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“Bless you, Alex,” Charles says calmly, handing the boy a tissue as the kitchen table wobbles and collapses, taking everyone’s dinner plates down with it. Darwin's jacket smoulders quietly, smoke rising from its singed sleeve until he looks down and pats at it, smothering the embers.
“Aw man, I was looking forward to that lasagne,” Sean nudges the shattered glass dish with his foot. “Can’t you get sick when it’s the Professor's turn to cook?”
“Fuck you, Cassidy – who wrecked the TV last week?”
Immediately, the conversation devolves into the kids’ favourite pastime, which is, of course, squabbling over everything and nothing. Moira rolls her eyes and rescues her glass of wine from the carnage, narrowly avoiding Alex’ arm as he makes a grab for Sean and ducking out of the path of a not-so-rogue metal spatula that smacks said arm before more of the general Westchester kitchen area is destroyed.
“Stop it, Herrgott nochmal,” Erik groans. “Like toddlers, all of you. Clean this up, I’m ordering pizza for everyone.” And with that, he stalks out of the room. Charles watches him leave – because Charles is always watching Erik Lehnsherr these days, and it will be a real problem when he has to watch him leave for good – and turns back to the mess that used to be their kitchen table.
“Well. I’ll go fetch a bin, then.”
Erik returns just as Sean leaves with the bin, piled high with broken dishes and the sad remnants of their lasagne. There’s also the small issue of the six-foot-long gash that Alex’ powers have left in the door leading outside and which is currently being covered in layers of duct tape by Raven. Hank is holding the roll of tape for her – a two-person job, indeed.
“Oh, there you are,” Charles smiles at Erik. “Fancy going to the shops with me tomorrow? We’ll need to stock up on things.”
“Stock up? We just bought groceries. Yesterday.”
Charles’ smile turns apologetic as he surveys the cleaned kitchen.
“It’s just a precaution. I mean, living in such close quarters-”
“You don’t have any siblings, do you?” Angel butts in, perching on the kitchen counter next to Erik. “Whatever he’s got, we’re all about to have the same. Like an 8-for-1 deal, only for being miserable.”
“Unsinn. We just have to stay out of his way for a bit. I can lock him in the bunker,” Erik grins, only half joking, and earns himself a scathing look from Charles for his troubles.
“You will do no such thing. Alex will stay in his own, warm bed, we’ll get him the inhibitor jacket Hank’s been working on so he doesn’t sneeze the roof in half, and tomorrow, you and I will go stock up on medicine and soup. It can’t hurt.”
And that’s that.
~
Erik, of course, catches it first, shivering and coughing and sneezing his way through twelve hours of misery and returning the very next day to teach kids a lesson on gun safety as if nothing had happened because he even falls ill with the same ironclad efficiency he exercises over the rest of his life. For the first three days, he and Alex remain the only victims of whatever virus is making its rounds, but just as there seems to be some sort of hope for the rest of them, Sean starts complaining of a sore throat and it all goes downhill from there.
Newly recovered as he is, Erik avoids any further bouts of illness, but Charles certainly won’t make the man climb countless flights of stairs carrying heaps of sweaty bedding to and from the washing machine, nor any of the other strenuous tasks. Thus, Erik is on cooking duty, which he shares with Moira until she, too, falls ill a day or two after Hank and Angel do – and once Raven wakes up with a fever, it’s up to Darwin and Charles to take care of their ailing little family.
It’s not bad in its entirety. Alex is starting to do better, but seems to quietly enjoy being coddled a little: on his worst day, when he hadn’t eaten in too long, Charles had cut up his toast into little shapes – moons and hearts, and a smiley made from the leftover crust. He’ll never admit that it made him tear up, but Charles saw it all the same.
He’s asleep now, buried so far under his duvet that only his hair is visible, and Charles runs his fingers through it with a smile. They’re all so tough, so much more familiar with the world’s hardships than they should be, but they’re still kids, too. There’s a toy soldier next to the glass of water and the medicine on Alex’ nightstand, one that must’ve been Charles’, once upon a time. His heart aches at the sight.
“Sleep well, Alex,” he whispers and turns off the little bedside lamp. He leaves the door open a few inches because darkness reminds the boy of his weeks spent in solitary confinement. Charles clenches his jaw and nudges Alex’ dreams towards a crackling fireplace, matching pyjamas, and Christmas presents piled high under a tree.
Raven is still awake when he checks on her next. Hank and Angel have snuck into bed with her and on the radio, Johnny Dollar is just wrapping up his latest case. Charles leans against the doorway until the outro starts to play, and only then invades the bubble of comfort the three of them have created in Raven’s canopy bed.
Angel and Hank are both cuddling Raven, who is wedged between them so securely that Charles can only make out her head and left shoulder from where he is standing. Her fever has been bad all day, something he remembers from when she was little. Raven didn't get sick a lot, but when she did, she burned up every time.
“Hey there, nurse,” she croaks now, turning fever-bright eyes on him.
“Hello,” Charles murmurs. “How do you feel?”
“Ugh, like shit,” Raven closes her eyes. “I think I missed at least half of that case.”
“No surprise there, with that fever of yours,” Charles hands her a thermometer, touching the back of his hand first to Angel's, then Hank's forehead while he’s at it. Warm, but not dangerously so. Small mercies.
“What about you two?” he asks, watching the numbers on the thermometer climb and climb and climb. A hundred and one. A hundred and two. It levels out before the mercury can reach the next number, thank God.
Hank just turns his head away from Raven, coughs, and then buries his face in her shoulder with a groan. Angel hums in commiseration.
“What he said,” she rasps. It manages to sound even more painful than Raven's gravelly mess of a voice.
“I'm gonna kill Alex,” Hank finally pipes up and the rest of Raven’s arm emerges from the depths of her bedding to pat at him, vaguely placating.
Angel snorts quietly. “Maybe when you can stand for more than ten seconds.”
“Quite right,” Charles agrees, choosing not to comment on any murderous intents tonight. He does, occasionally, know how to pick his battles. “And until then, how about you all return to your own beds for the night? Surely that will be more comfortable.”
For all that her throat seems to hurt, Angel curses up a storm at having to leave the warm confines of Raven's bed, wrapping her arms around herself and making a face as she rolls her shoulders. Her joints have been aching, especially where her wings connect to her back, something she'd only confided in Charles about yesterday evening.
“There you go,” Charles smiles at her and shrugs off his cardigan, wrapping it around her shoulders instead. Abject misery radiates from the three of them, only worsening as Hank stumbles his way around the bed, leaning all of his six foot and two inches against Angel. Charles winces and shores up his shields as he ushers them out of the room, glancing back at Raven.
“Be right back, love.”
Raven just flaps her hand and burrows back into her pillows.
In the hallway, they run into Darwin, just in time for him to steady Hank as the combined efforts of Angel and Charles aren't enough to keep him quite upright anymore. Darwin, to his credit, is looking as chipper as ever, his mind humming with quiet satisfaction even though Charles knows the young man hasn't had a minute to sit and rest all day.
“Thank you, Darwin,” he says, once Hank and Angel have been safely delivered to their respective rooms. “And I'm sorry. I know this isn't what we promised you when we first met.”
“What, training as a field medic?” Darwin grins. “Come on now, Professor. Nothing to apologise for.”
“There is, though. I don't want you to think that you have to sacrifice your entire day just because you aren't sick,” Charles sighs.
“You're doing nothing else all day, either,” Darwin raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at everyone else's rooms, at Charles's wrinkled button-up and floppy hair, at the two backup thermometers clipped to his breast pocket.
“I'm responsible for them, Darwin, you aren't. You're still-”
“A kid?” Darwin huffs. “No offence, but you're what, two years older than me?”
