A/N: I am so fond of these 2. It's difficult to write Charles as strong and capable when he's drugged out of his mind, but I really wanted to find a balance between Erik's deep-seeded anger and protectiveness. Also writing their powers was a harder challenge than I anticipated, so I hope I did it justice. Please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading - it means a lot~ xoxo
The weak rap on the door wasn't, in and of itself, significant enough to cause immediate alarm – and it was weak indeed; had the visitor not used the metal door knocker, Erik would have never felt it from his dark corner of the Xavier mansion. No, the only real cause for alarm came from the frozen form of Charles on the doorstep.
Erik didn't waste time with "Are you okay?"s and "What happened?"s, though they certainly burned the tip of his tongue. His eyes widened only marginally as he reached a steady hand to Charles' shoulder, feeling the chill of late winter soaked into Charles' cotton long sleeve as he pulled him into the entryway. Charles barely moved, standing a frozen sentinel with his shoulders hunched and his head drooped, dripping icy water droplets from snow-crunched hair. Erik hastened to shut the door behind them and took a few moments to stare.
He wasn't a doctor. Not by any means. In fact, he prided himself on being something sort of the opposite. The only trait he really shared amongst his medical cohorts was his ability to improvise and compartmentalize the pain of others to something logical – something manageable. Which is precisely what he did, as he took Charles' stiffened arm and led him down the nearest hallway. Hank's lab was closer, and on the ground level. Erik didn't need telepathy to conclude that stairs weren't an option.
Swiftly maneuvering a near-comatose Charles along, Erik bypassed the mechanized doors of Hank's lab for the dingy locker room next door. As he wrenched it open, waves of musky dust filled his head, and as he zeroed in on the sensation of neglected medical lockers and old plumbing, he came to the abrupt realization of something he wasn't sensing – Charles. Not once since his arrival had Erik felt the gentle graze of Charles billow across his head, the usual warm waves of sunlight amongst water. Erik stiffened his resolve and nudged Charles under the nearest showerhead, having commanded the metallic dial upon their entry to something moderately warm, but not quite hot...it wasn't supposed be too hot, right? Blisters, or hypersensitivity, or something like that? The thoughts were fleeting, and shortly dismissed.
With careful navigation, he guided Charles under the stream - one hand on his arm and the other at the small of his back - standing aside to offer Charles space in preparation for a sudden come-around. But Charles made no movements in reaction to the torrent of lukewarm water, and Erik passed a worried hand through his hair. Of all the weekends to go on solo recruitment missions, why did Charles have to choose the same one that he selected for their students' weekend retreat? "A lake house, Hank!" He had positively gushed. "Imagine the fun the children will have, uninhibited and surrounded by nature! You could do with a weekend away from your books as well. Trust me, I understand the burden of a congested mind" he had concluded with a devastatingly charming wink.
And now Erik watched Charles' shirt and jeans grow dark with moisture, and felt the quiet creep of concern begin to grow with it. He mindlessly stepped under the showerhead, feeling the gradual soak and with it, a brief and warming memory of a stranger's arms around him in the middle of a dark ocean. He placed his hands on Charles' arms and slowly began rubbing them up and down, feeling the lingering freeze in their wake. Charles's teeth had finally unloosened from his jaw, and at last he dragged his head up to meet Erik's, eyes dazed and unfocused. It took Erik a good minute to realize that the stilts in his chattering were his attempt at forming words.
"Er…r…" he choked out.
"Charles?" Erik ventured to question.
One more attempt lent nothing in the way of proper English – something Charles would surely shame himself for later – and a brief moment later Erik felt a prod from within as a whisper of thought struggled to the surface of Charles' mind.
Erik it said distantly, but assuredly.
Erik froze (though not literally, thank goodness), his arms now behind Charles' shoulders in firm support. He waited, but that seemed all Charles could manage at the moment. Charles? He tried again, reaffirming his grip and watching warily. Finally, Charles' fingers, clenched with frozen rigor mortis, moved shakily up to Erik's collar in weak response.
"…Hurts..." he whispered hoarsely.
