Prompt: cherik shower?
When they discharged Charles from the hospital, he was alone. It was late at night, the day after the fight at the beach. And everyone had gone home. Thenurse had given him a wheelchair, had him sign some forms, and left. He stared at the front desk's phone for along time. Then he picked it up and called Erik.
They didn't speak at all. The glass doors at the main entrance of the hospital slid open silently, and Erik walked in, his helmet still on and his cape torn and ragged. His face was caked with dirt and dried blood and sweat. He halted a few feet into the hospital, ignorant of the muddy footprints he had left behind, or simply not caring. His eyes scanned Charles for a moment. Charles was in even worse shape – his hair was matted to his forehead, stuck there by blood and sand. He had been changed out of his X-Men suit when they operated on him, but even his the new blue pajamas they had given him were wrecked, stained by dirt and drying blood from his body.
Erik lifted his chin, his jaw working as he stared at Charles. They he strolled over to him, grabbed his wheelchair, and took him out of the hospital.
Charles didn't ask where they were going. He didn't speak at all. He only stared out the window, trying desperately to forget everything that had happened, trying to keep his eyes off the wheelchair that lay folded at his feet. A tear slipped down his cheek, tracing a path through the grime. He ignored it and just kept staring out the window. Staring.
Erik was making a phone call, but Charles couldn't hear his voice through the humming in his ears. About a half-hour later, they pulled into a long driveway. Erik climbed out of the car and knocked on the door. Charles watched as a beautiful young woman with dark brown hair opened it. She put both her hands on Erik's shoulders, kissed him gently on the cheek, and then pulled on a jacket and walked out, leaving the door open. She got into her own car, started it, and drove away. Erik watched her for a moment and then returned to his car to help Charles get into his wheelchair.
The summer night had brought with it a slightly chilly breeze, but Charles didn't have the energy to shiver. He stared through his fog as Erik wheeled him over the threshold and into the plain little house. Erik gently scooped him out of the wheelchair, cradling him in both arms and carrying him up the stairs and onto the second floor, through a door, and into a bathroom. He set Charles in the basin of the shower and reached over to the faucet, adjusting it until a warm flow gushed into the tub.
He brushed a stray piece of hair out of Charles' eyes and gazed at him for a moment. Then he slowly reached up and removed his helmet. Charles didn't move, didn't even acknowledge Erik's motions.
Kneeling outside of the shower, Erik reached in and grasped the bottom of Charles' shirt. Charles raised his arms over his head, stiff and emotionless, as though he were simply a doll. Erik bunched up the soiled shirt and threw it over his shoulder. Then he whispered something under his breath and helped Charles out of his pants. Charles didn't bother helping. He couldn't move his legs, and he didn't even want to look at them. Erik slipped them out from under him, and they joined the pile on the floor, followed by Charles' boxers.
Erik took off his cape and X-Men suit and clambered into the shower in his pants and undershirt, switching the faucet so the water began to stream out of the showerhead. He squatted down besides Charles and slowly, gently, began to scrub the blood out of Charles' hair and off his body, his own clothes getting soaked through, droplets of water collecting on his eyelashes. His mouth was moving – he was saying something – but again, Charles heard nothing but the constant buzzing.
The warm water rushed over Charles' eyes, but it made no difference in his foggy world. He leaned back against the wall of the shower, his head thudding against the tile and a sharp pain flooding his head. At least that pain was new and different, not the dull and relentless pit of pain he had had in his stomach since the beach.
Erik's hands ran up and down every inch of Charles' body, but not the way they used to. There was no pleasure in this, only sorrow and determination. He worked for over an hour, massaging the dirt and blood out from each finger, from behind Charles' ears. He cleaned with certainty, but with careful and gentle motions. At first, Charles would cringe when he got to a tender area, ripped out of his fog. After a while, he began to relax, letting the pain wash over him, cleaning him just as much as the water did. Soon, he began to see again, to hear again. He turned his head and looked at Erik, who had his head bent intently over the soap and Charles' left arm.
As the pitter-patter of the water finally began to sharpen in Charles' ears, he began to make out what Erik was saying, what he had been whispering this whole time. "It's going to be okay, Charles. I've got you. I'll never let you go again. I promise. It's okay. It's okay. I've got you. I love you."