Summary: After you thought you were helping Erik, he storms out on you, and you don't know what you did wrong...

Warnings: None!

A/N: Soooo I ended up splitting this into two parts. I'll post Part Three tomorrow.

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You helped him, didn't you? The nightmare was an absolute beast, an ancient one at that, and you tore it from his mind. Other, smaller evils may plague his sleep but the ring-leader certainly won't. You sigh, curling your fingers around the jar encasing Erik's worst nightmare, wondering, racking your memory for some flaw, some horrible thing you said or did that could've driven Erik out of the room like that. He seemed so angry. Upset. Like you'd hurt his feelings or...or maybe hurt him? Could you have hurt him? Extracting nightmares shouldn't hurt. All of the foster siblings you had never woken when you removed their bad dreams. If they could sleep through it...it can't be too painful. Uncomfortable, perhaps. Anything being pulled out your nose or ears would feel strange, and Erik certainly didn't enjoy watching the black ropes coming out his nostrils.

Is that why he ran?

If he just needed some space, you would've gladly granted it.

Space can be nice.

But Erik didn't just need time alone.

He's avoided you.

He hasn't returned for the rest of his nightmares to be extracted.

You're beginning to worry.

One, Charles is breathing down your neck, asking if you've found someone to practice with. Yes. Praying he hasn't already read your mind – or Erik's – you lie to his face. No. No you haven't found someone but you're still looking.

Lying to your only friend sucks.

You hold onto hope that Erik will return, and you can get rid of all the nightmares, and then, maybe convince Erik to tell Charles your accomplishment.

Then, you'll have killed three birds with one stone.

Practice, help Erik, prove yourself to Charles.

"...make a friend."

There's the trickiest bit of all. To truly prove yourself to Charles, you need to befriend whoever you practice on. That now translates to, befriend Erik Lehnsherr, the bitter, distant metal-manipulator who won't speak to you. Sighing once more, you flop backwards onto your bed, letting your arms fall at your sides, posed as a snow angel on your linens. The jar shifts in your hand as Erik's nightmare throws a fit, annoyed by being jostled. You bring him to your eye level, staring down the coils of coarse, almost sandy obsidian that weave in and out of each other, melting and reforming again, pressing against the sides of the jar like someone might ram their shoulder into a locked door, attempting to break free.

"Oh calm down you drama queen," You tell the nightmare. "You're a jerk and I don't know why but he stormed out and maybe it's because of you and I hate you."

"Talking to a jar?"

You shriek –

And roll off the bed.

You and the jar hit the floor. Luckily, neither of you are broken. You immediately scramble to your feet, snatching up the jar while tripping out of a blanket you dragged off the bed with you. Once you're free, you blow the unbrushed hair out of your face and meet a pair of blue eyes.

Erik?!

What on earth is he doing here?

In the middle of the night no less.

After a week and a half of giving you the cold shoulder.

"Or," He steps away from the door and reclines against your dresser, eyeing the collection of nightmares. "Were you talking to the nightmare?" You swallow hard. Erik's gaze moves from the maze of jars and vials and lands on the jar clenched in your hand. His jaw sets a rigid line. You hear it lock like the cocking of a gun. Does that mean he came to shoot you? To fire the rage he had in his eyes when he ran off right at your face? Erik nods at the jar. "It's mine, isn't it?"

"Yes."

The nightmare continues to misbehave.

Erik makes a sound of approval as he takes to exploring your room. Touching the spines of books, flipping through sketch books, checking your alarm clock which you hand painted a year ago. Your eyes follow him on his search, only guessing at what he could be doing. Is he trying to get a read on you? Or is he simply entertaining himself by taking a peep into your life. Admiring your obsession with paints and flowers and bold colors and patterns, just like your mismatched socks that so captivated him. While he flips through a book on poetry, you hurry to put his nightmare back where it belongs. The other's hurl themselves against the glass, greeting their new chieftain, the largest bad dream in your collection.

"Have you told anyone?"

"Why would I?"

"Anyone would," Erik casually remarks. The book slots back on its shelf. "I walked out, ignored you without an explanation. That's due cause to run off and snitch, for payback."

