Chapter Text
Erik won’t let him leave.
It’s endearing the first couple of days and somewhat amusing the next couple, but by the end of the week, Charles is chafing to walk around, despite the fact that Erik won’t even let him set foot out of bed without supervision. This, of course, only serves to make Charles more determined to get up and shuffle painfully around the room every time Erik leaves on business, even though Erik has told him in no uncertain terms that if he catches Charles so much as sitting up too quickly, he’ll rope Charles down to the bed.
Erik never makes idle threats, but Charles figures he’s earned a little leniency. Getting shot has got to be good for something.
At least, that’s what he thinks until Erik actually discovers him hobbling from his bed to the window one sunny morning. The dark anger that sears like lightning through Erik’s mind is startling and confusing in its intensity. Charles turns with a smile that fades when he sees the thunderous expression on Erik’s face.
“What,” Erik nearly spits, “do you think you’re doing.”
“I’m…I wanted to look outside.” The furious look in Erik’s eye throws him off-guard. “Erik?”
Erik says nothing. He strides across the room to Charles and takes his arm, almost hard enough to bruise. Though he manhandles Charles roughly back to the bed, he’s still mindful of Charles’ wounded leg, shouldering most of his weight as he herds Charles back onto the mattress like a ferocious sheepdog.
“Erik, hey,” he tries, surprised at the dark anger brooding in Erik’s mind. “What’s wrong?”
“I told you not to get out of bed,” Erik growls, glaring as he pushes Charles into the pillows.
“I’ve been lying here for days,” Charles protests. “I can get up and walk around if I want to.”
“No, you can’t.”
Now Charles frowns. “That’s not something you get to decide. I asked Logan yesterday and he agreed that it’d be okay for me to move around as long as I take it easy.”
Erik’s eyes flash. “Logan is getting fired.”
“Logan isn’t even technically your employee. And besides, I’m not going to recover if I just lie around all day. If I get up—”
“You’ll hurt yourself,” Erik snaps, “and I hate—” A roiling storm of emotion overcomes coherent speech for a moment. When Charles reaches out to touch his arm in a silent effort to soothe him, Erik jerks away. His back to Charles, he says agitatedly, “I hate seeing you hurt.”
Charles stares at the rigid line of his back, surprised at the crack in his voice. “Erik…” After a moment, he slides across the bed as best he can and grasps Erik’s wrist, pulling him down onto the bed next to him. “Erik,” he says gently, “I’m okay.”
Erik won’t look at him. The muscles in his jaw clench tightly. He seems at once terribly large and terribly small.
This is a side of Erik Charles has never faced before. He’s seen Erik angry, he’s seen Erik smug, he’s seen Erik happy and lustful and calculating, but he’s never seen Erik like this. It scares him a little to realize that even the man who could tear down the Empire State Building floor by floor at his leisure can be frightened.
With some difficulty, he manages to maneuver himself close enough to wrap his arms around Erik from behind. Erik stiffens at his touch but doesn’t draw away when Charles presses his cheek against Erik’s shoulder and breathes deep, one slow inhalation at a time.
“I’m alright,” he says. “Really, I am.”
Gradually, the tension unwinds from Erik’s body, starting with his neck and moving down along his shoulders and back, muscles going lax one by one until he’s no longer rigid and angry. He reaches up to squeeze Charles’ hand against his chest and says gruffly, “I’ll go get you some tea.”
Charles lets him go, watching the surface of Erik’s mind ripple uneasily. He’s half-tempted to reach out and smooth away the wrinkles of worry that have been keeping Erik awake these past few nights, snapping at anyone in reach for leads on Guerrero, on plastic bullets, on anything. But before he can even offer, Erik adds, “When I get back, we can try walking to the window together, okay?”
Charles brightens. “Really?”
“A bedridden telepath isn’t much good to me, is it?” Erik reasons coolly.
Charles grins. The things Erik will say to pretend he’s not a mess of emotions and concern underneath that mask of aloof rationality he’s perfected. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
Erik has a way of raising his eyebrows that says “I’d be rolling my eyes if I didn’t consider it beneath me.” Aloud, he orders sternly, “Don’t move.”
Charles raises a solemn hand. “On my honor.”
*
In a couple of days, he’s staggering around on a crutch relatively well, and Erik’s even conceded to letting him sit in the living room to watch some TV as Erik works at the desk beside the fireplace. The unexpected vacation time is rather nice: Charles can’t remember the last time he watched all six Star Wars movies in one go or finished an entire Sudoku book in a sitting. But at the same time he’s chafing to get outdoors or at least be allowed to shower by himself without Erik sitting on the toilet outside waiting anxiously for him to fall and break a bone or something. The amount of care Erik’s showing with him is as amusing as it is frustrating.
“A laptop,” he says as the credits of Return of the Jedi begin to roll.
“Hmm?” Erik says distractedly from where he’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch scrolling through the tablet in his hands. Charles isn’t sure what sort of reports Erik’s reading but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.
“A laptop,” he repeats. “I’d like a laptop so I can at least check my email. Better yet, if I could drop by my office to get some papers—”
“No,” Erik says without looking up.
“Erik.”
“I said, no.”
Charles kicks him in the thigh with his uninjured leg. “This isn’t a prison, Erik. You’re not my guard and I’m not in solitary here, so if I ask you for something to do, then please just give it to me, or else I’m going to have to ask Azazel to do it and you know he will.”
Erik scowls at him from over the top of the tablet. “He wouldn’t if I ordered him not to.”
“You and I both know that’s not true,” Charles replies archly.
Erik continues to gaze at him for a moment. Then he lowers the tablet and presses his lips together contemplatively. “You know, some people would find it worrisome if their trusted right-hand men answered to someone else.”
“Please give me advance notice if you’re going to have me killed,” Charles tells him. “I’d like a few days to get my affairs in order.”
