Come Home (Cherik fanfiction)

Chapter Twenty-Three

So I put a little more effort into this one! I hope it's a lot better than the last one (that needed to happen because filler) and if not, just let me know what you all want and I'll wrap it in. I've lost sight of where I want this to go, so everything's just kind of up in the air.

Bad news: I'm not gonna have that new fic out for a while (until I can make it into something that is less like a train wreck) and updates are gonna continue to be all over the place again.

Sorry guys :( but I'm just sooo happy you've stuck it out with me this far, because I've been stringing you along for about seven months now and HOLY CRAP, I FEEL LIKE I OWE YOU GUYS FLOWERS AND CHOCOLATE BECAUSE SOME RELATIONSHIPS DON'T EVEN LAST THAT LONG. (Love you guys too much, sorry.)

Better news: I've offically figured out how to do dedications, so once the chapters improve, I'm going to start dedicating because I do really love you guys. You're all awesome.

This chapter is something new. It's kind of like what I did on the night that Charles was captured, but also not. I hope I don't lose you, but if this works, I'll be doing it again in the near future. It jumps from place to place but the main point is that the center of everything is Charles. *hint, hint*

I just love you guys so much.

- Atlas

It's not as easy as it seemed that day, but that's okay because they're all lost souls anyways and if Charles is a ripped tether, at least he's still holding on to something for them.

Charles

The days pass like jagged shards of porcelain in front of Charles's face, but apparently that's normal so he just goes with it.

"Again!" Hank shouts, and then he's moving faster and faster and faster than he could ever believe his feet could carry him when he was quivering on that faux hospital bed.

Running. It's called running, he recovers, and he's doing it quite well. There's a memory at the tip of his tongue of being a younger boy and running on this grass with the smell of pine and taste of salt in his mind. He can't quite . . . picture it, but it's there, just waiting for the last curtain to drop. At least, that's what Erik thinks of it.

/

So you think my mind is a theatre?

Fondness. No, not exactly. It's just how your mind is working for now. When the Third Reich was dismantled completely, they looked for films and old photographs to put together families. Trying to identify ghosts with something as whole as a day at the beach.

Charles nods.

Well, that's sort of what we're trying to do here.

/

His lungs are burning, but after the last three days of this, it doesn't really affect Charles as much; just another thing he has to plow through to reach his goal -- Well, more like Raven, Hank and Erik's goal, but it still mattered.

He hears a crack and thinks, There go the knives. And when he looks at the tree behind him, he can see the blade protrude through the bark. He thinks it a shame, that the tree didn't deserve it. However, he knows Hank thinks it's for a better cause, so he tries not to argue more than he's worth.

Erik

* eight days before *

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to vehemently disagree, nor wake Charles up with the white hot anger building at the base of his stomach, but Jesus Christ, he's about ready to throw Hank through a goddamn wall right about now.