fic: but I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more (fifteen)
First, because I can't recall whether I posted these things here or not: Awesome Husband officially got his promotion! (He's been doing the job for a while now, but now it's official--and came with a very generous raise...) He deserves it, because he is Awesome.
Second, ilovetakahana (ninemoons42) wrote lovely fic for me for the Secret Mutant Summer Fun Edition! There is chef!Charles and moving in together and delicious descriptions and it's so gorgeous that I want to live in it. <3 <3 (I wrote one too. It is here on AO3, though i'll also put it up here sometime this week.)
Third, chapters of the fic may go down to once a week, because I start teaching again this week and will have less spare time...we'll see how intense it is!
Okay, speaking of, time for fic! In this chapter, some aftermath, and the beginnings of healing.
Title: But I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles, And I Would Walk Five Hundred More (Fifteen: Erik, Aftermath)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: in the hospital, discussions of rape and rape recovery
Word Count: 4,717 for this chapter
Disclaimers: characters belong to Marvel, not me; only doing this for fun! title, opening, and closing lines from “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers
Summary/Notes: for a prompt on tumblr a while back that went like this: Charles goes to hire an escort himself from (who else?) Emma Frost’s service, sees a photo of artist!Erik and tries to book him, only to find Erik’s photo was misplaced and Erik is himself a client looking for an escort for a gallery opening… so Charles gets Emma to let him show up as Erik’s escort. Erik mistakes him for a rich donor and they spend the evening talking and probably bickering in a very UST way because Erik probably hates people like that. And Erik’s seething because he paid good money for his date and he never showed up. And later Charles follows Erik to his limo and quips, “oh, I think I’m supposed to be your date tonight?” with a cheeky little smile. Except my brain decided that there would be plot and secrets and Sebastian Shaw and Charles having an actual mission and Erik worrying and hurt/comfort and D/s themes and I don't even know.
TL;DR: In which Charles isn't really an escort, Erik thinks he only wants a one-night stand, everybody's got a past, and there's quite a lot of sex on the way to the happy ending.
Link to Chapter Fourteen here, Thirteen here, Twelve here, Eleven here, Ten here, Nine here, Eight here, Seven here, Six part two here, part one here, Five part two here, part one here, Four here, Three here, Two here, One here, Prologue here
Charles, by the time they reach the hospital, is barely awake, exhausted from the ordeal, the pain, the drugs they give him in the ambulance. Erik holds onto him, holds his hand when the doctors won’t let him any closer, and refuses to let go. After a few versions of that particular glare, no one tries to make him.
The consensus seems to be that Charles needs to be seen promptly, and will likely require surgery for that knee at the very least, but the injuries aren’t lifethreatening, and even the hospital staff’s a bit careful with him. Compassionate. Understanding. Aware that he might not want to be touched. Erik bites back his initial commentary-Charles is stronger than that-but Charles isn’t talking much, isn’t objecting to the carefulness. And so he doesn’t dare protest.
A kind-eyed nurse offers to help him get into a hospital gown; blue eyes find Erik’s, mutely asking, and Erik says, “We’ll do it,” and she nods and waits outside.
Charles shivers when pulling off the thin shirt, when the antiseptic air collides with darkening bruises; when Erik very gently unfastens his ruined jeans and eases them down, he bites his lip, and looks away. The bloodied towel slips free and Erik catches it without thinking and then understands what and why and feels a wave of sickening rage, so strong that he’s knocked physically off-balance for a second.
“Erik-”
“I’m-don’t worry about me. Please. I’m only thinking of every way I want to kill him. But you-” Words are inadequate. They scurry away and hide. Charles must be so badly hurt, that’s so much blood, he can’t even imagine-
“It looks worse than it is.” Charles shuts his eyes. Doesn’t open them as Erik wraps the flimsy protection of the paper gown around him. “It was…after he let me shower. Some of that’s from the water, just…dripping. I’m sore, but I’m not-it’ll heal.”
Still with closed eyes, though the voice is honest, open and vulnerable and too weary to be anything but truthful. And one hand reaches out for his. “You love me.”
“Forever.”
There’s a clatter outside. Raised voices. Charles doesn’t visibly flinch, but his hand in Erik’s tenses.
“Do you want me to go check? I can, if you-”
The door swings open. There’s a harried nurse, and Emma Frost of all people, and a gawky young man in street clothes and a borrowed white coat, and an older physician trying to tug at his sleeve. Erik fixes them all with his most intimidating scowl; only Emma seems unimpressed.
“Charles, is Henry McCoy your personal physician?”
“He doesn’t have a personal physician on file and-”
“Oh-he can be, yes,” Charles says, rather faintly. “I-Hank, what are you doing here? Yes, this is fine-but…”
“Um,” the boy-young man, Erik supposes, if he’s a licensed medical practitioner, though he more resembles a worried rabbit-starts. “Miss Frost-is it Miss, I’m sorry, I-anyway, she called me, and of course I knew who she was but I never thought-” And then, focusing on the bruises and the knee with reassuring precision, “Someone hand me his chart and tell me what happened!”
The rest of the doctors look at each other. Then there’s some hurried whispering consultation. Charles, propped up by helpful pillows, looks up at Erik. Erik sits there beside him, on the bed because no one’s going to say otherwise, and strokes a lock of hair gently out of those eyes, and feels his heart cracking with fury, with grief, with the need to do something, anything, to make this right.
It’s a hospital. Another hospital. He’d said goodbye to his mother in a room that looked too much like this, while she closed her eyes and sighed and he couldn’t save her then and now he’s here again with Charles and Charles is hurt and it’s his fault and he can’t fix this either-
“Erik,” Charles murmurs.
“Do you need something? What can I-”
“You came. For me.”
“You-” He almost asks how can you think I wouldn’t, then. Stops himself. He knows better. He knows Charles. “Of course I did. I love you.”
“Yes,” Charles says, and it’s unexpectedly warm. An affirmation. Some of the hollowness in his chest eases, at that. “I believed you would. And you did.”
“You…” He stops. Looks at Charles, really looks at him, lying there fragile and wounded and surrounded by snowdrift sheets. Believing in him.
His heart aches again, but it’s out of some other emotion this time.
“Yes,” Charles repeats, as if he’s heard that thought. Maybe he has. Charles is, after all, incredible. And is squeezing his hand. “I love you, Erik.”
“Yes…you do.” He lifts the hand to his lips. Kisses it, with conviction. An oath-taking, an acknowledgement, a vow. “I was planning to make tea for you.”
“…tea?”
