Roses & Cinnamon -- (5/12)

[turtletotem]

Fic Title: Roses & Cinnamon AO3
Premise: X-Men First Class powered Regency AU
Artist: celadonite ( Art Masterpost)
Written for: X-Men Reverse Bang
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 69k
Warnings: disabled character, PTSD, battle flashbacks/hallucinations, death of a child (flashback), period-appropriate homophobia

Summary: Charles Xavier lost more than his leg in the war with Napoleon, and the man he's just pulled out of the water has ghosts of his own -- especially when Charles's involuntary projected hallucinations prove catching. Raven, meanwhile, faces the choice of whether to marry respectably or run away with a carnival fortune-teller.



CHAPTER FIVE

The terms of Shaw’s will were very clear. Everything went to Erik. All the investments, all the buildings and their tenants, every share he had owned in a dozen or more successful businesses - and, most prominently, full owner-and-proprietorship of a gentleman’s club on Duke Street. All left to Erik, “in the expectation that he will carry the legacy of everything I labored to teach him.”

Charles’s voice slid into Erik’s head, cutting through the buzz of triumph and disbelief and black amusement. Somehow I don’t imagine, when Shaw made this will, that he expected things to fall out quite this way.

I don’t know about that, Erik replied, keeping half an ear tuned to the pointless droning of the solicitor. Even if he had known, who else would he have left it to? I was… his only family. Very quietly, to himself more than Charles, he added, And vice versa, in our twisted way.

Do you feel guilty? Charles asked, in a tone of neutral curiosity.

Not remotely. The man murdered everyone I ever loved. For the rest, though… He was right, you know. Everything he did to me, all the torture and pain - it was all to make me stronger, and it did. He was right. He continued over the beginnings of Charles’s appalled protest, I think he was proud of me, in the end.

That startled Charles into silence - briefly. Erik was beginning to believe nothing could muzzle the man for long. Proud of you for killing him?

Yes. Erik felt a wolfish smile escape onto his face, and the solicitor’s voice stumbled to a halt.

“Er. Yes, well, I’m sure I’ve taken up quite enough of your valuable time, Mr. Lehnsherr,” he said. “There are still a few papers for you to sign, and then I can let you alone to… grieve.”

“Excellent,” Erik said cheerfully. “Lead on.”

***

Charles was very happy to accompany Erik on his inspection of his new property. He was less enthused by Erik’s insistence on inviting Raven and Hank to come along.

“Erik,” he said tightly as Raven and Hank climbed into the carriage, “I am not at all in a hurry to take my sister to an establishment known as The Hellfire Club.”

“Surely they will not admit a lady, in any case?” Hank said, and yelped when the seat beside him was suddenly not occupied by a lady at all, but by a ginger-haired young man in a muslin walking-dress.

Erik laughed and applauded. “Quite so, Miss Darkholme. You see, Charles, your sister can fend for herself very well. Though she might wish to see to her wardrobe.”

“Ah!” Raven giggled, and another flutter of scales had the dress concealed behind a set of perfectly acceptable gentleman’s clothes. “I’ve no hat, but perhaps Charles could provide one for me as he does for himself?”

Hank, Charles noticed, was sitting quite as far from Raven as possible, large-eyed and pale. Just skimming the surface of his mind, it was clear they had had some sort of quarrel already that morning, and this sequence of events was only unsettling him further. Raven, of course, he did not attempt to read, but she radiated a nervous defiance that he could easily perceive without his Gift.

“There’s really no need for the two of you to accompany us,” Charles said. “You might far rather continue your walk, and see if the shops have anything to offer for your ball toilette.”

He meant to provide an opportunity for them to reconcile in private, but they did not seem to want it. Hank said nothing at all, and Raven’s response was a sunny, “Oh, we’ve quite exhausted the shops on this street, I would much rather see this club Mr. Lehnsherr has inherited.”

“And I, for one, welcome your company on the jaunt,” Erik said and raised her hand to drop a kiss on her knuckles, despite her gentleman’s disguise. A very brief and proper kiss, but the warmth in his smile, and rising color in Raven’s cheeks, made Charles turn away with a sudden sickly chill in his belly. Hank, across from him, looked similarly displeased.

Charles wished he had a drink.

The building at the address Erik had been given showed no outward sign of being a den of iniquity - it was ordinary dark brick with white columns, nondescriptly handsome. The windows were large, but blocked by thick drapes, even in the middle of the day. The sign out front said only, Private establishment. Members and their guests only.

