Chapter Text
The CIA’s pet child prodigy keeps sneaking worried glances at Erik. Good.
He should be worried. Charles has only been stuck into that infernal machine – Cerebro, a suspiciously British voice chides him from the back of his mind – twice, and already Hank wants to run experiments on expanding Charles’ reach. Charles being Charles, of course, agreed to it without so much as a second thought. How he has made it this far into his twenties without a single shred of self-preservation is a mystery Erik has yet to solve.
It’s not like the past two sessions hadn’t already left Charles drained and a little pale around the nose. It’s not like his shields hadn't been so cracked that Erik could feel his headache all the way through the wall separating their rooms at the compound, a lapse in control Charles would never allow if he could help it.
But no, if Erik brings up these very valid concerns, it’s all ‘don’t spoil our fun, Erik’ and ‘you worry too much, Erik, really’ and lethal blue eyes turning on him pleadingly and goddamnit, he can’t say no to Charles fucking Xavier.
Not that anyone can ever find out about that last bit – he keeps that piece of information under tight mental wraps, thank you very much. Charles probably knows. Charles knows everything about him, as he’d so boldly claimed, and while Erik doubts that, seeing as Charles hasn’t run for the hills yet, there’s something in Charles’ smile that tells Erik Charles knows exactly how deep his devotion runs already.
If it were anyone else with that kind of power over him, Erik would probably kill them. As it is, he merely resigns himself to another afternoon looming at Charles’ shoulder, just as much there to monitor the hum of the machinery as to glare at McCoy and make sure he doesn’t push Charles too far. Afterwards, he will drag Charles to the canteen and listen to his predictable laments about the lack of good tea while making sure the man gets some food into himself before they can finally hide away from the prying eyes of the humans over a game of chess.
It’s frightening how much caring for Charles has already become second nature to him, something he wants to do. Erik is not used to caring for things, not anymore, and it’s more often than not that he feels wrong-footed, like anyone who watches will see right through his clumsy attempts at concern and realise that he is hollow inside.
“Cerebro is ready for you, Professor,” McCoy says and clears his throat. He’s avoiding Erik’s eyes.
“Wonderful, Hank,” Charles smiles, entirely oblivious to the tense atmosphere in the room or maybe just ignoring it. He hops up onto the platform with the same unwavering enthusiasm as before and pulls the helmet down onto his head. “Let’s begin, then!”
Erik just barely bites back another threat and crosses his arms, eyes narrowed as he sinks his awareness into the surrounding metal and the electrical charges flowing through it. He keeps his eyes on Charles, though, on the way his jaw clenches and his shoulders tighten as Cerebro powers up to full strength.
Across the room, Hank cheers, his fear of God (and, more importantly, Erik) momentarily forgotten in the face of the first readouts.
“It’s working, Professor! You’re reaching further, these coordinates are already twice as far as we got the last time! And that- whoa, I think that’s in South America! Wait, could you slow down a little? The equipment is struggling with the speed of your input, it could be corrupting the data.”
Charles doesn’t react. His hands are clenched on the railing, knuckles whitening with strain. Erik is at his side in seconds, crouching down to peer under the writhing mass of wires and occlusive plastic covering Charles’ eyes.
“Charles? Charles. Are you- say something, can you hear me?”
One of his hands is covering Charles’. He has no memory of moving it there, but he can’t make himself let go, either. Charles’ pulse is a caged bird under his fingertips, fluttering, racing- weakening.
“Turn it off,” he snaps at McCoy, his other hand coming up to cradle Charles' jaw. “Now, verdammt!”
The kid squeaks and sputters a token protest, disjointed words about discovery and fellow mutants and data, when the feeling of something liquid running across his skin draws Erik’s attention back to Charles.
Red.
His wrist is covered in red, soaking the cuff of his turtleneck where it rests against Charles’ chin because Charles’ face is covered in vibrant, terrifying red. It stands out against his pallor, a just-killed deer soaking winter’s snow with its life, everything red, red, red.
Charles’ blood is on his hand.
Erik isn’t sure what he screams at McCoy, how much of the machinery he breaks with his powers lashing out in terror. The young man frantically pushes a few buttons, turns switches with his face rivalling Charles’ in its paleness. None of it matters, though. Cerebro powers down and Charles collapses soundlessly into Erik’s arms.
“Charles. Charles, wake up, come on, open your eyes, bitte- you can’t just- come on, come on, you said, you promised I wasn’t alone, don’t fucking do this to me!”
He manages to deliver them both safely to the floor somehow, one arm wrapped around Charles’ shoulders and patting that bloodied cheek with his free hand. Does he still have a pulse? He must, he must, Charles cannot die here, right underneath Erik’s hands, he can’t lose another person, God, please, he can’t.
“Charles,” he grinds out again, tearing the sound out from between the panicked clench of his teeth. “Please.”
And just then, mercifully, he feels it. A brush of warm fingers against his mind, a little confused, a little weak, but there. Alive.
Erik? What’s going on?
Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“It’s alright,” he says, willing it to be true. “You’re alright. Can you open your eyes?”
Charles does. His eyes are as hazy as his mental voice, a pained furrow building up between them, but at least he doesn’t seem on the verge of passing out again.
“What’s going on? Why am I on the floor?” Charles asks again, out loud this time. Good. Progress. The nosebleed seems to have slowed to a stop as well, no new blood welling up when Erik carefully wipes at it with his sleeve.
“You overdid it. Like I told you you would. How do you feel, are you hurt?”
