It's nearly dawn, and the moon is full in the sky over Charles' ridiculous castle.
Erik's sitting in a van, idling with his lights off just outside the gate. He has his helmet on his head, a pair of binoculars in his hands, and an unopened bag of dog treats in the passenger seat beside him. He's been here for several hours now, watching and waiting, and he's just about decided that nothing's going to happen when the front door of the mansion finally opens.
Erik looks through the binoculars to see a small dog trot out the door, then down the wheelchair ramp toward the lawn, where he begins to sniff the ground with unwarranted enthusiasm, the way dogs do. Then he takes a piss, the way dogs also tend to do, though he neither squats nor lifts his leg, the way other dogs would: for this dog's hind end is supported by a wheelchair.
After this, the dog shows no sign of wanting to go back inside. After a few more minutes, the front door closes again, Sean evidently having decided to leave him to it.
Erik gives it five more minutes after that, long enough that the dog's wandered into the middle of the huge lawn, halfway between the house and the gate. Then, unable to wait any longer, he stuffs the bag of treats into his pocket, steps out of the van, waves open the gate, and steps inside the grounds for the first time in more than six months.
He takes just a few steps forward, then whistles low, easily loud enough for the dog to hear, but not so loud it'll carry all the way to the mansion.
The dog's ears perk up, and his head swivels toward Erik, the first sign that he's noticed Erik's presence. He's never been all that observant, even as a dog.
"Charles," Erik calls, and whistles again.
The dog trots toward him, wheelchair jouncing behind him, not going as fast as he used to be able to, but making better time than Erik would have expected. He comes closer, and closer, then stops several yards away from Erik, hanging back as if unsure.
Erik crouches down, reaches out his hand, palm-up.
"Come on," he says. "Come here."
Charles looks at Erik, then grumbles at him, a low, rolling sound somewhere between a bark and a growl.
"What's the problem? It's me. You know me. Come here," Erik coaxes— though he has a sinking feeling that recognition may in fact be the problem here.
Charles grumbles again, then barks a single sharp warning bark, the fur standing up on the back of his neck.
Erik lowers his hand. He's not sure if he should bring out the bag of treats now, or give this up as a bad job. Whatever reception he'd been expecting from Charles-the-corgi, it wasn't outright hostility.
Charles barks again, and he's getting louder, loud enough that someone inside the house might eventually notice something's going on, slow as they usually are, and that's when Erik remembers the hat thing.
In his dog form, Charles hates hats. He cannot stand them. Seeing a hat on anyone's head is enough to make him distrustful and on-edge; seeing a hat on Erik's head completely sets him off. Erik got a lot of mileage out of that, the first few months they were together; he'd put on hats during the full moon just to get Charles to react.
So now, Erik takes the helmet off his head and lets it fall to the ground.
"Charles," he says, one more time, and Charles trots forward, bypassing Erik in favor of investigating the helmet. He sniffs it up and down, seems to judge it uninteresting, then swivels around to sniff Erik's again-outstretched hand. He seems a little doubtful at first, but the hairs on his neck smooth back down, and soon he's greeting Erik with a much more gratifying amount of wiggly enthusiasm.
His nose is cold and wet, the same as it always was before. When he licks Erik's fingers, his tongue is warm. Erik scratches behind his ears, pats his neck, stokes his fur and admits to Charles how much he's missed him.
"I have no idea what I'm doing," Erik admits further, some forty minutes later when they've been on the road for half an hour or so. "I don't really have a plan. I thought I would by now. We'll have to play it by ear."
Charles doesn't say anything, of course, but his eyes are watching Erik.
"I miss you," Erik admits even further, because Charles has always been easy to talk to when he's like this. Sometimes Erik thinks Charles still has telepathy as a dog, manifesting itself as a compulsion for Erik to talk about his feelings out loud, the way he has never been able to to any person, even to Charles himself. "I wanted to come sooner. I should have, I know."
Charles whines. There was a time when Erik would have thought this was in reaction to Erik's words, but he knows enough now to guess that Charles just wants a damned Beef Bite already. Charles-the-dog loves his food. Charles-the-dog is fat as hell. Charles-the-dog is going to spend the next couple days capitalizing on Erik's guilt, so it's a good thing Erik has three more bags of Beef Bites in the backseat.
