Summary: Erik plays nursemaid to a flu-ridden Charles. Set post-"Evolution" in the (incredibly lazy) "Those Who Can't, Teach" and "Make Up For Lost Time" universe (i.e.: Erik and Charles are assumed to be in a committed relationship).
The Proper Care and Feeding of Professors
It hits him in the wee hours of the morning: Roiling nausea, focused in his stomach, that lying on his side does not seem to be abating. "Oh," Charles murmurs, and considers whether to pull himself into a sitting position first, or to attempt to grab up the small wastebasket from his current prone position. Unfortunately, the movement required to sit up makes his stomach churn even more, and he clamps a hand over his mouth. 'Shit,' he thinks, trying not to panic. Perhaps, he decides desperately, if he aims carefully, he can get most of it into the basket still ...
"Charles?" He groans weakly at the knowledge that he's woken Erik up; though in his defense, his lover is an incredibly light sleeper. At first, his voice is groggy; then he takes in Charles' taut positioning on the bed and the soft whimpers of discomfort that he's making, and he snaps to attention. "Charles, what's wrong?"
"S-stomach," Charles manages. "Just ... the wastebasket, I can't quite reach it, but that'll catch most of the mess ..."
Erik is at his side in an instant, gingerly tugging him off of the bed; clearly, leaving him to fend for himself is not an option. Idly, the self-proclaimed Master of Magnetism plucks the (metal, plastic-lined) wastebasket from the floor and hands it to Charles, who clutches it gratefully as Erik rushes him to their private bathroom. Swiftly, he helps Charles position himself atop the toilet, and then politely leaves him be, shutting the door softly behind him.
"I'm sorry," Charles mumbles for the millionth time; and Erik responds, once more, in kind with soft shushing as he finishes rearranging the bedding. In spite of himself, Charles sighs gratefully, propped up against a legitimate cadre of pillows. He still feels weak, his face flushed, his hands shaking a little because, in spite of the toasty temperature in the room, he can't seem to get warm. He allows Erik to stick a small thermometer in his mouth, enjoying, in spite of himself, the way the other man fusses over him.
The thermometer beeps, confirming, as Charles already suspects, that he's running a fever. "You know," Erik says conversationally, pressing a large, warm hand to his forehead, "with as many germ-carrying teenagers as you have running around this place, it's a small wonder that you don't get sick more often, Charles."
Charles chuckles softly, his voice worn. "I believe I'm immune at this point to the majority of what they traffic through these hallowed halls," he shrugs. "This must be a new strain of an old classic."
"Or mono," Erik quips, and Charles snorts.
"If that's the diagnosis, you may well be joining me in this sick bed, darling."
"Indeed." He reaches out, rubbing at Charles' upper arms soothingly, smiling when Charles leans into the touch. "In any case," Erik continues smoothly, "I daresay that the school will function with three active teachers for a day or so."
Charles' brow furrows. "Aren't you forgetting someone?" he asks fuzzily.
Erik shakes his head. "No. Wolverine, Storm, and Beast will be doing their damnedest to ensure that nobody burns, freezes, or phases the mansion into another dimension while you're out of commission. And I," he says, pausing briefly for emphasis, "will be caring for a certain ailing professor."
Charles starts to shake his head. "I appreciate the concern, Erik, but really, I do not require a full-time nursemaid for what's more than likely nothing more than a simple flu ..." He's cut off by a sudden coughing fit that leaves his eyes watering and his pajama-clad frame quaking. "Really," he continues, but Erik ignores him in favor of tugging the blankets up further. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to Charles' warm forehead.
"Poor professor. Just relax, Charles," he coaxes, and the smooth syllables would sound smarmy coming out of anybody else's mouth, but from Erik, the words are perfectly sincere. "I'll take care of you," he promises. Finally, Charles seems to be convinced; nodding sleepily, he settles bodily against the pillows and lets his eyelids slide shut.