Erik does the eyebrow-eye-roll thing again and remarks, “And then where would I find another telepath to do my laundry and give me filthy blowjobs in the shower?”
“I see where your priorities are,” Charles mutters with a real eye-roll. Placing his hand on Erik’s bare ankle, he rubs slowly upward toward Erik’s calf, loosening up some tightness there with enough firmness to draw Erik’s full attention. When he’s sure Erik’s listening, he says, “So…laptop?”
“Fine,” Erik sighs. “You can use mine.”
“I also have exam papers in my office that need grading.”
“Don’t push it.”
“I don’t even have to go,” Charles reasons. “We can get someone to bring the exams to me. I won’t even leave the bedroom when I’m grading them.”
Another sigh. “Fine. Azazel can go.”
Charles shakes his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. None of your people set foot on campus or anywhere near my real life. That was our agreement, remember?”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“My TA, Hank,” Charles answers promptly. “He’s a good lad. He’ll keep mum about this if I ask him to.”
Erik’s shaking his head before Charles finishes. “No. No civilians come near this place.”
“But Hank’s trustworthy.”
“The reason this apartment can function as a safe house is because only a few people know about it. It’s not going to be very secure anymore if some college kid comes by to drop off some things, maybe sees something suspicious, and then runs his mouth about it to his friends, will it?”
“Hank won’t run his mouth, believe me. Besides, what is he going to see here that’ll make him suspicious?” Erik’s apartment looks, for all intents and purposes, perfectly normal. There aren’t even any guns lying around.
“I don’t want him here,” Erik maintains stubbornly. “I’m not running the risk.”
“Well, fine,” Charles huffs. “I’ll go out and stand on the street corner and he can hand the papers to me.”
“Or he can leave the papers in a bag on a bench in Central Park and Azazel can go get it after he leaves.”
Charles stares at him. “Really, Erik?”
“What? It’s a drop I’ve used before.”
“Really. Because nothing screams ‘unsuspicious’ like ‘go to Central Park and leave the bag by the bench with a red X on it and walk away.’”
“It’d be a white X, first of all—”
“No. Honestly, Erik, if you really don’t want to compromise your safe house, you could always drop me off at home. That way, Hank could come over and everything would be perfectly fine.”
Erik’s expression shutters. “No.”
“No?”
“No, you’re not going home. Not until you’re fully-healed at least.”
Charles crosses his arms. “Alright then. But Hank comes and delivers my exam papers, and you don’t fuss about it.”
“I don’t fuss,” Erik mutters. Charles can hear in his voice that the capitulation is coming, but Erik continues to argue, as he always does. He never likes to admit when he’s beaten. “What’s he going to make of Alex and Angel hanging around outside then?”
“You can call them off for ten minutes. Send them to get coffee or something.”
“What’s he going to make of me then?”
“You’re my boyfriend. That’s all he needs to know.”
A hint of uncertainty lurks in Erik’s mind. It takes Charles a few seconds to puzzle out the cause for it, and when he does, he nearly laughs aloud.
“Erik.” Charles scoots forward between Erik’s legs and pulls him down for a kiss. It’s their first since the shooting, and it feels odd, like they’ve somehow forgotten how to fit together. It worries Charles for a moment, but then Erik raises his hand to cup Charles’ jaw and opens his mouth and the touch turns familiar and warm.
When they pull apart, Charles says, “It’s not like meeting my parents, Erik. You don’t have to be nervous about it.”
Erik is, of course, instantly indignant. “I’m not nervous.”
“No, of course not. You’re just worried my nineteen-year-old TA won’t approve of us.”
“I don’t need the approval of some kid with pimples and braces,” Erik growls. Pushing Charles back so he can stand, he says, “Fine, he can come over. But if he asks too many questions, I’m snapping his neck.”
Charles laughs. “Be nice.”
*
Ten minutes before this Hank kid is supposed to show, Erik instructs Alex and Angel to go down the street and get themselves some dinner. They must be hungry or at least desperately bored because they’re gone almost before he finishes speaking, and then it’s just him and Charles and the house.
He hovers by the window, glaring out through the slats of the blinds at every car that passes. He can almost hear Charles thinking ridiculous at his back, but he ignores it pointedly. Charles can be all relaxed and trusting if he wants; Erik is going to be tense and wary enough for the both of them.
Paranoid, Charles says, flipping aimlessly through TV channels.
“If you want to get shot in the face when you open the door, be my guest,” Erik grumbles. He glowers at the red Toyota that cruises past until it turns the corner. “What if your TA brings his friends? What if his friends have been bought? What if they’re using him to get to me or to you?”
“That’s not what’s going to happen,” Charles says with obvious exasperation. “Hank is going to come over, he’s going to say hello, you’re going to terrify him a little by just standing silently in the corner, he’s going to leave my papers, and then he’s going to go home peacefully. Everyone survives unscathed.”
“Like I said earlier, he can just put the papers in the mailbox.”
“All two hundred exam papers? They’d never fit. Erik. Erik.”
Reluctantly, he turns away from the window. “What?”
Charles pats the space beside him on the couch. “Come sit down.”
Erik wants nothing more than to continue his vigil by the door, but Charles’ tone suggests that if Erik doesn’t come sit down in the next five seconds, Charles is going to get sulky, or worse, he’ll get that disappointed look on his face that Erik hates being the cause of. So he tears himself away from the window and settles rigidly on the open end of the couch, trying not to grimace at Charles’ choice of entertainment (National Geographic again). Only when Charles shifts over to lay his head on Erik’s shoulder does Erik finally allow himself to relax a bit, if only because he doesn’t want Charles to be uncomfortable.