“Three,” Charles shifts his feet, embarrassment heating the back of his neck. God, who let him be in charge here, seriously.
“Three. So believe me, some laundry and looking after the others won't kill me.”
“I know. I know it won't, I'm sorry. Again,” Charles rubs a hand over his forehead. God, he's tired. “Still, you've done more than enough today. Relax a little, read a book. Or you could watch some TV? I believe you'll never have as little competition to pick the programme as you do today.”
A spark of interest does light up in Darwin's mind at the mention of the TV and he follows Charles back down the corridor, chatting good-naturedly until they part at the door to Raven's room. Charles is glad for it. Darwin may be the oldest of their recruits (kids, he cannot help thinking of them as kids – the word 'recruits' leaving a bitter taste in his mind), but Charles would stand between all of them and the darkness outside these walls if he could. The teens, Darwin, Moira, Erik, even Frost, for all that she's misguided. If he could take the weight off their shoulders, he would.
“I can see you being all... frowny over there,” Raven emerges from her nest of pillows, but only slightly. “Stop it. You're not sick, you're not allowed to be in a bad mood.”
“Right you are,” Charles smiles a little and sits down on her bedside. “Is there anything you still need? More tea? Here, you should take another dose before you go to sleep, I don't like how high your temperature is today.”
“Mother hen,” Raven rolls her eyes, but takes the Tylenol he offers her.
Charles brushes a strand of hair back behind her ear, sweat and heat clinging to his fingers. He repeats the motion, once, twice, watches Raven's eyelids droop with exhaustion.
“Sleep. Call for me if you need something,” he says softly, tapping her temple with his index finger. “I'll hear you.”
“Mhngh.”
Charles chuckles. “I love you. Good night.”
“L’ve ya.”
Raven is well and truly asleep within moments, but Charles stays and watches the rise and fall of her chest for another handful of minutes before a spike of guilt has him getting up and sneaking out of the room as quietly as possible. It's not just Raven whom he needs to take care of now, and he shouldn't be sitting around when he hasn't looked in on Sean all evening.
The poor boy looks even paler than usual, wiggling his fingers in an approximation of a wave when Charles enters his room. There's a mostly empty cup of tea in his hands, almost certainly courtesy of Darwin's before he'd helped put Angel and Hank to bed.
How are you feeling? Throat doing any better? Charles asks, straightening out the sheets that have tangled around Sean's feet. Clammy. They'll need changing before he goes to sleep.
Nope. Still hurts like shi... pwreck. Sorry.
Charles huffs, a smile tugging at his lips. I'm sure it does hurt like shit. I came down with a nasty bout of tonsillitis in university once, and it just about made me want to die. Would you like a fresh cup of tea? And a new set of sheets, I'd say?
Sean nods miserably. He lets Charles direct him to the armchair in the corner, wrapped up in his duvet so he won't get cold while Charles tucks clean sheets around his mattress, and watches the whole procedure, bleary-eyed and silent.
There we go, you can lie back down. Much better, isn't it? Charles pats the boy's shoulder. Now let me get you that tea and you'll be right as rain in a few days, you'll see.
Thanks, Professor.
God, even telepathically the kid sounds exhausted. Charles' heart squeezes in sympathy.
You're very welcome, Sean. It's no trouble.
He gathers the pile of sheets into his arms and walks downstairs, briefly pausing in the doorway leading to the sitting room where he spies Darwin and Erik watching some sort of Western. Charles smiles and continues down to the laundry room, undetected.
Or so he'd thought – because once he makes his way back upstairs from the basement, he can’t even catch his breath for a second before he’s ambushed by Erik and dragged into the kitchen by the iron grip of Erik’s hand wrapped around his upper arm. Dear God, those hands.
“Sit. Eat that,” Erik stabs at the counter with his finger a few times, as if Charles might miss the sandwich sitting right in front of him.
“Yes, yes, in a moment. Sean needs-”
“No, not in a moment. Now.”
“But-”
“Charles.”
“Goodness. Fine, alright. But I promised Sean another cup of tea – would you be a dear and bring him one, then? Peppermint with lots of honey.”
“I know,” Erik rolls his eyes. “He's only been drinking eight of those a day for the past week.”
Charles huffs. “He has, hasn't he? Well, if it helps.”
Erik pushes away from the counter and starts puttering around the tea drawer, even though he'd certainly object to ever being described as puttering around anywhere.
“Tea is good,” he says, his back a line of tension as he spoons the leaves into a strainer. Charles takes a cautious bite of his sandwich and just listens. “My Mama used to make tea when I was sick. Kamille.”
“Chamomile?” Charles guesses quietly.
“Mhm. Awful stuff. Helped, though.”
Erik fills the cup with hot water and the smell of peppermint wafts through the room. A suffocating sadness grips Charles by the throat and doesn't let go of him for a long, long minute.
“I'm glad,” he manages, finally. It's not enough. It's never enough and it never will be, because what could he ever say? What comforts are there, for the terrible injustice that has been done to Erik and that will never be undone?
Erik coughs slightly as the brings the cup over to the counter to finish steeping, and Charles reaches for his hand like instinct, like the most innate of reflexes. They're all animals, deep down, mammals comforted by skin-to-skin contact. He's not too sure if he is doing this for Erik or himself, though. Maybe a little bit of both.
“You're still coughing?” Charles murmurs. “I thought it was getting better?”
“It is. Just a few stragglers, don't fret.”
“I always do, though.”
“I know. You can't help it,” Erik smirks and squeezes Charles' hand. Then, much too soon, he pulls away. “I'll give Sean a good night kiss from you. Should I read him Pippi Longstocking or The Little Prince, what do you think?”
“I think that you're an arse,” Charles laughs. “Did you hear any of them complaining? Besides, Tolkien is perfectly acceptable literature for their age.”
“Dwarves and wizards, Charles. What's next, Father Christmas?”
Charles just rolls his eyes, biting his cheeks to keep his smile in check.
“Tea. Sean. If you would.”
Erik’s grin only widens, like he knows exactly what he's doing to Charles, but he doesn't push the issue and disappears, the mug of tea floating along on a saucer Charles is almost entirely certain used to be one of Kurt's hunting knives. Good riddance.
He finishes his sandwich in blessed silence, rolling down his shirtsleeves as the cold starts to creep in. Maybe he can replace the broken door himself – Erik can handle the hinges and he’ll manoeuvre the door itself. It’s dismal in here with just the tape for isolation.
~
Charles saves his visit to Moira’s room for last. When he knocks on her door, Moira’s mind is still as furiously at work as it has been all evening, barely registering the sound. He sighs and opens the door.
“Moira.”
She’s pretty even like this, in a wilder way than she had been during their first meeting at the bar. Her hair is messy, as if she’d run her hands through it one too many times, there are spots of colour high on her cheeks, and she’s scowling at the typewriter in front of her. If things were different, Charles might have fallen for her, but... well.
“Moira,” he says, more forcefully this time, and tugging at her attention with his powers, just a little. “You should be resting.”
“I will, I just have to finish this.”
Charles takes a few steps into the room to glance at her writing and sighs.
“What could you possibly have to tell your superiors that warrants an official report while you have a one-hundred-degree fever? That we’re all sick?”
Moira hits the space bar with more force than necessary. “Yes, in fact. That we’re all sick, that mutants get ill and bleed and suffer just as we do – well, except for Darwin and you, apparently, you lucky idiots – so they can stop thinking of mutants as some supernatural weapon of mass destruction, thank. you. very. much.”
Charles blinks, stunned. Look, he wants to tell Erik. Look how kind she is, how unflinchingly protective. Humanity isn’t all bad if you know where to look.
