Set during X-Men: First Class. Erik's first night at the mansion isn't particularly restful. There is a companion piece, Headaches and Chess which is told from Charles' point of view, but both can stand alone.

Erik sat up with a gasp, fighting the cloth holding him down and feeling all of the metal in the room trembling around him as he struggled to remember where he was. He had to—but no. No. He wasn't back there. He made himself breathe deeply. Whatever those dreams—nightmares—might have whispered in his mind, he was many years and thousands of miles away from that place.

Despite that, he gripped the blankets tightly, reassuring himself. There had been nothing like this warm cloth when he spent his nights on a thin pallet, used by an unknown number before him and only turned over to him when its previous occupant was dragged off to die. In the end, he'd probably helped to move the body.

Again, no. He forced those thoughts aside. That place was gone now.

But this wasn't a cheap bed in flophouse either, nor was it a narrow boat bunk too short for his frame and with so many lumps that it felt like he was sleeping in a barely-cushioned rock quarry. It wasn't even a CIA not-cell or one of the decidedly-more-expensive-than-his-budget-had-ever-allowed hotel rooms that he'd been staying in recently. It was….

Now that he'd calmed—at least marginally—it only took an instant for his mind to catch up with his circumstances. This was Charles' home. They'd come here after the CIA facilities had become…unusable. He shook his head and released the blankets, letting the metal objects in the room settle back into place around him. There were a lot of them, and most weren't the sort of rough steel and iron to which he was accustomed. There was a great deal of silver and copper, brass and pewter as well…most likely there was even some gold if he felt like taking the time to look for it. Because, as insane as it sounded, Charles' home was a mansion.

Even after the tour that Charles and Raven had given them earlier, he still had trouble believing it, and he was more than willing to turn his mind from the horrors of his past to contemplate the absurdity of his present. Granted that he could have let himself into a place like this anytime he wanted just by flipping open the always-metal locks, but the idea of being invited in, of being, in all seriousness, given his own suite…. He shook his head and didn't laugh. What business did an itinerant drifter—an itinerant killer, if he was being perfectly honest, even if his targets deserved everything that they got—have in being here?

He shook his head again and climbed out of bed, slipping his coin into his pocket automatically. What did it matter? However comfortable they might be, rich surroundings obviously didn't do anything to keep the nightmares at bay. In fact, they'd come to him here when they hadn't in the tiny room that the CIA had issued him or the hotel rooms that he'd shared with Charles during their mutant-gathering journey. But then, he'd known better than to relax in those places, sleeping with his eyes half-open and catching catnaps when he could during the day to keep himself alert. Here…well, whether it was the 'secret' location or the fact that for the first time in his life he was surrounded by people like—vaguely like, anyway, even if most of them were so naïve that they made his teeth hurt—him, or just his exhaustion, but for a few moments it had felt like he was safe. So he'd fallen asleep and slept deeply. And the nightmares had struck. Erik should have expected it, really; seeing him again after so many years could only amplify the dreams that had never really gone away.

He frowned and then checked quickly to make sure that he hadn't actually damaged any of the metal objects in the room. No sense in wearing out his welcome on the first night, before they even got a hint as to Shaw's location. Although when he'd changed the shape of all of the metal knobs on McCoy's machine to the semblance of small snake heads, Charles had only laughed, so perhaps he needn't worry.

After assuring himself that the contents of the bedroom remained for the most part unaltered, he stepped out onto the balcony, fought down a surge of twisted laughter at the fact that his suite had a balcony, and stared out into the night, ignoring the winds that whipped around him. It wasn't cold out, not really, or at least it wasn't cold enough that he couldn't ignore it. And the cool air helped him to calm his mind a little. He let his powers run free for a moment, seeking out all of the metal in the area. Aside from that which was a part of or contained in the house, there wasn't much around. A satellite disk in the distance, a garage, a shed not far away that probably held garden implements, an old fence just beyond that, and some sort of metal tunnel…maybe part of an aqueduct or something? He couldn't tell from here, and in the end, he didn't really care. He glanced downwards, over the edge of the balcony with a shake of his head.

As he'd noticed when Charles had shown him the rooms earlier, he was only about a twelve-foot drop from the lawn. High enough to discourage anyone who might be inclined to try breaking in, but still easily negotiated if it became necessary for him to escape, and there were plenty of bushes and brush below to give him cover. And the railing was sturdy wrought iron, the only decoration coming from the shape of the pointed caps. A weapon in and of itself, if it came to that. At the time, when he'd first seen the rooms, he'd merely been grateful that they were far from those assigned to the younger mutants, but now he had a more than sneaking suspicion that his location and those…amenities… were not a coincidence. In fact, given the size of this place and the fact that his host was a telepath, it was entirely possible that they'd each had rooms selected for them to suit their preferences. That fact should probably bother him far more than it did at the moment.

