Summary: Charles gets an unexpected phone call. Written on a bit of a whim for patientalien. Spoilers for "First Class." Rated PG.

Wounded

He gets the call at exactly 12:03 AM EST, and it's jarring, though he's not asleep yet. "Yes, this is Charles Xavier," he says thickly into the receiver. The woman on the other end speaks with efficiency, and though Charles has no trouble comprehending her words, he tunes the majority of them out once she utters "Erik Lehnsherr." The rest is a blur: "Explosion ... mildly serious injuries ... he's listed you as his emergency contact."

Charles' mouth is dry. "I'll be there soon," he croaks.

It takes little fanfare to convince Hank to hurry him across the state in the Blackbird; contrary to popular belief, nobody in the Xavier mansion hates Erik, despite the schism. The nurse manning the reception desk blinks at him when she sees him roll up in his wheelchair, but he kindly refuses her offer to push him down the hallway. A short elevator ride that seems to take thrice the actual length passes, and he's finally propelling himself through the open doorway into a single room. Erik looks dwarfed and pale in the white-sheeted hospital bed. His face is turned away, and he appears to be resting. Of course, the helmet is off, though Charles notices it sitting on a small end table nearby.

"Thank you for your assistance," Charles tells the same nurse, and she takes it, aided by a slight mental suggestion, as her cue to leave. Charles wheels himself the rest of the way into the room, and Erik's head turns slowly, eyes blinking and cloudy. His expression is incredulous and somewhat pained, and Charles isn't sure whether it's because of the injuries he's procured from his latest aborted mission that ended in a building explosion and a chemical fire - the small burns on his skin are mostly bandaged, but Charles can sense that they hurt - or because it's the first time he's seen Charles in person since Cuba.

Erik doesn't say anything, and Charles finally acquiesces to breaking the silence. "Raven put my name down on the hospital paperwork," he says by way of greeting. "I spoke to her briefly," he adds, and taps his fingers to his temple gently. "She was panicked, and knew the mansion's number by heart." The words serve as both an explanation and a plea: 'Don't be angry with her. She was only trying to help.'

Erik licks his lips. "'s fine," he manages, and then, looking as though it takes even more effort to get out: "Thank you for coming."

"Of course." Charles tilts his head. "How are you feeling?"

Erik snorts warily. "Bad, but I'd rather be rotting in a pit somewhere than stay here." Still, he stays put, allowing the IV in his arm to pump pain medication into his system. Briefly, his eyes slide down to the chair. "I saw ... in a publication you'd been interviewed for. I didn't know." Their gazes meet. "I'm sorry, Charles."

"I know." Carefully, Charles reaches over and pats Erik's hand; he's warm, probably fevered. He tilts his head. "I've missed you, Erik."

Erik purses his lips. "So what else did Raven tell you?" he says, and it almost sounds colloquial.

Charles smiles. "Not a whole lot. I think she was holding back quite a lot." Erik doesn't respond to this either. "I think, though, that it was enough to fill in the blanks myself."

Erik peers at him curiously. "Oh, yes?"

"Mmm," Charles says affirmatively. He reaches over and pats Erik's face; surprised, Erik leans into the touch, and Charles leaves his hand there. "You haven't been sleeping well," he adds.

"I don't like hospitals," Erik intones without opening his eyes.

"Of course," Charles replies, even though they both know that's not what he meant. He tries again, using one finger to trace the dark circles underneath Erik's steely gray eyes. "I should take you home, then." His voice is light, but Erik's face is alert again. "Feed you soup, prop you up in a comfortable bed with lots of pillows."

"You use too many pillows." Erik's voice is worn. "Home, you say."

"Yes." Charles' voice is sad. "It still is, you know. Your room is still there, even. I mean, it's still yours. There aren't so many students yet that it's needed." He stops rambling and rubs his eyes. "It would have just the right amount of pillows."

"And soup," Erik adds. "And you, nursing me back to health, like you always do."

"I would go just for the soup," Charles jokes, but he barely laughs. Reluctantly, his hand drops from Erik's face. "I should go."

Erik nods. "You should." He watches Charles maneuver the wheelchair around in as graceful an arc as he can muster in the small room. "Charles," he finally adds, and he wonders if it will ever not hurt to say the other man's name.

"Yes, Erik?" Charles looks like he feels similarly.

Erik swallows. "I've missed you, too."

Charles doesn't turn back, and though the hand he offers to the other man is metaphorical, it is him reaching out, nonetheless. "If you ever need me, Erik, you know my number."

"I do," Erik affirms, and turns his head again once Charles has gone and resumes pretending to rest.