“I... appreciate that,” he says finally, putting a hand on her back. She’s radiating heat, and Charles makes a mental note to bring her more Tylenol. “But still, Moira. Go to bed, please – this can wait. Get better first.”
“But there's so much to do,” she buries her face in her hands, despair creeping into her voice. “Everyone wants to know about the progress we're making here, we have no idea what our timeline with Shaw is, and I can't even think straight enough to finish a basic report!”
“Oh, hush now. It's alright. It's all going to be alright,” Charles tugs her into his side and keeps rubbing her back. “You're tired and sick, it's making everything feel worse than it is.”
Moira nods, a shiver running through her. Right, that's his cue.
“You do need to rest, Moira. Genuinely. How important is that report?”
She peers up at him through a curtain of that stunning auburn hair he'd first noticed about her.
“Would you really? You don't have to-”
“Please,” Charles waves her off. “Do you know how many lab reports I had to hand in during undergrad? This is nothing. I'll make sure to use your idiolect.”
“Which is still creepy.”
“Is not. It's just patterns of linguistic behaviours – no more ‘creepy’ than knowing how someone takes their tea.”
“Creeeepy,” Moira croaks. Then- “Thank you, Charles.”
“Don't mention it.”
“Especially not to Erik, huh?” she smirks.
“God, no. Really, don't – he already wants my head on a stick.”
“Mhm. Sure he does.”
“Well then, I- um. I'll leave you to it,” Charles clears his throat, suddenly eager to escape the direction this conversation has taken. Moira, thankfully, seems inclined to take mercy on him and deposits the typewriter in his hands.
“If you get stuck, don't feel like you have to finish this, I can do it tomorrow. Or wake me up if you have any questions.”
“I will,” he says. They both know it’s a lie.
“Good night, Charles. Don't stay up too late again.”
“Sleep well, Moira,” Charles chuckles. He nudges the door shut with his foot on the way out, both of his hands occupied with the weight of the typewriter. As he carries it to his own room, his mind starts drafting the first few sentences, and a glimmer of hope fills him – maybe he will make it to bed before midnight. He’s good with words, after all. How hard can this be?
~
Charles hates the bloody report.
The hands on his wristwatch slowly shuffle towards three a.m., and he's been staring at the same paragraph for the past half hour at least. An hour before that, Erik had checked in on him one last time, threatening bodily harm to both Charles and the typewriter if Charles didn't go to bed soon, which is why as far as Erik's powers are concerned, the typewriter is currently unmoving and silent, and Charles asleep in his bed. A less-than-fair trick, sure, but desperate times and such. What Erik doesn't know won't hurt him.
What will hurt, however, is banging his head against the table in front of him, tempting as it may be. It's not a lack of things to write about that is keeping him here, glued to his godforsaken desk at three in the bloody morning – it's how to say what he wants to say without the CIA siccing a squadron of soldiers on them.
"Miss Salvadore seems to be exhibiting higher than normal... yes, sure, higher acidic measurements than normal, they'll love that. Brilliant, Charles,” he mutters, crossing out his notes with a scratch of pencil across the battered paper.
"... elevated levels of... no, not acidity – sounds too... but that’s what she does, I mean..." Charles groans and scrubs his hands over his face. Squeezing his eyes shut feels like going over them with sandpaper. He's never going to get this done before morning.
He wants to talk about the brilliant developments he's witnessing, both socially and biologically. How the kids are sticking together, how the ones who are doing a little better will fetch the others tea and snacks on their own pale-faced trips to the kitchen. How he suspects that the corrosive potency of Angel's saliva has increased to protect her while she's sick. He wants to tell them about that little episode with Darwin yesterday, how he sensed Erik’s powers somehow and managed to evade the paperclip Erik had flung in his direction; how it had opened up a whole new avenue of discussion about what Darwin might be capable of.
But Charles knows what this will sound like to anyone who is even the slightest bit afraid of them.
The mutants are banding together. They're stronger when threatened. The mutants’ powers are unquantifiable and thus dangerous.
Every unknown variable is dangerous to a man who is already afraid.
If he could just find the right words. If he found the right words, he would be able to explain that there is nothing to fear, that the kids are shining, brilliant examples of humanity, not the threat they're made out to be. He can make them understand, he knows he can. It is the least he owes to the kids.
Charles crumples up the page and starts anew.
~
Waking up the next morning is a chore in itself, but there are six feverish, dear minds tugging at the edge of his consciousness, minds belonging to feverish, dear children (and Moira), who will all need tea and breakfast and some kind words, and so Charles unfurls himself from the slumped position he'd fallen asleep in and peels the topmost page of the report off his cheek before heading to his wardrobe for a change of clothes.
The morning air has sharp teeth, but when Charles makes his way into the kitchen, bundled up in his favourite wool cardigan, Erik only casts him an amused glance, his arms looking tanned and capable and strong, straining slightly against the sleeves of his t-shirt. It's too early to be tempted like this.
Charles prays for strength, restraint, anything – but since divine intervention fails to occur, he focuses on making tea instead.
"Don't tell me you went on a run. You know you still ought to take it slow," he tells Erik in place of a 'good morning' – if only because he might not survive hearing those words echoed back to him in Erik’s gravelly morning rumble. Erik's eyes follow him through the room, and while his expression barely changes, the silvery glint of his amusement shines so brightly in his mind that it takes Charles' breath away.
"I did not go on a run," Erik says, voice dripping in sarcasm even though he's telling the truth. "What about you? Planning a trip to the Arctic in between tea deliveries?"
"See if I'll bring you back a souvenir from Santa with that attitude," Charles shoots back, smiling. The tea in his mug is slowly deepening in colour, promising relief from the heaviness in his eyelids and the roughness in his throat.
Erik huffs, a sound that isn't quite a chuckle, but more than a breath, and it sends a thrill down Charles' spine. Just as he's starting to look around for the sugar bowl, it slides across the counter, politely nudging his wrist. And still, Erik is watching him.
"Thank you, my friend," Charles clears his throat. "Just what I was looking for."
"I know."
Charles nods, nonsensically.
"Well. I'll go see how the children are doing, then."
Erik frowns. For a moment, it looks like he's going to argue, tell Charles to sit down and so on and so forth. But instead of words, all he gets from Erik's mind is the impression of an iron wall, as tall as his eyes can see.
The message is quite straightforward – he's dismissed. But as Charles walks past Erik's chair, he can't resist squeezing his shoulder, just once.
Are you alright, my friend?
Fine. Short and to the point. Brutal as the blow of an axe.
Your fever didn't come back, did it? If you don't feel well-
"I said I'm fine," Erik snaps, pushing away from the kitchen counter, from Charles' hand.
“I know, I'm sorry,” Charles rushes to say. “Erik-“
But he's gone. He will be back – once he has worked through whatever tender spot, frustration, or unhealed wound Charles has managed to prod this time, by prowling the perimeter of the mansion like a caged tiger and flinging spare bits of metal around for an hour or two. He always does come back to Charles’ side eventually.
Unless he won't. Unless one day, Charles will say the wrong thing, or touch Erik in a way that will distort his handsome face into a snarl of disgust. He knows that Erik is... interested. Intrigued by him – as much by his powers as he is intrigued by the curve of Charles’ throat, the colour of his lips, the deftness of his hands. It borders on impossibility not to pick up on these thoughts with his telepathy, not when they're a near constant companion of Erik's presence.
But interest is not intent.
Intrigue is a hypothesis, a question still unanswered. And if Erik will never even ask, never explore beyond what they share now...
Charles will be here. Content with this, with the generosity Erik has already shown him. He doesn't need more. This is already so much, so precious.