“Tonight. I was thinking-I wanted to come home with you, and hold you, and make tea for you-that pineapple-hibiscus one you bought last week, that you were so excited about-and I’d kiss you, and tell you how happy I was, being in our home with you, and then I was planning to tell you that I love you-are you crying? Charles-”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m only-”
“You’re not fine-what’s wrong, please, what did I-”
“Nothing.” Charles blinks rapidly, laughs a little in the overspill of emotion, shaking his head, unsteady joy reflecting in those eyes like sunrise over sapphires. “Nothing’s wrong, or not anything else, at least, I only-I want that too, I want all of that, with you, you’ll have to promise me to remember that when we’re home-”
“I’ll remember-”
“Charles?” That voice is Henry McCoy, evidently having triumphed over the other doctors. “I’m sorry, I know I’m interrupting, but we need to…er…I know the paramedics treated you, um, some, on the way over but we need a…a proper examination and I thought…you at least know me, and you don’t know them…”
“Oh,” Charles says, and goes very quiet.
“In private, please.” McCoy glances at Erik apologetically. “If you wouldn’t mind-there might be-”
“Not going anywhere-” He pauses. “Charles?”
That hand doesn’t let go of his. “Erik knows everything about me. And I’d…like him to stay.”
McCoy plainly remains doubtful, but the cracked-gemstone eyes’re certain, and Erik is going to be an immovable object for as long as Charles would like him to be, so that is, decidedly, that.
“Well,” Charles offers, transparent attempt at courage utterly heartbreaking, “shall we get this over with?”
They do.
The walls of the room are very white. Blank. Featureless. The equipment, standing by at the ready, is too dark in contrast.
There’s metal in the frame of the bed, a strange utilitarian sculpture built for one purpose alone. Erik thinks about the stark grace of it, the kind of functional beauty it possesses, knowing its place. He has to think about that, because otherwise he might hear the soft “hmm” sounds McCoy makes, the tiny gasps of pain, the scratch of pen on paper, the low-voiced stumbling answers to questions about how much it hurts to breathe or sit up or move.
Charles’s grip on his hand is very tight, and gets more so at one or two specific red-tinted moments. Dried blood and pale thighs. An inquiry to which Charles only shakes his head, and turns away.
An eternity later, they’re done.
Erik sits on the edge of the bed, in defiance of any hospital rules to the contrary. Slides one arm around trembling shoulders; Charles curls up against him, not exactly crying, but breathing unevenly, eyes wet around the corners.
“I’m sorry,” McCoy ventures, into the motionless air. Erik nods, because he can hear the truthfulness in the words, and that should be acknowledged.
He can’t bring himself to speak, though. The man’s caused Charles more pain, however necessary.
Charles breathes, possibly to make up for Erik’s taciturnity, “Thank you, Hank,” though since the comment’s more or less directed at Erik’s shoulder, it’s even odds whether Hank in fact hears.
Hank swallows. Shoves his glasses up on his nose. “You’ll be fine. I promise. Surgery in the morning, for that knee-we could do it now but I’d rather wait for a specialist, since it’s not urgent-”
“It’s not what!”
Charles sits up a little at that. “I know what he means, Erik, it’s all right. Is that-that’s all? As far as…”
“As far as what,” Erik says, heart aching queerly. He knows.
“I…think you should be…there’s some…tearing, but it’s not…I’m not a specialist in that one either, but I have seen, at the free clinic…you should heal. If it, um, doesn’t…if you don’t notice that it’s getting better, in a few days…then say so. We have options. But I think you’ll recover.”
Charles nods, this time. Erik can’t recall words. There aren’t any right ones for this. Nowhere in the world.
“There’re a lot of people outside who care about you. I’d suggest limiting your visitors and letting yourself recuperate, but, um. One or two of them look…government. And one’s Miss Frost. Er…”
“She doesn’t mind Miss. You’d know by now if she did.” Charles finds a smile someplace, pulling it up to safety from the jaws of hell. “But you can call her Emma.”
“I don’t actually think I can. I’ve got you on morphine, but I think I’ll dial the dosage back, you don’t have that much body mass…no offense, sorry, Charles…tell me if you’re in pain, okay?”
“Hank?”
McCoy stops, halfway out the door. “Yes?”
“I…” Charles hesitates. “I know Emma called you, but-why did you come?”
McCoy looks at Charles with the expression of a man faced with a important proclamation in foreign language. Then glances at Erik, presumably for help translating. “Because you’re hurt?”
“I-but-”
“You should,” Erik tells him, “have seen how many people wanted to come along. I never realized I was in love with the patron saint of escorts and FBI agents, Charles.”
“FBI-Moira was here? I did think I saw-oh-ouch…”
“Don’t sit up!”
“Sorry…I’m…I can’t quite…”
“Just breathe, you can, come on, in and out…like that…don’t move…better? Good. At least let me help, if you want to be upright. Yes, Moira’s here. I think she wants to talk to you when you’re feeling…”
“Recovered?”
“I’m sorry, Charles.”
“No. It’s all right.” That hand is wrapped around his, tightly enough to indicate that it’s not all right, but that Charles is willing to let him see as much; that means something. Erik hopes it’s a good something. “I think I don’t understand, though. And I’m awfully tired…”
“Then rest. Please. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Mr Lehnsherr-Erik-” McCoy catches his gaze. “Can I talk to you for a moment? In private?”
“I can’t leave him-”
The subject of this concern looks up at Hank, all bruises and blue eyes and shock-white skin in the depths of the pillows. “It’s about me. Isn’t it?”
“I,” Hank says. “Um.”
“I want Erik to stay,” Charles says.
“There-”
“No, wait.” Charles pushes himself up more cautiously this time. “It’s important, or he wouldn’t ask. Can you…stay where I can see you? By the door?”
Erik opens his mouth to say no; glances from one pair of eyes to another. Understands abruptly that this is also Charles trying, wanting to be strong enough, and Erik can’t take that away from him.
“…fine. One minute.”
Out in the hall, door left half-open, he crosses his arms. Bares his teeth, not quite a smile. The air smells of rubbing alcohol and cleanliness and steel. “Well?”
McCoy sighs. Doesn’t quite meet Erik’s eyes. Not promising. “Well…the bruises, those’ll heal…two cracked ribs…that knee will heal as well, but it’ll take some time. Some rehabilitation. It may not ever be as strong as it was, but he’ll walk on it.” A pause. A shove at the glasses.
“Other than that…he…um, there’s definite injury from…you were there for the exam. He was…”
“He was raped.” Erik says it for him. Flatly. His voice feels oddly disconnected, as if it can’t believe what it’s saying either.
“He…yes. From what he said, from the extent of the…damage…it wasn’t only once. There was a…an object, involved…” McCoy falters. Stops. They stand there looking at each other, under the dispassionate gleaming lights. There’s not anything else to say.
