Charles wasn't surprised by the immediate rush of half-formed, disordered images that assaulted him— Erik's mind had been supplying flashes of lewd, glorious fantasies even in dreams, and Charles hadn't taken any great pains to stop the increasingly common mental leaks springing up between them— but it still felt rather like careening into a hurricane. This was consuming, sudden and fierce, and Charles couldn't stop himself from digging his heels so hard into his lumpy mattress that the springs creaked in dangerous protest, jabbing him painfully.

"Christ," he gasped, the word echoing incredibly loud to his own ears in the relative quiet of Sean's flat. His heart was pounding, and not merely from the pornographic deluge currently flooding his neurons, but he managed to scrape together enough sense to sweep his mind out towards Sean, finding the young man undisturbed, lost in his own heavy sleep and gently pleasant dreams.

Which was very, very good, given that Charles was currently bare-arsed in the living room, fisting his own cock while Erik slowly reined his own mind back into some semblance of its usual order.

For the record— Charles was mildly chagrined to find that his mental voice was far huskier than he had anticipated, but the sound made Erik shudder, his thoughts flickering again. Allowing himself a slow curl of a smile, Charles decided to refrain from clearing his throat, figuratively speaking. I would be game for any of that.

How very bold of you, Charles. If his own voice was husky, Erik's was obscene, a hot, growling purr rasping directly beside Charles' ear and sneaking under his skin, trailing fire down though sinew and muscle, deep into his bones. Possibly deeper. Though I'm hardly shocked. We've already established that you are a madman.

He had been hard before Erik woke him up, and after weeks of tension and now the phantom of Erik's breath warming his neck, Charles would admit that his nerves were drawn somewhat taut. Please don't spoil this, he thought, loosening his fierce grip on his erection for the moment, letting his thumb slide up to press just under his crown. It was nearly torturous and more than a little absurd to tease himself, but if Erik was feeling playful, he would try to refrain from palming himself as quick and desperate as a schoolboy.

Perish the thought. Erik's nose pressed under his ear, nuzzling, and Charles pressed into the sensation, twisting his fingers down slowly at the same time, drawing down his foreskin and trailing slickness. If you were here with me now, Charles, you wouldn't still be wearing that shirt. Take it off for me.

For anything beyond tugging his prick, his fingers felt useless and rubbery, but Charles was determined to undo every tiny button, one-handed and fumbling. He could feel Erik's amusement at his clumsiness, paired with the ghost of a chuckle breathed out against his throat; the amusement petered off, however, as he managed to free each additional inch of skin, pinching and gasping as he went.

Unbuttoned just over halfway, Charles paused, pushing flannel aside just enough to bare his chest. Squeezing the base of his cock as a precaution, he reached down with his other hand and gently swept his thumb over his sensitive cock head, gathering up precome and trying very hard not to buck up into the touch. Erik was breathing hard now, his shared thoughts kept largely silent, and Charles gnawed at his own lip as he brought his thumb up to circle one tightened nipple, making it damp and shiny, as thought it had been licked.

I wish this was your mouth on me. Pinching himself, twisting and chasing the heated sensation of pleasure-pain that travelled from his nipple straight to his cock, Charles stared up at Sean's ceiling with hooded eyes. Your tongue and your teeth, just here. Mm, still with me, Erik?

There was a pause, scarcely more than a heartbeat or two, before Erik projected his answer.

Still waiting. Your shirt, Charles. Abandoning his chest for the moment, smirking just a little at the cracks beginning to show around the edges of Erik's thoughts, making him sound throaty and already ruined, Charles dared a bit more and brought his thumb up for a quick suck, cleaning off his own flavour. Damn you.

He suffered a brief flash of panic when Erik rolled away, afraid he'd pushed the man too far already, but then there was a clattering noise, distant and distracting, heard through Erik's ears. Before Charles could ask, Erik was kicking himself free of quilts and underwear, baring the generous, darkly flushed curve of his own erection, and holding one empty hand up above the bed. There was a whoosh and a quiet slap as something smacked against Erik's palm, and Charles had only a moment to realise what terrible trouble he'd gotten himself into before the tin of vaseline was being twisted open.

Tearing his eyes away from Erik's cock did not prove to be the relief from rushing arousal that Charles had expected— if anything, the intense expression on Erik's face and the heat darkening his sharp eyes only served to make the fire in Charles' belly burn brighter. Charles was caught, feeling every inch the cornered prey, and it was more than a little embarrassing to realise that Erik could reduce him to a gibbering mess with little more than a glance and a tub of slick.