Charles had to nudge Hank away from offering Raven his arm as she got out of the carriage, then was surprised to see Erik extending a hand to his own aid. He did not need it, having months ago (by force of will) conquered the trick of mounting and dismounting carriages on his crutches, but he rewarded the gesture with a grateful smile, and tried to let the sour jealousy in the back of his throat dissipate.

The crutches were doing as well as he could have hoped, today. A wheelchair was so very tiresome, in town, and anyway the doctors urged that he rely on it as little as possible, the better to force his remaining leg to adjust to its duties. There were many days that his spastic nerves simply did not permit it, but today they were giving him only the occasional twinge. Charles's hatred of the crutches ebbed and flowed, his opinion of them dependent on how much they were paining his underarms, and whether anyone on the street tried to give the 'crippled beggar' a penny. Today he felt kindly toward them, enjoying having his head at Erik's shoulder rather than at his belt buckle.

They opened the door into a small but comfortable foyer, well-furnished and stocked with an attractive array of drinks and finger-foods. A trim, alert-eyed young man in a uniform stood before the door that led, presumably, into the club proper.

"Good day to you, gentlemen!" he said. "I'm afraid I don't recognize you, are you members of the club?"

Seized by inspiration, Charles cut across Erik's nascent "I own the club" before it could leave his mouth. Don't. Let's get the lay of the land first.

Erik tilted his head thoughtfully, then said, "No, I'm afraid we're not members, but we're interested in becoming so."

"I'm afraid a current member will have to vouch for you before it is possible for you to join."

"We were referred by Mr. Shaw himself," Charles said, stepping - hobbling - forward. "My name is Charles Xavier."

The man's eyes went wide at the word 'Shaw'; at 'Xavier' they seemed likely to fall out of his skull. "I see. You and your friends are certainly very welcome, Mr. Xavier. Pray make yourself comfortable, I will return very shortly."

He scurried off, and Charles made straight for the door he had been guarding.

Hank made a sort of hesitant gurgle. "Shouldn't we wait?"

"If we want to see only what they wish to show us, certainly." Charles smiled archly over his shoulder at Erik, whose answering grin seemed to echo his own feelings nicely. "Raven, won't you escort us?"

Raven, looking delighted, shifted into the form of the departed servant, and led the way.

The Hellfire Club earned its name, Charles quickly acknowledged. There were rooms devoted to every major vice, from gambling to gossip to gluttony. There was a boxing ring, in the downstairs, and in the upstairs-

Well, it would hardly be a gentlemen's club if it did not pander to lust.

Charles had inevitably struggled with the stairs, and fallen behind; he looked up to find that Raven and Hank had already disappeared. Erik, however, was waiting patiently only a few steps above him, and after watching his efforts narrow-eyed for some minutes, advised him to hang on tightly to the crutches.

"Whatever do you - awk!" Charles was torn between laughter and outrage as his crutches lifted themselves on their metal screws and carried him quite evenly to the top of the staircase.

When they achieved the top, they passed through a set of double doors, and found themselves in something very like a dance hall, but which managed to be both more shocking and less obviously disreputable than those havens of low entertainment. On a stage at the far end, a trio of ladies danced to the tune of a pianoforte; not raucously, as at a dance hall, but with sensual grace. The rest of the room was occupied by tables - sparsely populated, at this time of day, but every one that contained a gentleman also contained a lady, wearing - as the dancers did - amazingly little, and taking such liberties with the men's personal space as almost made Charles blush, innocent virgin though he certainly wasn't. Even as they watched, one dazed-looking fellow was led by his lady-friend away from his table and through a curtain into one of the private niches occupying the walls.

"And all this glory now is thine, my friend," Charles said, not sure whether to be more amused or appalled. He could see no sign of Raven or Hank.

"Can I show you gentlemen to a table?" The voice was playfully sultry, its owner curvy and darkly exotic. If Charles's crutches made any impression on her, she did not show it. Her smile deepened as she took in their stunned expressions. "Or perhaps you're interested in... a more private setting?"

Erik caught Charles's eye, glinting amusement and perhaps something fiercer, the mere hint of which had Charles’s pulse quickening. "That sounds lovely," Erik said.

“Right this way, then.” The young woman led them away from the faux dance-hall, to a corridor lined with doors, and opened one to usher them in.

The room had walls hung with velvet and lamps turned comfortably down. It was dominated by a large, very luxurious bed.

"Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen," their escort said. "Believe me when I say... you may be just as comfortable as you like, here."