Erik looks down first. Looks at his hands. They shake, just a small tremor, as he watches. They couldn’t help Charles. Couldn’t stop any of it. And in the end it’d been Charles who’d saved him.
McCoy swallows. Sounds like it hurts. “Listen. It’s not-it could be worse. I’ve seen worse. This is-it’s not good. But he will heal.”
He nods. The words remain gone. They huddle up in a wet knot in his throat and refuse to come out, to let him breathe.
“You care about him. Right?”
“Of course I fucking care about him-”
“Then you need to be here.” McCoy’s face is still rabbit-like, but a determined rabbit now, ready to kick and bite and fight for a wounded patient. “I don’t know you. I don’t even know Charles, not that well-no one really knows Charles, or maybe you do, I don’t know. But I know he’s a good person. That’s not hard to see. And he’s going to need you, so if you can’t be here, if you’re going to leave, do it now. Because if you’re here, you’re here. For all of it. And if you hurt him I will personally make your life hell. Understand?”
“…I’ll be here.” He would be offended by the implication, and in fact is, though it’s smothered somewhere under the heartache. But he does understand. Because he feels the same anger, the same horror, the same outrage at a world that’d let this happen to Charles. Who is a good person. The best person Erik’s ever known.
“I love him,” he says, and that’s the second time he’s said so on purpose to another human being besides the one included in that sentence. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” One more glasses-nudge, even though they’re not sliding. “One more thing, then. I was…when I was…examining the extent of…those injuries….you know what I…”
“I know what you mean, yes.”
“Most sexual assault survivors don’t handle that easily. They cry, or they’re ashamed, or they’re afraid…”
Which all would make sense. If Charles had done any of those. “Go on.”
“Charles didn’t…he stopped talking, I know you know that, you were there. But that…that isn’t good. That he just didn’t…react. Like he didn’t think it mattered, when I touched him.” McCoy’s voice is unhappy. “I know it’s post-traumatic stress, and I know every person presents with different symptoms. But. I thought you should know.”
Erik opens his mouth. Stops. Then shuts his eyes, just for a second, while the world spins on beneath his feet, while his head throbs from the draining adrenaline and fear and the physical collision with Sebastian’s gun; while Charles is lying still and small in hospital-issue sheets with a ruined knee and broken self-worth; while his own hands shudder at the sense-memory of leather and chain, hurling away the collar from that elegant bruised throat.
Charles has been holding his hand, has been talking to him. That’s true, that must be true, Charles wouldn’t lie to him, Charles has to believe in Erik’s love-
He’s horribly aware that that may not be enough. That Charles, who’d only just begun to laugh during sex, to look up and kiss him and smile, might not be able to see laughter anymore. Might retreat, pulling back into silence and resignation and grey lightless despair, where nothing matters, not hands on his body, not words falling into the empty void, not promises of forever.
No. Every single defiant protective in-love atom of his being shouts the word. That won’t happen. He won’t allow it to.
“Er…Mr Lehnsherr?”
Henry McCoy. The present. Charles. He needs to get back to Charles.
When he swallows, the dryness of the air sticks in his throat. “Tell me. How bad is it likely to be?”
“I wish I knew.” McCoy raises one hand, as if to pat him consolingly on the shoulder; evidently thinks better of the gesture, and the hand hovers awkwardly mid-motion. “It’s different for everyone. Different circumstances, different individuals…some people are able to go on as if nothing’s happened. Some people need time and space to heal. Some people never heal, not fully; sexual activity may be beneficial, if Charles wants you, or he may want you but be unable to bring himself to act on those desires, or he may never want to have sex again. Or anything along the spectrum.”
“I…whatever he wants. Anything he wants. I’ll be here.”
“Tell him,” McCoy says, “not me,” but his expression’s compassionate, when he waves at the door.
Erik hesitates, attempts a “Thank you”-Charles would say it-and then pushes the door all the way open and runs the few steps across the room to his heart.
“Are you-”
“I’m all right.” Charles holds out a hand; Erik takes it, kisses it, keeps it pressed to his lips for an inhale or two, just breathing in the reality of him. “I know you’ll be here.”
“You-you weren’t-were you listening?”
“Of course.” Charles manages to grin, though it’s not quite the same grin. Too many chasms behind those eyes. “You did say it was about me. I couldn’t really hear much, though. But you were very emphatic, a few times.”
“You…know I meant that. All of it. Not going anywhere.” How much did Charles hear? The parts about himself, about those injuries, about-
He can’t ask, though. Not if Charles hasn’t overheard. He bites his lip, pushing back the question; sapphire eyes are watching his face. “You do believe me.”
“You told Hank-when you didn’t think I could hear-that you love me.” Charles stops to breathe, winces, considers the IV in his arm thoughtfully. “Maybe I should ask Hank to increase that limit, after all…”
“Are you in pain?”
“Some…”
“Charles,” Erik says, “I’m so sorry.” He’ll drag Hank back here in the next ten seconds if those blue eyes make the request.
“Not your fault.”
“He was my-”
“He was insane. I-are we using past tense? Was?”
Erik starts to answer, then realizes that he doesn’t in fact know the answer, but because the universe has a natural sense of narrative timing, there’s a tap at the doorframe. It’s a very tactful sort of tap, as if the person’s unwilling to intrude but has to anyway.
“Charles?”
“Moira? Oh-Emma-Emma, I…” Charles trails off. Shakes his head. “Thank you. For-”
“Don’t get sentimental,” Emma says, “I’m protecting an employee, Charles, you’re still consulting for me,” but her eyes’re suspiciously bright, like diamonds.
“You are?” He’d not known that. “When-”
“Right before-” Charles’s voice falters, stumbles, caught in quicksand; before Erik can try to throw a desperate rope, he recovers, and goes on. “I went to see Emma after you left. When I came home, he-Shaw-he was waiting for me. I never had a chance to tell you. Only consulting. Prospective clients. Is that-”
“No, it’s fine, I know why you want to. And yes-I saw how many of them you’ve helped, and absolutely yes, and I’ll support you, I want to-”
“Oh, good,” Emma observes dryly, “I get both of you,” and Erik glowers, but Charles smiles a little, so maybe that’s okay.
“Charles,” Moira says, “how are you?” and then has the grace to look embarrassed by the question. “I mean-are you doing-okay? Everything you need?”
“Tea might be nice,” Charles suggests, and Erik wants to kiss him, as Moira laughs and is reassured by this evidence of normality.
“I’ll see what I can do. Would you…might you feel up to answering some questions, or giving us a written statement? Not now, obviously,” she hastily edits, when Erik meaningfully lifts an eyebrow. “But it’ll be important for the prosecution.”
“The prosecution…” Charles takes a deep breath, as much as injured ribs will permit. “What happened to-to him? What will happen?”