Confusion blossomed, until - oh. Recovering from numbness is painful. Charles made a small noise in the back of his throat, and Erik instinctively pulled him closer. His tug was enough to offset Charles' carefully-maintained equilibrium, and he fell heavily onto Erik's torso, hands digging into his shoulders and feet bending at odd angles beneath him. Erik hauled him up and set his arms fully around his back, Charles supporting just enough of his own weight that they both didn't go crashing to the linoleum. His cheek rubbed along the frigid crook of Charles' neck, and he gave an involuntary breath of discomfort at the cold radiating off him. He mentally cursed the plumbing, which seemed to groan in verbal response, and gripped slightly tighter.
"Charles" he said through clenched teeth, shooting numerous similar inquiries into mental-space, straining for answers or any sort of subconscious mayday Charles might be sending out. Erik recalled reeling from Charles' silent outburst of pain at having his tongue burnt on his morning tea not even three days ago, prickling Erik's tongue in response - but strain as he might now, Erik couldn't even reach static. Desperation for answers turned into a familiar irritation – annoyance at pain and all of its mysterious relatives - and when his mind's voice couldn't suffice…well, Erik had learned to hone his vocal one years before this insufferable brainiac yanked him from the depths.
"What happened" still seemed beyond Charles's newfound comprehension, so he settled for "Where does it hurt?" for the sake of getting his jaw moving, already anticipating the answer.
Another moment. Then, "all ov-ver-rrrr" he shuddered out, his shivering reaching such violent levels that Erik could feel his own body trembling.
"Ok. Keep talking, it will help. Where did you come from?"
His response took a moment, and Erik envisioned frozen pieces of machinery clinking back to life. "'C-cruit's h-house."
Erik frowned, confused. Cruit? Was that even a name? Hot bursts of panic flew across his chest as he suddenly jumped to conclusions of brain damage and wildly scolded himself for not calling Hank as soon as he saw the state of him.
"Charles, you're not well. I'm going to call Hank" he said as clearly as he could.
Charles's fingers dug into his shoulder as his grip tightened, and he wobbled unsteadily in his haste to reply. "N-no, no h-hospittall, Errr-rik, call Erik" he slurred out.
"This is Erik. Sheisse, Charles, what have you done to yourself?" Erik commanded, yanking Charles so they were standing nose-to-nose. Charles met his gaze with fogged-over eyes, white circles of mist blanketing a familiar blue. Erik felt the collision of surprise, and stood stock-still as the image burned into his mind. After a few moments, he closed his eyes with a forced calm.
Talk to me, Charles. I need words, or images, or a fucking poem. Send me something, Charles he implored over and over, sending his thoughts with every fiber of energy he could muster. And without warning, explosions of memories that weren't his assaulted the forefront of his mind.
He sips tea from a beautiful set of china, white teacups decorated with bursting chrysanthemums, voices flit over him with the derision of a prematurely ended conversation.
"Thank you for reaching out, but Justine is not handicapped in any way, we have found an effective at-home treatment for her maladies and don't require any additional assistance." "Maladies?" Charles' voice rang out, "Telepathy is hardly a malady, your daughter has a wondrous gift, Ms. Sanderson!" and suddenly Erik is filled with confusion and sadness and the fleeting hopelessness of seeing another one fade to nothing and across the room Ms. Sanderson is smiling something awful and crooked as Justine hands Charles another cup of tea, her eyes swimming in fog and mouth held slightly slack.
"Don't worry about it, Professor, afflictions of the mind are so easy to cure these days, just you see" and Erik's mouth is filled with the warm taste of tea and there's snow crunching underfoot as he's leaving the house as white fills his vision and where is his car? Didn't he drive here? Dejection oozes over him like syrup and he sluggishly wonders how he's going to admit he lost another one to….
Erik's face broke the surface and he came out of Charles' memories with a gasp. Across from him, Charles gave an exhausted groan, and shuddered as his legs gave out from under him. Erik caught him with a vice-like grip as confusion gave way to ire, which was rapidly blossoming into a righteous fury – an intimate anger at pain, and humans, and the tandem efforts they inflicted upon those who least deserved it.
"Charles…" Erik sighed, sinking to the floor with Charles still tight in his grasp. He leaned against the wall, positioning Charles against his chest, accepting new onslaughts of illogical emotions now positively radiating off of Charles – confusion, desperation, hopelessness, wonderment, curiosity, cold, cold, cold.
Erik swallowed down his urge to ram his fist into the wall, felt anger bounce off him and echo off the groans of lockers and pipes, and moved his hand to cup Charles' head protectively. Charles' teeth continued to chatter, though Erik couldn't be certain it was from cold anymore.
