some words for you
I had this image in my head of Erik casually and non-sexually disrobing while bantering with Charles, who was in the bath, so I decided to write it down on paper. It's not really a story, just, you know, Charles and Erik talking and sitting in the bath together, but it's longish, so you can read it if that sort of thing is the sort of thing you're into.
***
Adjusting his life to fit his disability has not, on the whole, been easy for Charles. It's not the physical aspects that are most bothersome, although they were the most difficult at first, or even the emotional upheaval that followed the shooting. His wounds healed, his muscles learned new movements, and his mind gradually put the terror and frustration and regret behind him.
The petty, daily annoyances, however, have never really gone away. Coming home from the hospital should have been a relief, but there were contractors to hire and renovations to be made and too many workers tramping in and out of the house and asking too many very personal questions about his day-to-day life. It was a fraught few months for Charles, as well as for Erik and Raven and Moira and everyone else tied up in his life. The repercussions of his injury didn't stop at him, as he was acutely aware, and they all had to adjust to a new world, even if Charles' adjustments were the most radical.
There are occasional silver linings. Though his ability to take a five minute shower before rushing out the door has disappeared, the alternative worked out in his favor. The renovation of the master bathroom had seen the end of the ancient clawfoot tub that Charles so adored, currently stored in the basement until he can be bothered to have it reinstalled in one of the guest baths, and replaced it with what has become one of Charles' favorite fixtures in the house. The new tub is state of the art, complete with different adjustable jets, repositioned in the room to get the best of the natural light from the windows against the wall. Best of all, it's large enough for Charles to stretch out fully.
It's large enough, even, for two.
Charles follows Erik from the road and up the driveway, half asleep in the afternoon light, a cup of tea within reach. He follows Erik into the garage and into the house and lets loose a whisper of acknowledgment, a breeze that Erik follows up the stairs and to its source. He's undoing his tie when he steps into the bathroom, Charles opening his eyes and smiling slowly, sleepily.
"How was it?" Charles asks.
"Boring," Erik says. "Tedious. Pointless." He drops his tie on top of the low cabinet filled with towels and starts on his buttons. Charles watches absently--he always appreciates Erik undressing, regardless of the intent. Erik undressed is a sight to behold, but the act of removing clothing is almost better, the display of his agile fingers, the fluid movements of metal tipped accessories under his abilities, the thrilling flashes of skin as he peels off his outer layers, climbs out of his scowl and bad temperament and becomes Charles' doting husband.
Charles sighs happily. "Did you sign the papers?" he asks, though he already knows the answer, of course, couldn't escape the flare of approval and excitement that burst from Erik when he put his pen to paper, even miles and miles away. In the years since his telepathy developed in early childhood, blocking out others' minds has become second nature, the thoughts of those around him no more aggravating than the distant hum of an appliance. Erik, though--Erik's mind can always find his, intentionally or not, lit up like a summer afternoon and singing sweetly.
"I did sign the papers," Erik says. He can't hide his smile, even as he huffs and tries to maintain the aura of irritation. He places his shirt on top of his belt and kicks off his shoes, toeing them neatly under the cabinet and well out of the way of any possible wheelchair paths.
"Well, congratulations," Charles says. "Erik Lehnsherr: Professional Author."
"I don't think it counts as professional until I get the first check," Erik says. His belt slips off hands free, curling on top of the rest of his clothes while his face disappears in the fabric of his undershirt for just a moment. Charles can do with missing his face as he takes in the lines of Erik's chest almost absently, with a warm appreciation that speaks of affectionate familiarity more than any sexual desire. At least, not at the moment.
"Soon enough," Charles says. The socks next, then the trousers join the rest of Erik's clothes. "I'm surprised they didn't keep you later to talk about the details.
"They wanted to," Erik says. "You know how they get. You know how they've been. They kept trying to insist on a business lunch. The only thing stopping me from telling them both to shove it up their asses was Emma."
"Ever patient," Charles murmurs. Erik sheds his boxers. His watch unbuckles itself from his wrist and tops the pile of clothes. "I should send her a bottle of wine as thanks for keeping you out of trouble."
"Nothing she hasn't done before," Erik says. He touches the water of the tub, then taps Charles' shoulder. "Move."
"You're right," Charles says as he pulls himself forward along the edge of the tub. "I should buy her a vineyard."
Erik snorts and climbs into the tub behind Charles. He sinks slowly into the water, hissing at the heat, then pulls Charles back against his chest once he's settled. He kisses Charles as his arms loop around Charles' chest, cool but warming quickly in the steamy water.
"Thank you," Erik says against his temple.
"I had nothing to do with it," Charles insists. Erik's fingers are stroking gently against his stomach, not to titillate, but more as a gesture of comfort. "You're a brilliant activist with an interesting history. Someone would have strong armed you into writing a book no matter who you were married to and what parties you were forced to attend against your will. I will, however, remind you of this the next time you try to make an excuse to get out of accompanying me to a party."