“Um…well, as far as I know, and I’m not a lawyer, I think we can convict him on charges of sedition, conspiracy-there were a lot of explosives and plans for setting them off-kidnapping, child abuse…”
Charles glances at Erik, at that last one; Moira doesn’t miss it. “Yes, I mean you, and also some of the others. You weren’t of legal consenting age, and neither were at least three of the other boys he’s apparently had…relations with. It’s amazing how willing he is to talk, when we withhold his painkillers. He got seen by doctors and everything, we’re not being negligent, and he’ll heal, more or less, but it’s wonderful how the nurses end up getting angry when we casually mention what he’s accused of…Mr Lehnsherr, would you also be willing to give us a statement? We can do it without your testimony, but the more the better.”
Erik blinks. Breathes. Processes. Sebastian, being publicly accused and convicted. Never allowed to twist or control or harm anyone again.
“Yes,” he says. “I can.”
“So can I,” Charles murmurs, and fingers tighten around Erik’s hand. “You don’t…you won’t need us to appear in person…”
“No, I think we can spare you that. It’ll be a quick trial. Trust me.” Those last words’re delivered with weight. The FBI, Erik thinks, the government, connections; and younger him might’ve stood up and railed at this evidence of abuse of power, but here and now it’s personal, and maybe that makes him a hypocrite, but he can’t care, because he’s realized the relative importance of certain things, like love and Charles versus his own distrust of civil institutions, and he’ll do anything, break his own vows, be a hypocrite, accept aid and offer it, to keep Charles safe.
No regrets. Not about that, anyway.
Charles squeezes his fingers again, as if hearing those thoughts too.
“So…life in prison, then? No parole?”
“Most likely. He won’t have a very good time of it, considering what most inmates think of child molesters.”
“And,” Emma notes, “his building, all his art…if one can refer to those ungainly monstrosities as art…that all seems to have burned down. After the police and FBI were through, of course.”
Moira gives her a little nod. Erik decides that this last strange development, the two women having some sort of unspoken understanding, is just going to have to go uncommented. Too much else that’s more important.
Like Charles, who’s still holding his hand.
And who’s looking at Emma incredulously, from the heap of supportive pillow-fluff. “You…did you…burn down a building…on my behalf?”
“Who, me?” Emma widens her eyes at them. “Sugar, if I’d done it, I’d take the credit. But, you understand…it was an old place, and those paints are so flammable, and someone brought a cigar, and there were so many upset people, after they saw you carried out, and heard the stories…well, it must’ve been an accident, of course. So easy for that to happen.”
Erik wants to applaud, but one of his hands is occupied, so he settles for catching Emma’s gaze, in perfect understanding.
“You burned down a building,” Charles says.
Moira says, “Also, I shot his dick off.”
Charles stares at her, utterly nonplussed. “You-sorry, you what?”
“I shot him. In the genital area.” She makes a little waving motion in the air. “No more penis. All gone.”
“Oh god,” Charles says, and then starts laughing, helpless and a little hysterical, and then the laughter suddenly turns into tears. “Erik-”
He puts the other arm around shaking shoulders, too. Lets Charles hide the sobs in his chest, while his own eyes burn.
Across the bed, Moira and Emma glance at each other, then soundlessly slip away. Erik’s grateful, and will thank them later. This time, this space, is for him and Charles.
He holds on as tightly as he thinks might be safe, and lets Charles cry, letting everything out; whispers soft words, I love you and I’m here and we’re all right; murmurs small song-fragments and lullabies, in German he only barely recalls himself, snatches of melodies his mother used to hum before bed. Rubs Charles’s back, gently, no pressure, tracing slow circles and arcs and parabolae over frightened muscles.
The sobs slow and spread out, small quivers and hiccups; Charles turns his head just enough to speak, while his hands very carefully fold themselves into Erik’s shirt and hold on in turn. Outside, beyond the room’s single square window, the stars glitter; the night’s growing paler, shimmering toward dawn. “I love you.”
“And I love you.” He rests his cheek atop that shorter head. A loop of hair bounces up, inquisitive, to tap at his face. “Better?”
“I…think so. For now. I feel…I don’t know how I feel. Tired. Afraid. Relieved. You’re here.”
“Always. Afraid?”
“I don’t know…”
“It’s all right,” Erik tells him, “you don’t have to know everything all the time,” and Charles smiles, fractured, worn-out, luminous. “I thought…you rather liked me knowing things. About art. About books. Us.”
“I do like you knowing that there’s an us. You, and me, Charles. Together.”
“Even if I-if I’m not-if I can’t-”
“You,” Erik says, into the dark silk of all that hair, warm against his lips, his skin, “can do anything. You saved my life with handcuffs and a paper-clip. If there are things that are difficult for you now, we’ll find a way around them. And if you are tired, you should rest. It’s my turn to protect you.”
“You are,” Charles whispers into his chest. “You are.”
“Hush. Rest. You’re having surgery in the morning.” Even though the words’ve sparked tiny glowing bonfires in his heart. Fierce and proud: he’s done this right, made Charles feel safer, somehow.
“That-about that…”
“I will love you no matter how many working knees you have, Charles. One, or two, or none.”
“None, really…then you’d have to carry me everywhere…”
“I am not seeing a downside to that.” One last quick kiss, to the top of that head. One of the playful strands of hair sneaks into his mouth, allowing him to taste it. “Go to sleep.”
“Are you planning to stay here and hold me all night?” Charles sounds like he might be smiling again. “Not certain the hospital staff would approve. Erik?”
“They can object if they want to. Yes?”
“You…when I got the blindfold off, when I could see you…I’d thought I was scared before. But Shaw was holding a gun on you. And then…I didn’t have time to be afraid, then. But after, when I thought about how close…if I’d been a second slower…” Charles breathes out. “I can’t lose you.”
“You never will.”
“Shaw-what he did-Erik, I don’t know whether I can-”
“Don’t. Not now. What did I tell you?”
“…that you’re planning to frighten the hospital staff?”
“No matter what, Charles. If there are things you can’t do, we’ll do what you can. Or experiment. Learn new things, together.”
“Together…I like that idea.” Charles tips his head up, brushes lips to the line of Erik’s jaw. The touch, though light, sends a thrill down his spine: Charles is kissing him, wanting to kiss him, thinking about the future. Their future. “You did come for me. You fought him. For me.”
“I’d’ve shot his dick off if Moira hadn’t done it first,” Erik says after a moment, completely honest, and Charles manages a watery laugh. “I believe you would.”
“I love you. Please rest.”
And Charles nods, and settles more securely into his encircling arms. There, with the quiet beeps and hums of the equipment nestled around them, the echo of that laugh hanging in the night like the beginnings of hope, whispers back, “I love you,” and, trustingly, closes blue eyes.