Charles's mouth had gone a little dry at the sight of the bed, and his condition only worsened as Erik seated himself against the headboard. "Charles? Are you coming?" When Charles continued to stand frozen, his expression softened with concern. "Would you rather go?"

"No." Charles gulped and forced himself to move toward the bed, set his crutches against the wall and shifted himself as close to Erik as he could get, a line of unbroken contact scalding from shoulder to ankle.

Their young lady had not been idle during this exchange; Charles saw that her clothes had been subtly repositioned to draw more attention to her bosom and shoulders, and she had unpinned her hair, which now fell in a dark river down to her elbows. They could hear no trace of any sound from outside their door, so there was nothing to prevent enjoyment of the silver flute she pulled from a loop on her belt, and presented to their view with a curtsy.

"My name is Angel," she said, less playful, more sultry, "and I'll be providing entertainment for you today."

She played well, Charles thought, but the performance was mostly lost on him; he could not drag his attention away from Erik for more than a moment at a time - the heat and scent and weight of him, denting the mattress so that it was a struggle for Charles not to fall into his lap. There were so many things they could do with this bed, and surely in an establishment like this no one would care if he turned, braced one hand on Erik's thigh, pushed himself up just enough to press their lips together...

Erik seemed to be watching Angel's performance raptly, and Charles would not have dared to look closer except for the slight tremble to Erik's hand as he pushed his hair back. Charles had been in Erik’s head; he knew the man’s disinclination toward casual, indiscriminate lust, knew he could not feel more than an aesthetic interest in a stranger like Angel. The implication, then... if Charles was not deluding himself...

He had to look, just briefly, just the tiniest glimpse of the surface-

He didn't have to look any further than the surface. Beneath Erik's utterly impassive exterior was a roil of nervous confusion, frustration and want that left Charles breathless, and no, not an ounce of it was directed at Angel. Erik hardly knew she was there.

Until, quite suddenly, all his attention was focused on her, sharp to piercing, and Charles's was not far behind.

The girl had begun to dance as she played, a sinuous swaying and twisting that he might ordinarily have found compelling, without so sweet a distraction at his side. As she moved, her hair had fallen off her shoulders, revealing the delicate lines of insectoid wings.

Tattoo? Erik asked, but they both knew how unlikely that was. For a woman to have a tattoo at all, and one so extensive - the wings seemed to spread across both shoulders - was hardly imaginable, and in any case the lines looked much too even and precise to have been made by a man's imperfect hand. As a soldier Charles had seen his share of tattoos, and had never seen anything to compare to Angel's wings.

Of course, there was only one way to be sure. Charles raised a hand to his temple. The truth took only a moment to ascertain.

"You're Gifted," Charles said.

Angel managed a sort of bow without a pause in her playing.

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean as a musician, though your performance is magical." He touched his temple again. I meant a different sort of Gift. How much I should like to be able to fly!

The song of the flute cut off instantly, and Angel stared at him in shock and alarm. "How - how could - are you-"

"We mean you no harm," Erik said quickly. "We were just thinking... you might show us yours, if we showed you ours." He turned to Charles with a smile. "Care for a drink, Charles?"

A shining metal champagne bucket at Erik's elbow rose and floated over to Charles.

"Ah! Don't mind if I do," he said, eagerly helping himself.

Angel looked amused. "Welcome to the Club, gentlemen."

And now Charles saw - she had not been startled that they knew she was Gifted, only by the sounding of a voice inside her head. Being Gifted was, in fact, par for the course around here. Now that his mind was open, Charles found that a very great many of the minds in the club held some variation on the frisson he felt from Erik and Raven and all the other Gifted of his acquaintance. "Good heavens, Erik," he breathed, "she's not the only one - in fact the vast majority of the staff are Gifted, and a significant amount of the clientele!"

Angel frowned, still half-laughing. "However did you come to be here without knowing that?"

"By sneaking in without permission." A blonde woman in a white dress stepped through the door. With a jerk of her head she dismissed Angel from the room, closed the door behind her, then stood regarding them with ice-blue eyes. "Erik, I believe."

How had she managed to sneak up on them? On Charles? He cast his mind toward the woman, and had it reflected back at him in painful fragments like shards of glass that left him gasping. Her Gift, then, was something like his - but different enough that he wasn't certain how to counteract it. He turned his mind to Erik's to whisper a warning-

-and found an ice storm, Erik frozen and screaming while a foreign presence drilled deep into the tenderest parts of his mind.