The only saving grace was the fact that Charles could not in fact remember the last time he'd had sex, beyond a deep surety that this was far from his first time. That could explain away at least some of his gnawing desperation, surely.

If you were here, Charles– It was a strain to keep Erik's thoughts clear in his mind, while at the same time keeping hold of the image of Erik sneaking slick, shiny fingers down between his own spread legs and taking up his sleek cock in the other fist, but Charles would happily suffer the headache afterward. Would you watch me do this, or do it yourself, hm? You do strike me as something of a voyeur.

Feeling himself flush, Charles was foolishly relieved that Erik was a bit too distracted to notice. While the man's thoughts might be clinging to focus and clarity, his body was a study in tightly coiled need. Eyes mostly closed and head craned back, Erik was obviously giving himself over to touch in a way Charles had not anticipated.

It was... beautiful.

Abandoning his own taut yearning for the moment, Charles shifted around until he was kneeling on the lumpy mattress, anxiously checking on his flatmate once more (and again, finding Sean unmoved by the antics happening on his chesterfield).

Oh God, keep doing that.

Cracking his eyes open, Erik spared Charles a dark, heated glance that was also far too sarcastic. Incapable of following simple direction, but eager to order me about. You are terribly overbearing, aren't you?

Terribly so, yes. Moving nearer, not quite teetering despite the distinct lack of blood flowing to his brain, Charles knelt between Erik's widely spread thighs, stroking his own cock in time with the slow, steady slide of Erik's fingers. This... this I could not simply watch, not the first time. I want to feel the heat of you, working my fingers inside and slicking you open for me. It was difficult to decide which to watch: Erik's shiny fingers disappearing up into his pink, stretched arse, or Erik's face, with his colour high and his lips moist and swollen from worrying them between his teeth. Charles could not imagine a more erotic sight than the banquet laid out before him, even if he wasn't permitted a proper taste, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, etching every detail into his memory.

With any luck at all, he would be in a position to compare it to the real thing sometime in the near future. Tell me how you feel, Erik. Tell me before I go mad from it.

I might do one better. That strained growl of thought was Charles' only warning before the sensations flooded over him, shoved from Erik's mind into his own with all the subtlety of a stampede. Charles could feel the mattress under his knees, and softer sheets under his back; the squeeze of a hand on his cock was amplified, echoing with strange, phantom touches as Erik tugged his own slicked erection with fiercely quick motions. And oh good lord, the lightning scalding through his nerves as Erik rubbed his own prostate, firm and merciless— it was bizarre, to clench around a stretch and burn he could not feel, and to shudder in time with Erik's groaning as the feelings went on and on. Bizarre and not nearly enough, but if Charles could not have Erik hot and yearning under him, this was a damned fine facsimile.

Jesus— Leaning forward, curving over the image of Erik he could see coming apart before him, Charles gave himself over to feeling as much as possible, losing his tether on everything except the link between them. The urge to let go was growing with every twist of his wrist, but he didn't dare— spilling himself on empty sheets while his brain short-circuited was not how this experience was going to end.

It was all sight and sound now, reality blurring together, and Erik was watching him through slitted eyes. Need was coiling at the base of Charles's spine, threatening to unravel or burn him alive, and he would have been embarrassed by the speed of it if he couldn't feel the desperation driving Erik on as well, just as painfully overwhelming as the man flushed crimson and writhed, sweating and grunting with every rough jab of his own fingers...

When he came all over his fist, gasping out Erik's name in the stillness of the flat, it was exactly as he'd feared— Charles was suddenly, jarringly braced over cool sheets, alone. He was fizzled, thoughts scrambling together, but panic proved very effective at tearing through lethargy. Reaching out, even before he'd caught his breath again, Charles sought that familiar glow, reaching determinedly towards Erik's mind.

He found brightness, nearly blinding, and a tangle of sensation that made him shudder again, flopping down onto the mattress with a quiet, pained sort of sound. Even catching the tail-end of Erik's orgasm was enough to make Charles' own cock twitch pathetically, but he managed to anchor himself just enough to lay his clean hand on Erik's chest, focusing on the pounding thrum of heartbeat.