Erik reaches into his pocket for a Beef Bite, which Charles takes from him with great dignity and scarfs down without so much as chewing it once.
Back when they first met, Charles mentioned the corgi thing, but it was still a total surprise to Erik when it happened. He'd thought that 'I turn into a corgi for three days a month' must be some sort of weird Americanism, and he didn't want to look stupid in front of Charles...so instead of asking about it, he'd just said, 'That's fine,' even though he couldn't figure it out from the context. One day the following week, he was shocked to wake up to find a tan and white dog with startlingly blue eyes in bed with him.
He was surprised how quickly that started seeming normal to him, how well they got along no matter what kind of body Charles was in. Erik's missed Charles-the-corgi very nearly as much as Charles-the-man, not least because the former is much less likely to remember all the reasons Erik has given the latter to not want anything to do with him.
Charles-the-dog used to love car rides. He used to stand on his hind legs and look out the window; he loved for Erik to open the window halfway so he could stick his head out. He used to climb into Erik's lap if he wanted to see what was going on on the left side of the road. When Erik would get annoyed with him and banish him to the backseat, he'd stay back there for three minutes and then climb back up front as well as he could — he couldn't always make it, with those short little legs and Erik's arm blocked his progress, but in those cases he'd just settle for leaning heavily on Erik and panting in his ear, licking it too if he really didn't feel like playing fair, which was most of the time.
But Charles isn't really doing much on this one, which isn't really that surprising considering his dog wheelchair is in the backseat, and wouldn't have done him much good even if Erik had left it on for the drive. He's just lying curled up beside Erik in the passenger seat, occasionally adjusting himself, occasionally sighing.
"Am I boring you? Would you rather go on a walk?" Erik asks.
Charles knows the word 'walk." His ears perk up, and his mouth opens as he pants his approval of this plan.
"We need to stop by the petstore first," Erik says, because somehow his dognapping plan didn't involve purchasing supplies beforehand, other than the Beef Bites. Charles is going to need something to eat, bowls to eat and drink out of, a toy or five. If he acts very pitiful about it while they're there, Erik might even feel bad enough to buy him a pig's ear (but if he does, he's going to brush Charles' teeth after he eats it — those things are greasy and nasty, and they stink).
Charles also knows the word 'petstore,' and pants even harder.
Erik considers finding a dog park, but he's not sure it's a good idea to let other, larger, rowdier dogs hassle Charles, much as Charles used to love it, so instead he pulls into the first rest stop he sees after the petstore. He gets Charles strapped into his wheelchair again, then lets him run loose, confident that he knows better than to chase after cars, much as he looks like he wants to at times.
Erik bought a leash at the petstore, but it's just for show, something to dangle from his hand so no one decides to make cute remarks about how he doesn't have his dog under control. For some reason, the people who make comments about unleashed dogs never do when there's actually a leash in evidence, regardless of whether or not there's a dog on one end of it.
Charles explores the grassy area slowly, Erik following a few steps behind him. Once Charles has made his acquaintance with every blade of grass in sight, he trots up to Erik, looking expectant.
Erik pulls a stuffed elephant out of his pocket, tosses it a few feet away. Charles lunges after it, then brings it back. Erik throws it a little farther the next time, farther still the time after that. This goes on about twenty more times, during which at least three people try to talk to Erik. People are always trying to talk to him whenever he's out with Charles-the-corgi. Apparently having a dog completely cancels out his usual forbidding demeanor (that's Charles' expression for it: forbidding demeanor, said a little sorrowfully, as if it's bad and not something Erik's been deliberately perfecting for most of his life). Apparently having a dog with a wheelchair means that every single person who comes to talk to him about Charles must utter the phrase 'doggie wheelchair' at some point. More than half of them also feel the need to 'awwww,' about it, like it's cute.
There's nothing cute about it. It's a wheelchair. Wheelchairs are not cute.
And on top of that, it's a plastic wheelchair, which is so unbelievably beyond not-cute that Erik doesn't even have words for it.
Erik's willing to play fetch forever if that's what makes Charles-the-dog happy, but he's not disappointed when Charles finally gets bored and, elephant still in his mouth, begins to trot circles around Erik.