A wave of superheated terror and rage left Charles near incoherent, and he blasted into that ice, crashed through it, ripped and clawed and tore at it, scoured every trace of it away from Erik. The woman screamed and fought, and finally did - something - that blocked him out, scattered his attack into harmless sparks.

Charles opened his eyes and found that the woman before them was now a living statue of crystal, her skin turned to glittering facets. She turned as if to flee, but did not make it a step before the brass bedstead dragged her back, wrapping tight around her wrists, arms, throat, until she was immobile.

Dizzy and disoriented from his mental exertions, Charles grabbed blindly for Erik's arm. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Thank you." Erik's voice held both strain and grim foreboding; he squeezed Charles's hand briefly, then pulled away to walk around the bed and crouch before the captive woman. "Give me one good reason," he growled, and the coiled metal tightened around her throat, "not to kill you here and now."

"Erik." Charles wasn't sure whether he meant to calm Erik or warn him. Whatever the woman had done, he wasn't going to be party to her murder. Erik is accustomed to murder, his mind whispered to him. This is the sort of man you've chosen. He tried to get up, but his head was still spinning.

The woman laughed, a tinkling crystalline sound. "Whatever makes you think you can kill me? It takes more than brass to cut through diamond. And your friend there will find himself equally powerless against me now."

"Metal frequently finds it can do whatever I ask of it." The bedstead tightened further, and further.

Charles managed to get his foot on the floor and a crutch under him. "Erik. Answers might be more useful than a sparkling corpse, hm?"

Erik did not seem to be hearing him. His gaze on the diamond woman's neck was alarmingly intent, and when Charles rounded the foot of the bed, he nearly stumbled at the sight of fine cracks spreading across the woman's shining skin.

"Erik! That's enough!"

Before Erik could respond, the woman slumped in defeat, human skin reappearing as the diamond layer sloughed off into shimmering dust. She glared at them both with clear loathing.

Erik turned to him with a serene smile. "All yours, Charles. If she tries that again, just give her a light tap." With that, he crossed the room to pour himself a glass of champagne.

Charles let out a breath, half relief and half frustration. "Well, madam, will you tell us why the devil you just assaulted my friend's mind?"

"The man who murdered this club's previous owner sneaks in behind my back and I am to assume his intentions are noble?"

"Do not offer that excuse. You could not have known the truth of Shaw's fate until you gleaned it from Erik's mind. We offered you no harm, so what were you attempting to do to him?"

"If I tell you, will you believe me, or will you go on a jaunt through my brain afterward anyway?" She sounded almost bored.

"Good point," Charles said, and raised two fingers to his temple.

"Her name is Emma Frost," he murmured to Erik, "and she's been Shaw's right hand - and lover - for nearly a decade."

"Was she trying to avenge him?"

"No. No, she's far too practical for that - though I think she mourns the man more than she's admitted to herself." She gave him a sharp look; he only raised an eyebrow, Deny it if you like. "No, she was not going to kill you, Erik - merely re-make you in her preferred image, a puppet who would smile and nod and let her hold all the true power."

"Remind me why her violent death would be objectionable?"

Charles was finding the answer hard to remember, himself. If you touch him, he shoved the words into Miss Frost's mind, burned them into her like a brand, if you touch either of us ever again, I will take you apart.

Oh, don't worry, sugar, came the poison-sweet reply, I don't bother to touch men like you. We have boys on the payroll for that.

Charles felt his nostrils flare, cheeks heating - with anger or embarrassment, he couldn't tell.

But of course, you won't be needing them. She cut her eyes toward Erik, one corner of her mouth tipping up. Erik will make such a very interesting employer. "You are, of course, already on the membership roll, Mr. Lehnsherr," she said aloud. "And any friends of the club's owner must always be welcome. There was no need for this skulking about."

"Yes, speaking of friends." Charles dipped back into her mind, and was unsurprised to find the memory of Raven and Hank. "You will take us to our other companions immediately."

They found Raven and Hank cheerfully playing whist in one of the gambling rooms. That is, Raven was playing cheerfully; Hank looked on the verge of a nervous collapse, glancing about as if he expected any moment to be attacked and eaten.

It was, in fact, one of the calmer rooms, whist being quite the tame pastime in comparison to the Hellfire Club's other offerings. Even the lovely brunette singing lustily on the dais at one end of the room had drawn only half a dozen people. That half-dozen included - and this was likely the main source of Hank's discomfort - a man who floated some six inches off the ground, and another with glowing red eyes. The singer had curling horns like a ram.