Charles sighs and pushes the thought aside, making his way up the grand staircase. Already, he can hear at least two of the kids coughing their lungs out and winces in sympathy. Inhaling is supposed to help with that, isn't it? Maybe if he brought a few pots upstairs and then filled them with hot water from the kettle so they won't have to climb so many unnecessary stairs and sit in the cold kitchen. Now there's an idea.
~
That night, Raven takes a turn for the worse.
Her fever is still too high, painstakingly constrained to a terrifying 103° on the thermometer by a strict regimen of medication and endless cold compresses that he changes every twenty minutes. Both Darwin and Erik try to take over for him around midnight, if only so he can eat something – they all know he won't be able to sleep. But Raven is delirious, restless, and she doesn't recognise the others' faces when they lean in to shush her.
So Charles scarfs down the food Erik presses into his hands in between changing her compresses himself, naps in fits and starts, slouched into the armchair Darwin had carried into the room at some point around nightfall. He’d be hard-pressed to name a single ingredient of whatever dinner had been. Erik could have been feeding him cardboard, for all that he cares.
Her fever breaks as the first grey light of dawn creeps into the room (thank God, thank God). Raven is exhausted, still looking faintly purple with heat and so painfully young, and haven't they been here before? Did they really get away from this awful house or is it still the winter of '44, the first and worst time Raven had been sick – when he had also plied her with medication if he could nick some from the medicine cabinet, cooling her down with damp washcloths when he couldn't?
Raven sniffles miserably, her eyes still shiny with that feverish sheen, and Charles just climbs into bed next to her and holds her. His little sister, the first one who was like him, his everything. How can he let her face Shaw after seeing what the man is capable of – how can he ask anything of her, let alone this?
Charles buries his face in her hair and pretends that it is as comforting as when he was still allowed to read her mind.
His head aches from the lack of sleep and his hands are freezing despite Raven's solid warmth in his arms, but he's had his fair share of migraines throughout the years. This is nothing. Charles allows himself to keep holding her for another hour, just until he feels the others starting to wake up.
As he carefully extricates himself from Raven's grasp, he runs mental fingers along the threads of everyone’s minds. Alex – already wide awake and shuffling downstairs for breakfast, delighted with the fact that he doesn't feel too exhausted to do so for the first time in days. Moira and Hank are still asleep, good for them, even if Hank is having really quite an odd dream; time machines and creatures resembling trolls and Raven clad in a pink dress she'd absolutely despise, seriously?
Then there's Sean, just waking up and registering the persistent soreness in his throat, poor boy, and Angel, who seems to be awake, but content with staying in bed and sneakily reading ahead on Bilbo Baggins’ adventures instead of getting up for food. Charles smiles to himself and makes a mental note to bring her an omelette once breakfast is ready.
Breakfast, apparently, is being prepared by Darwin, which is only odd insofar that usually, Erik insists on-
Ah.
Erik is standing just outside Raven's room, listening for signs of Charles being awake. It speaks for how exhausted Charles truly is that it took him this long to notice the man, and Charles resolutely does not stumble when a wave of vertigo crashes into him as soon as he gets up. He's simply... leaning against Raven's bedpost to collect his thoughts for a moment. Yes.
A flash of alarm reverberates through Erik's mind and Charles remembers, too late, that he is still wearing his watch, which Erik can undoubtedly feel. He hears the door opening, his vision still rather preoccupied with all the black spots dancing in front of it, and moments later, a strong, steady hand covers his shoulder.
"Charles."
Just his name. Barely more than a syllable, and yet in Erik's mind, it comes alive, brimming with emotion. No one but Erik pronounces his name like this, like something precious.
There's the soft 'clink' of a cup being set down somewhere nearby, which is all the warning he gets before Erik's other hand cradles his elbow, achingly gentle as he guides Charles to sit down on the mattress. Sitting. Yes. Brilliant idea, that.
"I'm alright," Charles swallows thickly, blinking away the last of the shadows at the edge of his vision. Which is, of course, the wrong thing to say – as made evident by the clockwork dance of Erik’s worry-protect-care screeching to a halt and throwing itself against Charles' shields in a towering wave of anger. The grip on his arm tightens, near bruising, and Charles can taste copper, tastes iron and fear, and there is no telling whether it is Erik’s or his own.
"What the hell was that?" Erik growls, shakes him when Charles hesitates. " Damn it, Charles, talk!"
"I'm alright,” Charles repeats, twisting out of Erik's grasp. Erik, surprisingly, allows it. "Keep your voice down, Raven is sleeping. Unlike me, so you’ll have to forgive me for not exactly being in fighting order right now."
Not exactly in... Even telepathically, Erik manages to sound exasperated. Will you pass out if you stand up?
Charles scoffs quietly and slides off the bed, one of Erik's hands hovering anxiously at his lower back. Down by their feet, he spies the cup of tea Erik must‘ve brought with him, still pleasantly hot against his palm when he picks it up.
Come along, he glances at Erik over his shoulder. You can yell at me while I enjoy this tea.
Erik only projects a marvellously clear impression of the concept of idiocy at him, but follows Charles out of the room and closes the door with a twist of his powers. This close to Erik – close telepathically, his mind nestled seamlessly against Erik's – his powers are a wonder to behold, an explosion of colour echoing across Erik’s mind into his. Aurora borealis, an awe-struck voice within Charles suggests. Magnetism made beautifully, sublimely visible.
Erik snorts and his hand finds its place on Charles' shoulder again, amusement trickling across their connection as Erik steers him towards his bedroom.
"Poetry, Charles? You really are tired. Give me that."
“Wait- now hold on, I'm still drinking that!”
"It's black tea, so no, you're not. You're taking a nap," Erik says. And with a flick of his fingers, he unlatches a window and pours Charles' perfectly delicious cup of tea into the ugly array of boxwood shrubs his mother had made the gardeners plant there two decades ago.
Charles purses his lips.
"I really, really hate you right now, you know that?"
"Ja, ja,” Erik says amiably and deposits the dripping cup on the hardwood windowsill, the heathen. But a mere second later, his arm is back around Charles' shoulders, mind alight with satisfaction and amusement, and as so often, Charles finds himself incapable of staying mad at Erik Lehnsherr for any significant amount of time. Bugger.
“Don't let me sleep for too long,” Charles yawns, sinking down on the edge of his bed as Erik moves around the room and closes the curtains.
"I won't."
"And someone needs to keep an eye on Raven, she isn't out of the woods yet. If her fever rises again-“
"We'll get her more Tylenol and cold washcloths, yes."
"Yes, but – Christ, Erik, I can fluff up my pillows myself,” Charles blushes, batting Erik's hands away. “ Oh, and Angel is awake. Make sure she'll eat something, even if she doesn't feel like getting up yet, would you?"
"Charles.”
"Yes, my friend?"
"Go take a fucking nap."
"Mh, quite."
Charles tips over onto his side, his eyes closing before his head even hits the pillow. He blindly gropes around for his blanket, mostly without success until Erik takes pity on him and tucks it around his shoulders. And maybe he is already dreaming, because just before the darkness of sleep claims him entirely, he can feel the brush of fingertips across his cheek, lingering only for a second.
~
Erik is still there when Charles opens his eyes again, looking tall and handsome cloaked in the shadows of Charles' room.
"Hm, hello," Charles yawns, turning onto his side. “How are the kids doing?"
"They're fine. You talk in your sleep."
Charles' heart skips a beat. Or five. Cautiously, he sits up, pinned in place by the steely grey of Erik's gaze. The other feels... odd. Off.
"Oh?"
Erik nods. “You would've been sent to a camp for these kinds of things, you know?"