They watch Life Below Zero until Charles is nodding off on his arm. Erik slouches so that Charles can fit his head in the crook of his neck and turns down the volume of the TV with a flick of his fingers. The painkillers make Charles sleepy, so it’s not a surprise when he begins to snore, warm and solid against Erik’s side. He prefers Charles conscious of course, but at least when he’s asleep, he’s getting some much-needed rest and he’s not prone to arguing with everything Erik says. A little peace and quiet is occasionally nice.
It’s a bit strange how easily Charles has slotted into Erik’s apartment like he’s been living here for years. Erik doesn’t spend much time here himself—he’s always out on business in his waking hours and when he has some time to himself, he prefers to be outdoors on a run or perhaps at a coffee shop—so it’s never felt particularly like a home. But these last few days with Charles have been oddly domestic. And oddly enjoyable.
Erik’s not quite sure what to think about it.
The gentle calm is broken by the approach of a mass of metal down the street. It isn’t nearly large enough to be a car, but it’s coming straight to the door and, as Erik feels for it warily, it stops there. A quick examination with his powers reveals it to be a bicycle. Not what Erik had expected, but he supposes for a broke college student, a bike would be the most economical choice.
Unwilling to wake Charles up, he carefully slides out from their tangle of limbs and leaves Charles tucked in to the couch’s throw blanket. He reaches the door a second before the knock comes and yanks it open just as Hank’s knuckles strike the wood once.
The boy outside is exactly what Erik expects. He’s scrawny, tall, bespectacled, and stands a bit hunched in on himself, like he’s afraid of being noticed. He looks as if he might have been born behind a lab bench with a pipette in hand. Everything about him screams scientist.
“Um, hi,” he says, nervously. “I’m…I think I might have the wrong address…?”
“Hank,” Erik says. “Right?”
“Um, yes.”
“Do you have the papers?”
The kid’s hand tightens around the strap of the satchel on his shoulder. “Yeah, I have them here. Is Professor Xavier here?”
“He’s asleep,” Erik tells him. “You can give the bag to me.” He holds out his hand expectantly.
Hank’s hold on the satchel doesn’t loosen. “Um…no offense, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving the professor’s things to a stranger. Who…who are you?”
“His boyfriend,” Erik says flatly, in a way that discourages further questions.
“Oh! I didn’t know—I didn’t think the professor had any…one. Anyone. I, um…”
Erik gives him a glare. It’s a gentle glare, nowhere near the level of intensity he’s capable of, but the kid still flinches. To his credit though, he doesn’t just thrust the bag at Erik and run; if anything, he seems ready to fight Erik off if he tries to grab for it. Erik’s esteem of the boy rises minutely.
Before either of them can make a move, Charles appears directly behind Erik. He squeezes past under Erik’s arm and exclaims, “Hank! You made it.”
Hank’s entire demeanor relaxes at once. “Professor! I was just…I have your…” He holds up the satchel.
“Oh yes, thank you. Could you hand that to Erik here? I’m having some trouble keeping my balance already without carrying anything.”
Hank’s eyes find the cane and widen. “Professor, what happened? I heard you had pneumonia, but that’s…”
Erik stiffens—they haven’t rehearsed any story for this—but Charles says smoothly, “Stupid accident. Tripped and fell down the stairs. It’s nothing to worry about. Have you met Erik?”
“Um.”
“Hank, this is my boyfriend Erik. Erik, this is my TA Hank.” To Hank, he adds, “Don’t be put off by all the scowling, he’s actually a big softy once you get to know him.”
Softy? Erik echoes indignantly. That’s an adjective he’s never, ever been labeled by before.
He can feel Charles’ amusement against his skin. It’s the teasing, fond sort of warm that appears whenever Charles has a laugh at his expense. Erik is always inclined to be annoyed, but whenever Charles smiles like he’s smiling now, true irritation always hovers somewhere out of reach.
Softy, Charles crows, affectionate. Aloud, he says, “Would you like to come in for a moment, Hank?”
“No, it’s okay,” Hank says quickly. “I should get going anyway. I’ve got homework.”
He holds the bag out by its strap until Erik takes it, rolling his eyes when Charles says, My deepest gratitude, darling. Figuring that Charles will be safe for the ten seconds it’ll take to go put the bag down on the couch, Erik turns and stalks back through the house.
“Has everything been manageable?” he hears Charles ask, worried as always about the state of his classes and students while he’s been out and unable to manage things himself.
“Everything’s been fine,” Hank says quickly, and then lowers his voice, but evidently he thinks Erik has disappeared further back into the house because just around the corner, Erik can still hear every word. “Listen, are you really okay?”
“Yes,” Charles answers after a small pause, clearly confused. “Of course I am. I mean, I was, er, sick and took a dive down those stairs, but I’m feeling much better now.”
“He didn’t hit you, did he?” Hank asks seriously, and the only reason Erik doesn’t act on his sudden flare of indignation is the one he feels from Charles.
“What?” Charles asks, shocked, and Erik can imagine him shaking his head. “No, absolutely not, Hank. Erik would never—no.”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Hank says, and at least he has the decency to sound remorseful. “I just—he looks scary. And falling down the stairs sounds like a typical excuse for—”
“Really, Hank,” Charles says, stern but not outright rude which frankly, Erik thinks he should be, “you should know better by now than to judge a book by its cover. And do you really believe that I of all people, as a telepath no less, would stand for anyone knocking me around?”
“I’m sorry,” Hank repeats, sounding chastened, “and no, of course I don’t.”
Erik decides that this is as good of time as any to make his reappearance, gliding around the corner again and down the short hall to slot himself in next to Charles once more. Hank glances at him nervously, so while he still has the hapless TA’s attention Erik smiles at him slowly, revealing all of his teeth one by one, and since the metal band is wrapped around the wrist of Charles’ free hand and not the hand Charles is using to lean on his cane with, he deliberately pulls Charles’ hand up and over to himself, tangling their fingers together.
“All set here?”