Second, ilovetakahana (ninemoons42) wrote lovely fic for me for the Secret Mutant Summer Fun Edition! There is chef!Charles and moving in together and delicious descriptions and it's so gorgeous that I want to live in it. <3 <3 (I wrote one too. It is here on AO3, though i'll also put it up here sometime this week.)
Third, chapters of the fic may go down to once a week, because I start teaching again this week and will have less spare time...we'll see how intense it is!
Okay, speaking of, time for fic! In this chapter, some aftermath, and the beginnings of healing.
Title: But I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles, And I Would Walk Five Hundred More (Fifteen: Erik, Aftermath)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: in the hospital, discussions of rape and rape recovery
Word Count: 4,717 for this chapter
Disclaimers: characters belong to Marvel, not me; only doing this for fun! title, opening, and closing lines from “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers
Summary/Notes: for a prompt on tumblr a while back that went like this: Charles goes to hire an escort himself from (who else?) Emma Frost’s service, sees a photo of artist!Erik and tries to book him, only to find Erik’s photo was misplaced and Erik is himself a client looking for an escort for a gallery opening… so Charles gets Emma to let him show up as Erik’s escort. Erik mistakes him for a rich donor and they spend the evening talking and probably bickering in a very UST way because Erik probably hates people like that. And Erik’s seething because he paid good money for his date and he never showed up. And later Charles follows Erik to his limo and quips, “oh, I think I’m supposed to be your date tonight?” with a cheeky little smile. Except my brain decided that there would be plot and secrets and Sebastian Shaw and Charles having an actual mission and Erik worrying and hurt/comfort and D/s themes and I don't even know.
TL;DR: In which Charles isn't really an escort, Erik thinks he only wants a one-night stand, everybody's got a past, and there's quite a lot of sex on the way to the happy ending.
Link to Chapter Fourteen here, Thirteen here, Twelve here, Eleven here, Ten here, Nine here, Eight here, Seven here, Six part two here, part one here, Five part two here, part one here, Four here, Three here, Two here, One here, Prologue here
Charles, by the time they reach the hospital, is barely awake, exhausted from the ordeal, the pain, the drugs they give him in the ambulance. Erik holds onto him, holds his hand when the doctors won’t let him any closer, and refuses to let go. After a few versions of that particular glare, no one tries to make him.
The consensus seems to be that Charles needs to be seen promptly, and will likely require surgery for that knee at the very least, but the injuries aren’t lifethreatening, and even the hospital staff’s a bit careful with him. Compassionate. Understanding. Aware that he might not want to be touched. Erik bites back his initial commentary-Charles is stronger than that-but Charles isn’t talking much, isn’t objecting to the carefulness. And so he doesn’t dare protest.
A kind-eyed nurse offers to help him get into a hospital gown; blue eyes find Erik’s, mutely asking, and Erik says, “We’ll do it,” and she nods and waits outside.
Charles shivers when pulling off the thin shirt, when the antiseptic air collides with darkening bruises; when Erik very gently unfastens his ruined jeans and eases them down, he bites his lip, and looks away. The bloodied towel slips free and Erik catches it without thinking and then understands what and why and feels a wave of sickening rage, so strong that he’s knocked physically off-balance for a second.
“Erik-”
“I’m-don’t worry about me. Please. I’m only thinking of every way I want to kill him. But you-” Words are inadequate. They scurry away and hide. Charles must be so badly hurt, that’s so much blood, he can’t even imagine-
“It looks worse than it is.” Charles shuts his eyes. Doesn’t open them as Erik wraps the flimsy protection of the paper gown around him. “It was…after he let me shower. Some of that’s from the water, just…dripping. I’m sore, but I’m not-it’ll heal.”
Still with closed eyes, though the voice is honest, open and vulnerable and too weary to be anything but truthful. And one hand reaches out for his. “You love me.”
“Forever.”
There’s a clatter outside. Raised voices. Charles doesn’t visibly flinch, but his hand in Erik’s tenses.
“Do you want me to go check? I can, if you-”
The door swings open. There’s a harried nurse, and Emma Frost of all people, and a gawky young man in street clothes and a borrowed white coat, and an older physician trying to tug at his sleeve. Erik fixes them all with his most intimidating scowl; only Emma seems unimpressed.
“Charles, is Henry McCoy your personal physician?”
“He doesn’t have a personal physician on file and-”
“Oh-he can be, yes,” Charles says, rather faintly. “I-Hank, what are you doing here? Yes, this is fine-but…”
“Um,” the boy-young man, Erik supposes, if he’s a licensed medical practitioner, though he more resembles a worried rabbit-starts. “Miss Frost-is it Miss, I’m sorry, I-anyway, she called me, and of course I knew who she was but I never thought-” And then, focusing on the bruises and the knee with reassuring precision, “Someone hand me his chart and tell me what happened!”
The rest of the doctors look at each other. Then there’s some hurried whispering consultation. Charles, propped up by helpful pillows, looks up at Erik. Erik sits there beside him, on the bed because no one’s going to say otherwise, and strokes a lock of hair gently out of those eyes, and feels his heart cracking with fury, with grief, with the need to do something, anything, to make this right.
It’s a hospital. Another hospital. He’d said goodbye to his mother in a room that looked too much like this, while she closed her eyes and sighed and he couldn’t save her then and now he’s here again with Charles and Charles is hurt and it’s his fault and he can’t fix this either-
“Erik,” Charles murmurs.
“Do you need something? What can I-”
“You came. For me.”
“You-” He almost asks how can you think I wouldn’t, then. Stops himself. He knows better. He knows Charles. “Of course I did. I love you.”
“Yes,” Charles says, and it’s unexpectedly warm. An affirmation. Some of the hollowness in his chest eases, at that. “I believed you would. And you did.”
“You…” He stops. Looks at Charles, really looks at him, lying there fragile and wounded and surrounded by snowdrift sheets. Believing in him.
His heart aches again, but it’s out of some other emotion this time.
“Yes,” Charles repeats, as if he’s heard that thought. Maybe he has. Charles is, after all, incredible. And is squeezing his hand. “I love you, Erik.”
“Yes…you do.” He lifts the hand to his lips. Kisses it, with conviction. An oath-taking, an acknowledgement, a vow. “I was planning to make tea for you.”
“…tea?”