"Erik – my friend, listen, I'd never...” Charles stands up, approaching Erik the way he would a cornered tiger, a predator all too ready to strike out and defend itself. "It's not like that.”
I'm not like that, I would never ask anything of you that you wouldn't give freely anyway. Please stop looking at me like that.
"Like what?” Erik laughs sharply. “A fairy?”
Charles flinches, understanding flooding his veins .
"You're not him."
A flash, and he's being shoved against a wall, Kurt Marko's fingers digging into his neck. His stepfather always was bigger than Charles; stronger, too, and he had no qualms about using that strength against him.
"Pathetic," Kurt snarls. "He'll see. You can't hide forever, Charlie."
Charles can't breathe.
He can't breathe.
Clawing at Kurt's wrist does exactly nothing, and his telepathy slips through his fingers like sand, ineffectual, shapeless. But of course it does. This is a dream, after all.
" You're... not real,” Charles wheezes, straining against Kurt's hand. His head hurts. He needs to wake up. He just needs to-
"I'm real enough. Still haven't caught on yet, have you, Charlie?" Kurt grins, his grip tightening around Charles' neck until his lungs are burning, screaming for air. “I’m you. And you know he'll leave. It's just a matter of time.”
Go away, Charles pleads silently. He squeezes his eyes shut, but nothing can drown out the vicious stream of hatred Kurt keeps hissing into his ear. Go away, go away, just leave me ALONE!
He jolts awake with a gasp, clutching his throat.
The bedroom is empty.
Just a dream.
Charles exhales shakily and pulls his knees to his chest, resting his forehead on them. His throat still aches something fierce, which would explain that awful dream. Well. If he’s honest with himself, it was almost tame by Charles' usual standards, but... it had worn Erik's face. And he can't forget the cold, cold hatred in those eyes.
With a sniffle, he banishes the dream to the back of his mind. Judging from the light filtering through the curtains, it ought to be somewhere around noon, and while his body is still screaming for rest, the thought of closing his eyes and risking another one of those dreams turns his stomach. That, and the flu probably plays a part in it, as well.
It had only been a matter of time, really. Charles is neither stubborn nor self-deluded enough to ignore the leaden heaviness in his limbs, not to mention the fact that he's absolutely freezing. Nonetheless, being a little sick is no excuse for him to just go and leave everyone to their own devices – he's sick, not on his deathbed.
So, after a visit to the medicine cabinet for some much-needed painkillers (and splashing his face with water until he feels, if not fully awake, at least a little more human), he wanders downstairs to check on everyone. It seems that they’ve all accumulated in the sitting room; Erik, Moira, the rest of their little team – even Raven, as Charles notes with some consternation. Didn't he tell them to take care of her? In what world does that entail dragging the poor girl downstairs, sick as she is, just to–
Charles stops in the doorway.
The room is barely recognisable, sofas and ottomans he didn't even know he owned all pushed together to form an island of cosiness close to the crackling fireplace. There are pillows scattered positively everywhere and probably twice as many blankets, and the kids are curled up together in the centre of it all. Most of them are dozing, Raven with her head on Hank's shoulder and Sean's on her lap in turn, his legs stretched out across both Angel and Alex, who are the only ones still awake and listening to Erik.
Erik.
He's sat further away from the fire, shirtsleeves rolled up and balancing the book he's reading in one hand, his left side occupied by a gently snoring Darwin, with Moira fast asleep next to them. When he spots Charles, his eyebrows furrow with concern, but his voice never falters.
“’Where did you go to, if I may ask?’ said Thorin to Gandalf as they rode along. ‘To look ahead,’ said he. ‘And what brought you back in the nick of time?’ ‘Looking behind,’ said he.
I thought that dwarves and wizards were beneath you, Charles murmurs, amused. He leans against the doorway just as his telepathy curls around Erik's mind, gleefully tracing the way Erik imagines the gentle hills and lush valleys of the Shire, the craftsmanship of the dwarves' weapons, the embroidered details of Bilbo's waistcoat – which bears a suspicious resemblance to one of Charles'.
‘Exactly!’ said Thorin; 'but could you be more plain?’
They are, Erik replies. His projection is a little less sharp than usual, but Charles’ powers steady him happily, weaving in and out between Erik's focus on the book and their conversation like fireflies – look here. now this word out loud, yes, you're doing wonderfully. now here. I've got you, my friend.
They are, Erik says again, but it's easier to keep an eye on everyone like this. And they wanted to continue the book.
‘I went on to spy out our road. It will soon become dangerous and difficult. Also I was anxious about replenishing our small stock of provisions. I had not gone very far, however, when I met a couple of friends of mine from Rivendell.’
I see. Purely for practical reasons, of course.
‘Where's that?’ asked Bilbo.
‘Don't interrupt,’ said Gandalf.” Erik shoots him a pointed glare and Charles chuckles. Right, message received. Shush, Charles.
He lingers in the doorway for another handful of minutes, letting the baritone of Erik's voice wash over him and chase away the icy fingers of his nightmare still clinging to the back of his neck. Here, in broad daylight with Erik right in front of him, the imposter his mind had conjured up seems ridiculous. That hadn't been Erik.
Erik, who taps his thumb against the edge of the book entirely subconsciously when the plot begins to pick up speed. Erik, who is slowly getting a crick in his neck, but won't move his arm for fear of waking Darwin. Erik, who does silly, distinct voices for all the different characters.
Erik, who will look at him occasionally, his eyes steely and warm at the same time; who won’t look away until Charles does.
It's unbearable, suddenly. And besides, Charles really needs to sit down. Ideally in a place where no one will see him put his head between his knees and wait for the vertigo to pass.
I'll go make us some food for when they wake up. Sandwiches, hm?
He doesn't wait for Erik's response to turn on his heels and hurry into the direction of the kitchen. Coward, a voice inside of him whispers, and Charles finds himself inclined to agree.
~
The remainder of the day slips away in between chores and more chores, punctuated by a frankly inadvisable amount of painkillers, but – needs must. He’d tested his body's tolerance for those back when he and Raven moved to Oxford, when the unimaginable noise of so many people being all around him at every hour of the day had almost driven him insane.
The headaches he'd had until he’d refined his shields well enough to sleep through the night had been... unpleasant, to say the least. Thus: painkillers.
And besides, they help. Which is good – he no longer feels as if someone had taken a fire poker and used it to bash his head in before feeding him the red-hot embers. He feels a little unsteady, yes, cold despite the thick jumper he digs out of his closet around dinnertime, but he can deal with this. He can. The kids are doing much worse than he is.
So what if he crawls into his own bed in utter exhaustion after doing his nightly rounds to send the kids off to sleep, not even bothering to change into his pyjamas? It's a pity he has to turn down Erik's invitation to play chess, especially since he can barely remember the last time they'd managed a game, back before everyone had fallen ill, but Charles is reasonably sure he would have fallen asleep mid-move ten minutes into the game. Besides, maybe he will be lucky. A full night of sleep might get him back on his feet.
It doesn't.
He wakes up in the small hours of morning, shivering and soaked with sweat. At some point within the last hours, the effects of those painkillers must have worn off and left him with a throat full of razorblades and a blinding headache, not to mention the ache that seems to have taken up a permanent residence in his limbs. Charles pushes the sheets aside, damp and uncomfortable as they are, and winces as the cold air sends flickers of pain across his skin in retaliation.
God, he's so exhausted he could cry.
He doesn’t want to get up. He wants to burrow back into a magically clean, warm bed, he wants to sleep, wants someone to hold him and say that they’ll take care of him. Just for a little while.
