Chapter Text
Leaving Charles behind never got any easier.
He had tried more than once to stay with him--"Let them handle it alone, they're capable"--but Charles' answer was always the same.
"You're my right-hand man, Erik." He would smile with that kindness, that absolute and total forgiveness that tore Erik up inside. "I need you with them."
Never mind that Erik had become his enemy for a full year in between. Never mind that Erik had dogged his every movement not only to counteract it but to stay close to him for any reason. Never mind that it was Erik's fault that Charles didn't accompany them on these missions in the first place.
"He doesn't mind it, you know."
Erik turned from the suddenly empty space in front of him to look at Emma, wisps of their teleportation fading into the night around her.
"Staying there while we go. He doesn't mind." Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face, as though it were difficult for her to interpret his expression without stealing into his thoughts. He didn't wear the helmet, not anymore, but they had their agreement.
But then, most everyone had difficulty reading Erik's expressions.
"He's a telepath," Erik answered, rough, but quiet. She had done much for him in the past year and didn't deserve his temper. "Do you think he doesn't know how to fool you?"
Part of their closeness was that she knew not to argue with him. Not about Charles. She shrugged, leaving him with one last offering before she moved to join Mystique. "Beast has something he's afraid to ask you."
Hearing this, Beast looked like Azazel had dropped him here without any of his clothes or fur on. For one brief moment his yellow eyes were fixed on Erik. "It's nothing," he mumbled. With one last cautious glance in Erik's direction, he withdrew into the shelter of the tree line around the penitentiary. Azazel joined him as he rolled out the map one last time.
Erik didn't usually feel such things, but there was a sting to his withdrawal that Erik hadn't gotten used to in the two short months since the assassination. But if it was a sign of Beast's loyalty to Charles, Erik preferred it. He turned toward their quarry.
"Are we ready?"
* * * * *
Charles stopped in front of Sean's door and knocked softly, waiting for Sean's permission before entering.
Sean didn't sound or look much better when Charles wheeled in, but he was sitting up, at least, reading a comic book which he set aside as Charles approached.
"How are you feeling?" Charles asked. He stopped at the bedside, setting the bottle of medicine on the nightstand as he studied Sean's face.
"Better," Sean replied, though clearly he was dissatisfied with his progress. He'd been ill for coming on three days now, and had been confined to the bed, excepting bathroom breaks. At his age, and with the freedoms afforded by his particular mutation, it was no doubt frustrating for him. "I'm tired of lying here. I just wish I could stand up for more than five--"
Charles was smiling a little lop-sidedly, and Sean stopped talking.
"Sorry." Sean dropped his gaze to his hands. "It's just, Walter was a friend in school."
The purpose of the mission tonight, the mission Sean couldn't participate in, was the forcible release of a young mutant from wrongful imprisonment. Throwing their kind into prison on dubious grounds had become more common now that they had lost their leading human ally in the White House, and for Sean this one was personal.
"I know it's difficult," Charles answered gently. He took out the thermometer he'd brought with him and shook down the mercury before handing it to him. "But this is why we're a team. We have to trust each other to be where we can't go, to succeed where we're unable."
Sean frowned. His face was always so honest. "And you're really okay with that? Every time? Every mission?"
Charles smiled, overriding whatever else he might have done as he considered his answer. Was he content to stay behind? Had he made peace with trusting others to go in his place, waiting to hear results only when they returned to his little castle? "I wasn't really a man of action to begin with, Sean. I only accompanied you a single time. I never got used to going."
Before Sean could follow up, Charles gestured for him to put the thermometer in his mouth. "Under the tongue, now, let's see how you're doing."
Still watching him, Sean complied, and Charles withdrew for the moment to straighten up the room where he could, trying not to feel self-conscious as he did so: maneuvering carefully, reaching with the right counterbalance, not bumping into anything or getting stuck in a room set up for walking. He did these things without incident and had for some months now, but he could be reminded that he didn't always, and didn't always have to.