Welcome back. Despite the speed of his pulse and his breathing, Erik was already smirking lazily, wiping his own filthy hands on the corner of his sheets and stretching out like a basking cat. A little too much for you, Charles?

Enjoy that smugness while you're able. Dredging up another ounce of control, Charles briefly tweaked the nerve endings he could remember singing with pleasure moments before, and Erik was thrashing and cursing in an instant. He might not be able to actually slide fingers deep into Erik's sensitive arse, but he wasn't without his methods.

Sneaky son of a bitch, Erik gritted out, aloud and in his mind, and Charles retreated with a smirk of his own, but the playful feelings didn't last. They were both wrecked, sweaty and spent, and the true distance between them hadn't seemed so damnably wide since the first moment Charles had stepped off the plane onto the mainland. The sweetness of sex after so long a wait was souring far too quickly, and it simply wasn't fair in the slightest.

Silence widened, gaping and dark, and melancholy twisted thornily in the space left behind in the absence of words; after a few long moments Erik shifted over and pressed his nose against the top of Charles' head, not quite a kiss. Swallowing tightly, Charles was unaccountably glad that he didn't need to use his voice to speak at the moment.

I'm coming back. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of the blankets' edge and hauled them up to armour himself against the chill of Sean's flat. It was a bit easier to bear the weight of Erik's razor sharp attention— confusion, uncertainty, disbelief— if he focused on the bedclothes. A trip to the laundromat would be called for in the near future, before Sean caught on to the mess Charles had made of the borrowed sheets.

Lying beside him, Erik had gone very still. What... what do you mean, coming back?

I'm making little progress here; there is only so much the public library can offer when I've no idea where I should be searching. Charles had be considering this for some time, ever since he'd discovered his powers truly could stretch this far, and the notion had simply become more persuasive as his search continued to yield nothing but frustration. Pouring through reels of local newspapers had been fruitless, and he with no idea where he might have come from, he was stymied on where to branch from there. My best hope is police resources, and if I can hear you from here, I can certainly check in on Detective MacInnes' progress from Menigu.

That's idiotic. The words were harsh, but Charles did not miss the warm sliver of hope that wound through them. Erik would grumble, but hiding true feelings from a telepath when their minds were already tangled together was a nearly impossible challenge. You can't... there's nothing for you here.

Oh, isn't there? Flopping down to curl on his side, Charles steeled himself to meet Erik's cynicism with wry optimism. This was a fine plan and they both knew it, even if Erik denied it for now. Then I suppose I'll simply stay with Moira when I get back. She has the space; I'm certain she wouldn't mind a roommate.

Damn it, Charles. The sensation of Erik's mind prodding clumsily at his was unexpected, but Charles opened his thoughts wide regardless. He had nothing he cared to hide, and perhaps experiencing the strength of his resolve would be enough to quiet Erik's arguments (though Charles would hardly hold his breath for that).

After a moment of feeling a bit like a card catalogue being riffled through, Charles sensed Erik's withdrawal with a tiny stab of loss. He stretched, not quite following, and ended up with his hand rubbing slow circles over Erik's bare chest. The touch wasn't shrugged off, and Charles was more than willing to count that as a small victory.

You're coming back. Still sceptical, but at least Erik wasn't actively arguing against the idea for the moment. The room, with details still shimmering somewhere between his vision and Erik's, felt as though it was spinning around him more than their shared consciousness could adequately explain. That, coupled with the slight ache building behind his eyes, warned Charles that he may have overextended himself, just a bit.

A headache was a small price to pay for what they'd just gotten up to; he couldn't bring himself to regret it, even if he woke with the mother of all migraines (though, admittedly, he might not feel so agreeable come morning if that did come to pass). For the moment, however, Charles smiled and shifted a bit closer.

Indeed, my friend.

You're being an ass, Charles. Picking up a morsel of canned chicken that had fallen from his sandwich, Erik held the bit of meat out for Raven to sniff at suspiciously. As though the damned prissy cat hadn't been staring him down with unblinking golden eyes since he'd first cracked open the tin. If you're still so intent on scuttling back from the mainland, you'll need some proper clothes. Misplaced pride will not keep you warm here in February.

Charles didn't answer with any firm thoughts, but the sense of simmering frustration with just a tinge of embarrassment spoke volumes of the man's state of mind. Still, there was no more argument about the merits of new winter gear compared to whatever thinning, ratty things he might find at consignment— frugality was all well and good, but Menigu could be pitiless. Boots and coats were not the place to skimp for the sake of a few dollars.