“Tonight. I was thinking-I wanted to come home with you, and hold you, and make tea for you-that pineapple-hibiscus one you bought last week, that you were so excited about-and I’d kiss you, and tell you how happy I was, being in our home with you, and then I was planning to tell you that I love you-are you crying? Charles-”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m only-”
“You’re not fine-what’s wrong, please, what did I-”
“Nothing.” Charles blinks rapidly, laughs a little in the overspill of emotion, shaking his head, unsteady joy reflecting in those eyes like sunrise over sapphires. “Nothing’s wrong, or not anything else, at least, I only-I want that too, I want all of that, with you, you’ll have to promise me to remember that when we’re home-”
“I’ll remember-”
“Charles?” That voice is Henry McCoy, evidently having triumphed over the other doctors. “I’m sorry, I know I’m interrupting, but we need to…er…I know the paramedics treated you, um, some, on the way over but we need a…a proper examination and I thought…you at least know me, and you don’t know them…”
“Oh,” Charles says, and goes very quiet.
“In private, please.” McCoy glances at Erik apologetically. “If you wouldn’t mind-there might be-”
“Not going anywhere-” He pauses. “Charles?”
That hand doesn’t let go of his. “Erik knows everything about me. And I’d…like him to stay.”
McCoy plainly remains doubtful, but the cracked-gemstone eyes’re certain, and Erik is going to be an immovable object for as long as Charles would like him to be, so that is, decidedly, that.
“Well,” Charles offers, transparent attempt at courage utterly heartbreaking, “shall we get this over with?”
They do.
The walls of the room are very white. Blank. Featureless. The equipment, standing by at the ready, is too dark in contrast.
There’s metal in the frame of the bed, a strange utilitarian sculpture built for one purpose alone. Erik thinks about the stark grace of it, the kind of functional beauty it possesses, knowing its place. He has to think about that, because otherwise he might hear the soft “hmm” sounds McCoy makes, the tiny gasps of pain, the scratch of pen on paper, the low-voiced stumbling answers to questions about how much it hurts to breathe or sit up or move.
Charles’s grip on his hand is very tight, and gets more so at one or two specific red-tinted moments. Dried blood and pale thighs. An inquiry to which Charles only shakes his head, and turns away.
An eternity later, they’re done.
Erik sits on the edge of the bed, in defiance of any hospital rules to the contrary. Slides one arm around trembling shoulders; Charles curls up against him, not exactly crying, but breathing unevenly, eyes wet around the corners.
“I’m sorry,” McCoy ventures, into the motionless air. Erik nods, because he can hear the truthfulness in the words, and that should be acknowledged.
He can’t bring himself to speak, though. The man’s caused Charles more pain, however necessary.
Charles breathes, possibly to make up for Erik’s taciturnity, “Thank you, Hank,” though since the comment’s more or less directed at Erik’s shoulder, it’s even odds whether Hank in fact hears.
Hank swallows. Shoves his glasses up on his nose. “You’ll be fine. I promise. Surgery in the morning, for that knee-we could do it now but I’d rather wait for a specialist, since it’s not urgent-”
“It’s not what!”
Charles sits up a little at that. “I know what he means, Erik, it’s all right. Is that-that’s all? As far as…”
“As far as what,” Erik says, heart aching queerly. He knows.
“I…think you should be…there’s some…tearing, but it’s not…I’m not a specialist in that one either, but I have seen, at the free clinic…you should heal. If it, um, doesn’t…if you don’t notice that it’s getting better, in a few days…then say so. We have options. But I think you’ll recover.”
Charles nods, this time. Erik can’t recall words. There aren’t any right ones for this. Nowhere in the world.
“There’re a lot of people outside who care about you. I’d suggest limiting your visitors and letting yourself recuperate, but, um. One or two of them look…government. And one’s Miss Frost. Er…”
“She doesn’t mind Miss. You’d know by now if she did.” Charles finds a smile someplace, pulling it up to safety from the jaws of hell. “But you can call her Emma.”
“I don’t actually think I can. I’ve got you on morphine, but I think I’ll dial the dosage back, you don’t have that much body mass…no offense, sorry, Charles…tell me if you’re in pain, okay?”
“Hank?”
McCoy stops, halfway out the door. “Yes?”
“I…” Charles hesitates. “I know Emma called you, but-why did you come?”
McCoy looks at Charles with the expression of a man faced with a important proclamation in foreign language. Then glances at Erik, presumably for help translating. “Because you’re hurt?”
“I-but-”
“You should,” Erik tells him, “have seen how many people wanted to come along. I never realized I was in love with the patron saint of escorts and FBI agents, Charles.”
“FBI-Moira was here? I did think I saw-oh-ouch…”
“Don’t sit up!”
“Sorry…I’m…I can’t quite…”
“Just breathe, you can, come on, in and out…like that…don’t move…better? Good. At least let me help, if you want to be upright. Yes, Moira’s here. I think she wants to talk to you when you’re feeling…”
“Recovered?”
“I’m sorry, Charles.”
“No. It’s all right.” That hand is wrapped around his, tightly enough to indicate that it’s not all right, but that Charles is willing to let him see as much; that means something. Erik hopes it’s a good something. “I think I don’t understand, though. And I’m awfully tired…”
“Then rest. Please. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Mr Lehnsherr-Erik-” McCoy catches his gaze. “Can I talk to you for a moment? In private?”
“I can’t leave him-”
The subject of this concern looks up at Hank, all bruises and blue eyes and shock-white skin in the depths of the pillows. “It’s about me. Isn’t it?”
“I,” Hank says. “Um.”
“I want Erik to stay,” Charles says.
“There-”
“No, wait.” Charles pushes himself up more cautiously this time. “It’s important, or he wouldn’t ask. Can you…stay where I can see you? By the door?”
Erik opens his mouth to say no; glances from one pair of eyes to another. Understands abruptly that this is also Charles trying, wanting to be strong enough, and Erik can’t take that away from him.
“…fine. One minute.”
Out in the hall, door left half-open, he crosses his arms. Bares his teeth, not quite a smile. The air smells of rubbing alcohol and cleanliness and steel. “Well?”
McCoy sighs. Doesn’t quite meet Erik’s eyes. Not promising. “Well…the bruises, those’ll heal…two cracked ribs…that knee will heal as well, but it’ll take some time. Some rehabilitation. It may not ever be as strong as it was, but he’ll walk on it.” A pause. A shove at the glasses.
“Other than that…he…um, there’s definite injury from…you were there for the exam. He was…”
“He was raped.” Erik says it for him. Flatly. His voice feels oddly disconnected, as if it can’t believe what it’s saying either.
“He…yes. From what he said, from the extent of the…damage…it wasn’t only once. There was a…an object, involved…” McCoy falters. Stops. They stand there looking at each other, under the dispassionate gleaming lights. There’s not anything else to say.
Erik looks down first. Looks at his hands. They shake, just a small tremor, as he watches. They couldn’t help Charles. Couldn’t stop any of it. And in the end it’d been Charles who’d saved him.