But bedsheets don't magically change themselves and he certainly won't go and wake Erik or Darwin. It's fine. It's fine, he just needs to break it down into steps. Small, manageable tasks.
Fold back the comforter so it can air out.
Gather the sheets you need to wash. Pillowcases, too, Charles. Use your brain.
Don't think about how heavy everything feels, how your arms shake from exertion.
Be quiet when you walk down the corridor. Don't wake the others.
Go downstairs. Two flights of stairs to the ground floor, another one to the basement.
Catch your breath. Catch your breath.
Sheets into the washing machine. Laundry detergent. Start.
One flight of stairs up to the ground floor.
Catch your breath.
One up to the landing.
Hold on to the banister when the world begins to spin.
Breathe.
Don't pass out.
Don't pass out.
His body disagrees. It's his knees that buckle first, and then he's collapsing like a puppet whose strings have been cut, darkness encroaching on his vision. No. Damn it, get up, the children can't find him like this – he needs to get up, he'll scare them, he has to–
...
.
.
.
Erik wakes up shivering.
Which, in itself, isn't too strange. He’d felt the lingering effects of that godawful flu just as the rest of the team, especially at night – no matter how well he’d hidden it from everyone but Charles. He’d been feeling better for the past few days, but it seems he's been a fool to have hope. Damn that virus, damn Summers for infecting them all, damn himself for putting that bottle of Tylenol back in the bathroom instead of keeping it on his nightstand.
Erik groans as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. How is he doing worse now than he had been a week ago? His head throbs as he stumbles into the darkness of the hallway, relying more on the hum of metal fixtures throughout the house than on his eyes to find his way.
His hand is already wrapped around the handle of the bathroom door when he hesitates. Something is... off.
It's not just the strange, sudden setback in his recovery, or the knifelike headache, so different from his symptoms a week ago. No, something is bothering him, like a grain of sand stuck in his eye, like a mismatched puzzle piece.
Like a watch in the wrong place within the mansion.
It only takes him a heartbeat to make it to the top of the stairs; another to rush down to the landing and drop to his knees next to the motionless figure lying there, next to-
"Charles. Charles.”
He gets his hands under Charles' shoulders and turns him on his back, his head lolling in the crook of Erik's arm. And he isn’t waking up.
"Charles!" he repeats, begs, his heartbeat like thunder in his ears as he jostles the telepath hard enough to elicit a reaction – just a weak groan, a furrow between his eyebrows, but it's something, anything, thank God.
Erik's hands shake so much he almost misses the tremors wracking Charles’ body, but as he pulls him closer, brushing the hair out of Charles' face – bruised, he must've hit it when he fell – he does feels them. Bone-deep shivers. Dry, swelteringly hot skin. Shit.
He hoists Charles into his arms (far too light, even limp and unconscious as he is; I'm sorry Charles, I'm so sorry, come back to me) and rushes back upstairs, moving as fast as he dares to with Charles cradled to his chest.
Later, he will have to apologise for waking everyone with how he yells for Darwin and MacTaggert. He will have to fix the locks on their bedroom doors, which his powers tear clean off their hinges. Later. Right now, there is only Charles.
He throws open the door to Charles' room, only marginally more gently, and stops short at the sight of the bare mattress, stripped of everything but the pillows and the comforter, halfway on the ground and threatening to slide off the bed entirely. Did Charles...?
"Fucking hell," Erik growls. He doesn't have time for this, Charles doesn't have time. His own room, then.
Up ahead, MacTaggert flips on the light to the hallway, her eyes widening at the scene before her.
"What happened?! Charles?"
Erik storms past her and opens his bedroom door with a harsh jerk of his chin, ignoring the way the kids' doors inch open one after another as they are woken up by the commotion. He can't bring himself to care.
There's a hissed curse from the direction of the doorway and suddenly Darwin is next to him, grimacing as he checks Charles' temperature with the back of his hand. Distantly, Erik is aware of the growing crowd accumulating in his doorway, silent and still as effigies.
"I need washcloths and the Tylenol from the bathroom," he snaps, easing Charles down onto the bed. And still, none of them move, just keep staring in shock at the shivering figure in Erik’s arms instead of making themselves useful. “Now, verdammt nochmal! Go!”
The others scatter, finally startled into action, which leaves only Erik, Darwin, and the looming terror that has attached itself to Erik like a shadow. His hands won’t stop trembling, won’t fucking cooperate when he needs them the most because Charles is still burning up under all those layers of his and they need to cool him down, but Erik doesn’t have Charles’ talent for staying calm when someone is hurt, he never had, and now it’s Charles. It’s Charles, and Erik is useless, he’s-
“Hey. I’ve got it.” Darwin, nudging Erik aside and taking over without a comment on Erik’s frankly pathetic state. “Can you hold up his head so we can get this sweater off?”
Erik does. He follows Darwin’s instructions silently, forcing his mind to focus only on what his hands are doing.
By the time Raven appears in the doorway, still looking like death warmed over, he’s regained enough control over his limbs to catch her when she goes pale with realisation and rushes into the room.
“Charles?!”
“He’s sick, Raven, let Darwin work,” he says through gritted teeth, clutching the poor girl’s forearms when she tries to shove him away.
“I don’t fucking care, let me go! Charles!”
She’s stronger than she looks, this slip of a girl in her powder blue pyjamas, twisting in his grip with a ferocity that almost breaks Erik’s hold on her. And then three things happen in very quick succession.
“Rav’n? What’s...” It’s barely more than a whisper, but it’s enough to make both Raven’s and Erik’s head snap around to see the telepath looking up at them with a bewildered little frown.
He’s not sure if he lets go of Raven or if she does break his grip after all, but within the blink of an eye, they’re all crowded around Charles – himself, Darwin, Raven. She’s petting Charles hair with a sniffle as Charles’ hand finds her arm and gives it a comforting, but weak squeeze.
“What the fuck, Charles?” Raven’s voice cracks. “What was that?”
“I...” Charles blinks, lips moving helplessly, yet not forming words. “I don’t... are you okay?”
Raven gapes. “No! No, I’m not fucking okay, why were you unconscious in Erik’s bed?!”
“Y’re alright, though?” Charles mumbles nonsensically, eyelids fluttering, closing. Erik is holding his other hand. He can’t remember taking it.
“No, no, stay awake! Charles, look at me!” Raven pats his cheek, a frantic note creeping into her voice. “What’s wrong with him?!”
“He must’ve caught that bug you all have,” Darwin says gently. “And it hit him pretty bad. Raven- hey, look.”
Raven tears her eyes away from Charles and Erik sends a prayer of thanks up to a God he doesn’t believe in anymore for Darwin’s presence here. At least one of them is keeping a clear head.
“Do you have a freezer? Those damp washcloths are good, but something frozen would be better. Ice cubes, peas, anything like that.”
“Y- yeah,” Raven nods shakily. “It’s in the basement. Next to the storage room.”
Darwin smiles, squeezing her shoulder. “Okay. I’ll be right back, yeah? He’ll be fine. Erik, could you-“
Erik nods, his fingers already unbuttoning Charles shirt as Darwin hurries out of the room. There’s motion at the edge of his vision – Raven slumping down on the bed on Charles’ other side, Moira returning with an armful of medicine from the bathroom, Alex and Sean, who are carrying not just a stack of washcloths, but a bucket of water, too, clever boys – but Erik barely registers any of it.
All he knows is the cool, smooth ivory of the buttons under his fingertips and the feeling of wrongness in the back of his throat, bitter and cloying. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Charles was supposed to be smiling when he unbuttoned his shirt for him, he was supposed to grin, all desire and bad jokes about wanting to unzip Erik’s genes or whatever. Not like this.
