Work Text:
The knock came around three in the morning. It had been another restless night that left him pacing the halls, unable to sleep. He made his way to the kitchen, picking out his favorite tea blend. It didn’t take long to make, and wrapping his hands around the warm teacup did wonders for his uneasiness. When the knock came, he reached out with his mind and found… nothing. He was sure that only meant one person.
But why would he knock?
He set his tea on the counter, raking his hands through his hair to smooth it over before steeling himself and moving down the hall, toward the foyer. He turned on the lamp, and with a huff, unlocked and opened the door.
And there he was, Erik Lehnsherr, cupping his side, and swaying on his feet. That stupid helmet on his head and all. He wanted to step forward, to offer him help inside—he didn’t understand why his friend flinched.
“Didn’t… know where else to… to go,” Erik rasped out, wincing. Blood stained his shirt, dried in some places, dripping to the ground below him in others.
Before he could ask what happened, Erik was swaying forward heavily, eyes glazed over. Charles’ eyes widened as he caught the collapsing man, gently wrapping his arm around his slim waist, cautious of the injury as he didn’t know the extent of it.
“Just… Don’t bleed on the carpet,” Charles says halfheartedly, doing his best at keeping his voice light. “And stay awake, alright?”
The sound the taller man made was incoherent but pained.
Beyond his worry, and how his heart felt strained in his chest at the sight… Something like anger, but closer to rage, rose in Charles’ chest, unforgiving and white-hot. He wanted to know who did this—and then he wanted to find them.
The only thing that grounded him was Erik, in his arms.
He knew the kitchen had a medical kit, so he decided to take him there, movements small as to not worsen the injury. It seemed time was at a stand-still as they made it to the kitchen, as though God himself held his breath for this, just as Charles did. With careful ease, he managed to heave Erik onto the counter, moving his now-forgotten tea into the sink. Reaching into one of the drawers, he pulled out the first aid kit before flipping on one of the dim kitchen lights, the area set aglow in a soft halo of gold.
“Please don’t fall,” he murmurs as he turns to the sink to wash his hands before glancing at the apparent injury and back to Erik’s face, which was twisted in pain and slight confusion. He wondered how conscious he was, as it appeared he wasn’t sure how he got where he was. He wanted to reach out with his mind, just to see… But he needed to look over his injuries first.
Gradually, Charles stood in front of the man on the counter and lifted his hands to the sides of his helmet. “I’m going to take this off, okay? That way, I can assess the damage.”
Erik’s dazed eyes narrowed in confusion, shaking his head before grimacing at the action.
“Hey,” Charles whispered, “I wouldn’t read your thoughts without permission. You know that.” Erik didn’t seem to be listening, his eyes now trained somewhere behind Charles. With as much gentleness as he could muster, Charles lifted the helmet off, finding a cut along his brow and dried blood along his hairline—likely from an older wound. Still, it was nothing worse than the heavy flow of blood that seeped from his abdomen. “I’m going to take your shirt off,” Charles warns, knowing he needs to stop the blood before Erik loses it all.
Finally, some awareness seems to come back to Erik, as the edges of his lips tug upwardly, tired and pained but slightly amused. “This is what,” he winces slightly, his voice eerily hollow and dry, “it takes for you to– to get my shirt off, huh?”
“Darling, please.” He sighs, ignoring how the tips of his ears flush. “I’m not amused. Hold still.”
“So… demanding.” Erik exhales stiffly, his breath hitching as Charles gently pulls at the hems of his shirt, trying to get it over his head without irritating the wound.
When he realized that was a lost cause, he grabs the kitchen scissors and cut smoothly down the shirt until he was able to shrug it off the other man as though it’d been a button-up all along.
When he finally managed to pull the sticky, bloodstained fabric away, he paled slightly.
