Chapter Text
It hurt.
That was the worst part. The pain.
That his legs were dead did nothing to dull the slow creep of agony up his spine, his back muscles straining against the healing wound the bullet had left. The narcotics the doctors had prescribed for him lined his bedside table. The bed where he spent most of his time, heartsick and empty.
He wasn’t the man he’d been, and the days went by in a blur. He barely remembered one day from the next.
The children stayed.
Charles wasn’t sure why. He was afraid to ask, and the medicine dulled his powers to a whimper. Depression crushed in on him and soon left him numb and uninterested in much of anything. He couldn’t concentrate on reading, or tv, or writing.
But worst of all was that creeping, lingering pain.
He woke this night from his usual set of nightmares, with a gasp and a flail, the images of Raven and Erik’s faces still fresh in the early morning dark. His errant arm knocked bottles from the bedside table with a loud crash. He bit back a sob, then he failed at biting it back, and cried into his arm. When his heart was empty again, he noticed the pain throbbing all the way to his shoulders. He reached out a lazy hand to the medicine on the dresser, and realized that of course he’d knocked it on the floor. A shaking sigh cut through the crackle of tears in his throat as he worked up his courage to move. Reach all the way down to the floor and come back up.
It took effort, and a good fifteen minutes, but he made it on to his side, then his stomach, his useless legs dead weight under the blankets. He twisted and groaned, his back protesting the movement after so long abed. He rallied, gave a scream, and grabbed the small bottle off the floor. He collapsed back into bed, his hands shaking with the effort. He removed a pill and capped the bottle.
“How long have you been like this?” a smooth, low voice from the doorway. One he knew better than his own. Better than anyone’s.
He was not a man used to being surprised and the bottle spun through the air as he jumped.
“Why are you here, Erik?”
His traitorous heart gave a thump in his chest. That thump was caused by a feeling he wished desperately to numb out with pain medicine, and maybe some of the brandy he’d been saving for special occasions that may now never come. He couldn’t bring himself to care, and couldn’t be alarmed that he didn’t care.
Erik moved into the swath of moonlight bisecting Charles’ room; the room they’d once shared. There was concern in his eyes, which rankled Charles for reasons he could define, but again, didn’t care to.
“I’m not here,” the tall figure responded. He was wearing the clothes Charles remembered him sleeping in. Soft black sweatpants and a white t-shirt. The familiar silhouette of his lover in the moonlight made him ache.
“You’re not?”
“No.” Erik looked around. “I’m pretty sure I’m sleeping.” His gaze locked on Charles who took a deep breath and poured himself a finger of brandy, then used it to wash down his pain medication.
Charles looked horrible.
Erik’s insides clenched. The once vibrant man looked small and washed out. A line of pain ran between his eyebrows, a line of pain that Erik knew he was the cause of.
“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. It’s harder to control when I’m…”
“Drunk? High? Wallowing in self-pity?” Erik offered, taking a step toward the bed with each word.
Charles waved the glass before himself in a vague motion. “Pick one.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Which?”
“How long have you been like this?” Erik repeated.
“I don’t know. How long has it been since you left?”
There was no gentle answer to the question, even if Erik was any good at being gentle, which he wasn’t. He didn’t answer.
“I really have nothing to say to you, Erik.” But he was caving under the weight of Erik's gaze, which didn’t waver.
“You brought me here,” Erik pointed out mildly. The carpet was soft under his feet. It couldn’t be real, but it seemed so solid, and Charles had never looked like this in his dreams before. He’d have to start wearing the blasted helmet to bed.
“So I did,” he ran a hand over his eyes, relaxing further back into his bed. Their emotions were trickling into each other’s, blending uncomfortably. “I’m big on self-torment these days. I’ll send you back as soon as I’m able.”
A moment of silence between them, before Erik moved quietly toward the bed and sat at Charles’ hip.
“It was an accident, the bullet,” Erik whispered, eyes looking at his own bare feet. If this was a dream, at least he could say his apology here.
“I know,” Charles croaked, and reached out to touch the other man’s hand. There was no hesitation as Erik took it in his own.
Charles wished he had it in him to hate this violent, angry man.
Erik wasn’t violent or angry right now, he was just sad. It was obvious he didn’t regret the decision he’d made, but Charles could feel the overwhelmed storm of his guilt. Of all the people in the world that Erik could have brought agony to with his mere presence, he clearly wished it could have been anyone but Charles.
The silence dragged on between them, hands warm in one another’s. The connection was still there, and strong, pulling at Charles’ heart painfully. They were meant for one another, but they would never compromise in their methods. It was maddeningly unfair. And Erik had paralyzed him with that deflected bullet. He hadn’t meant to, of course not, he didn’t KNOW. Charles kept the wheelchair in the closet. He called for Hank if he needed help, and the empty chair mocked his hubris with its very presence.
“I’m going to send you back now,” he informed the other man. “I’ll try to erase this visit. You probably don’t want to remember this. I know I don’t.”
“Charles…”
“I love you, Erik. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure,” he pulled away, and tried to take the memory of the visit with him. Uncertain if it had worked or not, he fell into a deep sleep.