He stared out over the lawn for an indeterminable amount of time, hands locking and unlocking around the top railing, and then turned to go back inside. He was fairly certain that he remembered in which direction the kitchen was from here, and Charles had lived in England for a while. There had to be tea down there somewhere.

The light coming from under the kitchen door gave him pause, but he'd already come this far. And there was no reason to hide a little insomnia. Or, for that matter, any reason to discuss its cause. He pushed the door open.

"Chamomile, mint, lemongrass, or green?"

Erik paused in the doorway, staring at Charles' back, and after a moment, Charles turned away from the stove to face him.

"What kind of tea would you like? I should have black somewhere around here also, if you'd prefer that, although I'm not exactly sure where I put it."

Erik's eyes narrowed and his powers, still amplified by nightmare and memory despite his exercise on the balcony, found a target. "Did you read my mind?" His fury at the idea had to be obvious to Charles, but then, he hadn't really been trying to conceal it. And apparently Charles wasn't anywhere near as intelligent as he was supposed to be because he made no move to step away from the metal knives rattling ominously in their stand on the counter beside him.

"No, but it's a reasonable thing for someone who's had a nightmare to come looking for," Charles said instead. "I suppose you might want hot chocolate, but given the look you gave the children earlier when they asked if you wanted to share their tub of chocolate ice cream, I would think not. And I hope you're not looking for a snack, because apparently I didn't pick up as much food as I should have given that there are three just-past-teenage boys in the house. We might have a bag of crisps left, but there's not much else. I'll have to rectify that oversight tomorrow morning." He started to shake his head and then paused. "Please tell me that you don't want that."

Almost against his will, Erik followed Charles' gaze, and some of the tension ran out of him as he identified the target of Charles' clear—and somewhat amusing—disgust as a small, helpless coffeemaker. "No." He considered for a moment and then the knives fell fully back into place as he decided that he might as well answer. "Chamomile, if you don't mind." Not that it really mattered much to him, hot tea being hot tea, but according to his nose, that was what was already on the stove.

"Excellent." Charles turned back around to pull down two cups from the cupboard next to him, filling each one from the teapot. Erik took his with a nod of thanks, dropping into a seat at the table, and Charles joined him a moment later.

"So how did you know about the nightmare?" Erik asked after a few sips. "Or is that just a 'reasonable' reason for someone to come down to the kitchen at three in the morning?" He was genuinely curious—and more than a little suspicious—because unless he'd managed to extend his reach far beyond his usual visual limit, there was no way that even in the throes of his worst nightmare he should have been rattling metal down here. Or, for that matter, up in Charles' room, which as he recalled was several floors above his.

Charles shook his head, turning his cup in his hands. "No, that I did pick up from you. Of course, I'm picking up the same sort of disquiet from almost everyone else tonight as well, which is part of the reason why I'm not sleeping."

"Well, if you'd keep your mind to yourself, maybe that wouldn't be an issue," Erik pointed out, his voice hardening. It would certainly make him feel better if he didn't have to worry about his telepathic maybe-friend—as much trouble as he had with the entire concept of 'friend'—poking around in his head.

Another shake of Charles' head, and Charles gave him a half-amused, half-tired look. "My mutation doesn't work like that. There is no off switch." He tapped his fingers lightly against his cup. "How do I best explain this? Deep reading, distance reading, and projection all require both direction and intent on my part, but conversely, it also requires intent not to read the surface thoughts of those nearest to me." He winced slightly. "Despite my best efforts, I still occasionally slip up in that regard. However, even when I'm deliberately avoiding reading anyone around me, I can still feel their—your—minds. It's something like the background hum of a crowd." He took a sip of his tea. "And when that background hum is unhappy, I can't help but know about it."

Erik considered for a moment. "So you don't know what's in the dreams, just that we're having them, then?"

Charles took another sip, again fiddling with his cup as he lowered it back to the table, and Erik suspected that he wasn't going to like the answer that was coming. "For the most part. As I said, I still occasionally slip up. A strong enough thought or memory sometimes gets through, especially when I'm not entirely calm myself. I'm sorry."

It was clearly an apology for over…what? thinking? hearing? reading?...his dream rather than any useless, unwanted expression of pity, and after a moment, Erik took a sip of his tea and decided that it didn't matter anyway. He didn't like the idea that Charles had seen any of the things that had been running through his mind tonight, but if what Charles had said before was true—and Erik had no reason to believe that it wasn't—Charles already knew what was in his head anyway. "So that's how you knew it was me coming into the kitchen and not some random axe murderer," he said instead. "Even without looking."

Charles' lips twitched. "Basically. If you like, you can ask Raven for a firsthand account of how well breaking into a telepath's home works. And I was a great deal younger then."