Charles gives Erik a mental sigh, but gives Erik’s fingers a small squeeze. “I believe so, yes, unless you had any other news, Hank?”
“No, all’s quiet, and yeah, I’d better get back,” Hank says quickly and hops down the porch’s stairs to his bike.
Charles frowns. “Did you bike all the way here from campus?”
“I…yes?”
The frown deepens. “That’s a long way. I shouldn’t have made you come.”
“It’s not that far,” Hank protests. “I’ve gone further. It’s really no problem, Professor.”
Erik can tell without even glancing at Charles that he’s on the verge of offering the boy a ride back to campus. You’re not driving, he thinks hard at him, glaring at the cane.
Even I know that, Charles huffs. “Will you be alright going back or would you like Erik to give you a lift?”
Hank darts one look over at Erik and shakes his head. “No, I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure…”
Erik smiles at him again over Charles’ shoulder. “Positive,” Hank yelps, throwing a leg over his bike.
Charles pointedly steps on Erik’s foot. “Alright, be careful. Thank you for the papers. I’ll see you when I get back.”
Hank mutters a goodbye and takes off down the street. As they watch him go, Erik remarks dryly, “Nice kid.”
“It was nice of him to be concerned,” Charles offers, “even though it was very, very misplaced.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t go blabbing about it to someone else or the police,” Erik answers flatly, but even as he speaks his irritation is already evaporating. He’s made a point his entire life to be intimidating, shaping an unfriendly aura and a sharp, honed demeanor. He can hardly complain now if a snot-nosed TA takes one look at him and sees the ever-present suppressed violence brimming beneath his surface and then takes a look at his currently suspiciously-injured boyfriend and draws unpleasant conclusions.
As long as Charles knows he’d never actually hurt him, Erik doesn’t give a fuck about what anybody else thinks.
“Hank won’t,” Charles says confidently, “he was far too mortified and embarrassed after I set him straight. He still has his suspicions, but he’s accepted that I can take care of myself.” I know you would never hit me. Manhandle me back to the couch, certainly, but never hit me.
“Come on,” Erik says gruffly, gently pulling Charles around to do just that, “let’s go back inside.”
*
“He’s going to need physical therapy,” Logan announces when he comes over to see how Charles is doing. “It’s the only way he’ll regain full flexibility in that leg.”
“You do it,” Erik says, watching as Charles paces the room without his cane so Logan can assess his gait. “I don’t want to bring in other people.”
“I’m a surgeon,” Logan growls, “not a physical therapist. Unless you want Chuck here limping for the rest of the foreseeable future, I suggest you find a professional. I can recommend a few good ones if you want.”
“I’d rather not be limping for the rest of the foreseeable future,” Charles interjects, reading the refusal on Erik’s face before it forms. At his words, Erik hesitates and actually considers PT as a viable option for a moment. His eyes land on the cane leaning against the wall, and Charles feels his resistance crumble.
“Alright,” he says, “I want the best guy you know.”
Logan grunts. “I know a guy. He’ll put Chuck here through the wringer but it’ll be good for him. Just warning you beforehand though: he’s batshit crazy.”
“What sort of crazy?” Erik asks guardedly.
“Well, for one thing, his name is Deadpool, legally.”
Charles stops. “Deadpool?”
Logan barks a laugh. “You’re gonna have fun with that. And with his swords.”
“His what?”
“I’ll give you his card.”
Erik is scowling that scowl that says he’s considering reaching for his gun. “If you’re not going to take Charles’ recovery seriously—”
“Oh, believe me,” Logan says, “I’m taking it very seriously. I wouldn’t have recommended Deadpool otherwise. I hate the guy’s guts but if you’re looking for a physical therapist who’ll have Chuck running laps in a couple of weeks, he’s your guy.”
Listen to him, Charles tells Erik as he begins to walk again, shuffling stiffly from the bed to the door and back. Though the pain in his leg has been steadily improving, the mobility has not. His knee doesn’t quite bend right, and his muscles are sore and tight. That, plus his fear of falling and possibly tearing the healing wound in his belly, keeps him from walking too much, which is only hindering the recovery of his leg.
Swords? Erik sends back, skeptical.
He means figuratively, Charles replies. Then he pauses. I think.
Erik sighs. “Alright, give me his number. Can your man keep a secret?”
“If he likes you, he’ll do anything,” Logan answers with a shrug. “But there’s no telling.”
“I’ll have Azazel check him out,” Erik says decisively. “If he can help Charles, then he will.” His tone makes it clear that this Deadpool will be assisting if Erik has to hold a gun to his head. Charles doesn’t know whether to tell Erik off or just shake his head fondly.
“If you think you can get him to work for you like you got me, then you might want to think again,” Logan remarks, arms folded as he gestures for Charles to sit and rest his leg.
“I think I can convince him,” Erik replies coolly.
Logan’s answering smile is sardonic. “We’ll see.”
*
It takes Erik another day to work out the logistics of how the entire operation is going to go down, from having Azazel vet out this Deadpool character as well as decide on where he’ll be working with Charles. The gym Deadpool usually works out of is completely out of the question, all the way on the other side of the city and far out of the realm of Erik’s established territory, but Azazel comes back from his first meeting with Deadpool and reports that he’s willing to come to them, which makes Erik like him just that little bit more.
“He’ll be good,” Azazel says, looking at Erik with the particular glint in his eyes that means he’s also laughing at Erik’s expense, “no one could buy him out if they tried.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Erik asks flatly.
Azazel chuckles. “Nothing, nothing. I cannot describe—you’ll have to meet him in person to judge yourself.”
“Are you ever going to stop acting like this is operation Desert Storm?” Charles asks him dryly the following day while they wait together in the backseat of one of the SUVs while Azazel leads a team through the small gym that’s only a couple blocks down from Erik’s main offices.