You spin around, "Payback? I...why would I...it's not a c-crime to leave a room. I mean, I do wonder why you left and didn't talk to me but it's not like we talked before this deal and...I wouldn't want to get revenge or anything..."

"No?" Erik pauses. "I suppose you think it merciful –"

"I just don't like doing that, confrontation," You interject, fingers twiddling and plucking at the fraying end of your pajama sleeve. "It was hard enough going up to you, you know, and besides...if I told Charles, he'd think I failed."

"You did anything but fail."

Your head snaps up. What? The abrupt compliment slipped so easily from Erik's mouth yet he seems uncomfortable with it. You wonder at his discomfort, awestruck by the way he shifts his weight, unable to meet your eyes for a solid two minutes. Instead, he peers at your feet.

"No socks?"

"I can't sleep in socks."

"You aren't asleep yet."

"I was trying to be," You mumble, "But...I can't."

There's a visible hitch in Erik's throat.

"Neither can I."

If it weren't for the crack of his voice, you might've let out an aha! so mighty it would scare even the nightmares. But there is a tremble in the confession; a shadow in his eyes. Shadows lurk beneath them also, large, dark rings. You may have arrested his worst nightmare, but there were others left behind. Erik rushed out of your room before you could get to them, and for over a week, he's been stuck with them. Who knows how many hours he's lost to the darkness of his mind? He certainly looks restless enough. You didn't notice how disheveled he is until now. In the silence of the twilight hour, your eyes are free to roam and thoughts sharp enough to perceive. The hair is unkempt, his shirt askew, like he threw it on carelessly in a hurry to be somewhere. The same goes for his pants. He didn't even bother putting on shoes. A sock sleeper, you note, spotting the comfortable gray wool embracing his toes. Erik Lehnsherr, ever slick and tidy, looks messy.

You pity him.

"So that's why you're here."

Finally, Erik looks you in the eye. "Can you take them away?"

"Yes..." You chew your lip, "But...if you'd stayed...they'd be gone..."

"I'm here now," Erik takes a seat at the foot of your bed, just like before. "Neither of us can sleep, we might as well make the most of this."

You agree, but you can't bring yourself to let go of what he did. The way he left so suddenly and without an apology or explanation, leaving you to worry for days. You tell yourself to forget it.

He's here now. You can finish the job, no one will be the wiser.

Confrontation is not a friend of yours.

Yet, the night seems to embolden you. It always has. This is the kingdom of dreamers. The reign of free thought, wild and unruly. Reckless. A battle between dark and light forces, tug-o-warring over humanity. You exist for the darker hours of the world. It is your place, your domain.

"I don't want revenge, but I do want something."

Erik narrows his eyes. "We have a deal."

"Do we?" You challenge, "You left without a word. How was I supposed to know you'd honor the deal? There's no ink...just hands. Charles wants me to practice, but you won't let me prove that I am practicing. I just need that."

"What would you have me do?"

"Let me get rid of all your nightmares...and then let me tell him."

Erik is quiet. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and as he breathes out, his eyes flutter open. "After all of them are gone?"

"All that are here now. They come back. But I can keep helping. I just need to tell him I've done what he asked," You explain, "That's all."

Your bare toes tip-tap against the floor as you wait, baiting your breath, uncertain of Erik's reaction. Will he exit? Or will he change the terms of agreement for a good night's sleep?

"Would you like us to sign on it?"

You smile faintly. Erik is weary, but his humor remains intact. As you cross the floor towards him, you extend a hand, "A shake will do."

Erik takes your hand in his. "Work your magic."

So you do. Shoes already off, all you have to do is probe. Your fingers hover over the angles of Erik's face as you follow each nightmare, prioritizing them. There's a few young, yet nasty ones you can get quickly. They'll make a good warm up. You shift closer, but run into Erik's knees.

"Sorry –"

Erik's legs part.

You gasp, losing the connection when Erik grasps your waist and pulls you between his legs. The edges of your hips meet the inside of his thighs. Warmth floods your face. If Charles walks in...

"Is this better?" Erik murmurs, an indecipherable look in his eye.

