Work Text:
Listen,
my wary one, it's far too late
to unlove each other. Instead let's cook
something elaborate and not
invite anyone to share it but eat it
all up very very slowly.
*
They're quiet when they get back to the mansion, all of them. They retreat to their rooms without speaking or acknowledging each other. Charles thinks they're all aware of the bullet they dodged, how close they came to being exposed and being rejected by the world. He doesn't know for sure and doesn't want to check--he's still reeling from his peek into Erik's mind, into the torment and the overwhelming desire to flee.
That will teach him to go nosing around where he's not invited.
He wants to change out of his ridiculous jumpsuit and take the longest shower known to man. He wants to drink until he forgets what the absence of Erik's mind felt like, those long minutes when he wore Shaw's helmet and Charles couldn't shake the feeling that he was dead, that he was gone, that he was never coming back, that Charles had lost him already.
The helmet is off, for now. Charles wanted to throw it into the sea, to melt it down into nothing, to leave it destroyed so no one could ever put it on again, but Erik had carried it back with him into the house, into Charles' house and--
He needs to strip and shower. He'll feel better when the remains of the day are no longer wrapped around his skin.
The last time Charles was in this shower, Erik was three feet away, shaving. Charles watched through the gap in the curtain, made a joke about Erik's attention to detail, even before battle. Erik joked back, even though Charles could hear the energy vibrating within him as the clock ticked closer to their confrontation. He still smiled, though, smiled for Charles and made his joke and Charles said, "I love you, you know. The timing's rubbish, but I think it's something you should know, in case this doesn't work out like we've planned."
Erik said, "Doubt isn't like you, Charles," and leaned into the shower to kiss him, briefly, before leaving the bathroom to get dressed. He didn't offer anything else and Charles was afraid to look. He hadn't expected reciprocation, not verbally, not from a man who'd lost touch with what love meant, but it left him bereft all the same.
Charles gets out of the shower warm and clean and feeling worse than he did when he got in.
He dresses and thinks about Erik and warm water, about how his brain will always tie Erik to the ocean off of Miami and the heavy, desperate feeling of drowning. Cuba now, too, with its beautiful beach and pristine waters and the smell of salt in his nose and the stomach-churning panic when Erik's mind disappeared from his awareness. The smell of saltwater and Erik are commingled in his mind. If he was taken to maudlin pining, he'd think about the sweat that pools at the small of Erik's back when they're lying next to each other, sleepy and sated, he'd think about the bitter sting of tears, but instead he pulls on a sweater and debates the merits of hiding in his bedroom all night versus sneaking down to the kitchen to eat for the first time since early this morning.
He lies on the bed for a time, eyes closed and mind drifting. Hank is locked in his laboratory. Alex has taken a sandwich and retreated to his bedroom. Sean's already asleep, hoarse and exhausted. Angel is pacing the room she's claimed. Raven's wandering the halls. Erik is sitting at the window, staring out into nothing.
He doesn't dig any deeper, doesn't do more than brush the edges of their awareness to locate them. There are probably hurts to be soothed and self-esteem to bolster, but Charles doesn't have it in him to be giving right now. Charles wants to be angry and hurt because he gave away these parts of himself, handed them over for the first time in years, maybe in his whole life, and Erik cast them aside like they were nothing.
He feels young and stupid, younger than he's felt since Kurt and Cain. To think these things mattered, to think he could have won Erik over with just the power of his heart and feelings, Erik who's lived through so much and been molded into something entirely foreign to Charles....
The whole world almost ended today, they all almost lost their lives for an ungrateful government, and all Charles can think about is his pathetic broken heart. God, he needs to be slapped. He's sick of it. He's sick of these thoughts and being stuck here with them. He sits up and angrily crosses the room. The kitchen is empty, Raven is on the other side of the house, and everyone else is hidden away in their rooms. Charles is going to eat something and then drink until he stops caring. He wants to go out, to surround himself with people and minds that are light and happy and young and careless, but it's late, too late to find the kind of company he'd like to find tonight, someone innocent and unassuming who will fall for his lines and let him fall into their bed and allow him to leave just as easily the next morning.
He settles for the kitchen, for making a cup of tea and having something to eat and bringing a bottle of scotch upstairs where no one will judge him for being sloppy and emotional and tired. He gets as far as putting the kettle on before he hears footsteps in the hall. He contemplates fleeing, especially once he ascertains who's approaching, but it's his bloody house and he can make a cup of tea if he wants, Erik Lehnsherr be damned.