"The Hellfire Club, as you may already have realized," said Miss Frost, leading them to Hank and Raven's table, "was established as a haven for our kind. Here we may practice perfect freedom, revealing our true selves and displaying our unique abilities without fear of reproach. Well," she amended with a small smile, "no reproach so long as there is no property damage."

"Yes, Charles, Miss Frost has been telling us all about it," Raven said, turning toward them excitedly. "She says that for all it calls itself a 'gentlemen's club,' women are allowed to join as well - anyone Gifted may. Your Mr. Shaw cannot have been so very bad, Mr. Lehnsherr, if he established a place like this! Isn't it wondrous?"

"And yet you do not take advantage of it, Miss Darkholme," Erik pointed out, running his gaze down her well-disguised skin.

Raven only bit her lip and glanced at Hank, a motion Erik followed with disfavor. "Have you any Gift, Mr. McCoy?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

Hank only stammered and reddened.

"I've told you before, Hank, there's no need to be ashamed of it," Charles said gently. "Here least of all, apparently."

Hank gulped and nodded, but made no move to doff his shoes.

Charles sighed inwardly, but declined to press the boy. The other two people at the whist table had wandered away - at Miss Frost's insistence, Charles rather thought, considering their glassy expressions - and he gladly lowered himself into one of the vacated seats. His leg was beginning to twinge a bit more demandingly than before.

"Mr. Lehnsherr, we have a good deal of business to discuss," Miss Frost said. "I believe your friends will be well entertained here, if you'd like to step into my office."

"Spoken like a cunning spider," Erik said dryly. "I think not, Miss Frost. Bring your business here, where there are witnesses."

And, more importantly, where there was Charles. He smiled winningly at Miss Frost, whose displeasure saw expression only in the flatness of her eyes.

"As you wish, Mr. Lehnsherr. I shall return presently." Her curtsy was barely a bob; his bow hardly a nod.

"I feel as though I missed an act of this play," Raven observed, watching her leave.

"Miss Frost is not in any way trustworthy, and I am still considering what to do with her," Erik said, almost absently. He took the other abandoned seat and picked up the hand of cards left there. "Are we playing for money?"

"A few pennies."

"Charles, I assume you will be my partner?"

Charles picked up his own adopted cards. "Of course. Whenever you like."




They passed a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon, if not a particularly restful one for Charles. He spent every moment not only tensed and ready to shield Erik's mind from Miss Frost, but also monitoring her for any sign of deceit or trickery. Miss Frost, as she presented an endless parade of books and papers to Erik's attention, only sent out waves of amusement, and the occasional mental image of a growling puppy defending a bone.

Other than that constant source of strain, Charles had to admit that the atmosphere of the Hellfire Club was beautifully relaxing. All around him were other Gifted, tension draining from their shoulders as they unfurled their wings, liberated their tails, stretched their arms like taffy to reach high bookshelves. Less obvious Gifts were also in evidence; one man cooled his own drink with a frosty breath, and a young lady with a tray of sandwiches walked casually through a table that stood in her way. Even Erik got into the spirit of things, using his Gift to float a metal dish of pastries over for their enjoyment.

Hank excused himself after an hour or so, the inevitable consequence of the amount of tea he had drunk, and returned to find that Raven had reverted to her natural cerulean. Her appearance was still entirely proper - her now-scarlet hair still bound up in pearls, ivory gloves still encasing her hands - only her texture and coloration had changed. She looked up at Hank in a silent agony of defiance and pleading, and he stood motionless, frozen in the act of pulling out his chair.

Charles dared a skim of the man's mind, and nearly winced at what he found there. Shock, dismay, uneasiness and discomfort, even embarrassment. Raven had become alien to him, something strange and - well, unnatural.

For Raven's sake, Charles did not let his displeasure show. This was the first Hank had seen of Raven's true form, and he had been surprised by it. Perhaps he only needed time. Already there was a hopeful sign in the lack of outright disgust, which was more than Hank granted his own poor feet.

After a long, taut moment, Hank managed a polite nod, and took his seat. He then surprised Charles by reaching out to briefly squeeze Raven's gloved hand.

She smiled, relief and joy as stark as the white of her teeth, and they all turned back to the game.

Erik was splitting his attention with apparent ease between the conversation, the card game, and Miss Frost's words of business. Charles's performance, on the other hand suffered severely from his divided focus, his constant quivering readiness to put Miss Frost back in her place. He decided to compensate by cheating shamelessly, not only silently communicating his hand to Erik - who permitted it with dry amusement - but peeking through everyone's minds to see their cards.

