordeal started as Mystique ends up shredded again.
"Fucking Hell, Charles," he murmurs, more for himself than for Charles. He contemplates for a moment, before being struck with an idea. He rearranges himself, shifting so that he can press his forehead to Charles', getting as close as possible so that he can exert as little energy as possible, since fighting off the terror is draining most of his energy. When his forehead bumps Charles', he stops.
He pictures himself standing next to Charles, and thinks as hard as he can toward Charles- something he's never understood, despite many (incredibly boring) lectures he's received about projecting himself and the appropriate times and how to and how not to. (Honestly- one small mishap with one small daydream, and suddenly you're Public Enemy Number One of the Projection Police)
When he's quite sure he's got it, he pictures himself picking up a piece of metal and blocking the energy bolt heading at the Beast. Dream-Charles looks at him, jumps, startled, and he manages just barely to withhold the satisfied sigh.
"E-Erik?" Dream-Charles asks, and Erik pictures himself nodding, deflecting another beam.
"Come on, Charles- we can do this. Get in there, convince him he doesn't want to harm the children," he replies. As he falters next to him, Erik pictures himself reaching out to squeeze his shoulder, "You've got this."
It takes a bit more coaxing, but together they stop him- deflecting and redirecting intentions. The dream-children huddle together much as they did in the hallway, except for poor broken Mystique.
Dream-Charles kneels by her, body beginning to shake with grief. Real-Charles is mirroring it, and Erik lifts a hand to squeeze at his shoulder in reality as well as the dream.
"She's just faking them out, Charles," he whispers, and he's pretty sure he's spent enough that he's whispering aloud as well.
"But she's-"
"A chameleon. She's not really hurt, now is she? She just needed a reprieve."
Thankfully, oh so thankfully, dream-Mystique blinks herself awake, murmuring about the rips in her suit. Charles hugs her, and even in dreams, Erik feels like an intruder watching the familial love as Charles coos at his Raven, making sure she's whole.
He lets the illusion dissolve, embracing the utter nothingness that hits him as he comes back to himself and quits focusing on it.
Charles' voice is raspy when he speaks, "You... I... fuck. Thank you, Erik. I don't know... it just..." He's trembling, and Erik knows that this is the part of the program where he'd want to lick his wounds in peace, so he nods.
"It was nothing. The children, they were worried, is all," he replies, moving to get up.
He's pretty sure he'll never understand the differences between Charles and himself, though, as Charles lunges for him, latching on and pulling him into a hug, murmuring into his neck, "Please, don't... don't leave me alone? Just, for a while at least, Erik?"
Erik nods, and tries not to think about how right it feels to let Charles pull him into bed, how perfectly content it makes him feel to feel Charles curl up against him. Because those thoughts? Those thoughts are always for another day.