Work Text:
i.
Somewhere in the ruins, time is ticking.
Erik does not feel Charles’s mind. This is a feeling that he knows.
The rage is ebbing away, now, like a lolling slope after a high, the tapering edges of a drop of watercolor. His skin is thrumming and he can still feel the sting of metal, all of this matter that has bent and will bend at his fingertips. When he lowers himself to the ground, the metal in the earth under his feet seems to sigh under his weight.
At first, he forgets the barrier. His mind grasps for Charles, a reflex, searching for the familiar voice that last was telling him, I’m sorry, I am so sorry, and when he is met with a blankness instead, his gut twists. He feels the metal of the moving minute hand that belongs to a watch somewhere in that rubble and reassures himself that it at the very least does not feel cold.
He gives Ororo a small nod that is simultaneously grateful and dismissive, and he lifts his gaze in time to see a young redhead retreating into the ruins.
Charles, he thinks, he calls, and in the confines of his helmet, no one answers.
ii.
He is afraid to take it off.
He waits, the earth’s metals whispering insistently under his feet, until they emerge from the ruins. The girl appears first, her features set into a solemn, yet visibly tired expression. A child, that’s all she is, and Erik could, would crush her with that suit, but she is not his priority.
He is afraid, but not of her.
iii.
“Moira is thinking that she would really kill you if she could,” says the redhead. She pauses. “But the professor isn't.”
Just ahead of him, Ororo takes a step forward, as if in warning.
The redhead looks at no one but him. “Take the helmet off.”
“No,” Erik says evenly. At the same time, two figures emerge from behind her, and he snatches at their suits instantly, slamming them into stone and hoisting them upwards by the buckles of their suits until their toes just brush the ground. Their struggle begins instantly—Erik recognizes Hank, but he doesn’t recognize the other blue-skinned mutant, a scrawny boy whose skin ripples weakly.
“But, professor,” the redhead is gasping.
Erik walks past them all, lets the pull of the watch lead him to Charles.
iv.
Moira places herself bodily in front of Charles, and Erik sweeps her aside by the buckle of her belt.
“Erik,” Charles says, perhaps a warning, but he does nothing to shield himself from where he's lying on the floor, vulnerable. His appearance—the blood smattered on his temple, his hair—stirs something within Erik, and the earth groans, shivers.
“I’m afraid your chair was destroyed,” Erik tells him, far more gently than he would like.
He watches Charles’s eyes, tired, tired blues, flit over the helmet secured around his head, his thoughts. “Among others,” Charles returns.
“Among others,” Erik agrees.
He doesn’t release his hold on buckles and buttons until he is walking out of the rubble himself, Charles safe, alive, in his arms.
He is very aware of the wristwatch thrumming and his own blood sighing with relief, relief, relief.
v.
“And how do you propose we get back?” Hank sounds more annoyed above anything else.
“I’ve got it taken care of,” murmurs Charles, and Erik notes the telltale tightening of his jaw, a sign that he is reaching out to others.
You need to rest, he finds himself thinking before remembering that Charles cannot hear him.
“Professor,” one of the children says, the one with glasses.
“I’ve got it,” Charles repeats, brow relaxing now. “Jean, would you make sure Moira is adjusting all right, please.” His shoulders slump then, and Erik stares down impassively as he leans his temple against Erik’s chest.
Hank surges forward, looking concerned. Erik lets him take half of a step before stopping him by the metal in his suit again, grip instinctively tightening around Charles.
“Erik,” Charles says, and Erik immediately loosens his grip again, fearing he might have accidentally hurt him.
Instead, Charles reaches up and brushes his fingers against the side of Erik’s helmet. Erik stills his hand by the hands of that damned watch.
“Erik,” Charles says, softer.
Erik releases him.
He feels the metal in the helmet hit the ground at the same time the metal on the watch brushes against his now-bare cheek.
Charles’s mind reaches out for him as his reaches out for Charles’s, seeking, and Erik finds whatever tremors left in his skin calming as Charles’s presence settles soundly in his thoughts.
“Thank you, my friend,” Charles says, eyes finally slipping shut.
I’m sorry, Erik pushes at him. I didn’t know what he would do, and his rage resurfaces briefly when he adds, to you.
There is a beat of silence, and he is aware that the others are watching them.
Oh, Erik, Charles says. It is something different when Charles calls his name like this; it is less a mere frequency in the air and more a tug at the edges of his mind, intimate, asking in a way that has always left the choice entirely up to Erik. Come back with us. Come back home, and we can talk.
Erik looks at him, feeling time ticking warmly against Charles’s skin, and chooses, Yes.