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"Well, the food was very good," Charles offers as they settle into the back seat of the limo. He knows Erik agrees - the food is generally the only reason Erik is willing to attend these types of functions - but at the moment Erik is too concerned with yanking his bow tie off with both hands to answer. When it finally slips free, the combination of too many martinis and too sharp a turn throw him face first against the driver's side window.
Charles tries not to laugh. "Are you all right?"
Erik mumbles something about "fucking ties" and then, when he's regained his balance, throws it on the limo floor. "What were we raising funds for again?" he asks.
"Senator Bryant's reelection campaign."
Erik makes a face. "Then what was the one last night?"
"That was the Foundation for the Advancement of Women in Politics." The unfortunately acronymed FAWP.
Erik groans and stretches out along the limo's soft leather, resting his shiny-shoed feet in Charles' lap. "Why do we go to these things, anyway? Shouldn't the school stay out of politics?"
"The school is apolitical but the Foundation is not," Charles reminds him, just as he has every other day for the last twenty-six years, or so it seems.
"Then why do I have to come?"
"Because I like seeing you in a tux," Charles smiles and pats Erik's calves.
Erik hums at that, unconvinced, and closes his eyes.
It’s late by the time they get back to their Washington apartment, which they keep for weeks such as these. If only the time they spent there were more fun, it might actually be a nice place to visit. Instead, every inch of it is haunted by the ghosts of business and politics past – even the bed, which is way too firm and used more often for reading legal documents than making love.
Erik resumes taking his clothes off, and though it’s not the least sexy striptease Charles has ever been treated to, it definitely ranks in the bottom ten, and concludes with Erik sitting on the ottoman in his undershirt and boxer-briefs arguing with his shoelaces under his breath. He runs a hand through his graying hair, but instead of smoothing down as intended, it stands straight up. In his younger years the look may have read as punk, but tonight the wild hair makes him look more like a crazy old man. Which is exactly what he's becoming. It makes Charles smile.
It's their third night in Washington, and they've found their rhythm once again. Charles moves into the bathroom to prepare for bed while Erik tidies up. Then, according to their well-worn routine, Charles will climb into bed while Erik showers. Charles will read while Erik brushes his teeth and combs his hair. They'll be under the covers and ready for sleep or sex within 40 minutes. A few years into their relationship, Charles worried that Erik would get antsy and crave change, but he was happy to discover that to Erik, after so many years drifting from place to place, routine feels like luxury.
That's not to say that Erik isn't flexible, or that there aren't things that are more important to him than routine. Tonight when Charles emerges from the apartment's bathroom, for instance, Erik is on the phone, and by the tone of his voice, it could only be Ororo on the other end of the line. He's smiling and wearing his glasses, and has apparently willed himself sober.
He tells Ororo to hold on one second and put his hand over the receiver. “The Roberts appeal is facing a judge on Tuesday,” Erik updates Charles. “Ororo just got word of it today.”
“Well, that's good news,” Charles says as he gets into bed, and Erik turns his attention back to the phone.
The Roberts case has been one of Erik's pet causes this last year or two – not that Erik is short on causes du jour, or is lacking in things to become outraged about, but the Roberts case is a big headline. Charla Roberts was a mutant who'd been murdered, and her killer had been cleared of charges based on a dubious self-defense claim. Apparently, to juries in rural Georgia, mutants pose humans a mortal threat worthy of a shotgun blast just by existing in public, regardless of whether or not they meant anyone any harm, or whether or not their mutation is actually dangerous. Charla Roberts had blue skin. She looked somewhat like Raven.
Charles overhears Erik tell Ororo, “Well, we'll be back tomorrow afternoon, so we can start strategizing then.”
“Wednesday,” says Charles, causing Erik to turn and gape at him.
“What?”
“We’re scheduled to be in Washington until Wednesday.”
Flabbergasted has always been one of Charles' favorite looks on Erik, but it doesn't seem like an appropriate moment to enjoy it.
“Well, I need to be back in New York. This is more important,” Erik says.
“I have a meeting scheduled with the chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee on Tuesday afternoon. I am not going to reschedule. Even if I wanted to reschedule, there is no way I could get another meeting before they vote on the new budget for Health and Human Services.”
Just the name of the agency is enough to cause Erik to sigh and rub at his eyes from under his glasses. He then returns the telephone to his ear. “Ororo? I'll call you in the morning. All right. Yes, I'll keep you posted. Of course. You, too. Good night.” Before he even hangs up the phone he begins insisting to Charles, “I have to be there for this. This could be a landmark case.”
“I know that, darling, but I can't cut my trip short. You'll just have to go on without me.”
Cue the lights. Cue the music. Traditionally this is the part where Erik throws a hissy fit, but to Charles’ relief and Erik’s apparent disappointment, he’s too tired to carry on their standard argument.
“I have a full schedule over the next few days, and these are all functions supporting mutant causes and the representation of women and minorities – including mutants – in politics. This is very important to me, and to all of us,” Charles tells him, then adds lightly: “I know you’ve never turned down an invitation that said ‘Free Nelson Mandela’ on the card.”