Erik huffs a half-laugh into Charles' hair, his body relaxing bit by bit. Charles likes him best like this, just a little tired, past the point of pretending to be stern and unflappable, wholeheartedly giving in to Charles' charms.
Erik has always been brilliant, from the moment Charles first saw him speak, asking a question at an open panel discussion at the public library when Charles was 24, fresh from Oxford, and ready to change the mutant world. For almost ten years, Erik has avoided accepting even a dime of Charles' money or political influence while making a name for himself. If anything, Charles should apologize. If it hadn't been for the last last four years since the shooting--the recovery, the renovations, the trial, the fallout--Erik would most certainly be on the path to becoming a political powerhouse. Rather than boosting him up as Charles imagined, young and inexperienced and desperately falling in love and willing to do anything to keep Erik with him, their relationship has held Erik back from attaining all he can.
He's not unhappy, though. Charles can tell that much. And much like Charles has found himself happier than he ever was before the injury, Erik has quietly grown out of his rage and into his pragmatism, all without the regret or resentment that Charles feared would follow Erik's choice to stay.
He's incredibly lucky and incredibly grateful for that luck, but today, Charles chooses not to dwell on that. Instead, he focuses on the satisfaction pouring off of Erik, the warmth of the water and the sun, and his own sense of contentment.
"How was your day?" Erik asks. Charles tucks his head into the space between Erik's neck and chest and closes his eyes.
"Not terrible," he says. "I graded papers. I got a headache. I ran a bath. You came home. Not terrible, but better now."
"It is," Erik agrees. The water laps at the side of the tub as Erik sinks further into it, his mind as still and warm and welcoming as the bath. It puts Charles at ease as well as the tub does, as well as the bright autumn sunlight. "There are a lot of changes coming."
"There are," Charles agrees. He's not particularly fussed at the thought of them. After surviving all he has, it's hard to be afraid of mundane upheavals like changing jobs or the shifting public attention that comes from a book like the one Erik is about to write. "Change isn't always bad. Even when it seems like it."
"Mm," Erik says. His eyes are closed too. Charles can't imagine that he's nervous about the changes, either.
"Like the old tub," Charles says. "I loved that old tub."
"You certainly argued hotly enough when the contractor told you it would have to go," Erik says.
"I loved it," Charles repeats. "But it was small and shallow and contained. I would have been happy using it forever, but only because I wouldn't have known what this is like. How much better it is."
He's not talking about the tub any longer. He opens his eyes and shifts his head to look up at Erik. "I would trade it a thousand times over for this," he says. "A hundred thousand times over."
Erik cracks one eye open and looks down at him.
"Yeah?" he says. Charles smiles. Nods. "Me too."
***
Adjusting his life to fit his disability has not, on the whole, been easy for Charles. It's not the physical aspects that are most bothersome, although they were the most difficult at first, or even the emotional upheaval that followed the shooting. His wounds healed, his muscles learned new movements, and his mind gradually put the terror and frustration and regret behind him.
The petty, daily annoyances, however, have never really gone away. Coming home from the hospital should have been a relief, but there were contractors to hire and renovations to be made and too many workers tramping in and out of the house and asking too many very personal questions about his day-to-day life. It was a fraught few months for Charles, as well as for Erik and Raven and Moira and everyone else tied up in his life. The repercussions of his injury didn't stop at him, as he was acutely aware, and they all had to adjust to a new world, even if Charles' adjustments were the most radical.
There are occasional silver linings. Though his ability to take a five minute shower before rushing out the door has disappeared, the alternative worked out in his favor. The renovation of the master bathroom had seen the end of the ancient clawfoot tub that Charles so adored, currently stored in the basement until he can be bothered to have it reinstalled in one of the guest baths, and replaced it with what has become one of Charles' favorite fixtures in the house. The new tub is state of the art, complete with different adjustable jets, repositioned in the room to get the best of the natural light from the windows against the wall. Best of all, it's large enough for Charles to stretch out fully.
It's large enough, even, for two.
Charles follows Erik from the road and up the driveway, half asleep in the afternoon light, a cup of tea within reach. He follows Erik into the garage and into the house and lets loose a whisper of acknowledgment, a breeze that Erik follows up the stairs and to its source. He's undoing his tie when he steps into the bathroom, Charles opening his eyes and smiling slowly, sleepily.
"How was it?" Charles asks.
"Boring," Erik says. "Tedious. Pointless." He drops his tie on top of the low cabinet filled with towels and starts on his buttons. Charles watches absently--he always appreciates Erik undressing, regardless of the intent. Erik undressed is a sight to behold, but the act of removing clothing is almost better, the display of his agile fingers, the fluid movements of metal tipped accessories under his abilities, the thrilling flashes of skin as he peels off his outer layers, climbs out of his scowl and bad temperament and becomes Charles' doting husband.