As it turns out, the mansion is equipped with quite an impressive medicine cabinet; "always the Boy Scout, Charles," Erik murmurs affectionately to himself as he peruses the shelves. Before he left the other man upstairs, Charles had suffered another coughing fit that had alerted Erik to the rattling noise in his chest. Charles had once again insisted that Erik's bustling and concern was hardly necessary, to which Erik had replied with a withering glance before floating downstairs for supplies.
His arms newly laden with bottles of cough syrup and other flu-related accoutrement, he rounds a corner and startles Storm, who regains her composure with admirable quickness. "I did not know you were still awake, Magneto," she frowns, and then glances at the items he's holding. "Is the professor ill?" she asks, glancing knowingly towards the upper levels of the giant house.
Erik nods shortly. "My classes and Danger Room sessions are post-poned until further notice," he tells her. "I assume you can find something to occupy the students in my absence."
"Of course." Her hands flutter a bit as she watches him begin to ascend a nearby staircase. "Would you like me to make him soup or something?" she finally says, and isn't all that surprised when Magneto shakes his head.
"No," the former supervillain says firmly. "Charles is my responsibility." He disappears quickly at the top of the stairwell. In his wake, Storm smiles a little to herself. 'I hope Beast is up to teaching Physics,' she thinks, and whistles a little as she continues her evening rounds.
Roughly forty minutes after Charles chokes down some Robotussin, he falls asleep, breath coming in thick puffs. Erik, unable to get back to sleep himself, pours over some paperwork, at least until the flashbacks begin.
At first, they're simply images, random thoughts pushed, probably unwittingly, into his mind, likely due to his close proximity to Charles; having known the other man for so long, the 'leaking' is uncommon (Charles is always very particular about shielding), but not absolutely unfamiliar. Eventually, however, Charles' errant thoughts become increasingly more cohesive, until Erik realizes that he's now privy to the other man's dream. He tries to ignore it out of respect at first, but then he hears Charles murmuring "please ... hurts ..." and finds himself getting sucked in.
The child on whom said dream is centered is obviously Charles; even with a full head of light-colored hair, there's no mistaking the kind eyes that gaze piteously on a lean, feminine form wearing a stylish dress. "Don't feel good, Mum," the young Charles - he can't be more than seven or eight, his small frame absolutely dwarfed in a four-poster bed not unlike the one he's in at present - whimpers. His voice is weak, his eyes sunken, but the woman he addresses remains standoffish, just far enough away to ensure that her son cannot get his germy hands on her.
"You're always sick, Charles," she tells him matter-of-factly. She points to a tray of food, crackers and soup and warm tea, sitting on a bedside table. "Eat the lunch Nanny made you. Mummy will be back later."
"Please." Child Charles' small face is pleading now. "My head doesn't hurt today, Mum, it's my tummy." He holds up a small book, and the gesture makes his mother recoil further, as if it promises to infect her, as well. "Can you read to me?" he asks, but the woman is already loping primly towards the door, anxiously seeking escape from the responsibility of her ailing son.
"Oh, darling, have Nanny do it." She blows him an ineffectual kiss. "Be good, Charles," she says, and then she's gone, though Erik swears he can still smell her perfume. It's cloying in a vaguely unpleasant way, and, oh, he must be projecting his own feelings, because Charles begins to stir in the present time, eyelashes fluttering, mouth working for several moments before he manages to parse out words.
"Erik? Are you ... was I dreaming?" His voice is tinged with guilt. "Sometimes, when I'm sick, I end up, er, projecting things." He still looks uncertain when Erik draws him into a wordless embrace. "Erik? Is everything all right? Did I upset you?"
"No. Everything's fine." Erik's arms tighten around him; his forehead is a bit sweaty, but his lover does not seem bothered by this, inasmuch as he presses a kiss that manages to be both soft and fierce to his skin. "Go back to sleep, Charles," he whispers, sending pointedly soothing images - the two of them eating brunch together on a sun-soaked balcony that Charles favors; driving through Westchester, Erik at the wheel, as the leaves change colors; Charles, surrounded by his students, completely in his element, the consummate Professor X - as best he can through their telepathic bond. Briefly, Erik considers offering to read to the other man, but decides that "Toward the Chiral Limit of QCD: Quenched and Dynamical Domain Wall Fermions" is probably not suitable bedtime fare.