“For fuck’ sake, Erik,” he breathed, taking in the gash that ran from his sternum, curving under his pectoral, and down until it wrapped around to the iliac crest of his hip. “No wonder you were losing consciousness,” he muttered, brows furrowed. “What happened? ” And again, that familiar sensation of scathing ire found its way into the depths of his chest, poking and prodding at his patience with the thought of the assailant behind Erik’s pain.
“Went looking for– for a mutant I was tipped off about…” he cringed, tipping his head to the side, refusing to meet Charles’ eyes. “It was a set-up.”
Charles decided it would be best to distract him—as well as himself, from his own violence—as he took a washcloth under warm water to clean the blood away as he spoke. “What was the mutation?” He murmured, pulling out a bottle of alcohol and dabbing his wounds with a cotton pad. As if pulling away from the pain, Erik leaned back until he was holding himself up with his elbows. Charles noted he now had better access to his injuries—he wondered if Erik was aware of that or not.
Erik hisses softly, his breath short. “Kinetikinesis.”
“A mutant who influences kinetic energy? Ah… I’ve only read about that, but I haven't met someone who could do it, though. I assume it was… unpleasant, with your mutation as it is?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly… enjoyable.” Came Erik’s dry reply, to which Charles hummed thoughtfully. At least he still had his wits about him—Charles would be deeply worried otherwise; more so than he already was, and that was an incredible feat, really. But he knew very well that Erik was capable of incredible things.
When he finished dabbing the wound with the alcohol, he pulled one of Hank’s special ointments out, side-eyeing the suspicious handwritten cure all which served as the only labeling.
As he began to carefully dribble the mysterious ointment on the injury, he subconsciously hummed a tune under his breath. He hadn’t realized until Erik mumbled a few lyrics in Polish that sounded so becoming on his lips—
Charles pressed his mouth into a small, concentrated frown. He didn’t stop humming, but his throat felt raw.
After a moment, though, he paused as he looked at the medical kit in search of a needle and thread. When he finally found what he was looking for, he carefully cleaned the metal before turning slightly to face the light so that he could poke the thread through the needle’s eye.
He, too, was given a halo of light that caused Erik to stare hopelessly until he moved, facing him again.
“I can sew myself up, Charles,” Erik grumbles, despite quite literally having an open wound that was gushing blood moments ago.
“You could, yes,” Charles replied, lining the needle up with where the gash began at his sternum.
“It’s easier when I do it, Charles–” Erik tried, voice rough, but strategically closed his mouth when Charles looked up at him through his dark lashes, the crease between his brows born of concentration.
“It might be, yes.” He answered after a beat of silence.
“I can–” He started again, only to be cut off by the gentle prod of the needle piercing his flesh, beginning to sew his skin back over his lesion.
“You could.”
“You’re impossible,” Erik hisses, tilting his head.
“ You’re sitting on my kitchen counter, and I’m keeping you from bleeding out.”
“And you don’t like that?” Erik argued, but his words were softer than intended. Instead, he ignored how his own voice trembled slightly—it couldn't have been from the blood loss. It couldn’t have been from anything other than the look Charles gave him as he lifted a challenging brow, something resembling a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
He’d long ago surrendered his denial, weary of shielding himself from the truth that had settled in his bones because it was far too late for Erik Lehnsherr to be anything but honest with himself. The truth was oftentimes all he had, and even now, he saw it as it was. When he looked at Charles Xavier, he knew he was fucked.
He would never admit any of it. And yet…
Erik found himself staring at Charles’ lips.
That was a very dangerous thing to do, but he couldn’t stop because Charles’ had one hand gently placed on his abdomen to steady himself, and the other was working the needle through his skin. Even the heat of the medal, the feeling of it piercing his skin, wasn’t enough to distract him from how beautiful Charles looked in the low kitchen light.
The stitching made its way to his stomach, and the way Charles’ fingers brushed his abdomen nearly made him see stars— god, he couldn’t keep this up. The gash deepened, and Erik exhaled slowly to keep himself steady, too lost in Charles’ concentrated profile to take much note of the pain.