McCoy swallows. Sounds like it hurts. “Listen. It’s not-it could be worse. I’ve seen worse. This is-it’s not good. But he will heal.”
He nods. The words remain gone. They huddle up in a wet knot in his throat and refuse to come out, to let him breathe.
“You care about him. Right?”
“Of course I fucking care about him-”
“Then you need to be here.” McCoy’s face is still rabbit-like, but a determined rabbit now, ready to kick and bite and fight for a wounded patient. “I don’t know you. I don’t even know Charles, not that well-no one really knows Charles, or maybe you do, I don’t know. But I know he’s a good person. That’s not hard to see. And he’s going to need you, so if you can’t be here, if you’re going to leave, do it now. Because if you’re here, you’re here. For all of it. And if you hurt him I will personally make your life hell. Understand?”
“…I’ll be here.” He would be offended by the implication, and in fact is, though it’s smothered somewhere under the heartache. But he does understand. Because he feels the same anger, the same horror, the same outrage at a world that’d let this happen to Charles. Who is a good person. The best person Erik’s ever known.
“I love him,” he says, and that’s the second time he’s said so on purpose to another human being besides the one included in that sentence. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” One more glasses-nudge, even though they’re not sliding. “One more thing, then. I was…when I was…examining the extent of…those injuries….you know what I…”
“I know what you mean, yes.”
“Most sexual assault survivors don’t handle that easily. They cry, or they’re ashamed, or they’re afraid…”
Which all would make sense. If Charles had done any of those. “Go on.”
“Charles didn’t…he stopped talking, I know you know that, you were there. But that…that isn’t good. That he just didn’t…react. Like he didn’t think it mattered, when I touched him.” McCoy’s voice is unhappy. “I know it’s post-traumatic stress, and I know every person presents with different symptoms. But. I thought you should know.”
Erik opens his mouth. Stops. Then shuts his eyes, just for a second, while the world spins on beneath his feet, while his head throbs from the draining adrenaline and fear and the physical collision with Sebastian’s gun; while Charles is lying still and small in hospital-issue sheets with a ruined knee and broken self-worth; while his own hands shudder at the sense-memory of leather and chain, hurling away the collar from that elegant bruised throat.
Charles has been holding his hand, has been talking to him. That’s true, that must be true, Charles wouldn’t lie to him, Charles has to believe in Erik’s love-
He’s horribly aware that that may not be enough. That Charles, who’d only just begun to laugh during sex, to look up and kiss him and smile, might not be able to see laughter anymore. Might retreat, pulling back into silence and resignation and grey lightless despair, where nothing matters, not hands on his body, not words falling into the empty void, not promises of forever.
No. Every single defiant protective in-love atom of his being shouts the word. That won’t happen. He won’t allow it to.
“Er…Mr Lehnsherr?”
Henry McCoy. The present. Charles. He needs to get back to Charles.
When he swallows, the dryness of the air sticks in his throat. “Tell me. How bad is it likely to be?”
“I wish I knew.” McCoy raises one hand, as if to pat him consolingly on the shoulder; evidently thinks better of the gesture, and the hand hovers awkwardly mid-motion. “It’s different for everyone. Different circumstances, different individuals…some people are able to go on as if nothing’s happened. Some people need time and space to heal. Some people never heal, not fully; sexual activity may be beneficial, if Charles wants you, or he may want you but be unable to bring himself to act on those desires, or he may never want to have sex again. Or anything along the spectrum.”
“I…whatever he wants. Anything he wants. I’ll be here.”
“Tell him,” McCoy says, “not me,” but his expression’s compassionate, when he waves at the door.
Erik hesitates, attempts a “Thank you”-Charles would say it-and then pushes the door all the way open and runs the few steps across the room to his heart.
“Are you-”
“I’m all right.” Charles holds out a hand; Erik takes it, kisses it, keeps it pressed to his lips for an inhale or two, just breathing in the reality of him. “I know you’ll be here.”
“You-you weren’t-were you listening?”
“Of course.” Charles manages to grin, though it’s not quite the same grin. Too many chasms behind those eyes. “You did say it was about me. I couldn’t really hear much, though. But you were very emphatic, a few times.”
“You…know I meant that. All of it. Not going anywhere.” How much did Charles hear? The parts about himself, about those injuries, about-
He can’t ask, though. Not if Charles hasn’t overheard. He bites his lip, pushing back the question; sapphire eyes are watching his face. “You do believe me.”
“You told Hank-when you didn’t think I could hear-that you love me.” Charles stops to breathe, winces, considers the IV in his arm thoughtfully. “Maybe I should ask Hank to increase that limit, after all…”
“Are you in pain?”
“Some…”
“Charles,” Erik says, “I’m so sorry.” He’ll drag Hank back here in the next ten seconds if those blue eyes make the request.
“Not your fault.”
“He was my-”
“He was insane. I-are we using past tense? Was?”
Erik starts to answer, then realizes that he doesn’t in fact know the answer, but because the universe has a natural sense of narrative timing, there’s a tap at the doorframe. It’s a very tactful sort of tap, as if the person’s unwilling to intrude but has to anyway.
“Charles?”
“Moira? Oh-Emma-Emma, I…” Charles trails off. Shakes his head. “Thank you. For-”
“Don’t get sentimental,” Emma says, “I’m protecting an employee, Charles, you’re still consulting for me,” but her eyes’re suspiciously bright, like diamonds.
“You are?” He’d not known that. “When-”
“Right before-” Charles’s voice falters, stumbles, caught in quicksand; before Erik can try to throw a desperate rope, he recovers, and goes on. “I went to see Emma after you left. When I came home, he-Shaw-he was waiting for me. I never had a chance to tell you. Only consulting. Prospective clients. Is that-”
“No, it’s fine, I know why you want to. And yes-I saw how many of them you’ve helped, and absolutely yes, and I’ll support you, I want to-”
“Oh, good,” Emma observes dryly, “I get both of you,” and Erik glowers, but Charles smiles a little, so maybe that’s okay.
“Charles,” Moira says, “how are you?” and then has the grace to look embarrassed by the question. “I mean-are you doing-okay? Everything you need?”
“Tea might be nice,” Charles suggests, and Erik wants to kiss him, as Moira laughs and is reassured by this evidence of normality.
“I’ll see what I can do. Would you…might you feel up to answering some questions, or giving us a written statement? Not now, obviously,” she hastily edits, when Erik meaningfully lifts an eyebrow. “But it’ll be important for the prosecution.”
“The prosecution…” Charles takes a deep breath, as much as injured ribs will permit. “What happened to-to him? What will happen?”
