Summary: You can remove nightmares, but you haven't exercised your mutation in a long time, so Charles gives you an assignment...can you complete it?

Warnings: Mild language.

A/N: I love the idea of a quirky or anxious sunshine reader paired with Erik so I whipped this up after I kind of daydreamed most of it. Part Two is in the works.

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That would be the exact definition of a mutant; weird. As if having superhuman powers doesn't make you weird enough, you're also blessed with a rather odd personality. You aren't like the other girls Charles found. You aren't outspoken like Raven. You aren't an exotic, beautiful specimen like Angel nor can you flaunt your natural beauty as well as Emma. They're a Holy Trinity of feminine glory that you could never hope to achieve. Not little old (Y/N), the quirky, quiet, abstract orphan. Every mutant needs a sob story...yours is nothing special. Crappy parents. A drunk mother, a non-existent father. A car crash wiped out the fraying thread holding you above the chasm that is the foster system. Snip. Two intoxicated teens bought you a ticket into the system where you suffered for your teen years.

It was that time of your life that you discovered it.

Your powers.

What makes you a true weirdo.

Luckily, as an adult, you have an easier time hiding. Your power hibernated for five years while you fought to secure a life for yourself, finally free of foster parents and the constant 'coming and going' of the system. You hadn't used your power since your last foster home.

Their toddler was crying in her sleep.

The parents weren't awake...so you took the risk and plucked the nightmare right out of her head.

She immediately relaxed.

You took the little troublemaker and sealed it in a vial.

It sits in your new room at the mansion, along with an assortment of seven other jars and vials, each home to a nightmare.

That little girl, that vial, was your final risk. The last time you'd ever use your power...

Or so you thought.

"You need practice."

Practice.

The same assignment Charles has been giving you since he found you.

"I can't...I mean...how?"

Charles raises a hand to silence your stuttering. You twiddle your fingers at your sides. Always the fingers. It's a habit, a nervous twitch if you will. Plucking, curling, playing invisible piano keys to an anonymous tune. Your fingers dance across the air above your lap and Charles gently cups your hands in his, pressing your fingers against his palm and stopping their choreomania.

His hands are soft, warm.

Exactly like his voice when he says, "Just find someone who needs a good night's sleep, and make a friend."

Your eyes fly to his. "You...but you said –"

Smiling kindly, Charles raises both your hands to his mouth, "You and I, (Y/N) are both stewards of the mind. I'm the guardian of thoughts, you are the guardian of dreams," He kisses each knuckle in turn. "You know as well as I that it doesn't require powers to understand the state of another's mind."

Be that as it may...what Charles is asking of you...

Well, put simply, he's nudging you in the direction of bravery. He's asking you to rise to the challenge. To kill two birds with one stone. Make a friend, and rediscover your powers. While it's not much, both assignments are far easier said than done. Your powers are the least of your concerns. The muscle memory, while rusty, is still there somewhere, waiting to be triggered. Itching. Ever since meeting Charles, seeing the extent of his telepathic abilities, and his soul provoking passion for the mutant cause, you've felt a tugging in your chest. It leads back to those fond memories. The foster care days, when you'd work in secret, freeing sleepers from the fell beasts of the night. They're long past, but you remember them well.

You remember the texture of the nightmares between your fingers.

Thick, black ropes. Rugged as sandpaper, slippery as butter.

Deep down, you want to help others.

You want more than anything to practice and hone your nightmare catching skills. Who knows! Maybe, by relearning the art of nightmare removal, you could discover a new aspect of your mutation?

The possibilities are endless.

But they're prohibited by the second part of the assignment.

Make a friend.

That's where you fail.

Because as much as you'd like a friend, you can't keep up with the girls, and you're terrified of the guys. Even the sweet ones.

Charles is the only one you can consider a friend.

You tell him as much.

But he's insistent, and you're obedient.