Erik shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. He’s thinking about reminding Charles of all the horrible calamities that could befall him by remaining in Washington, DC without Erik. At the forefront of his thoughts are the inevitable muggings, fires, shootings, and death that will surely happen as soon as Erik leaves Charles’ side. Beneath that are thoughts of Charles being stranded someplace inaccessible by wheelchair, or becoming sick, or even just lonely. But the foundation of it all is Erik’s own unhappiness at the thought of spending the next three nights sleeping alone.
“I still don’t see why you can’t just write a letter and send some money,” Erik grumbles as he climbs into bed beside him. “That still works, doesn’t it?”
Charles smiles despite Erik’s obvious displeasure and kisses his frown. No matter how cranky he may be about the change in plans, they’ve still come so far from the way these conversations have gone in the past: Erik accusing Charles of losing focus on the real fight, Charles accusing Erik of forgetting where change really happens; Erik accusing Charles of putting himself in danger by staying in their apartment alone, Charles accusing Erik of being overdramatic and overprotective; Erik accusing Charles of giving into the human establishment, Charles accusing Erik of thinking he’s Westchester’s Che Guevara.
Neither of them wants to have that fight right now. Charles' skin is still soft and fresh from his evening shower, and Erik's abuse of the open bar has left him affectionate and pliant. There’s no rage coming off of Erik – there’s a foggy drunken crankiness at the thought of going to more fundraising events, but mostly vague happiness at having Charles in bed next to him, and unhappiness at the thought of being apart from him for a few days. He’s not about to start an argument. It's all been said before anyway. Neither of them enjoys having to repeat themselves, and so this time, they don't.
They must be getting older, Charles thinks. It's a relief.
"We can talk about it in the morning," Charles suggests, running a hand over Erik's shoulder. "You can decide what you want to do tomorrow. I don't mind either way."
The lights go off with a wave of Erik’s hand, and all that’s left is the rustling of the covers as Erik gets comfortable tucked against Charles’ side. “Good,” he says, “I don’t feel like talking about it right now.” He’s lying, of course. “You know I don’t like you being here by yourself,” he whispers into the curve of Charles’ neck a few minutes later.
“You seem to forget that I’m a telepath. If anything happened I could easily get help.”
“Not if you’re unconscious.”
“You couldn’t very well call for help if you were unconscious, either.”
“See? Another good reason why you should come home with me.”
Charles chuckles in the dark.
The next morning, Charles has a breakfast date with an acquaintance from the CIA and a luncheon at noon, but Erik is still dead to the world. His fondness for gin never did mix with his reputation as a morning person.
Charles decides to have mercy on him and leaves a note:
Thought I’d spare you the Global Rights Committee Luncheon. There is a 12:20pm train out of Union Station to New York if you decide to go home. You can charge it to the Foundation. Otherwise I will be back around 3:00pm. I love you. Charles
When Charles returns later that afternoon, he finds that Erik has gone, and written in neat cursive on the same slip of paper:
Give them hell. See you on Wednesday. XXX
Well that… is not what he was expecting.
He’s elated. And sad. And proud. And disappointed. Of course it doesn’t mean that Erik cares for him any less than he has in the previous twenty-six years of their relationship, during which he would have thrown a fit and stayed in Washington on principle, while complaining loudly throughout the remainder of the trip. Charles winces at himself for even allowing the thought to cross his mind.
No, this is a good thing, Charles reminds himself. This is progress. This is Erik finally trusting him.
They really are getting older.
Charles takes his time taking off his jacket and getting comfortable after his busy morning. He has nowhere to be for the next few hours. He had kept the evening free for a dinner out with Erik, but now he supposes he ought to call some of his local contacts and see if anyone else will let him buy them dinner.
He’s rolled over to the open window, looking out at the city below when it hits him: he hasn’t been home alone with nothing to do and nowhere to go in nearly thirty years. He’s free. He ought to make the most of the occasion, he thinks, but he finds he’s a little bit dumbstruck. What does a man in a wheelchair on the wrong end of middle age with a recognizable face do with a night alone in Washington, DC?
The doorbell rings as he’s pondering it.
“Coming!” he calls out. He’s expecting it to be Paolo, their maintenance man, coming to give him news about the building or fix something that Charles hadn’t realized needed fixing.
But it’s not Paolo.
“Hi, Dr. X.”
“Kitty?”
Of all the students that could turn up at his door here in Washington, Charles supposes that Kitty is the most likely. She’s in her second semester at Georgetown University, working on dual degrees in Political Economy and Computer Science.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she says with just a hint of bashfulness.
Charles moves aside. “Not at all. Come on in.”
As she steps into the apartment, Charles notices that the bag on her shoulder is no small purse; it’s a duffel.
“Is everything all right?” Charles asks.
Kitty looks surprised. “Oh, yeah! Everything’s fine. But my roommate has been driving me nuts, and Professor Lehnsherr said it would be okay if I stayed here for a couple of days. Is that all right? Did he not tell you that?”
Charles sighs and shakes his head, but makes sure to show Kitty that he’s smiling. “No, he didn’t mention it. Not to worry. You’re welcome to stay.”
So much for Erik’s progress.