He and Erik won four tricks in succession before anyone caught on.

"I believe you are cheating, Charles," Raven grumbled.

"I would never," he intoned virtuously, and brushed through her mind again, this time deliberately sloppy.

She gasped, turning on him with golden eyes full of outrage. "I felt that, Charles! You are cheating, and furthermore you promised-"

"I am not reading your mind, Raven, I swear it! I only... borrowed your eyes a moment." He gave her his best innocent look. "Besides, this is the Hellfire Club, where all Gifts may be practiced without reproach. Is that not so? Is it not - how did you put it - wondrous?"

Erik smothered a snicker. So, to his surprise, did Emma Frost.

Raven glared at them all equally. "I will have my revenge, Charles. Perhaps when you are sleeping."

"I will take what stripes I must," Charles replied solemnly. "And now," he swept the played cards into his hand, "I believe I win again."

"Always the cocky one, Xavier."

Charles jumped at the familiar voice, smiled widely as he turned toward it - but there was no one there.

"Charles?" Erik's brow was furrowed, and the other two were watching curiously.

"I thought I..." Surely there was no mistaking Logan's rough, growling voice. Where had the man-

Oh. There he was, sprawled across a sofa in full uniform, absently scratching his head with one bony claw. Just as he had at the General's party. Exactly as he had at the General's party, in fact, since this was nothing more than a projected memory of that very moment.

"Nothing," Charles said with a sigh. "Never mind." He topped off his glass and drank deeply, ignoring Raven's mental burst of disapproval. She and Erik had silently conspired to keep Charles from hitting the bottle as hard as he would have liked, and now see the result. This was, at least, a benign enough hallucination, and didn't seem to have spread beyond his own head yet; at least, no one seemed to be reacting to the soldier - two soldiers, now - making themselves at home along the back wall. Armando had joined Logan, perusing the Hellfire Club's bookshelves just as he had the General's.

The disappointment was much harder to bear than the illusion itself. It would have been lovely to see some of his brothers-in-arms again, outside the context of nightmare. Particularly Logan and Armando, the other Gifted men of his regiment. In the army, he'd been pleased to discover, the Unnatural - at least those with combat-useful Gifts - were greeted quite warmly. The men had called the three of them Brains, Brawn, and Balls (not, perhaps, to Logan's face) and hung on them like heroes. Logan and Armando, being nigh-unkillable, had been at the front of every charge, while Charles - particularly in the early days, before he had his feet properly under him - was often bundled safely into the back, to coordinate and communicate, tracking both their own troops and the enemies'. In some ways he missed it - the rush, the danger, the strange paternal joy of so many minds under his personal protection, not to mention the certainty of his own usefulness. Certainly he missed Armando, with his courage and serene good sense, and Logan with his ill-tempered snarls and heart soft as butter.

On the whole, however, Charles was extremely glad to be home. Home, where, please God, he would never again have to scrabble for the strength to ease a dying Frenchman's pain, while he himself bled and bled down into darkness, not knowing whether he would wake.

The long procession of papers to sign came at last to an end, and Miss Frost disappeared back into her office with an armful of books.

"There is a good deal more to do here," Erik said, "if I am to understand the scope of this venture I've inherited, much less decide what should be done with it. I should very much like to return tomorrow.”

“Of course. There will be plenty of time before the ball, and that is our only engagement for the morrow.”

“Speak for yourself,” Raven said.

“Ah, yes, I forgot Raven’s long-standing habit of buying some variety of new ornamentation before every ball, despite having already enough of a party wardrobe to clothe an orphanage. Have you found someone to go with you?”

“I have hardly had the time! But I’m sure I can persuade someone among my town friends.”

"Do try not to set the town afire with your looting and pillaging, then. Are we ready to go then? Excellent! Let me send word to the townhouse that we’re ready for the carriage." He settled back in his chair, fingers to his temple, and felt the peculiar weightless rush that was all his mind's energy channeling into his Gift. The townhouse was not three miles as the crow flew, well within his grasp - but it did take an increase of focus.

He brushed mental fingers over the handful of busy, familiar minds in his London home until he found the London home’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, and imparted the news of their location and need for the driver’s services.

Of course, sir, right away, came the immediate reply. Nothing rattled Mrs. Hughes, certainly not the unusual talent of a master she’d known from his boyhood. Charles let his affectionate gratitude shine through for a moment before withdrawing the connection.