So, riddled with nerves but hard set on carrying out this 'mission,' you leave Charles' office and wander the winding hallways of X-Mansion, working up the courage to help a fellow mutant. To make a friend. You play the air bubble of your jean pockets, botching chords and notes alike as you stagger on, telling yourself you can do this. All you have to do is look up, meet a pair of eyes, just for a second, and if they're red rimmed or baggy and there's turmoil on display, reach out.

Smile, say hello, wave.

I've got this.

Inhaling, you lift your eyes...

And there's nobody there. Not a single mutant in sight. The entire hallway is vacant. You walk alone, bursting with reckless abandon. The courage is temporary. It's expiration ticks in the back of your head like a bomb. Panic sets in and you trip over your own feet, moving at a faster pace along the corridor, turning a corner, and passing an empty classroom –

Wait.

No, not empty.

Your sneakers screech as you back up into the doorway.

There's someone.

He's got his back to the door, his hand is held out, and he's clearly strained. You gnaw the skin off your bottom lip, anxiously watching him use his powers to disassemble a metal contraption. Wheels, geers, and bolts soar through the air, falling left and right as the entire object is undone. Only when the last piece clatters to the ground does the man turn around, panting.

That's when you realize just who it is you've walked in on.

Erik Lehnsherr.

The metal-warper.

The wild card.

Charles found him, lost, bitter, out of control, and he's slowly training him.

They seem to be relatively close.

Closer than Erik is to any of the other mutants.

Just like you.

"What do you want?" Erik gasps, his stern gaze hard as stone as he scrutinizes you. He clenches his fists, popping his knuckles and stretching each finger while his narrowed eyes flit over your dorky appearance. Your silly blue jumper, covered in small white flower emblems from neckline to ankle and the dirty, old converse you've fit since you were nineteen. Compared to Erik's snazzy black turtleneck and dress shoes, you look like a total hippie. Weird. The weirdest of the weirdos.

A whole minute passes before you realize he asked you a question.

"Oh, sorry I just –"

"Did Charles need something?"

"No –"

Erik raises a brow, "Did you need something?"

Nope, blare the alarms in your brain. Not at all! I'm good! Sorry to bother you, I'll just go...

No.

Charles gave you this task, and you'll be damned if you don't see it through.

"I was wondering if I could help you actually."

It's hard to say who's more surprised. Erik certainly seems impressed at your ability to function. You're dumbstruck by the surety of your own voice. Not a single stutter or awkward phrase. Sadly, although you've hardly interacted with Erik, he's no doubt observed your behavior from afar. All the ticks and lame jokes and the constant humming as you move about. Oh gosh you pray he hasn't noticed the skipping. You're practically a fairy caught in a human body, not to steal Angel's thunder. She might have the wings, but you've got the dreamy eyes that so easily slide out of focus while your mind wanders to far off lands. You're small, you're frail, and you're a quirky ball of daydreams.

A target ripe for mocking.

And Erik...he's known for his sharp wit and cold demeanor.

He's your opposite.

Put together, intelligent, commanding.

Despite your worst fears, he takes your reply well. He doesn't hurl metal at you or give you the death stare. He merely smirks, amused.

"And how exactly could you help me?"

You hesitate.

It's too late to back out now. You made the offer without even checking to see if he'd need it. What if he's perfectly fine? What if he's nightmare-free and you've just tossed yourself into the most embarrassing situation?

Your eyes search his face. His sharp jaw is tense, ill fitting his smug grin. Following the expanse of his cheek, you find his eyes. They're relatively normal, but there's no hiding the touch of purple beneath them; too soft to be considered 'bags' but just visible enough to testify restless sleep. So, I haven't made a horrible mistake.

That's a relief.

"Are you..." Your fingers do acrobatics at your sides. "Do you um, have nightmares...often? Bad dreams?"

The smile falls from Erik's face.

He takes a step forward and you flinch, scrambling back. "Who sent you?"

"N-no one!"

"You're a terrible liar," Erik spits. "Who told you to ask me that?"