Charles-the-corgi has always tried to herd Erik. He's always run circles around him, then started barking if Erik goes in a direction other than the one Charles wants him to. Erik's always thought it's funny, the way he does the exact same thing when they're arguing politics as men: trying to convince Erik to go the direction Charles wants him to, then getting irritable when Erik goes his own way instead.
When they've been at the rest stop for an hour and a half or so, they get a lull where there's no one else there but the two of them.
"I'm going to try something," Erik says. "Come on."
He goes into the building, holding the door open for Charles, who's tired by now with his tongue lolling out, and only too happy to follow.
As Charles investigates the linoleum floor of the hallway, Erik pulls all the coins out of the vending machine, and sets to making Charles a new dog wheelchair. A better dog wheelchair. Made out of nickels, dimes, and quarters, composed mostly of copper and silver, it's sleek and light and strong, superior in every way to the original plastic one.
After Erik straps Charles into it, he leaves the plastic one leaning against the wall.
By the time Erik finds a motel that allows dogs, he and Charles are both starting to drag. Actually, Charles is asleep in the passenger seat, which isn't something Erik's ever understood. Who could sleep inside a ton or more of moving metal? For that matter, who could sleep and leave their life in his hands? Even as a dog, Charles should know better, though he never did even as a man. Erik can't remember how many times he looked over on their recruitment trip to see that Charles was slumped over in his seat, fast asleep.
When they get to the motel room, Erik sets up Charles' food and water by the dresser, then takes a shower. After his shower, he puts clean boxers on and climbs into bed. He's been up since two this morning, but as soon as he gets into bed, he doesn't feel like he's going to be able to sleep. But he'll try anyway, because otherwise his only real option will be to lie here watching The Price is Right or something equally stupid.
For the next few minutes, the only sounds in the room are the crunching sounds as Charles eats, the lapping sounds as he drinks. Erik watches him, feeling...he doesn't know what he's feeling. Numb is probably the word for that. He's not really sure what he's doing any of this for, and he's not sure he's going to feel better for it.
"I guess I thought it might be easier to deal with this way," he says. He's not sure if he's referring to the wheelchair or all of it. He's not sure it matters.
Charles-the-corgi finishing cleaning out his food bowl, then trots over to the bed. He looks up at Erik and whines.
"Do you want to go out?"
Charles knows the word 'out,' but instead of panting agreement, he paws at the mattress.
"Oh." Erik feels stupid now. Charles has always slept in the bed with him, but of course he can't jump up on his own anymore.
Erik gets back out of bed and kneels down in front of Charles. He unstraps him from the wheelchair, then lifts up up as gently as he can, making sure to support Charles' rear end. Then he goes around to the other side of the bed and gets back in, carefully so as not to jostle him.
Much as Charles-the-corgi really is a dog in most ways, and doesn't usually carry over grudges and arguments into his dog form, he does carry over injuries. Erik thinks that everything that's happened between them is significant enough that Charles will want to stay on his own side of the bed.
He thinks wrong, because the moment he's settled under the covers on his side of the bed, Charles comes to him — slowly, but he comes, dragging his hind end in a way that's painful to watch, his back legs sprawled frog-like behind him. None of it seems to bother Charles-the-corgi, but Erik finds that he can't breathe, and his chest hurts from it by the time Charles lies down next to him, happily panting hot dog breath right into Erik's face.
"I'm sorry," Erik says, sinking his fingers into Charles' fur. He hears his own voice breaking, and as much as he's cried in front of Charles before — more than he ever cried before Charles in his life, he sometimes thinks — if this were Charles-the-man, he'd get up and walk away right now. But it isn't, and even though Erik has no right to any comfort Charles in any form might offer, he still takes it, letting Charles-the-dog whine at him and lick his face through all of it.
"I'm sorry," Erik says again, some time later, when Charles is a warm, sleeping weight still pressed up against him.
The next morning, Erik wakes up to Charles whining again. This time, he does want out, and Erik takes him.
It's so familiar, all of it: the early morning chill, the dew of the grass under Erik's bare feet, as he follows in Charles' wake with a plastic bag in his hand.
