Whether Erik is safe in any capacity may always be a point of contention, at least as far as he can tell it: if nothing else he is at least real. Present. Awake. Out of that dreamlike state from whence he can only call the most flickering of memories, as jagged as the wounds left by a serrated knife. (They might be memories. They might be dreams. It's like trying to remember through sluggish liquid--the pressure of straps at his shoulders, does he remember that or had it only been a thin black skein of nightmare? The red gout of blood against the pristine white of a labcoat and whiter tile floor, had he done that or just hoped for it?)
It takes only one fluid movement to pull himself upright, whereupon he discovers he's much the same as when he'd--he'd passed out, he thought, and wondered if he were crumbling into dust, golems not being known for their permanence. But now he is flesh and fragile bone and blood he can feel iron singing in again, and for a second that's all that matters. If he's a mutant, he knows himself, recalls coming here (or being brought, against his will) and all the passing strangeness that had happened since. That time, though, seems as much like a dream as whatever he's just fought his way out of.
(At least that's how he's choosing to look at it, until someone convinces him otherwise. He'd been able to fight back this time, hadn't been a child, hadn't been helpless.)
He knows two things are real. One, that he woke up on the road leading out to the far edge of town where it would wind away to Elsewhere if there was an Elsewhere to go to, and two: that he is angry. The latter barely counts, it's as much as saying he's breathing, but then--then there is a third, the intrusion into his bristling rage that pulls him to the surface, the voice that bursts behind his eyes and deafens him without making a sound. Charles. If Erik is himself, then it stands to reason--he has to be, Erik can hear him, feel him, that knocked back feeling like someone has opened a door in his head and been utterly bowled over by what was behind it.
Running is--surely, it would be beneath his dignity. He makes himself walk, makes himself look at the blooming spring around him, remembers before everyone had changed overnight they'd talked about growing food now, keeping themselves alive independent of their captors--he makes himself remember. And doesn't run until he can see the house, at which point all bets are off; he doesn't so much walk through the door as slash it open by the metal hinges.
It's not like coming home, but it's close enough. He closes the distance to the stairs in two long strides and crouches in front of the other man at once - their knees are bumping, it's awkward and what a stupid thing to feel as relief that is, that Charles is solid and no longer cold - and closes his hands around his upper arms. "You're all right," he says, without so much as preamble or greeting, not sure if it's a question or a statement. If it's the former he can will it into being. And then just: "Charles."
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It takes only one fluid movement to pull himself upright, whereupon he discovers he's much the same as when he'd--he'd passed out, he thought, and wondered if he were crumbling into dust, golems not being known for their permanence. But now he is flesh and fragile bone and blood he can feel iron singing in again, and for a second that's all that matters. If he's a mutant, he knows himself, recalls coming here (or being brought, against his will) and all the passing strangeness that had happened since. That time, though, seems as much like a dream as whatever he's just fought his way out of.
(At least that's how he's choosing to look at it, until someone convinces him otherwise. He'd been able to fight back this time, hadn't been a child, hadn't been helpless.)
He knows two things are real. One, that he woke up on the road leading out to the far edge of town where it would wind away to Elsewhere if there was an Elsewhere to go to, and two: that he is angry. The latter barely counts, it's as much as saying he's breathing, but then--then there is a third, the intrusion into his bristling rage that pulls him to the surface, the voice that bursts behind his eyes and deafens him without making a sound. Charles. If Erik is himself, then it stands to reason--he has to be, Erik can hear him, feel him, that knocked back feeling like someone has opened a door in his head and been utterly bowled over by what was behind it.
Running is--surely, it would be beneath his dignity. He makes himself walk, makes himself look at the blooming spring around him, remembers before everyone had changed overnight they'd talked about growing food now, keeping themselves alive independent of their captors--he makes himself remember. And doesn't run until he can see the house, at which point all bets are off; he doesn't so much walk through the door as slash it open by the metal hinges.
It's not like coming home, but it's close enough. He closes the distance to the stairs in two long strides and crouches in front of the other man at once - their knees are bumping, it's awkward and what a stupid thing to feel as relief that is, that Charles is solid and no longer cold - and closes his hands around his upper arms. "You're all right," he says, without so much as preamble or greeting, not sure if it's a question or a statement. If it's the former he can will it into being. And then just: "Charles."