Your back hits the doorframe and you hug your arms around your body, trying not to shake. Erik maintains a distance, but he's tottering on the edge of fury. You can see the daggers in his eyes. A defense mechanism to shield his tortured mind. The nightmares must be rooted deep. Old memories, painful ones, that he couldn't cope with and so the workings of his sleep induced mind wove them into foul, saber clawed creatures. Once a nightmare forms from a memory, it digs its heels in.

They burrow themselves in the dark corners of the brain and leech off of their hosts' happiness.

Old nightmares are the hardest to remove.

But you've done it before, and you can do it again.

"I–I just...I just wanted to help someone and...and you were the first person I found so I thought —"

"Thought what?" Erik snaps. Uh oh. The scraps of metal stir on the floor. Like dust gathered by the wind, they begin to rise. "You thought you'd invade my mind? Take a look around and report back to Charles?"

"I just wanted to help."

The metal hovers.

Your arms crush your ribcage and yet you're freezing cold.

Fear always feels like ice.

If only you had worn a jacket to hide the goosebumps adorning your bare arms.

"I don't need your help."

"B-but I do." The words tumble out of your unguarded mouth. Oh boy. "I...I haven't used my powers since...since over five years ago and I need to practice. Charles, he keeps telling me to find someone to help but I just...no one likes me and I'm weird and I talk way too fast –" Like right now – "so I just, well I'd be grateful if you'd make this easier for me, because it took a lot of courage to even look at you, you know. So, please just...help me by letting me help you, please."

Of all your ramblings, that was by far the worst.

You cringe every ten seconds.

No one likes me? I'm weird?

What do you think this is, a therapy session?!

He's pissed at you for interrupting and being a cowering dork and you decide to whine to him about being an outcast and needing training like that's some sort of excuse? Like he'll respond to that positively?

I'm an idiot, you lament, ducking your head so low your chin meets your collarbone.

Hushed collisions echo off the walls as the metal scraps return to the floor.

"You need training."

You raise your eyes, but your view is partially blocked by fallen strands of your hair. They chop the image of Erik, standing calmly in the center of the room. He watches you intently, looking equal parts disgruntled and determined. Whatever he's thinking, you can't say. That's Charles' department. All you know is Erik isn't biting your head off, and that's enough.

"I'll help you, on one condition."

"Anything," You squeak.

"Not a word of this to anyone."

"But...Charles –"

"He can't know. Not yet." Erik stalks across the room, collecting the metal off the floor with his mind and setting it in a messy pile on one of the desks. You lift your chin from your chest, eyes wide. The floorboards creak beneath Erik's feet as he narrows the gap between you, stealing the air right out of your lungs. He stops, a breath between your sneakers and his dress shoes. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. He tucks his chin slightly, his gaze so intense, you feel it's weight pressing over your eyes like a hot, wet cloth. "Promise me," He murmurs lowly, "or the deal is off."

"I promise."

Erik raises a hand.

You're so caught up in his eyes you don't notice the gesture.

How did God make eyes this blue?

"Take my hand," Erik orders softly.

"Sorry," You mumble.

Your hands slot together and Erik uses the link to yank you forward. You gasp, landing against his chest as he lowers his mouth to your ear.

"I'll know if you go against your word, understood?"

You bob your head fervently.

"Good," Erik backs away, "Now, where do we begin?"

Click.

This feels wrong. Horribly wrong, and yet, you're doing exactly as Charles instructed. He told us not to lock doors, you remind yourself, as you check the lock on your door, assuring it's properly latched. He also told me to practice my powers and make a friend, which is what I'm doing. So, to follow his orders you're breaking an order? You sigh heavily, eyes scrunched shut as you tip your forehead against the cool mahogany door. Breaking rules is an unfortunate theme of your life, despite the fact that you're the most goody-two-shoes rule follower there is. First, you become a somewhat illegal, discriminated against person by developing powers, which opens a floodgate of other rule breaking scenarios. Like this one. The 'unlocked doors' rule is a small one, but you completely understand what Charles would impress upon it.

He can better monitor everyone.

Most of the mutants he's recruited are young adults or teens.