Erik's pace slows to a stop at the entrance to the kitchen.
"I didn't know you were here," Erik says, and Charles glances at him briefly, follows his gaze to Charles' bare wrist. He hadn't bothered to put his watch on after his shower.
"Yes, well," Charles says, still looking at his own wrist. "It's my house." He can feel Erik's eyes on him, watching, but Charles doesn't want to look at him again. Part of it is stubbornness, a desire to make Erik understand how upset he is, but most of it is something like shame. How childish Erik must think he is, how silly. Charles didn't feel silly this morning, joking in the shower and offering his love like it was limitless and painless, but standing here with Erik after seeing how worthless his affection really is burns deep in his stomach and his chest.
He can tell the moment that Erik drops his gaze, leaving Charles to pick at the scarred counter top as he brushes by, a hair's breadth from touching, and opens the refrigerator. He pulls things out, stacks them on the counter, eggs and cheese and vegetables, butter and milk. Charles is suddenly reminded of how hungry he is, how long he's pushed that need to the back of his mind as he dealt with more important matters. He can't eat now, can't eat here, not in the same room as Erik. It's dramatic, yes, but he fears he'll fall apart if he has to continue to confront this silence. He wills the kettle to boil faster--he can take his tea and retreat upstairs. Erik will be done eventually, and then he can return and find some food and--
"Eggs," Erik says. "Scrambled? Over-easy? Omelet?"
"What?" Charles asks, and looks up before he can stop himself.
"How do you want your eggs?" Erik repeats. He has Charles' gaze now, meets it evenly and expressionlessly and Charles can't look away now that he's looking in the first place. He can feel his face burning, hot and flushed, his feelings so plainly displayed. He wants to hide, but Erik won't look away and Charles can't move. "You haven't eaten since this morning. You must be hungry. I know I am."
Charles nods and swallows, even though it feels like his throat is full of razors.
"I'll come up with something," Erik says when it's clear Charles won't be speaking, and finally, finally turns away, gathering the food and moving to stand in front of the range. Now would be the time to retreat, to duck away and return to his room, tea and food be damned, but he still can't move. The range clicks to light and Charles lets the sounds of the kitchen wash over him--a frying pan resting on the burner, the silverware drawer opening and sliding shut, butter sizzling in the pan, chopping, stirring--
"I came home with you, Charles," Erik says. He sounds--not angry, precisely, but his voice is elevated, sharp, and Charles can't parse the emotion. "I don't know what else you want."
"I don't want anything," Charles lies, because he feels less foolish saying that than he does the truth.
"Of course you don't," Erik says. There's a hiss from the stove as the chopping stops and something drops into the frying pan. "Charles Xavier, the man who wants for nothing because he's so quick to take without permission."
Charles digs his fingernails into the lacquer of the counters.
"That's not true," he says. He can hear his voice wobbling, feel it in his throat.
"You've got it again, haven't you?" Erik says. "Here I am. I came with you, Charles. I left the ships alone. I followed you home because it's what you wanted."
"I wanted you to want it, Erik!" he snaps. He looks up, finally, incensed and shaking and miserable. Erik's staring at him, eyes dark, mouth slanted downward. "I wanted you to see sense, I wanted you to make the choice on your own! I wanted you to see the good in the world and to see the good we can do together and to want to come back here as more than a last resort." And all of those things are true, of course, but-- "I wanted you to want to be here with me."
Charles sighs, eyes closed, and any remaining energy leeches out along with the air in his lungs. He sags against the counter and rubs his temple. His head aches and his chest aches and he can feel Erik staring at him again. He's tired, suddenly, so tired he's not even hungry, so tired that all he wants to do is crawl into bed and stay there until he stops feeling like this.
He almost doesn't notice Erik coming up behind him. He has to notice when Erik's arms wrap around him from behind and Erik's nose presses into his hair.
"Charles," he says, his voice breaking, and somehow he imbues layers and layers of meaning into the name, thousands of subtleties that Charles can read even without looking in on Erik's thoughts. Something washes over him, relief and embarrassment and foolishness and astonishment. Erik's hold is strong and tight and he murmurs into Charles' hair, "I didn't think I had to say it. I thought you knew."