"On the contrary, I'm sure that would send me right off," Charles murmurs, eyes closed, head nestled against Erik's chest. Chuckling, Erik sighs in light exasperation.
"Go to sleep, Charles."
"Yes, all right." Minutes later, soft snuffling sounds ensure that he's done as he's been bade.
He wouldn't exactly call the noise emanating from the kitchen "clanging," but it catches his attention nonetheless. Slowly, Logan advances on the swinging double doors, poised to attack if there ends up being a need for it ...
"Hah ... oh. It's you." Even without his tell-tale helmet and cape, Magneto is still an imposing figure, though surrounded as he is at the moment by a collection of dishes and silverware - all metal, some floating - relatively less so. "Making lunch?" he asks, feeling a bit dumb, yet simultaneously relieved that his claws have remained sheathed.
Magneto smirks at him coolly. "Very astute," he replies, and Logan sighs.
"How's Chuck doing?"
"Charles is doing quite well." Soup ladles itself into a colorful bowl, which Magneto then places on a metal serving tray. Levitating it at shoulder height, he raises an eyebrow as he passes Logan, who gives him a wide berth. "I'll leave you to your noble efforts of policing the refrigerator," he smarms. Logan grits his teeth, but manages to keep the peace.
Scant moments later, Beast's sudden presence elicits the growl he's been holding in. "That guy," he grunts, gesturing vaguely behind him. Magneto is long gone at this point - and has left behind a small mess, Logan notes angrily - but Beast seems to understand, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically with one huge, blue paw before shuffling towards the sink to rinse out the empty coffee cup he's holding in the other.
"Indeed, my friend. I understand your frustration, of course. Still, as the great Transcendentalist, Henry David Thoreau once said ..."
The claws come out with their distinctive whistling noise. "Can it, McCoy," Logan grunts, and Hank holds up his hands in surrender.
"Sorry."
"Professor! Are you feeling better? Nobody's seen you out of your room for like, a week." Kitty Pryde curls a loose strand of hair around her finger, and Charles smiles disarmingly at her as he approaches, rolling into the room steadily in his chair.
"It was more like two days, but I am feeling better, Kitty. Thank you for asking."
The majority of the breakfast table conversation is held in various small clumps, though a few students still have a mind to address Charles. "I heard Magn - er, Professor Magnus took care of you," Iceman comments at one point. He grins mischievously. "Did he have to give you a shot? Oooh, did you make him wear one of those little nurse's outfits?"
"No on both counts," Charles says firmly. Standing in the kitchen, Erik shoots him a raised eyebrow, and he smiles. Iceman shrugs and shoves half a muffin into his mouth.
Eventually, Jean enters the room alongside Scott, and immediately makes a beeline for him. "Professor, I'm so glad you're feeling better," she says warmly. Then she thrusts the "Local" section of the morning paper under his nose. "'Mono Outbreak Infects Bayville High,'" he reads aloud. He blinks a couple of times, and then looks up. "Well, I suppose I won't be playing any games of Spin the Bottle this week," he says cheerfully, and Jean laughs.
The tinny ringing sound emanating from the kitchen redirects his attention anew. "Wanda," he hears Erik say, a small, black cell phone floating near his head. Charles watches him spin around to give himself the illusion of privacy in a house that is nonetheless full of noisy (and nosy) teenagers. "Mono?" Charles hears his lover say a moment later. "Are you sure?" There's a lengthy pause, and then, "... wait, how do you and your brother both have it? And Avalanche, too?"
"Oh no, not Lance!" Kitty moans dramatically. "We were totally supposed to have a make-out session in the library tod- I mean, um, we were going to study for our math test together," she finishes weakly, wince-smiling at Charles. "So I mean, we can probably still share our Algebra notes; just not like, our sodas or anything," she continues, babbling and trying to save face. "'Cause you know, it's spread by mouth-to-mouth contact, but also ..."
"Yes, Kitty, I know." Charles sighs and rubs his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache that has little to do with his recent bout of flu. "I know all too well, unfortunately."