He returned to full awareness of his body to find Erik staring at him.

"How very strange you looked, Charles! As if your soul had entirely left the confines of your skull."

"I do apologize, I'm told it can be unsettling. I didn't think."

"No, no, it's fine." And in truth, the emotions that lapped against Charles's perception held no trace of fear, only something like awe. "And at least a mile or two to your house - Charles, I told your sister she might rule the world with very little effort, but I see now that you would win any such race to the throne."

"Only race I'll ever win again, eh?" He grinned and patted the remainder of his lost leg.

Erik snorted. "Only race you'd ever need to."

"Your own Gift is nothing to disdain, you know. I can only imagine how thrilled my old regiment would be to have a soldier who could turn the enemy's weapons back on them with a thought."

Erik grinned. "You and I together, then, to rule the world, with Raven assisting."

"Sounds marvelous." But not as marvelous as hearing the phrase 'you and I together' from Erik's lips, nor yet as marvelous as Erik's hand under his arm, helping him up. The warm, rosy feeling stayed with him all the way to the townhouse.

***

Erik had not thought he would sleep easily. There was so much to prey on his mind - the dizzying possibilities of the club he now owned, the potentially dire problem of Miss Frost, the creeping feeling on his skin when he remembered Shaw's 'expectation' that he would carry on his legacy. Instead, the thing his mind insisted on dwelling upon was Charles - first the gentle fingers in his hair, then the fierce and flashing rage as he fought off Miss Frost's influence, and how he then hovered protectively, like a warrior angel ready to put flaming sword to anything that threatened Erik.

Charles had spoken before, about how the more he cared for someone, the more he was disinclined to see their mind altered in any way.

I now owe him both my life and my sanity, Erik thought, and wondered what exactly Miss Frost would have made of him, how far she would go to remain the icy white queen of her sordid little kingdom. Miss Frost was a problem that had to be addressed, for he surely would not always have Charles at his side - and there was a thought that stabbed unreasonably.

Erik started to roll over, determined to will himself to sleep, and froze partway through the motion as he caught an all-too-familiar whiff of smoke.

The door to his bedroom was closed; thanks to his awareness of the metal knob, he knew this very certainly. But the doorway was dark now as if open to an abyss. The only light was the flickering outline of his daughter's body.

"Help him."

Erik blinked, wondering if he had heard aright. This was a change to the script.

"Papa. Come quickly. Help him."

"Help who?"

"Charles. He needs you."

Erik quickly stood and reached for his borrowed dressing gown - but, fumbling in the dark of an unfamiliar room, could not find it. Well, he wasn't going to take the time to search, not when Charles could be hurt, or ill, or in danger. His mind filled with images of Charles's crutches faltering on a staircase in the darkness, he followed Anya's receding form, out the door and down the corridor to Charles's room.

When he opened the door, Anya's fire stood beside the bed, but by the time he reached it she was gone.

"Charles?"

There was no reply from Charles, but the room was not silent. Erik spun in panic toward the sound of a cry - an old woman, huddled in the corner, streaked with dirt and blood and weeping into her apron.

He could see her far more clearly than he ought, in the darkness of the room - because she was not appearing to his eyes, he realized, but directly to his brain. She was not real, but a manifestation of Charles's nightmare.

This realization made it only slightly less alarming when he saw the blood spreading through Charles's sheets, a flood of scarlet from around his legs while his body shivered and shook.

"Charles! Wake up, Charles!" He shook the man's shoulder.

Charles woke with a loud and frankly frightening gasp, his body jerking upright, eyes wide. His hands seemed to work without his direction, locking around Erik's arm in such a way that Erik only avoided a broken bone by shifting with the movement, and providing immediate distraction. "It's me, Charles, it's me!"

For a few moments Charles only stared at him, disoriented and panting. "Erik?"

"Yes."

"You're - why are you - you're here, why are you here?"

"Anya came to me." Erik's gaze traveled pensively over Charles's wild hair and still-wilder eyes. "She said you needed me."

Now he laughed, breathless and bitter. "Yes, I... subconscious call for help, I suppose... she is, after all, made from a piece of me as well as you... It's nothing, only the usual nightmares. I am sorry to have disturbed your rest." He seemed to realize he was still holding Erik's arm, and released it.

"I was not resting well in any case, and you would not have liked sharing more communal hallucinations with the staff." The old woman was gone now, but the blood on the sheets remained, preternaturally vivid to his mind's eye.