“Maybe if I’d been on the planning team for Desert Storm, it would’ve gone smoother,” Erik says calmly, allowing only a hint of his constant underlying tension to leak through into his voice. He’d checked the gym out himself yesterday afternoon, and it’s not the most secure building in the world but it’s their best option. Charles will receive the best care available, facilities included.
Charles snorts and takes a sip from his water bottle. Unlike Erik, who’s dressed in one of his usual sharp and tailored suits, he’s dressed in loose workout clothes. Instead of sitting by the window on the other side of the car, he’s slid over to sit in the middle next to Erik, a warm and solid length pressed all along his side. “Don’t tell me you’re all going to stay in the room and stare at me while I struggle through whatever torture Deadpool’s come up with.”
“We’ll all be posted around the gym but outside the main room,” Erik says. He hadn’t liked the idea at first, but he knows that it isn’t going to be easy for Charles. He doesn’t need them all watching while he struggles through exercises. “And I’ll be up here the entire time if you need me.” He brushes his fingers against Charles’ temple. “You’ll tell me the moment anything feels off.”
“I’ll tell you what feels off,” Charles answers, taking Erik’s other hand and sliding it slowly up his own thigh, “I haven’t gotten off since before all of this. I feel like I’m celibate.”
Erik stops his hand before it can go any higher, but keeps it resting on Charles’ leg. “I’m not doing anything with you until you have full mobility again,” he says firmly, even though it’s kind of been killing him too. He hasn’t shared this much space with Charles for such an extended amount of time before and yet he hasn’t been able to touch, or at least not in the ways he knows that they’d both prefer.
“Exactly,” Charles says, “and don’t give me nonsense about not wanting to hurt me. A handjob will hardly put a strain on my leg.”
“Nonsense,” Erik repeats with an exasperated huff. “So we’re ignoring your stitches, then? The ones that are holding your stomach together from where Logan had to dig pieces of shattered bullet out of you? Those stitches?”
“You’re no fun at all,” Charles mutters, and Erik has to smile despite himself.
He wraps an arm around Charles, tugging him even closer so that he’s squished up against Erik’s chest and side. Erik turns his head, ducking down a little to murmur right into Charles’ ear. “As soon as you complete PT and get the green light, I’m going to splay you out across the closest flat surface and hold you down and fuck you until you can’t walk straight.”
Charles shivers in Erik’s grip. “Then I’ll need more PT.”
“Better hope that Deadpool is as good as Logan says,” Erik drawls, and Charles laughs.
Azazel appears abruptly outside of the car, rapping his knuckles once against the darkly tinted glass of the window. “All is clear,” he says when Erik rolls down the window, “I have everyone posted where you wanted, and Deadpool is here and ready.”
“Good.” Erik rolls the window back up while Azazel disappears in another poof of red and black smoke. He opens the door, unfolding his long legs out onto the pavement and turning to offer Charles a hand. “I’ll walk you in.” He wants to meet Deadpool himself first too, before he hands Charles over to him.
Charles slides down out of the car carefully, steadying himself with both his cane and Erik’s hand. “Alright.”
A cold blast of air conditioning hits them along with the usual mix of sweat-and-cleaner that always infuses these kind of places when they walk in. The place is deserted, just as Erik had been assured it would be after he’d made a couple calls and given very thinly-veiled threats—and sent over an envelop thick with money when Charles had found out.
“Azazel said Deadpool was here,” Erik says when they come to a stop near the long row of treadmills. He can’t feel another person in the facility—he can only feel the metal of all the exercise machines, no zippers or rivets or even a watch beyond all of those that belong to his own people. “Where—”
“Y’ALL READY FOR THIS?” Music starts blasting from the gym’s speakers without warning, making Charles jump about a foot in the air beside Erik while Erik himself is only saved from reacting violently by years of long practice. A man wearing nothing but a skintight, red spandex bodysuit drops down from the ceiling, executing several midair somersaults in the process before sticking a perfect landing in front of them.
No, wait! Charles puts a hand on Erik’s arm, no doubt feeling him preparing to throw one of the treadmills. That’s Deadpool.
Are you kidding me, Erik thinks back because the music is too loud to permit actual speech. At the same time, he suddenly recalls Logan’s description—batshit crazy.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Deadpool breaks into an admittedly impressive dance routine, and Erik is pretty sure the human body isn’t normally supposed to bend like that.
Imagine if he gets you that flexible, Erik thinks offhandedly to Charles while they stand and watch. He’s still ready to seize the nearest treadmill if Deadpool makes one wrong move.
I just want to be able to walk, Charles answers as Deadpool does the worm, undulating across the floor towards them, not all of...that.
Deadpool jumps back up to his feet and strikes a pose right as the music abruptly cuts, leaving behind a ringing silence. “Yo dudes! What’s crack-a-lackin!”
“Nice to meet you,” Charles ventures, “thank you for agreeing to meet us here.”
“It is destiny foretold by the stars!” Deadpool says, dropping down to his knees and clutching at his chest. “The red man came unto me and foretold our crossing paths! OUR JOURNEY HAS ONLY BEGUN! WE ARE ONE!”
“Um,” says Charles.
Erik folds his arms. “I frankly don’t care whether you think it’s destiny or not,” he says flatly, making it very clear what he thinks of that, “can you or can you not help him get back to walking normally?”
Deadpool falls forward to the ground, rolling with laughter. “He—he said,” he gasps out, before another fit of laughter overtakes him for another few moments, “he said normally.”
“We’re leaving,” Erik says, putting one hand on Charles’ shoulder to steer him around. Azazel had better laugh it up while he still can, because once Erik gets ahold of him—
“No, wait,” Charles says, shrugging out of Erik’s grip as best as he can. He wobbles a little but corrects himself with the cane. “He can help.”
“Charles,” Erik growls, shooting a glance at Deadpool. He’s picked himself up off the floor and is galloping in place and making horse noises.