"Lab rat, watchdog…are you intending to replace the entire animal kingdom, Charles?" Erik teased. Or tried to tease. It was by no means his best jibe, but the tea wasn't doing as much as he'd hoped, and his nerves were still far more raw than he cared to admit. One hand slipped into his pocket to touch the edge of the coin. If it was up to him, his next stop after the kitchen would be somewhere with a dartboard, a few solid metal darts, and a couple idiots to accuse him of cheating so he had an excuse to beat someone senseless. Or, lacking any of that, some time with a piece of wood and those kitchen knives.

"I will admit that there are days when I wonder," Charles said, a few moments after he stopped expecting a response.

"So your plan tonight is to sit here and wait for us all to wake up, give us tea, and send us back to bed?" Erik pressed. He wasn't sure why he was pursuing conversation given that words weren't something that he normally took any comfort in, but he found himself continuing to speak anyway. Anything to distract himself from the turmoil in his mind. He hated those nightmares.

Charles shook his head. "Hank and Raven are already awake. I took him some hot chocolate twenty or thirty minutes ago and left him pouring over his notebooks. Tweaks for Cerebro, I think; I didn't ask for details." He waved a hand. "His mind is starting to calm now, and Raven is almost through wearing herself out against her punching bag so she'll sleep again soon as well. Despite their dreams, Alex and Sean have yet to awaken, and if it hasn't happened by this point, I don't think it will. Though I will be glad when those dreams turn more pleasant. And Moira is the one person in the house who has not had any nightmares tonight."

Erik snorted. Of course the CIA agent hadn't had any nightmares. Why would she? She was human; she didn't have to be afraid of the same things that they did. They should have just left her back at the CIA.

"She is helping us," Charles said quietly. "And no, I didn't read your mind. Your expression was…quite clear."

Erik shook his head but didn't say anything else on the subject. There was no point in picking that fight just now. "Are you going to sit here until we all fall back asleep on our own, then?" In that case, Charles was going to be in for a long night.

"No, another cup of tea and then I think I'll wander down to the library," Charles said. "I won't sleep again tonight, and there has to be something in there that I haven't read."

Erik flicked a finger, and the mostly-metal teapot floated in their direction before Charles could get to his feet. "Do you mind if I join you?" He didn't intend to sleep again either, although he wasn't going to admit that aloud, and while there probably was a dart set somewhere in this place, he didn't feel like getting lost seeking it out. And contrary to what many—most—people's first impression of him seemed to be, he was not a stupid person. He might not have the widest range of interests, but when he wanted to learn something, he did. Given what he remembered of the size of the library, there was bound to be something in there that would interest him.

"Of course not, you're more than welcome." Charles plucked the teapot from the air and refilled his cup and then Erik's as well after a questioning look. Then he stood, returning the pot to the stove. "Shall we?"

Erik kept pace with him down the hall and around several turns, pleased to note that he had remembered the location of the library correctly. Of course, it turned out that he'd underestimated the size when he'd glanced in here earlier, and he couldn't do much but shake his head and stare upwards as Charles started turning the lights on. This place was officially ridiculous.

With the room fully lighted, Charles headed directly to one particular set of low shelves, but Erik took his time, trying to figure out the ordering of everything. Histories, languages—he already spoke six languages fluently and could get by in three more, none of which he'd learned from any book—autobiographies…. "Do you play?"'

"Hm?"

Charles turned, and Erik gestured at a chess set balanced somewhat precariously on one of the shelves. "Do you play?" he repeated. The words had slipped out unbidden when he'd first seen the pieces, and if Charles hadn't heard he wouldn't have asked again, but since he had….

"Yes, actually, although it's been quite awhile. There were always other things to do when I was in school, and Raven never had the patience for it. Do you?"

"Yes. Although, as you said, it's been awhile." He hadn't played since he'd removed himself from Shaw's custody, actually; in the camp, there had been no games, and since then, he'd kept mostly to himself. And the people he'd taken jobs from to keep himself alive weren't the sort that one wanted to spend free time with anyway.

Charles smiled. "Well, would you care for a game?"

Erik didn't bother with a verbal response, picking up the board—wooden, or he'd have floated it and burned off a little more tension that way—carefully and moving it to the low table between two cushioned chairs. Playing chess was one of the very few things that he hadn't absolutely hated about his time with Shaw, and he suspected that it had a great deal to do with the fact that Shaw hadn't been the one to teach him to play. Of course, he didn't remember who had taught him, that memory lost with almost all of the rest of his childhood in the 'before' time when he didn't know what a Nazi was, but it didn't change his feelings for the game. And unless Charles was a completely inept player—unlikely—it should prove a good distraction.

"I challenged, so it's your move, I believe," Charles said, taking a seat and setting his tea down beside the board.

Erik took the other chair and turned the board around. "Actually, if it's all the same to you, I much prefer to play the black."