Charles responded to this thought with a long stream of weary cursing. He sat up and threw back the sheets. "Where did I leave that bottle of brandy? There, will you hand it-"

"No! No, Charles, I do not like-"

"I don't like it either, but my options are limited! And I'll never get back to sleep without it. Dash it all, man, either help me or get out of my way!"

"Is there nothing else that would help you?"

“Opium, perhaps,” Charles said bitterly. “Would you prefer that?”

“Hardly.”

"Then nothing! Only..." He swallowed and rubbed his eyes with a shaking hand. "Company would help," he admitted, very quietly. "If you will not let me drink... Company is almost as good. Deucedly hard to come by, though."

"Then I'll stay."

Charles looked at him for a long moment, his eyes a faint but mesmerizing glimmer in the darkness. Then he slid back into the bed, far back so that Erik would have plenty of room.

Erik nearly lost his nerve, looking down at the sheets where Charles's body had rested just moments before. But this wasn't... this was to help a friend. To repay, in some small way, the debt he owed him.

Heart hammering, Erik climbed into the bed.

He would swear it was the most comfortable bed he'd ever been in, the softest and warmest, every inch of it cradling him perfectly, he never wanted to leave it and he needed to leave it this instant, it had to be a trap, it couldn't be real. It was a trap and he wasn't here to help a friend, there was no reason for a friend to take hold of Charles's pale hand lying between them on the bed, run his fingers along the back of it, turn it over to do the same to his palm, and up his wrist, inside the long cuffs of his shirt - to imagine that tender veined skin against his lips, or pinched gently between his teeth-

Charles shuddered, and seemed to strain toward him.

Panic flooded him, and it was all Erik could do not to flee the room. Charles was his friend, Charles was a man, and it made no sense to want - things - from him, things a man should only want from his wife, there was something wrong with him that this unnatural fixation was how Erik repaid the astonishing kindness Charles had shown him, and now - now his own twisted feelings were leaking back to Charles through his Gift, infecting him with desires not his own-

Immediately Erik felt a frantic-edged wave of reassurance and consolation, the angel-wing sensation he recognized as Charles's Gift at work, a silent soothing that did not forcibly change his emotions, only offered comfort. It was an all-but-wordless jumble, but Erik caught traces of it's all right, shhh, it's all right and please don't leave I need you.

And surely enough, the hand in his was trembling, the distress of his nightmare still sparking off of Charles in all directions. Erik breathed deeply, once, twice, quelling all inappropriate emotion, tucking it tightly away. Charles seemed willing to forgive his deviance in return for his aid, and Erik would not refuse that bargain. Carefully, he pulled Charles closer.

"I'm more comfortable on my other side," Charles whispered hesitantly.

The side with a full leg. "Of course." Erik released him to resettle himself, and suddenly there was no space at all between them, Charles's back a solid, pleasant pressure against Erik's chest. Erik could not stop himself from melting against that warm body, wrapping his arms tightly around it, pressing his nose into silky-soft hair to smell the traces of rose-and-cinnamon soap under musky-sweet sweat. Charles relaxed into his hold, his shivers already beginning to fade.

Erik had felt nothing like this since Magda died, had rather assumed he never would again, that that part of his life was over. There had been nothing left but vengeance, the hunt, he could think of nothing else... and now the hunt was over. Shaw was dead. Erik could, if he chose, have a life again. He could choose to love again.

And had Magda meant so little to him, that he could simply install a replacement and continue on? No, surely not, he had loved Magda. Even now, the memory of her dimpled smile, her teasing laugh, could put him on his knees with pain and longing. Surely he could not betray her.

But she had betrayed him first. She had recoiled from him in fear. He wouldn't hate her for it - she had been frightened, shocked, in pain. But surely, surely he could not be blamed for declining to leash himself to the memory of someone who feared his Gift, when he was faced with someone who embraced it, someone who was warm and bright and kind, like Magda, but stronger and braver...

But no, no, it was one thing to think of love - he would hardly be the first widower to remarry - and something else entirely to think of a man in her place. It was wrong, it was unnatural, and he would not risk losing Charles by pressing abhorrent advances upon him. He would put away his feelings, as he had once been quite good at doing, and he would go on without them.

The man in his arms was fully asleep now, the rise and fall of his breath slow and steady against Erik's chest. He could be fairly sure, then, that it was entirely his own mind whispering to him a reminder that what others called unnatural, Charles tended to view as a gift.

Chapter 6