Charles sighs happily. "Did you sign the papers?" he asks, though he already knows the answer, of course, couldn't escape the flare of approval and excitement that burst from Erik when he put his pen to paper, even miles and miles away. In the years since his telepathy developed in early childhood, blocking out others' minds has become second nature, the thoughts of those around him no more aggravating than the distant hum of an appliance. Erik, though--Erik's mind can always find his, intentionally or not, lit up like a summer afternoon and singing sweetly.
"I did sign the papers," Erik says. He can't hide his smile, even as he huffs and tries to maintain the aura of irritation. He places his shirt on top of his belt and kicks off his shoes, toeing them neatly under the cabinet and well out of the way of any possible wheelchair paths.
"Well, congratulations," Charles says. "Erik Lehnsherr: Professional Author."
"I don't think it counts as professional until I get the first check," Erik says. His belt slips off hands free, curling on top of the rest of his clothes while his face disappears in the fabric of his undershirt for just a moment. Charles can do with missing his face as he takes in the lines of Erik's chest almost absently, with a warm appreciation that speaks of affectionate familiarity more than any sexual desire. At least, not at the moment.
"Soon enough," Charles says. The socks next, then the trousers join the rest of Erik's clothes. "I'm surprised they didn't keep you later to talk about the details.
"They wanted to," Erik says. "You know how they get. You know how they've been. They kept trying to insist on a business lunch. The only thing stopping me from telling them both to shove it up their asses was Emma."
"Ever patient," Charles murmurs. Erik sheds his boxers. His watch unbuckles itself from his wrist and tops the pile of clothes. "I should send her a bottle of wine as thanks for keeping you out of trouble."
"Nothing she hasn't done before," Erik says. He touches the water of the tub, then taps Charles' shoulder. "Move."
"You're right," Charles says as he pulls himself forward along the edge of the tub. "I should buy her a vineyard."
Erik snorts and climbs into the tub behind Charles. He sinks slowly into the water, hissing at the heat, then pulls Charles back against his chest once he's settled. He kisses Charles as his arms loop around Charles' chest, cool but warming quickly in the steamy water.
"Thank you," Erik says against his temple.
"I had nothing to do with it," Charles insists. Erik's fingers are stroking gently against his stomach, not to titillate, but more as a gesture of comfort. "You're a brilliant activist with an interesting history. Someone would have strong armed you into writing a book no matter who you were married to and what parties you were forced to attend against your will. I will, however, remind you of this the next time you try to make an excuse to get out of accompanying me to a party."
Erik huffs a half-laugh into Charles' hair, his body relaxing bit by bit. Charles likes him best like this, just a little tired, past the point of pretending to be stern and unflappable, wholeheartedly giving in to Charles' charms.
Erik has always been brilliant, from the moment Charles first saw him speak, asking a question at an open panel discussion at the public library when Charles was 24, fresh from Oxford, and ready to change the mutant world. For almost ten years, Erik has avoided accepting even a dime of Charles' money or political influence while making a name for himself. If anything, Charles should apologize. If it hadn't been for the last last four years since the shooting--the recovery, the renovations, the trial, the fallout--Erik would most certainly be on the path to becoming a political powerhouse. Rather than boosting him up as Charles imagined, young and inexperienced and desperately falling in love and willing to do anything to keep Erik with him, their relationship has held Erik back from attaining all he can.
He's not unhappy, though. Charles can tell that much. And much like Charles has found himself happier than he ever was before the injury, Erik has quietly grown out of his rage and into his pragmatism, all without the regret or resentment that Charles feared would follow Erik's choice to stay.
He's incredibly lucky and incredibly grateful for that luck, but today, Charles chooses not to dwell on that. Instead, he focuses on the satisfaction pouring off of Erik, the warmth of the water and the sun, and his own sense of contentment.
"How was your day?" Erik asks. Charles tucks his head into the space between Erik's neck and chest and closes his eyes.
"Not terrible," he says. "I graded papers. I got a headache. I ran a bath. You came home. Not terrible, but better now."
"It is," Erik agrees. The water laps at the side of the tub as Erik sinks further into it, his mind as still and warm and welcoming as the bath. It puts Charles at ease as well as the tub does, as well as the bright autumn sunlight. "There are a lot of changes coming."
"There are," Charles agrees. He's not particularly fussed at the thought of them. After surviving all he has, it's hard to be afraid of mundane upheavals like changing jobs or the shifting public attention that comes from a book like the one Erik is about to write. "Change isn't always bad. Even when it seems like it."
"Mm," Erik says. His eyes are closed too. Charles can't imagine that he's nervous about the changes, either.
"Like the old tub," Charles says. "I loved that old tub."
"You certainly argued hotly enough when the contractor told you it would have to go," Erik says.
"I loved it," Charles repeats. "But it was small and shallow and contained. I would have been happy using it forever, but only because I wouldn't have known what this is like. How much better it is."
He's not talking about the tub any longer. He opens his eyes and shifts his head to look up at Erik. "I would trade it a thousand times over for this," he says. "A hundred thousand times over."
Erik cracks one eye open and looks down at him.
"Yeah?" he says. Charles smiles. Nods. "Me too."