And there would always be challenges. The room was stuffy, and in need of some fresh air, even if it came from the chilly February outside. Rolling to the window, Charles looked up at the latch that was about a foot out of his seated reach. He pursed his lips briefly, imagining the process to reach it.
Locking the wheels of the chair, he gripped its arms firmly and pushed himself up until his arms were straight. Shifting one hand to the window sill, he transferred his weight forward, then quickly reached up with his other hand to release the latch. His return to the chair was not quite as calculated, but he'd take gravity's help whenever it presented itself. Seated again, he nudged the window open a few inches, feeling satisfied as the cold air drifted over his face.
It was the small things.
"You don't have to do this," said Sean, mumbling around the thermometer.
"But I can," said Charles. He unlocked the wheels and swiveled to face him again. "And right now you can't." Returning to Sean's bedside, he smiled gently. "Besides, the tables will turn. If you decide to stay here, I'm going to need your help with this school, once it is one again. I'm going to rely on you, and Alex, and Hank the most. You were the first."
"And Erik?"
Charles smiled again, though more carefully, as he took the thermometer and read it. "And Erik. And--Mystique." He looked up from the bar of fluid. "One hundred point two. It's coming down."
"You trust him, then?"
Charles blinked as he opened the bottle of medicine he'd brought from Hank. "Who, Erik?" He furrowed his brow, caught off guard, but softened as he looked over Sean's face. They were all uncertain what to do with Erik. Erik betrayed them. Erik attacked their ideals, if not them. And then Erik came back to them, though it was more accurate to say that Charles came back to Erik. "I trust him with my life."
"And ours?"
"Even more so." He passed Sean the bottle of medicine and the spoon. "Two spoonfuls of that and more rest."
Sean rolled his eyes, but took the medicine as directed, and didn't press the issue. Charles filled his water glass with the pitcher beside it, and Sean sipped from it to clear the bitter taste from his mouth before hunkering down on his pillow again.
"Give it time," said Charles, encouragingly. "Your mutation doesn't exempt you from the common flu, I'm afraid."
"Then what good is it," mumbled Sean.
Charles shook his head as he turned to go. "You know how to call me if you need me."
He had just slipped out and shut the door behind him when he heard the team returning through the back door. He could immediately count six minds before Emma and Azazel just as soon left again; no less than they'd set out with, but no more, either. Had they been unsuccessful?
Charles hurried toward their entrance and suddenly couldn't have cared less whether they'd done the job or not when he turned the corner. There was blood soaking through the cloth wrapped around Erik's thigh, and in true Erik fashion, he would lean on no one as he forced himself to make do with it.
"Erik!" Charles called, swiftly covering the distance between them. He quickly looked over the others to be sure no one was worse off, then threw all of his attention on Erik again. "Are you all right?"
"It's fine," answered Erik, coming to rest just in front of Charles, hardly limping, but Charles was sure he wanted to. "We got him out. Decided to hedge his bets on his own."
Charles frowned, looking between Erik's eyes and his blood, unsure which stirred him most. "I hope for his sake he's a good gambler. Alex, will you tell Sean what you can about his friend? Hank, please force Erik to accompany you for medical attention. And Ra--Mystique--" He waited until she met his eyes, then tried to get her to smile at him. "Would you debrief me in the television room?"
She wasn't quite there yet, though she nodded easily and headed in that direction. Alex was already down the hall toward Sean's room. "Beast, I'll see you in the lab," Erik advised.
Hank had hardly left the hallway before Erik stepped forward and set his knee, the good one, on Charles' chair between his thigh and the chair's arm. Fumbling with the wheel locks, Charles finally pressed them into place before reaching up to pull Erik down to him. He could smell the blood from his wound, feel his breath on his face, taste the sweat on his lips. He craved it, this confirmation that Erik was truly and physically there with him when he had convinced himself, for his own sanity, that it was not possible. He felt Erik's hand curve around the back of his neck, a fingertip idly stroking Charles' hairline in a way Charles felt certain he never touched anyone else.