Charles slides his hands over Erik's, his fingertips tracing over the skin on the back of his hands, rough and dry from the wind whipping against them on the beach, over his long, sturdy fingers. Erik's hands are cool to the touch and so sure in their grip on Charles that he feels idiotic for even questioning it.
"You didn't say," Charles says. There's something close to a sob stuck in his throat and he struggles to swallow it. Composure. He's tired and raw, but he's a bloody Xavier and to hell if he's going to weep all over Erik. "You never said and then you go and you--you fight me at every turn, you tell me to stay out of your head, you turn my sister against me, you put on that--that fucking helmet--what am I supposed to think, Erik?"
"I don't know!" Erik says. His voice is sharp, but it's not anger. The hands on Charles' body are still gentle and cautious. No, the edge is more like desperation. "I've never--my whole life was dedicated to finding Shaw, Charles. Every second of my existence from the moment I escaped was spent planning how to get my revenge. I didn't know--I don't know how to...how to be around other people. How to care for someone. I'm trying. That has to--that has to mean something. You say you know everything about me, but that's not true. There's so much you can't understand and--"
"I want to learn," Charles says, pleads, really. He hangs his head and feels Erik inch that much closer, his body pressed against Charles', warm and solid.
"You can't make me want those things, Charles," Erik says, his forehead resting against the back of Charles' head. "Charles, you can't--"
He straightens up abruptly and turns Charles around. He's tender, almost delicate in the movement, and once they're facing each other once more, Erik cradles Charles' face in his hands. Charles wants to look away again; it was so much easier when he didn't have to look at Erik, when he could hide from whatever Erik was feeling.
"You can't make me want any of those things," he says, and Charles swallows. "But--I do want to--I want to be with you. Here or--wherever you are. I want to be with you. I want you to know me. And I want you to be happy. And that can be enough, can't it? Enough for now?"
"You could change your mind tomorrow," Charles says. Each word feels like it's ripped from his throat, hoarse and dragging. "You could put on that helmet--"
"We could all be dead tomorrow," Erik says. "But until then--as long as we feel this way, we have something, don't we? We've come a long way to give up and start from scratch."
Charles tries to shut down his misgivings, the niggling voice in the back of his head, tries to focus on how genuine Erik sounds, how carefully he's holding Charles.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Charles admits. "I've never--" I've never felt this way before, I've never loved someone like this, I've never given myself to someone else. Everything sounds tired and cliche, even though it rings painfully true. "I've never surrendered this much control," is what he says, which sounds odd even as he says the words, but Erik smiles, just a little.
"Nor have I," Erik says and then he frowns and closes his eyes and before Charles can ask him what's wrong, it's like he's drowning all over again. It's the water in Miami, heavy and dark, it's the boat ride back, it's their first night at the CIA, it's their weeks on the road, their first kiss, the night they recruited Angel, the plane ride to Russia--it's everything they've done, flooding into his brain, overlaid with Erik's thoughts and feelings and fears and elation. It's the depth of Erik's feelings for him, fathomless and complex and frightening. It's Erik's mind, knocking against his, wrapping around it as Erik lowers his barriers and pushes.
It's Erik giving him permission, giving him explicit access for the first time. It's Erik trusting him.
Charles thinks his legs might give way with the enormity of it, but Erik's hands have moved to his waist, steady and strong, holding him up and close enough that they're sharing breath. When Charles opens his eyes again--squeezed shut as the sensory overload hit--Erik looks nervous for perhaps the first time. He raises a hand and brushes a strand of Charles' hair behind his ear.
"Are you alright?" he asks. Do you understand? he thinks.
"Yes," he says, swallowing the lump in his throat. Yes. Erik--
Charles pulls back and wipes discreetly at his eyes. Erik's hands drop him his hips, but he doesn't retreat, he's still within easy reach and his mind, so closely guarded and walled off, even before the helmet, is warm and open at the edge of Charles' perception.
"Ah, what--" Charles takes a deep breath and then nods at the frying pan. "What are you making?" he asks almost shyly. Erik smiles at him. It's a different sort of smile than the one he's used to.
"It started out as vegetables for an omelet or--something quick and easy, at least. Now I think it's leaning towards quiche," Erik says.
"I didn't know you could make quiche," Charles says.
"I can make lots of things," Erik says.
Charles takes Erik's hand and feels, suddenly, like he's bridging more than just the few inches between them.
"Tell me," he says. And Erik does.