Outside of fishing season, Erik hadn't found himself so concerned with the passage of time in years. His days were still spent elbow-deep in busywork and maintenance, but the warm hum of Charles' presence at the periphery of his mind kept him hyper-aware of every dragging hour.

There were moments, of course, when time slipped by more quickly than others. Compared to a lengthy afternoon shovelling out around his workshop, fifteen minutes in the shower with his dick in his hand and Charles whispering in his head felt like an instant.

Erik, damn it, I'm in public. Taking another bite of his sandwich, Erik conceded to tamp down a few of his lewder wandering thoughts. Distracting Charles from his obstinacy was a fine strategy, but also a delicate one. Good lord, that saleswoman thinks I'm flushed red as a beet about a pair of long johns, and it's entirely your fault.

Erik snorted out a laugh that startled the cat. Buy them, and later I'll give you a few reasons to get hot and bothered about long johns.

It was less than a week now until the grocery delivery, barring bad weather, and the word from Moira was that the plane would come earlier if even the hint of a storm began to loom. Margie Christmas' baby was coming due quite soon, and even joking about delivering it on Menigu was enough to suck every ounce of colour out of McCoy's face.

I have every intention of holding you to that, my friend. As much as Erik wanted to respond to the dark thread of promise wound around those words, the saleswoman chose that moment to wandering over and engage Charles in some inane prattle. Holding two simultaneous conversations, one on either side of the strait, without seeming either rude or daft as his attention wavered was more challenging than Charles preferred.

Erik didn't imagine he'd be nearly so concerned if he found himself in such a position, though there had been no real opportunity to test that assumption. He hadn't actually seen another person since Charles had left Menigu, besides one brief visit from Moira earlier in the month.

The plane was due in five days, a fact Charles was not likely to let him forget. Five days left for Charles to realise that returning to the island was soft-headed madness, and five days of Erik vainly pretending that he wasn't quietly, shamefully aching. Five days to deny the itch under his skin, and the hollow silence of a home that hadn't felt this empty in a decade.

Make sure it's real wool, not cotton, he thought purposefully, never quite certain whether or not his words made it over clearly until he felt Charles' reaction. In this case, the response was a warm, wordless caress through his mind— acknowledgement, gratitude, affection— and the faint awareness that Charles was inquiring about fabric.

Sitting primly on the other kitchen chair, Raven stretched out to paw at his wrist, letting out the most piteous meow in her extensive repertoire as she eyed his sandwich. A month under Charles' influence had her completely ruined, and Erik shuddered to think of the heedless terror she'd be by the summer.

Not that he dared think so far ahead, especially not when Charles was lurking around the periphery of his mind. He wasn't quite stupid enough to give the lunatic more ammunition for his war against good sense.

Summer was an eternity away, regardless, especially when five days already seemed like an eon.

Sighing, more than a little disgusted with himself, Erik dug out another piece of chicken and held it out for Raven to nibble from his fingers.

Four days before the plane's scheduled run, Erik found himself pulling up beside the post office, tires crunching over crisply packed snow. The bitter cold that had crept in just after the last storm hadn't quite shaken loose yet, though the days had been largely sunny. What little snow that had fallen in the past month had been icy, frosting everything it touched, making trees and roofs glitter like crystal.

No proper storms had hit in weeks and none were looming either, as far as Erik could tell by the feel of the air. He'd considered asking Charles if he'd picked up any rumours of inclement weather approaching, but dismissed the notion almost immediately. It would have been just as easy to start up the Racham's radio and get his forecast that way, and less likely to end with Charles being unbearably self-satisfied as Erik continued to play along with this foolishness.

Coming into town wasn't necessary, but he had a few new pairs of shears he'd machined for the Salvatores that had been cluttering up his workshop, as well as the coat hooks that Aza had been harping about since September. Nothing that wouldn't wait until delivery day, but he was restless for a bit of fresh air and, more surprisingly, the sound of another voice actually in his ears (even if that voice was Aza's, God help him).

If Charles had an opinion about the needless trip, he kept it to himself. Aza, of course, did not.

"Surely my eyes are not so old or my mind so turned about; it cannot be Lehnsherr come to call on a Sunday, can it?" The snarky bastard was actually doing some work for once, spreading a fresh layer of sand and salt on the porch. Pausing, Aza leaned against his shovel like a cane, wrapped up neck to knees in his vibrantly red woollen coat. Erik was always surprised the blinding thing couldn't be seen from the mainland. "What brings you to civilization on this fine day, moy droog?"