“Well, a bit dizzy. I’ll have a headache later; I can feel it. I’m sorry for scaring you, my friend, truly.” Heartbreakingly earnest eyes capture his, and Charles’ hand wraps around Erik’s wrist, squeezing it reassuringly. As if he’s the one who should be apologising.
“McCoy!” Erik barks. Hank jumps, eyes wide and twitchy, and even Charles flinches in his arms. Right, loud noises and headaches, not the best combination. He rubs his hand over Charles’ arm in silent apology and shifts the younger man off his lap, standing up and stalking towards McCoy in one fluid motion.
“What were you thinking?!” he snarls, slamming his hand down on the control panel. “Get me a first aid kit and then get out of my sight. No more experiments, no more Cerebro anything until he’s back on his feet. If you did any permanent damage, McCoy, I swear-”
“Erik, Erik, hey. Stop.” Charles’ hand wraps around his forearm as he insinuates himself between Erik and McCoy on shaky legs, but with a determined, calm look on his face. “Hank didn’t do it on purpose. Sometimes experiments just go wrong.”
That seems to break McCoy out of his terrified stupor, finally.
“Professor, I am so sorry,” he trips across the room, producing a folding chair from somewhere nearby. “Please sit down, you should rest, I’m so sorry, please, honestly, I don’t know how that could’ve-”
“It’s alright, Hank, really,” Charles says, even as he sinks down into the chair a lot more heavily than Erik would like. He’s still holding Erik’s arm, his thumb rubbing small circles into his sleeve – comforting him, Erik realises. As if Charles isn’t the one who almost died, as if Erik deserves an ounce of the comfort he should be showering Charles with right now.
Oh, hush, Charles’ voice echoes warmly across their connection. You do deserve comfort, Erik. And so does Hank.
Hank. Erik is still barely resisting the urge to smack him with parts of his fucking machine, but the kid does look a step away from a panic attack already as he digs the first aid kit out from a compartment beneath the metal flooring.
“Here you go, Mr Lehnsherr, can I- do you need me to- Professor, you’re not going to die from this... are you? Should we take you to the hospital? It’s a bit of a drive, but better to be safe than sorry, I mean, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if-”
“Hank, calm down, I’m going to be alright,” Charles interrupts the boy’s (very appropriate, in Erik’s opinion) stammered apology. He looks up at Hank with that same intent look Erik finds himself faced with so often, and Erik wonders, jealously, if they’re talking telepathically right now.
“It’s alright,” Charles repeats, letting go of Erik in favour of taking McCoy’s hands. “Hank, look at me. Deep breaths. I’m not mad, and I’m not hurt.”
Debatable. He doesn’t look fine to Erik, pale, with blood all over him and cold sweat darkening the roots of his hair, and while Charles might not be angry, Erik definitely is. Charles’ eyes are clear where they’re focussed on Hank, though, and his hands are steady. He’s rubbing the same tiny circles into the kid’s hands that he did with Erik’s arm.
“I’m still really sorry. I’ll make sure this won’t happen again.”
“I know you are, Hank. This was merely a hiccup – you'll figure it out, you’re brilliant. I’ll need a bit of rest, but I’ll gladly assist you with the calibrations in a day or two if you’d like the help,” Charles says, unerringly speaking over Erik’s noise of protest. “I’m sure we’ll figure this out together.”
McCoy still looks spooked, but no longer so pale. He allows Charles to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly and nods, still carefully avoiding Erik’s eyes. “Alright. Thank you, Professor.”
“Nothing to thank me for, Hank. Why don’t you go ahead and see if there’s any of that pudding you like left over from lunch? Erik and I will be fine here.”
The kid nods again and gratefully takes the opportunity to escape, clambering down the stairs and disappearing from Erik’s view. As for Erik, he busies himself with the first aid kit. It’s as much an attempt to hide his face as it is born from the genuine need to patch Charles up, to fix that horrible weakness in the lines of his body, the slump of his shoulders as soon as Hank is gone.
But, of course – telepath. Nothing escapes Charles’ notice.
“You’re still angry at him.”
Erik scowls, setting a bottle of water and some sterile gauze down on the floor by Charles’ feet with more strength than strictly necessary. Charles twitches minutely, then reaches out and sets a hand on Erik’s shoulder.
“Please don’t be.”
“What makes you think I’m angry?”
Charles raises an eyebrow at him. The audacity of this man-
“And what if I am? He could have killed you, Charles! Verdammt, do you ever think before throwing yourself headfirst into danger?”
“It’s worked out for me so far,” Charles smirks, along with the mental impression of ink-dark waves, cold water, but a warm body in his arms, the brightest, most beautiful mind he’s ever come across held in the safety of his telepathy.
Erik’s fingers constrict around the bottle in his hand and he nearly spills water all over himself before the image fades again.
“That’s a shit argument, you know. You could have drowned. I could have cut your throat with one thought.”
“Well, yes, but you didn’t. And Hank didn’t kill me, either.”
“You’re too soft on him. Him and your sister; they’ll be walking all over you soon. Just you wait.”
Charles chuckles and tilts his head obediently, letting Erik clean the blood off his face with the damp roll of gauze.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, shan’t we? They’re trying their best, my friend. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t scare poor Hank halfway to death in future, hm?”
You and your bleeding heart, Erik rolls his eyes. I won’t scare him. Much. As long as he doesn’t put you in danger again.
That’s all I ask, Charles replies cheerfully. Now, would you be a darling and help me back to my room? I have a splitting headache.
Damn it, Charles! -