“Erik,” Charles says firmly. “He’s crazy, I’ll give you that—no one can see that better than me, if you’ll recall—but I can also see that he’s very good at what he does. I don’t want to have to rely on the cane any longer than I have to.”
“I can also offer super rad pancakes,” Deadpool chimes in. “Like, super rad.”
“Super rad pancakes, Erik,” Charles says with a mostly straight face, “what a deal.”
You aren’t funny. “Fine,” Erik says aloud, but he makes sure Charles catches every single last one of his misgivings about this entire situation, “I’ll be right outside. And if I have to come in here for any reason at all,” he adds, addressing Deadpool directly, “you’re going to end up with a super rad dumbbell wrapped around your throat.”
I can’t believe you just said the words ‘super rad’ out loud, Charles says, sounding amazed.
Deadpool steps forward, and the only thing that prevents Erik from lashing out at him is that Charles is still right beside him and would probably get knocked over in the process. He’s forced to stand still, bristling, while Deadpool puts an arm around his shoulders.
“Don’t worry, my bro,” he says in what is probably meant to be consoling but rather just makes Erik’s hackles rise more, “we’re gonna miss you when you’re gone.” He starts bouncing up and down. “We’re going to miss you by your hair, we’re going to miss you everywhere, we’re gonna miss you when you’re—”
“Enough,” Erik bites out, shoving Deadpool off of him, though he’s careful to push him in the opposite direction of Charles. “Do the session.” He stalks away, back towards the door where he intends to plant himself directly outside to stand guard until the hour is up. Call immediately if anything goes wrong.
I already miss you, Charles says sweetly, his amusement enveloping Erik like tangible warmth. When Erik slams the door open with his power and stomps out, Charles presses a feather-light phantom kiss against the corner of his mouth and then Erik feels his attention slide away, withdrawing from Erik’s mind to focus wholly on the rigorous PT session he’s about to undergo.
Erik would be lying to himself if the kiss didn’t make him feel slightly better. He shuts the door with considerable less force, and then extends his power out over the entire building, searching for the buttons of Azazel’s suit. He believes Charles if Charles says he knows Deadpool can help, but he’s still going to have a little chat with his right hand man for not warning him specifically about Deadpool’s...whatever that just was.
Putting Azazel through the wringer will make him feel even better, at the very least.
*
So begins the most intense weeks of Charles’ life. After the first session, he’s laid up in bed all night, every muscle in his body aching, too exhausted to even argue as Erik paces the room and swears he’s going to saw Deadpool’s head off his shoulders with a dull pocketknife for incapacitating Charles like this. And the days only get harder after that. But there’s no denying that Charles is making progress, and that’s probably the only reason Erik hasn’t flattened Deadpool with an elliptical machine yet. Every day, his leg hurts less and less, and after a while, he doesn’t need to cane to hobble around anymore. Logan comes by and makes approving noises when he examines the wounds, now healed into red scars against Charles’ pale skin. Everything, it seems, is looking up.
One night, after Erik finishes brushing his teeth in the bedroom’s adjoining bathroom and begins to change into his pajamas, Charles says, “I think it’ll be time for me to go home soon.”
Erik stiffens immediately. Though his back is to Charles as he digs clothes out of the closet, it isn’t hard to guess at his expression: surprised, tense, confused, upset. Those emotions swirl through his mind in a wave, quick and dizzying. “No,” he says, without quite thinking about it.
Charles frowns. “No? Erik, I’ve been here almost a month. I can recover just as well at home.”
“Guerrero’s still out there,” Erik says tersely, jerking a gray t-shirt on.
“There’s always going to be some danger out there,” Charles points out. “You can’t keep me cooped up in your apartment forever.”
“So you feel cooped up in my apartment.”
“Well—no.” He sighs. “Maybe a little. I haven’t stepped outside in weeks, Erik. You can understand why I’m going a little stir-crazy in here.”
“If you wanted to go outside, you could’ve told me. I would have taken you for a walk.”
“It’s not just that. It’s…” He stares at the rigid line of Erik’s shoulders and huffs. “Well, you didn’t expect me to stay here forever, did you?”
He expects a dismissive “Of course not.” But Erik says nothing. Instead of a quick denial, there’s a long, heavy silence that lengthens until Charles repeats, a bit incredulously, “Did you?”
“Would it be so bad?” Erik bites out, agitatedly shifting hangers from one side of the closet to the other in a clear bid to avoid turning around.
Charles, who had been lounging in bed getting ready to turn out the light, sits up. “Erik. Are you saying…?”
There’s a pause before Erik shakes his head and shuts the closet with more force than necessary. “No. I’m not saying anything. Forget it.”
But his tone says otherwise, and Charles finds himself actually entertaining the idea for a minute. It wouldn’t be so bad, no. He’s already comfortable here. He’s slept over every once in a while in the last three years of their relationship, and though he’s never stayed over for extended periods of time before, he can’t say that this past month has been unpleasant, save for the whole getting shot thing. Erik is an extremely conscientious housemate, always making sure Charles is comfortable, waking up early to make Charles tea, refusing to let Charles help around the house even when there’s work to be done. He doesn’t care how long Charles takes in the shower, and he’ll let Charles choose what they watch on the TV every time. He stocks his refrigerator according to Charles’ tastes (it was empty when Charles first came here, but Erik has over time filled it with chocolate milk and fresh apples and anything Charles has ever mentioned liking, even if only in passing), he picks up after himself, and he’ll read Charles to sleep if asked. There’s even a chess set stuffed in the back of Erik’s closet that Charles keeps meaning to dust off but forgets to.
His apartment is comfortable. Over these last few weeks, it’s become stifling but not because of Erik. If Charles could get outside, if he could live his own life from here, commuting to work every morning, coming home to Erik at night—it wouldn’t be bad at all.