Your brain is suffering from a system failure. It results to self-defense mode, unhinging your jaw and furiously pumping out unfiltered thoughts that taste like vinegar on your tongue. "Good. Great. I mean. Fine, yes but I lost m-my connection."

Erik's hands find yours, easing the tips of your fingers to rest along the curve of his temples. "Find it again."

His skin is warm.

His thighs, his hands, his eyes.

You can't look at him. So you press your eyes shut and trace his features blindly, grasping at the threads of his subconscious. One by one, you pluck the surface level bad dreams from his ears. They tend to come out the left one, so you cup your right hand under his jaw, and use the opposite hand to gently draw the nightmares from his ear. Nostrils are awkward places to have anything come out of. Especially dense, scratchy nightmares. Ears, however, are sensitive. You feel Erik's jaw lock against your palm as a somewhat fat strand brushes his eardrum.

"It's ok, it's almost out," You whisper, stroking the light stubble peppering his cheek.

You run out of jars, and you haven't stocked up on vials so you decide to trap the nightmares in random sealable containers.

Tupperware, a childhood piggy bank with the coin slot reinforced with colorful duct tape, a glass bottle stopped with a cork, you even use your jewelry box's necklace section, which has a glass door. Using some more of your duct tape, you secure the door shut so the nightmare can't open it.

"There," You poke the glass. "They're smart. Probably could open locks you know. And the tape looks cute, don't you think?"

"I think," Erik mutters as he rises from the bed, "You are the oddest person I have ever met..."

You giggle, "I get that a lot."

Erik smiles.

A genuine smile.

"Do you wanna keep one?"

"Have a little black monster in my room? No, I do not."

You laugh again. "You're funny now! See what happens when we get rid of bad dreams!"

"I was always funny," Erik snorts. "You were just too scared to laugh."

"N-no –"

"Ah-ah," in a flash, Erik's forefinger is pressed to your lips, "No stuttering. I can't hear your thoughts when they're all jumbled."

As if it were that simple.

Stuttering is a condition. Whenever you're nervous or jittery – which is 99% of the time – your words come out in a torpedo. A constant stop and go.

"Icwan'thelpih," Your lips flail beneath Erik's finger.

He smirks, "Practice, (Y/N)."

His finger travels along your chin, raising goosebumps and a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." You echo, stuck in his eyes.

Erik pops his finger on the underside of your chin, "get some sleep," he orders. And then he leaves as silently as he came.

This time, you know he'll be back.

A week. The longest period of time you've been able to keep a secret. Once every day, usually in the evening or night, Erik slips into your room and perches on your bed as you work your magic. It's like sculpting. Each time he comes, you get out your chisel and hammer and chip away at the darkness in his mind. The nightmares are like weeds; uproot one and another springs up to take its place! Thankfully, Erik's visits are consistent enough for you to pluck them out before they get too cozy. They're a bit like hairs. The more you pluck them, the less likely they are to regrow. You've seen it happen. One of the foster parents you had had a daughter in High School who would whine that her eyebrows were too puffy. She obsessively stood in front of the bathroom mirror, picking at them with tweezers, scraping away the 'puffy' hairs. Over time, the hairs stopped growing, and she was left with tiny little eyebrows that were laughable. You don't know whether she grew to love them or not, seeing as you moved foster homes.

You're reminded of how silly she looked when she was in shock.

Two little hairy stubs, floating across her forehead.

Your grip on Erik's face weakens as you succumb to hysterics.

"What?" He demands. "What's so funny?"

You can't stop laughing.

His hands cover your wrists, "What?"

"H-her stubby little eyebrows—"

It must be even funnier out of context, because Erik laughs his first genuine laugh in front of you. You open your eyes in shock, but it's too much. His enormous shoulders are shaking and you – you can barely stand on your own feet. Your eyes roll back as you giggle relentlessly. Erik's laughter is contagious. Soon, you've forgotten about the girl's eyebrows and you're laughing at Erik's laugh. All awkwardness and self-control forgotten, you face plant into his shoulder, positively sobbing with laughter.

The laughs grow far in between.