“Are you alright?” Charles asked, looking up—had he been less focused, he might’ve noticed that Erik was already looking at him.
Afraid he might say something he would later regret, he only nodded. It also occurred to him that Charles might assume he’s in immense pain and would consider slowing his pace for Erik’s sake, which would not be helpful. It would instead be godly and agonizing to have his hands linger any longer on any part of his abdomen. Reasons be damned.
“Use your words, Erik.” They both knew if he was too pained to speak, Charles would let it go, or even communicate telepathically. More importantly, though, Erik was heavily focused on not letting his thoughts on Charles’ particular choice of words rise to the forefront of his mind.
They’d had many late-night conversations during chess and after about their own mutations, and Erik knew that loud, centered thoughts acted as a breeze for Charles’ mind to catch on, unintentionally swept into, like an echo calling one’s name. Desperation claws at him as he hopes that any of those thoughts remain silenced and that perhaps Charles’ concentration will be enough to keep his attention until Erik’s mind clears.
‘Don’t you dare try to kiss me until I’ve finished your stitches.’
He knew whose voice was in his mind—it was painfully beautiful, and he’d heard it out loud only moments before. Maybe he’d been too quiet for too long, letting his thoughts slip into the forefront of his mind… He wondered if it had even been real, as the panic set in. But as bright and blinding as the rising sun, he saw how Charles’ lips were curved a bit higher than before. Real, then.
It wasn’t as though Charles had never spoken telepathically to him before… It just usually wasn’t so casual, so terribly domestic, and he could do nothing but crave more.
“Thought you said–” he took a ragged breath at one of the deeper stitches, “–you wouldn’t read my mind,” he wondered suddenly if Charles was only teasing, distracting his friend from the work he was doing.
Charles only lifted his brow higher, head tilted the slightest bit, as his sapphire eyes flickered up to Erik’s. “ Without permission, remember?” He hummed, then continued telepathically. ‘ And it sounded an awful lot like permission when all I could hear was your mind reaching out…’
“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d answer,” Erik replied, inhaling slowly as he finished the next stitch, Charles’ free hand moving down to Erik’s hip to steady himself.
‘We both know that’s not true,’ and he swore he could hear Charles chuckle telepathically. Of course, he would. Even in his mind, it’s the most beautiful sound.
“Do we?” He breathed, watching Charles’ hands as they worked, having almost finished as he neared the crest of Erik’s hip. It felt as though tragedy were about to strike, knowing his torso would soon feel the absence of Charles’ warm hands.
Like a tidal wave, he became aware of the pain as the last of the adrenaline wore off. Damn Charles for being such a calming presence. He swore under his breath, softly, damning god and all others until he suddenly stilled. Charles’ thumb had brushed over his hip where he held it. He hoped Charles hadn’t noticed, but it seemed he wasn’t in god’s favor tonight.
He hummed again and began rubbing small circles with his thumb as he worked, finishing the stitches. As he cleaned away the mess, Charles looked up, noticing his stare.
He considered what Charles had said about not trying to kiss him until he was done with the stitches. He wondered if that had been an invitation, or perhaps nothing at all.
But then, there Charles was again, standing in front of him.
Charles lifted a hand, his touch faint as he ran a thumb over his brow, “This needs to be cleaned, too,” he murmured, dropping his hand and pulling out the bottle of alcohol. “No stitches, though.” With a cotton pad dipped in alcohol in hand, Charles leaned in the smallest bit, his brows drawn slightly together in concentration. All Erik could do was stare. At him, at his movements, his lips, his beautiful blue eyes.
The same thoughtful realization re-entered his mind. When he looked at Charles Xavier, he knew he was fucked.
Then, Charles set the cotton pad aside, put the alcohol away, and slid the medical kit back into its rightful place.
“Are there any other injuries I should know about?”
Erik didn’t break his stare when he answered, “No.”