The fabric of Charles’ shirt bunches as Erik pushes it off his shoulders, clinging, damp, stubborn. Erik has to roll him onto his side to get it off. His head lolls, but Charles doesn't even stir.
Don't think about it. Don't think. Keep going.
He's wearing an undershirt under the button-up, equally damp to the touch and even harder to take off – Erik doesn't have enough fucking hands for this, not if he wants to keep Charles' head stable. What if he hurts his neck and makes everything worse?
A frustrated growl claws its way out of his throat and there's a blade in his hand, suddenly: jagged, wickedly sharp but single-edged, and the fabric falls away like so much tissue paper.
Where did that knife- oh.
“Sorry, Charles. I'll buy you a new one," he murmurs, slipping the twisted face of Charles’ watch into his pocket. In his hand, the metal ripples and reaches for Charles, Iike it won't stay parted from him even for a second.
With a trembling sigh, Erik reaches for Charles’ wrist, metal curling around skin in the wake of Erik's grip. He can feel Charles' pulse in stereo, against his fingers, against his powers. When he pulls away, the remnants of Charles' watch have wrapped around him like a second skin, a thin cuff of metal shaped in the image of delicate bones.
He can still feel Charles' pulse. Erik breathes for what feels like the first time since he woke up.
Raven is staring at him, her head pillowed on her arm, eyebrows gently furrowed. Erik ignores her. Whatever she has pieced together about his... feelings for Charles can wait. Will have to wait until he’s better.
He grabs the bottle of medication from Moira, grateful to find the plastic lid already removed. As he shakes two pills into the palm of his hand, Alex shoulders past him and places a damp washcloth on Charles’ forehead, and Angel snatches up the ruins of Charles’ clothes. There’s no room for all of them, really, they’re all crowded around the bed like spectators of a disaster, bumping into each other with nowhere to go.
Leave, Erik wants to yell. Just leave, leave him alone, I'll take care of him, get the fuck out-
But Charles shivers, a quiet whine leaving his lips, and as Erik reaches for him to smooth the lines of distress on his face, Sean grabs Charles’ hand. Raven shuffles closer and kisses his hair, a gesture so fundamentally Charles that Erik can see him do the same, the two siblings superimposed over each other for the blink of an eye.
They love him, too. As much as Erik wants to steal Charles away, keep him all to himself, these people love Charles. They deserve to take care of him.
Darwin and Hank return, their arms piled high with tea towels and bags of frozen peas, and Hank sits down heavily on the mattress, wheezing as if he'd just run a mile.
"Always wrap the ice packs," he explains as Darwin does just that. "Or peas, in this case. And never... hhhg, never leave them on for longer than fifteen minutes. Can be counterproductive. Or even do damage. Important, yeah?"
With an exhausted little groan, Hank gets back up.
“’M gonna... get a stopwatch from the lab.”
“Bullshit, I've got a timer in my watch,” Alex says. "You look like hell, bozo. Sit down."
And apparently, Erik's bed is really only Erik's in the loosest sense of the word, because Hank does as he's told and slumps down next to Raven, barely able to keep his eyes open as he watches Darwin tuck the wrapped bags of peas into the pits of Charles' arms, the junctures of his legs and hips, under his knees, and one under the back of his neck.
"How d'you ev‘n know how to do this?" Raven asks, her voice wobbling dangerously. "You never said you were a medic."
"I'm not," Darwin huffs. "Charles told me how this works when your fever was bad. He wanted to make sure we were prepared in case it got worse."
Of course he did. Gott. Erik clenches his jaw and adjusts the tea towel covering the bag that's underneath Charles' neck, never mind that it doesn't need adjusting. He needs to do something, his hands are shaking again, he's useless-
"How is his pulse?" Moira asks, apropos of nothing.
"What?"
"His pulse. I'm assuming you can feel it with that cuff there, can't you?"
"It's... faster than normal," Erik says, bewildered. Of course it's faster. Charles has a fever. "A hundred and thirty-five, I think."
But it's there. Strong and present and regular. Erik takes a breath.
“Tell us if anything changes there, yeah?" Moira says, giving Erik a smile he thinks is supposed to be encouraging.
He nods.
With a start, Erik remembers the pills still nestled into the palm of his hand, pills that are going to make Charles better, rid him of this awful fever. He slips his hand under the back of Charles' neck and lifts him up: just a little, just enough to prop him up against Erik's chest.
His nape is too warm, sweat clinging to the strands of hair that brush over Erik's fingers. He can feel the weight of Charles' skull against the cradle of his grip, the weight of Erik's entire world.
He blinks, staving off a childish sniffle by sheer power of will.
Making Charles take the medicine is surprisingly easy, all things considered – but maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Of course Charles would make this easy on them, always loathe to make a fuss. Perpetually surprised that people care for him. That Erik does.
"There you go. Alles wird gut," Erik murmurs. Someone produces a cup of water from God knows where and Erik takes it blindly and holds it up to Charles' lips, his own mouth pressed against Charles' temple. Warm. So warm. There's a blunt, agonising pain taking up residence in Erik's head that isn't his own, but he couldn't care less.
"Gotta drink something, Schatz. I don't want you choking on a pill.”
His thumb brushes Charles’ skin, a slow, methodical rhythm, and Charles takes a little sip, eyebrows scrunching up. Swallows. He never even opens his eyes.
The room is silent.
Seven pairs of eyes are staring at Erik when he looks up.
Erik grits his teeth. "What."
And still, they only stare at him. The silence stretches like taffy, winding itself around Erik's ribcage until he can barely breathe, the urge to explain himself clawing at the back of his teeth. I'm just helping him. He's my friend. Mind your own business.
No. To hell with that. He refuses to lie to protect anyone's delicate little sensibilities. He's no child anymore, no longer scared and helpless. If any of them have a problem, they can take it up with Erik and see where that gets them; he's going to–
"I'm so gonna give you the shovel talk when I can yell at you properly," Raven groans. "Why couldn't you have had this revelation a week ago?"
Wait. What?
“About time,” Darwin pats Erik's back, like they're friends, like he's proud of him.
Moira is smiling at him with more warmth in her eyes than Erik has ever seen in all the weeks of knowing the woman. In the corner of his eye, Sean bows to Angel, who's grinning. Someone wolf-whistles. Oh, great. They've all gone insane.
"What the fuck is happening?"
"Don't worry about it, old man," Raven slumps back down. "Just treat my brother right.”
~
He'd never admit it, but Erik longs for the lightness of that one, fleeting moment.
Alex‘ watch chimes up from its perch on Erik's nightstand, a staccato beat that pulls on his heavy bones, forcing his burning eyes open.
Beep-beep-beep.
Whenever he gives Charles a break from the ice packs, something about the telepath relaxes. The furrow between his eyebrows softens, and the helpless fear they can all feel lets up for a little while.
Beep-beep-beep.
And then Erik has to put them back.
Sometimes it is fine. Sometimes it won't even wake him up and he'll sleep right through Erik's silent apologies as his legs and arms and head are lifted to tuck a never-ending supply of ice cubes under them. He'll whine quietly and squirm in Erik's arms and sleep, sleep, sleep, the way he has for most of yesterday and today.
Beep-beep-beep.
The Tylenol doesn't seem to help. He still gives Charles each dosage like clockwork because at least his fever hasn't gotten any worse (it would kill him. you're going to lose him. why isn't he getting better?), but it's holding fast to those terrifying 104°, even after two days.
Erik hasn't slept.
Beep-beep-beep.
"Erik..."
The worst times are when putting the ice packs back does wake Charles up.
"Shh," he whispers nonsensically, his thumb caressing Charles’ cheek as he lifts his head. "Go back to sleep.”