Short gasps break them up.

The larger the gaps, the quieter you both become.

It's then that you realize the nature of your position.

"Sorry," You mumble against his shirt, bracing your hands on his biceps and pushing yourself back up.

Erik catches you around the waist.

You gasp, and sink into his lap.

With a glint in his eye, Erik grins, "You're not getting away until you tell me about these stubby eyebrows."

Turning crimson, you tell the tale of the girl who hated her bushy brows. You tell Erik many tales over the course of that week. Strangely enough, he seems to like them. He even goes so far as to tell you a tale or two of his own. On the last night, after the final nightmare is bottled, Erik begins to tell you about his childhood. He recounts a happy memory, before Hitler's reign poisoned Europe. You set the final nightmare by the first, monstrous chieftain who you've grown to love in an odd, spiteful way. Listening to Erik's lovely voice drone on, you crawl onto the bed, criss crossing your legs. Erik describes the example his father set and how he idolized him as a boy. He paints a beautiful picture of his mother in your mind, lavishing on her kind heart and her never-ending store of hope. It all sounds so perfect until the Nazis enter the picture, escourting them to a camp, separating them. That's when he discovered it.

His powers.

His beautiful mother was being taken away.

You can see it so clearly in your mind, it brings tears to your eyes.

Erik's voice grows softer and softer as he spills his heart to you, hardly aware of how much he's saying. You watch as the trauma constricts his throat, cutting him off just as he crumples the barbed wire fences and screams in agony.

"I'm sorry," You whisper.

Erik looks at you.

Empty.

It's like leaning over a chasm.

You wish he would laugh.

"You're crying," He states. Like a robot. As if all that heartache he's just dumped at your feet stole the emotion from his voice.

"Oh shoot," You scrub at your face furiously.

"Stop."

Erik pulls your hands from your face and softly wipes the wetness from your cheeks. You feel like maybe you should pull away, and just find yourself a tissue. Poor guy is gonna have damp fingers and all because of your weak little heart. You want to spare him the trouble, but it's impossible to run away when his hands are so warm. Two heaters cupping your jaw and two even smaller ones glancing across your cheeks. They ride the flow of your tears, boiling the moisture until all that's left is the salt. You sniffle, and Erik's thumbs glide over the ball of your nose. Your whole face twitches and he grins evilly, booping your nose a second time, hoping for the same reaction. Whining, you dodge his grabby hands and duck your head into your lap.

"Stop!"

"Why is your nose so sensitive?"

"I don't know! Most of me is sensitive!"

"I'm aware. You could probably have a heart attack over a paper-cut, no offense."

Oh but there is offense. Still, you giggle as you sit back up, scooping your hair from your eyes. "You're a meany, you know that? I ought to shove a nightmare back inside your big fat brain."

Erik shrugs, "Then you'd never get Charles' approval."

You fiddle with your daisie patterned socks.

It's quiet.

As it should be this time of night.

"You'll tell him tomorrow, won't you? Now that we're finished."

The last bit startles you. 'We're finished,' feels out of context. It seems like the sort of phrase you'd heard during a break up. The word finished is so...definite. You can't stand the disappointment it awakens. All he means is that this is finished. These night time sessions; sneaking around; secret keeping. He means the nightmare-extraction is over, not that you and him are over. Could we even be over? What ends must begin...and...did we ever even do that? You spot the army of jars dominating the top of your dresser out of the corner of your eye. The nightmares are such gossips. Look at them, all pressed against the glass, listening in. You have half a mind to throw a sweater over them.

"(Y/N)?"

You blink. "Sorry...I...I think they're spying on us."

Erik narrows his eyes, "Who?"

"Those little turds," You point at the nightmares and they immediately go back to swirling aimlessly around.

"They can see us?"

"Maybe. I wouldn't put it past them."

"You talk like they're human."

"Oh," You pick at your fingernails, "Is that...not...who am I kidding, it's weird. I'm weird and I'm sorry...you're probably glad to be rid of me after tonight—"

"Rid of you?"

He's surprised. How can he be surprised?

"Yes...it's like you said, 'W-we're fi-finished–"