Erik would keep Charles if he could, would keep him just like this. But tomorrow morning at this time, Charles will be himself again. Erik doesn't know what would happen if Charles came back to himself in an unfamiliar motel room with Erik, and he doesn't want to find out. There's a reason Erik's spent all these months parking in front of Charles' mansion, trying to work up the nerve to go in and not, in the end, managing it. He doesn't want to know what Charles would have to say to him at this point. He's not sure Charles has anything left to say to him, except maybe this: 'Erik, you were right. You are a monster, and I want nothing more to do with you.'
As much as Erik knows it's true, as much as he destroys everything he's ever cared about in his life, to hear it from Charles would break him. He likes to pretend it's pride that keeps him away, that he doesn't care what Charles thinks, but in all honesty it's nothing more than cowardice that keeps him outside the gates.
Erik doesn't feel like explaining himself to Alex, Sean, or Hank, and tries to tell himself it's definitely pride this time, that he sets Charles down on the front porch, rings the bell, is back in his van and halfway down the drive by the time he hears someone shouting "Hey!" after him. He doesn't have to explain anything, not to any of them.
He thought seeing Charles would make him feel better. He thought it would be reassuring, if Charles-the-dog seemed like he was doing all right. But instead it's only made everything worse, only made it so that Erik can't focus on thinking about anything else, which he could before if he really put his mind to it. He keeps seeing Charles-the-dog curled up in the passenger seat, crawling toward Erik on his elbows. He keeps thinking about the way the bald spot two-thirds of the way down on Charles' spine felt against his fingers, smooth and warm and unmarked; not, somehow, painful to Charles when it's touched, though Erik doesn't know how.
It's not long until Erik just can't take it anymore, and, a week to the day after returning Charles, he goes to the mansion again, as he has so many times before in the dead of the night.
But until all those other times, when he came and watched the lights and shadows in the windows for a while, then left again, this time Erik parks the van outside the gates, turns off the engine, then walks up to the mansion, floats himself up to the window of what was Charles' bedroom before Cuba, and looks in the window.
Charles is there, sitting in his (plastic) wheelchair. He's reading a book. He's thinner that he was the last time Erik saw him in this form. It comes as more of a shock than it perhaps should, held up against Erik's so-recent memories of Charles-the-somewhat-pudgy-corgi.
Erik waves a hand at the window to open it, then floats inside the room.
Charles looks up from his book, startled.
"Erik," he says.
"...Charles," Erik responds, because he still hasn't managed to think of a decent speech for this.
Charles closes his book, sets it aside. "What are you doing here?"
His expression is guarded. Erik can't read him at all, and he's not sure what that means, but he does know it can't be good. Charles used to be the most transparent person Erik had ever met.
"I," Erik says, then founders.
"Well, then," Charles says, raising an eyebrow at him. "I'd suggest you take that thing off. We're obviously not going to get anywhere if I can't hear you. And even if we could, I'm not going to attempt any discussion with you while you're wearing it."
Erik hesitates for only a moment, then reaches up and takes off his helmet, setting it down on the windowsill.
"Thank you," Charles says. "Really, I find that thing offensive."
"I thought your plastic wheelchair was offensive," Erik says. "The little one, I mean. But this one, too."
Charles says, with sincerity, "Good. That was the idea."
Erik can't tell if Charles wants him to laugh or not. He's horrified at himself for wanting to, for how he already feels himself falling into their old push-and-pull, as if part of him thinks anything's going to happen here except for Charles finally, irrevocably agreeing that there's nothing in Erik worth wanting, or saving.
Charles raises his eyebrow again. "Erik. I have a great many things to say to you. Most of them are not very nice. However, not one of them is that."
Erik stares at him, trying to make sense of this. He's pretty sure his mouth is hanging open. "What?" he manages.
"I don't hate you. I'll give you a few minutes to let that sink in before I start yelling. Which, believe me, I'm going to be doing for a while," Charles says. "Now, before I forget, I'm actually under doctor's orders to lose a bit of weight in my corgi form. I'm hell on my joints right now, evidently. So, next time, you should buy me the low-fat Beef Bites instead."
"Next time?" Erik croaks out.
"I'm also in a frisbee phase right now," Charles says. "Not entirely sure why, but there you are. Would you like me to write this down for you?"
"...If you would," Erik says, and the list is seventeen items long before Charles finally gets around to yelling at him — and he does, indeed, go on for quite a while; but Erik can live with that.
After all, it's better than any reception he ever thought he'd get.