"Please don't," Charles turns fever-bright eyes on him, a haze of confusion and tears across them. “Er’k, please don’t, it’s s- s- so cold, I don't..."
"We have to keep your temperature down, Liebling, you're burning up,” Erik rasps. His throat hurts. His heart hurts worse. “Shhhhh, I know, I'm sorry."
Whatever strength Charles possessed before this has been sapped out of him, and his weak tugs are no match for Erik's grasp as he lifts each of Charles' limbs and lays them back down on an ice pack. God, he hates himself.
Charles shudders and begins to cry – awful, racking sobs that dissolve into whimpers when his body can no longer sustain even the effort of making its grief known.
Erik holds him.
Holds him and, kisses his forehead, tries to project crackling fires and leather car seats warmed by the sun and none of the visceral hatred he feels at his own uselessness. He doesn't always quite succeed.
Hank is working on a solution. A potent anti-inflammatory... something, better than the Tylenol which is doing fuck-all for Charles' fever. Erik expects it to be done by tomorrow evening, but it might as well be years until then.
The others are trying to help him. He knows they are. He has never refilled the icebox at the foot of his bed. Snacks, water, and coffee appear on his nightstand as if by magic. It's not good coffee, but it does its job in keeping him awake. They're helpful and quiet, endlessly patient when he snaps at them in irritation, they're as concerned for Charles as they'd been that first night.
And Charles, of course, is a perfect angel of a patient.
He sleeps most of the time. He takes his medication without protest and drinks all the fluids Erik forces upon him. He's so unobtrusive in his misery that sometimes, Erik think he's meant to forget about him altogether.
As if he ever could.
"Please make it stop,” Charles sniffles, fingers curling into Erik's sleeve. "Hurts. 'm gonna... I'll be good. Can you tell mother?”
Erik just nods silently and strokes the smouldering heat of Charles' forehead.
“Can we stop now? I'm r- really sorry, I'm just so... so cold. Please.”
“Ten more minutes, my darling. Not much longer.”
The noise that rips itself from Charles’ throat is one of utter despair. He doesn't say another word, just buries his face in Erik's chest and shakes and shakes and shakes.
The watch beeps.
~
nonononononono I’m sorry I’m sorry I’M SORRY–
Erik jolts awake in his armchair with the pressure of ghostly hands still wrapped around his neck. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his aching neck and dissolves into the damp fabric of his t-shirt. His heart is racing.
What the–
"Charles. Schatz, du träumst nur, it's only a nightmare. Come on, wake up."
He shakes Charles gently, reaching for the hands of Alex’ watch with his powers. 2:17, damn it. Still far too early for another dose of Hank's medicine.
But thank God for Hank and his mad scientist's lab.
Erik had made the boy explain the drug in all its minute details and test it on Erik before letting him anywhere near Charles, but after almost three days of watching Charles suffer like this, he'd simply been glad for the mere chance it might help Charles. Truthfully, he'd understood maybe a fifth of Hank's rambling explanations, and that was being generous.
However, it hadn't killed Erik within the hour, nor within three, so Hank had received the go-ahead to administer his drug to its intended target and Erik had closed his eyes for five. fucking. minutes.
As it turns out, nonsteroidal anti-whatever-it-was make for a fantastic sleeping aid.
Charles shudders under his hands, his eyes shut tightly, pulse racing against the metal cuff still nestled around his wrist. His lips are moving, but the words are almost silent, an endless flood of unintelligible suffering.
"Charles!" Erik repeats, sharper this time. He feels the flailing of Charles’ powers like the crack of a whip, a near-physical thing that knocks the breath out of him, but Erik keeps his mind wide open.
It's not real, Charles. Come back to me.
Amidst the mountain of pillows and messy sheets, Charles jolts and... stills.
"Back with me?" Erik murmurs, one hand still on Charles' arm. "Charles. Talk to me. I haven't had a conversation with you in three days and it's driving me insane."
"... Erik? I thought I was... was my stepfather here?"
"It's just us," Erik says quietly. “How are you feeling?"
Charles rolls his shoulders, swallows once, throat bobbing. He grimaces.
"Well, to be quite honest, my friend, I've been better."
"You've been worse, too," Erik snaps. " I found you passed out on the fucking stairs, Charles.”
If at all possible, Charles pales further.
“I’m... so sorry, Erik. I never meant to scare any of you, truly.”
"Well, you did."
“I don't- really, I'm sorry, Erik,” Charles’ hand covers Erik's death-grip on his arm, warmth from his lingering fever seeping into Erik's hand.
"You're- Gott, stop apologising, verdammt nochmal! I don't need your apologies, I need you to take care of yourself!"
"I was," Charles says, puzzled.
Erik blinks. "What. Charles, in what... world is ‘passing out on the stairs taking care of yourself’?!”
"I was taking care of my bedding. It was quite sweaty and uncomfortable."
Oh, Erik is going to kill him one of these days.
"Then wake me up! Jesus Christ, Charles, wake any of us! Anything but trying to do it all by yourself and kill yourself doing it!"
Charles squirms, looking like a scolded schoolboy.
“I was just–"
“Just what?”
“Trying not to be a burden. You were still recovering,” Charles rasps. His telepathy deals out little shuddering pulses of pain with every breath he takes. There are purple shadows stamped like fingerprints under his tired eyes.
Erik buries his face in his hands and counts to ten.
"We'll talk about this tomorrow. You should get some sleep," he says finally. His voice shakes neither with the anger nor the grief threatening to overwhelm him.
Charles nods miserably. He settles back down, shifting for a minute until–
"Have you been sleeping in that chair all this while?"
Erik hums a mental affirmative, followed by a gentle Go to sleep, Charles, come on.
"But...”
"But what?" Erik yawns.
"I've taken your bed."
"Technically, I gave you my bed. Since yours looked like a warzone.”
Charles' amusement glints like a shower of sparks in the forge that is Erik's mind.
"And you never wanted it back? You could've put me in my own room.”
"Hm." But I liked having you... here.
Erik?
Yes?
Don’t you... want to sleep in your own bed?
I said it’s fine, Erik repeats stubbornly. One more night. He wants one more night like this, getting to watch Charles, all wrapped up in sheets that smell like him and Erik. One more night. Please.
And I never said anything about going back to my own bed, Charles murmurs, soft and careful like silk, like an offer.
"Are you sure?" Erik says. His voice is too loud amidst the velvet silence blanketing the room and he cringes, but Charles just smiles at him, achingly soft.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
Erik's knees creak and his back protests fiercely as he peels himself out of the armchair, pausing for an indulgent stretch as Charles lifts the blankets to let him in. It's hot under there, the kind of warmth that will creep into his clothes and make him sweaty and uncomfortable, but Erik merely pulls Charles closer, closer, until they slot together like puzzle pieces. Charles fits into his arms as if he'd been there all along.
Have you ever read Plato's theory about the initial creation of mankind as beings with four arms and four legs? Charles rests his head on Erik's chest, and the golden glow of contentment radiating from him intensifies. Zeus supposedly grew wary of their power and split them apart, forcing us to spend our lives looking for the other half of our self. τὸ ἕτερον ἥμισυ, the Greeks call it.
Erik runs his fingers through Charles' hair and hums quietly. The Gods should be very afraid then, hm?
Oh yes. Terrified. Charles grins.
Erik can't not kiss him.
It's soft and brief, more of a promise than anything else. Charles rests his forehead against Erik’s and leans into the hand cradling his cheek.
"Well, that took much less persuasion than I'd feared it might."
Erik snorts and kisses him again. "Charles?"
"Yes, my friend?”
“Go the fuck to sleep, Liebling."
“Mh, quite."