“Erik,” he says into the silence, “come here.”
After a moment, Erik flicks the light off with his powers, plunging them into darkness. He doesn’t hear Erik move, but a moment later, the bed dips and the covers rustle as a warm body slips in beside him. When Charles rolls over and lays his head on Erik’s shoulder, the muscles there are tense underneath his touch.
“If you’re saying I should move in,” he whispers after a while, “I wouldn’t…be opposed.”
Erik goes very still beneath him. “Charles?”
He’s glad it’s dark so that neither of their faces is readable. Moving closer so that his body is pressed up against Erik’s back, he continues, “I mean, we’ve been living together this last month. It seems to work. You haven’t got any habits that drive me crazy, and I hopefully don’t have any that drive you mad either. You can cook, and I’d be an excellent dishwasher, if only you’d let me prove it. Plus, your place is actually closer to campus anyway, so it only makes sense…”
He forces himself not to peek into Erik’s mind. In times like these, he tries to let Erik sort out his own thoughts in peace, without Charles’ presence hovering there to pressure him into answering one way or another. They lie together in silence for one minute, then two. Then Erik turns and pulls Charles into his chest, burying his nose into Charles’ hair.
“Yeah,” he says, as if it was Charles’ idea all along, “you can stay.”
Charles laughs into his shoulder. “Why thank you.”
“No, I’m serious.” Erik pulls back and bends his head to kiss him. He misses in the dark, lips skimming Charles’ nose. Smiling, Charles tilts his head up and their mouths meet, the taste between them hot and familiar. Erik tugs him closer still, his arm curved around Charles’ waist, one leg thrown heavily over the entirety of Charles’ lower body.
Stay, he says, nipping on Charles’ bottom lip. I want you to.
Charles sighs into the kiss, surprised at the genuine, mirroring desire that surges up in him in response. I want to, too.
*
Three months later, he’s slouching in bed catching up on The Walking Dead when his phone buzzes. “Hello?” he says without even checking the ID. He’s already ninety percent certain who it is.
“Hey,” Erik says, “are you home?”
A little thrill shoots down through him all the way to his toes at the word home. The giddiness hasn’t quite gone away yet and hopefully never will. “Yes,” he replies, “I’m here.”
“Good. I’ll be there in half an hour. Have you eaten?”
“No, I was waiting for you.”
“Good, I’ll be there in half an hour with…”
“Chinese,” Charles supplies.
“Chinese. Done.”
Once they hang up, Charles gets up for a glass of water and then sits in the office for a while idly grading papers. At eight o’clock, he calls Erik and receives no answer. He knows how busy Erik gets, so he’s not particularly worried. At nine, he paces between the front door and the office a few times, trying not to work himself up. Erik probably got caught up in something. He’s always getting caught up in last-minute business deals or informant meetings or any of the thousands of other duties that come with running a large swath of New York City.
Normally that wouldn’t bother Charles very much, but now that they’ve been sharing a home, he’s beginning to realize how often Erik is out on business and how much of that business Erik excludes him from on a daily basis. Of course, he had known Erik didn’t call on him for every excursion, but only now, as he sits in an empty apartment waiting for Erik to come home, is he becoming aware of how few occasions Erik actually brings him along as telepathic insurance. And he’s certain that in recent weeks, Erik has been cutting down on even those few occasions.
The reason is obvious: Erik’s worried about him. Ever since the shooting, Erik’s been high-strung about his safety, never taking him near the office, always keeping him within arm’s reach when they walk on streets together. He’d even toyed with the idea of assigning Charles a bodyguard for a while, which Charles had vehemently opposed. The only meeting Erik has invited Charles to since he’d been shot was one with a drug-dealing informant they’d met on a street corner. Erik and Angel had gotten out to speak with the man while Azazel and Charles had stayed buckled up in the car on Erik’s orders. The meeting had passed uneventfully and Charles had been utterly useless, and it was only when Erik had dropped him off afterwards with promises to come home later after some other meetings that Charles suspected that Erik had invited him along to this petty informant deal to keep him occupied.
Erik’s been concerned about his wellbeing before but not like this. Charles finds it surprisingly irritating.
He’s sitting in the den sipping a glass of wine when the front door finally opens. A glance at clock tells him it’s half past midnight, which isn’t as late as it could be. Wanting to finish the page, he doesn’t look up from his book until Erik clears his throat in the doorway and says, “You didn’t have to stay up.”
“Mm. I didn’t mean to. Just lost track of time.” Marking the page he’s stopped on, he closes the book and leans forward to set it on the coffee table. “I’m kind of glad I did. I want to talk to you about something.”
Something in his tone must sound unintentionally ominous because Erik’s brows draw together warily. “What?”
Charles pats the empty space on the sofa next to him. “Come here, sit down.”
Erik doesn’t budge from the doorway. His eyes rake across Charles’ face, no doubt trying to glean clues from his expression, so Charles offers him a reassuring smile. At that, the tension in Erik’s jaw eases and he slings his jacket over the back of the sofa before dropping down in the proffered seat. “Talk about what?”
“Our arrangement. Our business arrangement. Specifically, the fact that you haven’t been taking me out on business.”
“Last week—”
“Anyone with eyes could have seen that that kid wasn’t a threat to anyone except perhaps himself. You didn’t need me on that job.” Charles scoots a little closer so he can duck down and force Erik to meet his eyes. “Erik, tell me the truth. You’re keeping me out of business because you’re worried about me, aren’t you?”
For a moment, Erik hesitates. Charles can see the denial taking shape on the edge of his mind, practiced and smooth—and then he watches as it deflates before it fully forms.
“I want to keep you safe,” Erik says, looking away. “Is that a crime?”
“No. But if it comes at the cost of your safety, then I object.”
“My safety?”