“In that case,” Charles said, tilting his head thoughtfully. He was still standing between Erik’s legs, and Erik was still sitting on the counter. When Charles gently lifted his hands to Erik’s shoulders, then slowly up to his jaw, to the sides of his face, Erik didn’t move away.
When Charles looked at Erik Lehnsherr, he knew oh he was fucked.
Neither moved away. Neither wanted to.
“Yes?” Charles murmured, his blue eyes bright even in the low light.
“Yes,” Erik breathed. “It’s your move, Charles.” Charles chuckled softly at that, eyes crinkled up at the corners.
“In that case,” he repeated, though it didn’t really seem like he was going to say anything else, not when his head tilted and not when he leaned further forward. When their lips met, with every intention of being soft and gentle, conveying how they felt and the love they were desperate to show, they quickly realized they’d waited too long to be soft. They would do that another day, perhaps the morning they woke up the next, but tonight was just wanting and needing.
Charles' hands were in Erik’s hair, and Erik, cautious of his wounds, held onto Charles’ hips, pulling him forward, and running his hands along the other’s waist. Heads angled, they deepened the kiss—even if it seemed like they couldn’t breathe, mouths hot, to them, it felt like oxygen. Charles freed one of his hands to run it along Erik’s jaw until he found the base of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, while Erik’s tongue explored his mouth. Green tea, Erik thought as he smiled into the kiss.
‘You were drinking green tea?’ He didn’t feel the need to pull apart from the kiss to ask. He reached out, instead, with his mind, knowing Charles would hear it.
‘What else would I be doing in the middle of the night?’
Erik’s hands found their way under Charles’ thin sweater, exploring the skin beneath. ‘I could think of a few things, ’
Breaking apart only to breathe, Charles panted, his voice hoarse, “We are not going to ruin your stitches, Erik.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Erik chuckled breathlessly.
“You didn’t have to, ” Charles murmured pointedly, their breaths still mingling. “Your thoughts supplied me plenty of your ideas, with some very vivid imagery you had in mind as well.”
“And you don’t like that?” Repeating what he’d said earlier seemed to fit well—it also seemed to further fluster Charles, which made it all the more worth it.
“And we are not going to ruin your stitches.” Charles reiterated crisply, but his cheeks were tinged pink, and so were the tips of his ears.
Erik grinned, voice sultry and low. “After all your hard work, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Charles huffed a disbelieving laugh. “God, how do you manage to look like that after everything?” Charles exhaled, wrapping his arms around Erik’s neck while he began to absentmindedly leave kisses along Erik’s jaw.
When Charles pulled away, it was only to rest his forehead against Erik’s as the kitchen lights washed Erik in gold, his pale blue eyes soft. “Only for you,” he murmured in response.
After a moment, Charles paused, “You know, you didn’t have to knock,”
“Charles, darling, I don’t think I could’ve taken a step inside without you.”
“It feels so nice to be needed,” Charles replies dryly, though the smile is evident in his voice.
“I wouldn’t be alive to tell you so if it weren’t true,” Erik murmured, pulling Charles’ hands to his mouth to kiss his palm. “I’ve always needed you, Charles, even when I didn’t know it. Eventually, that need became want, and we both know I’m a selfish man when it comes to things I want…” He shook his head, eyes honest and loving. “I’ve needed you since you saved me the first time, Charles. And god, I don’t even remember a time when I didn’t want you.”
“You’ve never been selfish, Erik… You’ve only ever needed the opportunity to love and be loved without untimely loss.”
“Perhaps I should rephrase that, then. I’m selfish when it comes to you, Charles.”
“Because you want me?” Charles lifted a brow.
“More than you know,” Erik groaned. “Endlessly, Charles. I want you endlessly.”
“Erik, you should know that by now–” Charles began softly, “–you have me. Endlessly.”
Erik closed his eyes, “Say it again,” he breathed.
“You have me. Endlessly.”