The nerves on his tongue were humming by the time they parted, Charles' arms returning to the sides of his chair. His eyes were still raised to meet Erik's gaze, which was never anything less than direct.
This was what frustrated him most about the difficulties that kept him behind. Though he trusted them all to take care of each other, nevertheless he sometimes feared the worst, and feared not knowing it had occurred until they came back one mind fewer. Charles' powers of influence and protection could extend only so far.
"Be more careful," Charles said, softly. "You worry me."
"There were no human fatalities," Erik answered. It was like an offering to Charles, the pacifist. "It was either me or them."
Them, then.
Charles swallowed his own thought, hoping it hadn't shown in his face. He'd said it aloud, once. And once had been enough to prove how far he'd come toward Erik's side. But he still didn't like to say it.
"Go get yourself seen to," he said, pulling Erik by the uniform covering his chest to kiss him again before he let him withdraw. Unlocking the wheels of his chair, he backed up toward the television room long enough to watch Erik not limp toward Hank's lab. Once out of sight, Charles turned to propel himself forward again.
* * * * *
Erik was silent as he sat in Beast's lab, watching him suture the laceration in his thigh after he'd numbed and cleaned it. He wasn't particularly interested in this little operation--he'd gone through enough of this sort of thing, sometimes tending to it himself--but he couldn't help drawing parallels he had no right to. One numbed muscle group was no comparison to everything below the waist.
But it was a fixation, and being with Charles again left him helpless to ignore it.
When Beast was finished, Erik hopped down from the table, and even through Beast's fur his wince was obvious. He handed Erik a pair of sweatpants since his trousers were ruined. "Be careful with that or you'll rip it open again."
Erik smirked, pulling on the offered clothing. "I appreciate your concern."
Beast eyed him warily, then narrowed his gaze as he stepped away, interpreting Erik's words the way anyone who knew him would. Erik caught his arm, braving Beast's growl, knowing he deserved it. "I meant that," he clarified. He wanted to repair the damage he had done, he just never seemed to do it right.
Beast shrugged him off, but after a moment he nodded. "Keep it clean. Stop straining it. We'll remove the stitches in a few weeks."
Erik nodded back at him, knowing he'd probably pull them out himself. "What was it you wanted to tell me?"
Beast glared again, but Erik knew it wasn't really at him. "She doesn't have the professor's principles."
She does if you're me, thought Erik. "I'll talk to her," he suggested. "But tell me."
He watched Beast's face, waiting for the denial he expected, but Erik was making the effort anyway.
To his surprise, Beast finally sighed. His gaze burned brightly on Erik before he turned and moved to the far corner of the lab. "It's about the professor. Something I thought could help him." He opened the cabinet in the corner, glanced at Erik again, then carefully pulled out a set of metal leg braces attached to a back brace. He returned to where Erik was standing and set them down on the table, saying nothing.
And Erik understood his silence. It was a delicate topic, much as something leapt in his chest.
Admiring the workmanship, Erik ran his hand over the jointed steel, not touching it but feeling its resonance as it responded to him. "What could he do with these?" Erik asked, prompting Beast to speak, to start, anywhere.
"Alone? Not very much. Standing frames exist already, similar to this, but they wouldn't allow for much more than their name. Not for someone with Charles' injury."
'For someone with Charles' injury.' Not just 'for Charles.'
Erik tore his attention away from the overlapping grid of metal supports to focus on Beast instead. "But that's not why you have them."
Beast frowned at the table, his hands curled to fists where he rested his weight on its surface. "I made them. And they're not just for standing, they're for walking. The joints are fluid, the hips mimic ball-and-socket mobility: it's specifically engineered to maintain a regular human gait."
Erik watched him, feeling the rest was inevitable. "Then why doesn't he know about these?"
Beast stared at them for a moment, then raised his eyes to Erik. "Because you'd have to operate them."
Erik had suspected as much, as soon as he saw them, as soon as he felt them. To hear it, though, sank whatever hope he had dared entertain. That was why Beast hadn't told Charles. That was why he had barely confessed it to Erik.
