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There had been times – back when his inability to walk a straight line had nothing to do with his inability to walk – when Hank would bring up points in conversation that Charles could not bring himself to talk about, that Charles would announce he was tired, and going to bed, and he would stomp up the stairs and stalk to his bed. If Hank had been especially concerned for Charles, as he often was, and had followed Charles to his room, Charles would take pleasure in flopping down dramatically onto his bed.
Now, Charles announces he is tired, and going to bed, and he starts moving his chair towards his downstairs bedroom.
Hank follows him quietly. Up until they reach the final hallway to his room, where Hank pushes past Charles, and blocks his way, with a sharp, "Charles–"
There are multiple things that could go awry at the moment. Given the events of the day, Charles is rather tired of things going awry. He sweeps his mind over the mansion and the grounds, and can find no one else. "What is it, Hank?" Charles asks, halfway between concern and curiosity.
Hank is staring down the hallway, and very subtly, Charles sees him sniff. "Magneto's here."
Charles look up at him, and blinks. "Erik is here," he repeats. He lowers his shields enough to feel Hank's thoughts – an aggressive desire to remove Erik from the mansion, wild speculations about what he could be here to do, a background pulse of anger about what he has done, a quieter anger about what he hasn't.
Charles shares some of the trepidation, some of the anger, though he rather thinks that Hank's imagination has gotten the better of him.
Hank nods, his entire body tense. "In your room."
"Is there anyway you can tell what he's doing?"
He shakes his head. Then his gaze goes sharp, and he turns back to Charles. "Can't you?"
"I can't, no," Charles says, evenly. "But it could just be that I have overtaxed myself." After numbing his powers for several months on end... There are few things he can be certain of, come tomorrow morning, but the fact that he will have quite a headache is one of them.
"No, it means he's wearing the helmet, which means–"
"There are many things it could mean," Charles cuts in. "But I had meant what I said about being tired."
Hank frowns. "There are other rooms on this floor you could–"
"I am going to bed, Hank," Charles says, firmly. It hardly counts as his bed, as his sleeping hours have been spent either in his bed upstairs, or the couch in his study, but Charles doesn't mention this, nor does Hank.
Hank hovers behind Charles as he continues down the hall, and stands guard at the door as Charles wheels himself into his room.
Charles had spent many months in this room after Cuba. The bed is low, and makes for the easiest transfer to his wheelchair. The past months have had the room unused and ignored, and Charles imagines he can feel it in the air. It feels stale, stifling. Under the drawn curtains, the windows are closed. The room is too dark to navigate by sight, and Charles instead goes by memory – though his memory is imperfect, and the bump accompanying the edge of the rug comes later than he remembers.
"If you would shut the door, I would appreciate it," is all Charles says, as he finally settles his chair next to the bed.
"How did you know I was here?" Erik asks.
There is something off about his voice, something slow and slurred. Charles squints his eyes, trying to adjust to the dark of the room. "Are you alright, Erik?"
There's a pained huff of laughter. "I am a fugitive from the law, old friend. And Mystique is a better shot than I gave her credit for. I needed a place to lay low for the night."
Charles hums in response, before he sets about pushing the sheets back, and pushing himself up, over, onto his bed. The movement is far less graceful than it used to be. Practice will perfect it soon enough. "It has been a long day," Charles agrees. He rearranges his legs before he lies down. It's a comfortable position, but there's a cold press of metal against his thoughts, an insistent reminder that something is not right. "Take the helmet off, Erik, there is no point in wearing it."
"I hope you would forgive me if I didn't quite believe that."
A spark of anger flutters in his chest. Charles closes his eyes, fighting to keep his voice even as he says, "There are many things I hope to forgive you for in the future, perhaps that will be one of them."
There's a rustling on the bed beside him as Erik sits up, and Erik's voice is scathing as he starts, "That is really quite generous of you, Charles, but–"
"I do not want to fight you, Erik," Charles interrupts, curtly. "There are many points I would like to debate with you, but not here, not now. If you are set on a fight, I am sure Hank would not mind stepping in for me, as he has been waiting at the door since I came in. But I still hope to make this school into a sanctuary for all mutants who may need it, and I would prefer not to see Hank see you to the door." Quieter, Charles admits, "Now, I am tired, and I am in pain, and I would like to sleep."
The sheets shift as Erik lies back down.
Hank's thoughts are turbulent, far too much for Charles to filter through. You can go to sleep, he tells Hank. Hank's doubt rings loudly through Charles's head, but he doesn't press, and Charles distantly tracks his progress towards his room.
Charles takes in a deep breath, and sighs it out through his nose.
Erik's voice is quiet as he finally says, "I thought you had difficulty sleeping."
"I do," Charles says. He turns his head to the side, facing away from Erik. "Though I believe that after the strain of today, and the past few days, the exhaustion will override the pain. After all those years without using my powers, I have used them far beyond my limits. I am sure you understand."
"Quite well," Erik says, tone chilly.
Charles can't help but press against the mental barrier that Erik's helmet creates, like pressing against a wound in hopes it would vanish, though he is momentarily glad for the silence; he does not want to know what condemnations Erik is throwing at him. Not now.
Long minutes pass, before Erik sighs. "Charles – for today, for what happened to you – I had not meant for that to happen. I am sorry."
"There are many things I hope to forgive you for," Charles repeats. He screws his eyes closed.
In those first months during his recovery, Charles had been convinced he would never forgive Erik. But things got better, the school opened, he had students, he had teachers, he had the hope to keep going. There was no way to blame Erik for the draft taking all that away from him, but he had blamed Erik for not being there to bear it with him.
Hank's continued companionship touched and still touches Charles, but he could not be to Charles what Erik had been. And Hank's thoughts frequently centered around Raven – his guilt over driving her away so loud it projected, a constant reminder of the role Charles played in her desire to leave. For the first time in over a decade, Charles thinks she may have a reason to return, and it's a stronger foundation for hope than his idle dreams had been.
Charles is angry, has been angry for quite some time – at Erik, at himself, at everything – but the anger is not enough. He will find his peace, in time, but for now he is tired. For now, he lets it go. "I know what harm you did me was not your intention. I forgive you."
Erik doesn't reply, but to brush his fingers against Charles's.
A moment later, the metal wall disappears, and after spending so long pressing against it, Charles finds himself accidentally dipping into Erik's mind. He only gets surface thoughts – a sharp feeling of self-justification; a dull aching remorse over Cuba and bullet trajectories and Dallas; a standing fury for Trask and what he did to them that masks the freezing terror of it happening again; the pulses of pain on his neck and along the pulled stitches on the back of his head and metal humming so loudly to him after so many months of silence; a quiet comfort at Charles's presence inside his mind it's been a while since we've – but Charles pulls back out quickly before he's swept under the current. Erik's thoughts are as overwhelming now as they were then, if not more so.
"I'm tired," Charles says, so quietly as to almost be inaudible.
Erik shifts beside him. The replying Go to sleep, Charles is too quiet, too brokenly fond to be spoken.
Slowly, Charles drifts to sleep.