They sat like that for some time, Charles gripping Erik's sleeve as his head rested against Erik's sternum, while Erik moved his fingers wordlessly through Charles' scalp. His eyes nearly burned holes into the empty wall space directly across from him, countering his rage with the warm and slick strands of Charles' hair. Steam filled the chamber, and Erik shut his eyes tightly to escape the vision of fog in Charles' eyes. He'd seen that lifeless mist under far more tragic circumstances, but an alien tenderness peaked at the thought of seeing it in Charles.
Gradually, the water began to cool, and Erik opened his eyes to the lingering haze. With a wave of his hand, he shut off the shower, and a dense silence held him like a riptide. Charles' shivers had dissipated into weak tremors, and Erik gave Charles' arm a hard squeeze before calling out a simple, "Charles?"
Charles?
His breathing was shallow, but for the first time all night, Erik felt a glimmer of presence emanating from the limp figure before him. He had no way of knowing what kind of drugs the Sanderson family was feeding their daughter, but the fragments of Charles' memory indicated dosage was needed daily – and therefore wore off after time. "Can you stand?" he asked, tilting Charles' face up to eye-level and awaiting signs of life. Charles gave a soft hum, and Erik hoisted his arm across his shoulder and stood the both of them up, bearing the brunt of Charles' weight. With slow, heavy movements, he dragged the two of them to the guest bedroom down the hall, Charles slowly regaining his sense of balance and moving his feet in a useless, albeit valiant, effort to help.
They reached the bedroom and Erik deposited Charles on the edge of the bed, moving to the bureau in the corner to search for some dry clothes. He threw a pair of cotton pajamas to Charles, taking another pair for himself, and moved to the adjoining bathroom to hurriedly change. When he re-emerged, he expected to find Charles still sitting in the same spot he had left him, but was shocked to find that Charles had donned the dry clothes and was lying motionless on the bed.
Hey Erik tried, but Charles remained statuesque. He moved to the bed and knelt down in front of him. "Charles?" he asked, and Charles lifted his head fractionally, a spark of recognition flitting across his hazy eyes.
Erik, suddenly desperate for reassurance that things would be all right, placed both hands on Charles' face and held him there for a few moments. He stared into foggy blue until recognition morphed into something tangible, aching for a sign of stability. Suddenly, Charles grabbed Erik's wrist with something akin to concentration, his breaths quick and shallow.
Erik – can't reach – trying to say – left my car at th – need to reach Erik – couldn't get through to her I tried I tried I couldn't – can't reach – how could they I don't understa -
The fragments bounced haphazardly in and out of Erik's head, sentences half-formed and undeveloped. Erik followed Charles' intense concentration giving way to fear, and before he could start to panic, Erik had shushed him, moving his head to rest against Charles'.
"Charles. You are okay. A huma – someone gave you a drug to inhibit your abilities, but it's only temporary. You're going to wake up tomorrow and be back to your usual, optimistic, pain-in-the-ass self."
Charles let out a sigh, one of those scholarly ones he did when he read a particularly bad term paper, and slumped against Erik's shoulder. Erik maneuvered him onto the pillow, then climbed into the spot next to him. Charles rested quietly on his side, his breathing finally deepening to something normal, and Erik lay on his back, arms folded under his head and staring up at the high, dark ceiling.
In just a few short hours, this weekend had gone from quietly housesitting to the longest he had had in ages. Images spun in the dark above him, chrysanthemums being engulfed by clouds of mist, and something unhappy churned from within.
He gave a restless sigh and turned to face Charles, his hand instinctively reaching out to rest on Charles' shoulder. He felt simultaneously motivated by injustice and weakened by a ferocious desire to protect Charles from the bleakness he refused to see in humans. In the morning, he would demand answers, names, an address – he would berate Charles' explicit trust in humans and use his 20-mile drugged trek in the dead of winter as prime reason for not doing just that. But for now, he swung his entire arm over and gripped Charles' tightly to him, grounding himself in this moment, in this bed. He sighed at the thought of waking up Charles tomorrow to lecture him, or kiss him, or maybe both. And just before exhaustion finally overtook him, he felt a familiar warmth spread to his fingers, just like patches of sunlight reaching through waves of the sea.