Who knows what they'd do behind locked doors.

Your eyes fly open as you realize what Charles might think if he finds out that you were seen bringing Erik to your room...and locking the door.

"A terrible liar and terrible host," Erik shatters the rigid silence with his teasing tone. Still teeming with the fear of being discovered, you turn around, back to the door, hands fidgeting. Erik raises a brow and gestures to your bedroom. "You haven't even asked me to sit down."

"S-sorry," You dart across the room, clearing some half folded laundry and sketch books off the foot of your bed. "I...don't usually have um," Your fingers stash an annoying strip of hair behind your ear, but they catch onto your earrings and you're forced to one handedly pluck the hairs free while moving aside your mess. "I don't usually have guests...Charles and I meet in his office and...sorry –"

"Here."

Fingers brush the shell of your ear, combing back your hair and easily detangling the strands caught in your earring. Your heart thuds in your chest as you carefully stack your books beside the clump of clothes. The few you'd folded are hopelessly undone. You let that go for now, focusing on more pressing matters and the tingling sensation Erik's fingers send throughout your scalp. Once he's pulled the hair free, you back away, etching sharp sounds into the floor with your rubber heels.

"Uh...you can sit."

You wave at the now clear foot of the bed.

Emotionless, Erik sits.

Emotionless Erik.

If you weren't so anxious, you might've laughed.

Laughing feels like blasphemy in the presence of someone so...

Emotionless.

"So, are you going to invade my mind now?"

"In...vade?" You swallow hard and shake your head, "No I don't really...I don't do it like Charles. He and I are different."

Erik seems intrigued. He leans forward, binding his hands together in a single fist that hovers between his bent knees. "How do you remove nightmares, then?"

"Well...I um, I probe for them...and when I find one, if it's a new nightmare, I can pull it out easily. They're like...it's like uprooting a flower but deep nightmares, old ones, especially if they started as a bad memory, they're like trying to dig up a tree. Lots of roots, deep ones," You twiddle your fingers upside down like roots, reaching through the earth. "And well, I've never removed dreams but...sometimes I can um replant them? Like...put a dream where a nightmare was so it's less likely for another nightmare to take up shop there," A sudden giggle pops off your lips.

You immediately curse yourself.

"What's so funny?"

If only your powers were invisibility. Erik's eyes have an edge that pierces you. He doesn't seem upset or angry, not like earlier, where you nearly saw white. He's almost smiling, like he's been told a secret and he's trying to read your mind to guess whether you know of it or not.

"I just, nightmares, having a shop..." he doesn't laugh. You pick at your nails and duck your head, "Never mind, it was stupid, um, so do you have any other questions...before we start?"

"Two, actually."

"Ok."

Erik lifts a finger and points over your shoulder. "What are those?"

Oh!

He means the nightmares! You were silly not to mention them before! The eight vials and jars come everywhere with you. Charles came to inspect them when he helped you move in. Aside from him, no one else has ever laid eyes on the strange coils of shadow. They dance about their glass cages, some fighting to escape, others merely swirling like dust. Little black tornados. One, the largest of the nightmares, sits in a mason jar, stationary. It's the first memory corroded into a bad dream that you ever removed. The thick ligaments of the nightmare run from the bottom of the jar to its lid, clinging like a giant strand of a spider's web; a dry ebony. The others move about. The very first nightmare you caught, you originally kept in an empty candle, but once you found a pack of vials at a craft store, you transferred it.

Ever since, he's been chaos, despising the smaller cage.

Sometimes he spins so much, he knocks the vial over.

You've had to make it a stand.

"Those are my nightmares!" You chirp, "Not my nightmares but nightmares of kids from foster homes I used to be in. I keep them as trophies...and because I don't know what to do with them yet. They're pretty wild, huh?"

"Certainly."

You flash the nightmares one last smile. "So, what's the second question?"

Erik presses both his pointer fingers to his lips, a motion you find oddly attractive and feel immediate shame in liking. "Can you remove your own nightmares?"

Your smile droops.