Hefting the intricately twisted iron rack out of the bed of the truck, complete with a dozen sturdy hooks and made to match the sign above the door as requested, Erik grabbed his toolbox as well. "Dropping this off, for one. Where do you want it hung?"

Putting such a dumbfounded expression on Aza's face was satisfying, even if the man quickly rallied back to his usual poise. "Well, well— I never took you for Ded Moroz, Lehnsherr, but I suppose you are just on time. Come, I will show you where."

Hanging a coat rack was hardly taxing, and Erik was back in his truck before he could act on the urge to make a phone call to the mainland. It hardly helped that Charles was spending his Sunday lingering around Sean's flat, likely still engrossed in the novel he'd picked up on his last trip to the public library if the lack of his presence in the back of Erik's skull was any indication. It would be a simple thing to grab the phone from its shelf and dial, but Aza had already gotten enough of a chuckle from his inquiries about weather, not bothering to hide his smirk as he assured Erik that the plane was still on schedule.

Erik knew he'd be the topic of some chattering even as he pulled away from the post office, ignoring Aza's jaunty wave, but it would hardly be the first time.

Angel was just as surprised to see him on her doorstep as Aza had been, though Mrs. Salvatore seemed to take the visit in stride, as she did most things. The shears changed hands only after he'd agreed to stay for a cup of tea and a piece of carrot cake, midway through which Charles decided to check in, only to slip back out of his mind again with a long-suffering whine. Apparently enjoying the cake vicariously was just too torturous an experience after nearly a month of Sean's cooking.

"We miss that honey bread on Fridays, you know," Mrs. Salvatore said as he was shrugging his coat back on, set to head home again while the sun was still with him. She'd taken the opportunity to load him down with the customary bottles of preserves, thick socks, and a new turtleneck— mossy green this year. The cosy hat and scarf she pressed into his hands, both knit in wide stripes of varying blues, were for Charles.

Unsure of how he wanted to respond to that unsubtle comment on his absence from potlucks since Charles had gone, Erik chose to say nothing, doing up the snaps of his coat instead. Mrs. Salvatore simply clicked her tongue at him, shuffling closer in her woollen slippers, and took firm hold of his hand before he could draw away.

"But I am happy to see you today." She smiled, revealing a perfect row of porcelain teeth, and her slender fingers squeezed around his. "And thank you again."

It was thanks for the shears, but also for the granddaughter currently swanning around their warm kitchen. Erik dipped his head in a shallow nod, extracting himself with as much politeness and as few words as he could manage, and Mrs. Salvatore was good enough to allow his retreat without argument or insult, as usual.

Oh, please tell me one of those is raspberry jam. Charles' voice in his head might have been enough to startle him, if the man hadn't already announced his presence with a gentle prod as Erik climbed back into the truck, pushing the basket of jars and knitwear onto the passenger's seat.

I haven't checked, but no doubt. Pulling away from the Salvatore's, Erik headed east along the widely ploughed road, sparing a glance towards the main wharf and the packed ice beyond as he passed. The mainland was a dark band along the horizon. I've also been promised I'll have a batch of fresh biscuits on Thursday.

He felt Charles' quiet laughter more than he heard it, a warming rush down his spine and into his chest. Luring me back with baked goods is clever, if unnecessary. Biscuits or no, I'm rather invested now.

The words sounded more sincere than such banter had any right to be.

If you forget my boots, you'll be walking back for them. It was Thursday, and the sky had been grey with dawn and perfectly clear of clouds when Erik had first ventured out of the cottage that morning. Without the threat of weather, the plane wouldn't be arriving quite so early in the day as it had last month, but neither would it be waiting for Charles if the man couldn't manage to get himself packed and down to the airstrip. Whether or not the ice is thick enough.

They're already in my bag. Frazzled around the edges he might be, Charles didn't rise to the bait, still maintaining that enviable, infuriating serenity he'd maintained for days. Don't worry so much, my friend. I'm leaving for the plane now, plenty of time to spare.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, hands still damp from washing up the breakfast dishes, Erik considered how difficult it would be to drown himself in the sink. Surely no more difficult than the situation he was blundering into at the moment, inviting Charles back into his life.