“Um…well, as far as I know, and I’m not a lawyer, I think we can convict him on charges of sedition, conspiracy-there were a lot of explosives and plans for setting them off-kidnapping, child abuse…”
Charles glances at Erik, at that last one; Moira doesn’t miss it. “Yes, I mean you, and also some of the others. You weren’t of legal consenting age, and neither were at least three of the other boys he’s apparently had…relations with. It’s amazing how willing he is to talk, when we withhold his painkillers. He got seen by doctors and everything, we’re not being negligent, and he’ll heal, more or less, but it’s wonderful how the nurses end up getting angry when we casually mention what he’s accused of…Mr Lehnsherr, would you also be willing to give us a statement? We can do it without your testimony, but the more the better.”
Erik blinks. Breathes. Processes. Sebastian, being publicly accused and convicted. Never allowed to twist or control or harm anyone again.
“Yes,” he says. “I can.”
“So can I,” Charles murmurs, and fingers tighten around Erik’s hand. “You don’t…you won’t need us to appear in person…”
“No, I think we can spare you that. It’ll be a quick trial. Trust me.” Those last words’re delivered with weight. The FBI, Erik thinks, the government, connections; and younger him might’ve stood up and railed at this evidence of abuse of power, but here and now it’s personal, and maybe that makes him a hypocrite, but he can’t care, because he’s realized the relative importance of certain things, like love and Charles versus his own distrust of civil institutions, and he’ll do anything, break his own vows, be a hypocrite, accept aid and offer it, to keep Charles safe.
No regrets. Not about that, anyway.
Charles squeezes his fingers again, as if hearing those thoughts too.
“So…life in prison, then? No parole?”
“Most likely. He won’t have a very good time of it, considering what most inmates think of child molesters.”
“And,” Emma notes, “his building, all his art…if one can refer to those ungainly monstrosities as art…that all seems to have burned down. After the police and FBI were through, of course.”
Moira gives her a little nod. Erik decides that this last strange development, the two women having some sort of unspoken understanding, is just going to have to go uncommented. Too much else that’s more important.
Like Charles, who’s still holding his hand.
And who’s looking at Emma incredulously, from the heap of supportive pillow-fluff. “You…did you…burn down a building…on my behalf?”
“Who, me?” Emma widens her eyes at them. “Sugar, if I’d done it, I’d take the credit. But, you understand…it was an old place, and those paints are so flammable, and someone brought a cigar, and there were so many upset people, after they saw you carried out, and heard the stories…well, it must’ve been an accident, of course. So easy for that to happen.”
Erik wants to applaud, but one of his hands is occupied, so he settles for catching Emma’s gaze, in perfect understanding.
“You burned down a building,” Charles says.
Moira says, “Also, I shot his dick off.”
Charles stares at her, utterly nonplussed. “You-sorry, you what?”
“I shot him. In the genital area.” She makes a little waving motion in the air. “No more penis. All gone.”
“Oh god,” Charles says, and then starts laughing, helpless and a little hysterical, and then the laughter suddenly turns into tears. “Erik-”
He puts the other arm around shaking shoulders, too. Lets Charles hide the sobs in his chest, while his own eyes burn.
Across the bed, Moira and Emma glance at each other, then soundlessly slip away. Erik’s grateful, and will thank them later. This time, this space, is for him and Charles.
He holds on as tightly as he thinks might be safe, and lets Charles cry, letting everything out; whispers soft words, I love you and I’m here and we’re all right; murmurs small song-fragments and lullabies, in German he only barely recalls himself, snatches of melodies his mother used to hum before bed. Rubs Charles’s back, gently, no pressure, tracing slow circles and arcs and parabolae over frightened muscles.
The sobs slow and spread out, small quivers and hiccups; Charles turns his head just enough to speak, while his hands very carefully fold themselves into Erik’s shirt and hold on in turn. Outside, beyond the room’s single square window, the stars glitter; the night’s growing paler, shimmering toward dawn. “I love you.”
“And I love you.” He rests his cheek atop that shorter head. A loop of hair bounces up, inquisitive, to tap at his face. “Better?”
“I…think so. For now. I feel…I don’t know how I feel. Tired. Afraid. Relieved. You’re here.”
“Always. Afraid?”
“I don’t know…”
“It’s all right,” Erik tells him, “you don’t have to know everything all the time,” and Charles smiles, fractured, worn-out, luminous. “I thought…you rather liked me knowing things. About art. About books. Us.”
“I do like you knowing that there’s an us. You, and me, Charles. Together.”
“Even if I-if I’m not-if I can’t-”
“You,” Erik says, into the dark silk of all that hair, warm against his lips, his skin, “can do anything. You saved my life with handcuffs and a paper-clip. If there are things that are difficult for you now, we’ll find a way around them. And if you are tired, you should rest. It’s my turn to protect you.”
“You are,” Charles whispers into his chest. “You are.”
“Hush. Rest. You’re having surgery in the morning.” Even though the words’ve sparked tiny glowing bonfires in his heart. Fierce and proud: he’s done this right, made Charles feel safer, somehow.
“That-about that…”
“I will love you no matter how many working knees you have, Charles. One, or two, or none.”
“None, really…then you’d have to carry me everywhere…”
“I am not seeing a downside to that.” One last quick kiss, to the top of that head. One of the playful strands of hair sneaks into his mouth, allowing him to taste it. “Go to sleep.”
“Are you planning to stay here and hold me all night?” Charles sounds like he might be smiling again. “Not certain the hospital staff would approve. Erik?”
“They can object if they want to. Yes?”
“You…when I got the blindfold off, when I could see you…I’d thought I was scared before. But Shaw was holding a gun on you. And then…I didn’t have time to be afraid, then. But after, when I thought about how close…if I’d been a second slower…” Charles breathes out. “I can’t lose you.”
“You never will.”
“Shaw-what he did-Erik, I don’t know whether I can-”
“Don’t. Not now. What did I tell you?”
“…that you’re planning to frighten the hospital staff?”
“No matter what, Charles. If there are things you can’t do, we’ll do what you can. Or experiment. Learn new things, together.”
“Together…I like that idea.” Charles tips his head up, brushes lips to the line of Erik’s jaw. The touch, though light, sends a thrill down his spine: Charles is kissing him, wanting to kiss him, thinking about the future. Their future. “You did come for me. You fought him. For me.”
“I’d’ve shot his dick off if Moira hadn’t done it first,” Erik says after a moment, completely honest, and Charles manages a watery laugh. “I believe you would.”
“I love you. Please rest.”
And Charles nods, and settles more securely into his encircling arms. There, with the quiet beeps and hums of the equipment nestled around them, the echo of that laugh hanging in the night like the beginnings of hope, whispers back, “I love you,” and, trustingly, closes blue eyes.