Yes, it was possible. Yes, with enough practice Erik knew they could fool anyone. But Erik would not be his puppeteer.
Wordlessly, Beast took the frame from the table and put it back into the cabinet. That Erik would say nothing about this was assumed, and correctly.
"Another way," said Erik quietly. Beast sighed with a nod, and Erik turned to go. The laceration in his leg was beginning to burn again, but he knew he'd take nothing for it. He should be glad to feel anything at all.
* * * * *
Finally undressed for the night and feeling more exhausted on account of it, Charles trundled to the side of their bed wanting very much to be in it already. Though he'd once been a staunch supporter of pajamas, they now proved too many extra steps, and he wore very little to bed, if anything. It was startling how much he could live without when it cost him too much to keep it.
Erik was at the wardrobe, hanging things up, and as Charles glanced in his direction his eyes caught the lamp's glare on the helmet Erik had buried toward the back and left there. But he didn't linger on it. He couldn't linger on it. Instead he tugged down the bedding and turned his attention to getting himself into bed without falling over.
Wheels locked, feet on the floor, left hand on the chair, right fist on the mattress, and up and over. It seemed elementary now, but in the beginning it was one of many seemingly insurmountable tasks, none of which amounted to more than just getting through the day. He was almost grateful Erik hadn't been there to see it.
Erik and Raven, both.
"What's wrong?" Erik asked. He shut the wardrobe and crawled onto the bed to sit on his heels.
Legs on the bed, hand over the headboard, and Charles had hauled himself back against the pillow to sit up almost comfortably. He lifted his eyes to Erik's face, knowing he wouldn't get Erik's sympathy on this topic, but he didn't particularly want it. It was too much like pity.
"Raven won't talk to me."
He watched Erik as he moved Charles' knees apart enough to sit between them. "She does, I've seen her." Erik took Charles' right leg and straightened it, gently pressing down on the knee with one hand and pulling back the ball of his foot with the other.
"Only when she has to. Only to inform me." He sighed softly, watching Erik repeat the exercise with his left leg. "She's my sister. We grew up together, in this house, no less. And she couldn't be further from me now."
Erik looked up, his mouth set in an even line as he studied Charles' face. He sat back, hand running absently over his own thigh until he looked down at the black stitches under his fingers.
"Do you know why people develop scars?" he asked lightly.
Eventually he looked up at Charles again, and Charles wondered at his uncharacteristic tone. After a moment Charles gave the barest shake of his head so that he would go on.
"Because the trauma is so great that it must be healed quickly, at any cost." The line of Erik's mouth tightened before it relaxed again. "Raven's wounds ran deep."
Charles kept his eyes on Erik's. They both knew it was Charles who had hurt her, without even realizing it; Charles who encouraged her to hide herself, Charles who delighted in his own abilities while consistently relegating hers to mere maintenance of the status quo. If shutting him out was how she recovered from that persistent injury, she had every right to continue. But he couldn't help hoping it would change. He missed her. And he'd learned.
He smiled lightly, softening as he extended his hand to draw Erik forward. "An effective analogy. Are you sure you wouldn't like to be a teacher here someday, Professor Lehnsherr?"
Erik smirked at him, the closest he came to laughter sometimes. He tugged Charles to lie down with him and pressed close to him, breath tickling at Charles' neck until he laughed for him.
"I'd rather be this teacher's pet."
* * *
In the small hours of the morning, the spasms woke Charles with more vigor than usual. He took medication for it, he took medication for so many things, but every so often they rose up to remind him that despite what he had accomplished, he was still not in control. It was one thing not to be able to move half his body; it was another entirely to have it move of its own accord.
There was nothing to be done about it but to let Erik hold him, to think about something else while the mattress shuddered beneath him, to bury his face in Erik's shoulder to muffle the breath that was wrung out of him. And no matter how many times Erik got kicked, no matter how many times Charles woke him up, he never said a word about it, only fell asleep with him again when it was over.
"It doesn't hurt," Charles had assured him once. But they both knew that wasn't entirely true.