“Yes,” Charles huffs, “your safety. Let’s not pretend you’re going to be able to deflect every single threat against you or your people, Erik. That’s why you brought me on in the first place. If you get hurt one day and it’s because I wasn’t there…well, I want to keep you safe, too. You’re not the only one who gets to play protector, alright?”
Silently, Erik takes Charles’ hand and runs his thumb over his knuckles. Then he leans forward and presses their mouths together, slowly and fiercely. Charles warns him, This isn’t going to distract me, but he doesn’t push him away. Instead, he grabs Erik’s collar and pulls them closer together, unable to hide how much he’s missed this. They’ve only kissed chastely since the shooting, and the one time Charles had tried to reach for Erik’s belt, Erik had grabbed his wandering hand and sternly said, “No.” But Charles’ bandages are gone now and his limp is almost imperceptible. Erik doesn’t stop him when he pushes his hand up Erik’s shirt, sliding his fingers against the solid planes of Erik’s belly and chest.
Arousal begins to spike through Erik’s mind, hotter and more intense than usual—over three months without touching hasn’t been any easier for Erik than it has been for Charles, and now it’s spilling over, smothering Erik’s misgivings. He pushes Charles back until he’s lying down and straddles him, tugging at the hem of his shirt without breaking their kiss. Breathing heavily through his nose, Charles arches his back to help ruck his shirt up to his shoulders. Erik lets him up briefly to tug the shirt over his head and waits until Charles throws it somewhere behind the couch to kiss him again. His fingers splay across Charles’ chest, trailing teasingly over a nipple before ghosting further down. Charles grinds his groin up against Erik’s leg, trying to convey a hint of impatience.
But then Erik’s questing fingers meet the raised flesh to the left of Charles’ bellybutton and chilly recollection washes over him like a bucket of cold rainwater.
“Don’t stop,” Charles whispers against Erik’s lips, keeping his eyes closed. “Please.”
Erik’s thoughts flit restlessly back and forth, straddling the line of decision. He’s afraid of aggravating Charles’ injuries, that much has been obvious from the start, but another part of him thinks hesitantly, He’s almost completely healed, it can’t hurt, not if we go slow.
Charles pushes wordless encouragement at him and runs his thumb down Erik’s cheek to his jaw. After a moment, Erik sits up, but before Charles can protest, Erik runs his hand along the scar left on Charles’ stomach, reddened edges faded to pink. Charles shivers and tries to hold still as Erik gently explores the boundaries of the wound, his brow creasing as he does. When Erik’s touch wanders a little too close to his side, Charles twists away with half a laugh.
“Still ticklish,” Erik says with a small smile.
“People don’t just stop being ticklish,” Charles grumbles. Raising an eyebrow, he adds, “Satisfied?”
The smile fades. Erik’s fingers stop at the bottom of Charles’ ribs, pressing there lightly. “I don’t want this happening to you again.”
“In your line of work, there are always risks. You told me that the day you recruited me, remember?”
“I know.” Erik runs his fingers over the scar again and lets out a breath just loud enough for Charles to hear it shudder. “I just…”
As hard as he tries to hide the idea that flashes through his mind, Charles catches it anyway: if he could make Charles quit—if he could convince Charles to stop caring, if he kicked Charles out and pretended to be over him, if he pushed him away, then Charles would be gone but he would be safe—
Charles hits him in the chest, hard. “I’m going to drive myself to your office every single day you if you so much as consider considering that idea again.”
“Sorry,” Erik says, though his mind says he’s not. Every possibility has to be considered, that’s the way Erik thinks. Charles can’t fault him for it, as much as it irritates him.
After a moment, he shifts back onto Charles’ thighs so he can lean down to press his lips to the scar. His breath caught in his chest, Charles holds perfectly still as Erik kisses the edges of the wound and then trails touches across his stomach and down to his waistband. He hooks his fingers into Charles’ belt and tugs until Charles arches against his hand, willing and pliant.
They strip slowly, dropping articles of clothing into heaps by the foot of the couch. Despite the fact that they’ve barely touched in so long, there’s little urgency in their movements. Erik seems intent on going slow, on just touching every inch of skin before doing anything more. Charles lies obligingly still beneath him, watching his face as he explores his way across scatterings of freckles and smooth, pale skin.
“Satisfied?” he asks when Erik finally comes back to the scar, laying his palm warmly against it.
“Slowly,” Erik warns him. “And if anything hurts, you’ll tell me to stop immediately.”
Charles grins. “You don’t have to tell me twice to lie back and let you do all the work.”
It’s possibly the slowest sex he’s ever had in his life but there’s something about that that makes it painfully glorious. Erik is more careful than Charles can ever remember him being, which is both sweet and frustrating. He never leans his weight fully on Charles and never moves quickly, but the slow thrust of his hips is enough to gradually, gradually push them both into quiet, trembling climaxes that leave them hot and breathless and sweating.
Afterwards, Charles lies sprawled on the couch cooling down as Erik goes to fetch a cloth to wipe them down. When they’re relatively clean, Erik sits down by Charles’ feet and says, “Come with me tomorrow. I’ve got a meeting I want you at.”
Charles rolls his eyes. Even after a thoroughly pleasing orgasm, he can find it in himself to be peeved. “Do you really need me or is this some form of appeasement?”
Erik leans over to pick up his shirt, so his face isn’t quite visible as he replies, “I always need you.”
There’s something rough in his voice that makes Charles’ annoyance fade. “Erik…”
“So you’re going to wear a bulletproof vest from now on when we’re on business,” Erik continues, pulling the shirt over his head. “And before tomorrow’s meeting, I want to take you to the firing range for some practice, so clear your schedule.” He tilts a questioning look Charles’ way. “Is that acceptable?”
Charles sits up to press a kiss to Erik’s shoulder. When he reaches over to push his fingers in between Erik’s, Erik squeezes, once, which makes Charles smile against his shirt. “More than.”