Right then, I'm off. Charles allowed him a vision of Sean's flat, the sofa folded back in place and a canvas duffle bag stuffed to near bursting resting on the cushions. Charles had his own clothes, his own shaving kit, his own damned toothbrush, and now he was dragging the lot over to shoehorn into Erik's space. I'll speak to you again when I arrive, shall I?

I'll be there. Erik forced himself to breathe deeply. The cat was winding around his calves, purring, and he was reminded rather sharply of the first day Charles had spent in the cottage, deathly still and blue from cold.

How Charles had ended up there in the first place was perhaps only a slightly bigger mystery than how he'd ended up moving in to the cottage, of all the fucking things. And discovering the answer to either would not be beneficial to Erik's mental health, he was nearly certain.

"Curiosity can be a dangerous thing," he murmured, watching Raven rubbing her whiskers against his socks. If he hadn't wandered out to check his dock in the eerie tension heralding that fateful storm, he'd have found a corpse afterwards, or perhaps nothing but broken ropes and churning waves. "Eh, cat?"

Not that he expected either of them, him or Charles, to stop delving into deep, dark waters.

Charles watched his breath billow white in the crisp morning air, mittened hands tucked into his coat pockets as he waited for Janos to finish whatever preparations had the pilot elbow deep in the guts of the Cessna. Janos had assured him it wasn't anything serious, just some triple checks and de-icing, but to be honest, Charles main concern at the moment was getting out of the bloody cold. The only additional waiting passenger, on the other hand, seemed less than enthused about the impromptu maintenance.

"For the love of... d'you hold this thing together with chewing gum and hope, Janos?" The scruffily bearded man in the thick flannel coat, who'd introduced himself simply as Logan, was gnawing on a cigar and pacing along the paved airstrip, looking decidedly green around the gills already. Charles wasn't precisely thrilled by the possibility of arriving back on Menigu with his new boots covered in this Logan fellow's vomit; the briefest foray into his agitated mind revealed both a fear of flying and a tendency towards motion sickness. "Jesus Christ, I've seen sturdier kites."

Janos favoured him with a narrow look, then returned to his work without saying a word. Logan glared back and kept growling to himself, spitting a bit of loose tobacco onto the pavement.

"So, bub," Logan said after a few more moments of grumbling, turning his attention to Charles. "McCoy rook you into coming out to the island, or what?"

"No, though Hank is indeed a friend." The fellow was gruff, not the most charming conversationalist, but also clearly looking for some kind of distraction. If it meant they would make it to Menigu without incident, Charles was more than happy to oblige, even if a bit of creativity with the truth was required. "I actually moved to Menigu a few months ago, admittedly more for the peace and quiet than the climate. What brings you over, sir?"

Shifting his jaw, rolling his stubby cigar tight into the corner of his mouth, Logan crossed his arms and leaned his weight back on one heel. The expression he wore under his thatch of beard and dark, windblown hair became much more considering, tinged with dubiousness, and Charles made a point of staying out of the man's mind no matter how his curiosity piqued.

"Work. Do a bit of trapping." Jerking his head towards his own luggage— a rugged canvas rucksack, and a sleek barrelled rifle propped up against it— Logan took a drag of his faintly smoking cigar, the broad tip glowing red for a moment. "Taking care of some pests that must've come across the ice. Probably coyotes." The sound of metal clanking against metal had stopped and when it didn't begin again, the silence drew both of their attentions towards Janos, who was closing up a panel under the plane. "Hey, we ready?"

Janos nodded, wiping his hands clean on a rag before pulling his leather gloves back on, then walked around to pop the hatch and lower the stairs. Charles shouldered his own pack, eyeing the rifle with mild unease. He had found he didn't care for firearms, not after having his mind touched so often by the deafening bangs and burning stench of Erik's nightmares. The details were still nebulous and vague, and Charles had no intention of pushing for more, but the dreams left him sickened by the thought of the hot, metallic scent of spent gunpowder.

Climbing up into the plane, Charles watched Logan begin to pale again, and swallowed back a sigh. It was going to be a long flight.

AN: I'm not going to clutter this up, but if you're interested in some info about my hiatus, pop on over to my tumblr (I'm pibroch over there). I'll be posting some explanations there soon, and hopefully posting new chapters of "Island, Island" here as often as my schedule permits (currently, I'm aiming for a chapter every two weeks or so).

But let me just say... I'm sorry for the wait.