groovenetic | (no subject)

[ It's not so long ago that the clarion call of war rang in all their ears, when they skirted the knife edge of decimation and complete annihilation, when Erik prepared to become an enemy of the world; and for good reason, too. The world had turned on him -- on them all -- first. In the eternity of the moment, facing down the incredible amount of missiles (there would have been more, had Charles not stopped the seventh fleet in time, calmed their minds and took control so fully) and when Erik held out a hand to stop them, and did.

He wanted to kill them all. Wants to, still. Because he was right. Because he was right all along, and if it hadn't been for Charles' swift action, things would have turned out for the worst for all of them. But Erik stops, because Charles gets hit in the back, the suit stopping the bullet from piercing the skin, but the impact of it had bruised his spine. Missed the nerve, thankfully, but it hurt too much to walk for the time being, and Erik abandoned the helmet without a word.

Scooped his lover up in his arms and negotiated for the teleporter, the mutant Azazel, lost without a leader -- for him to bring them all back. They will deal with the fallout later. Erik is grimly aware of the fact that the CIA would not look kindly on this, and Erik absolutely had to be around, if they decided so much as to launch a sneak attack to take the telepath out. To them, he is the most dangerous creature, worse than even Erik himself, and Erik is keenly aware of this fact.

He will stay, because he was right, and perhaps now, Charles would see his point. When they reached, Erik had set him down on his side, on the bed. Made a worried Raven fill a basin of warm water and clean towels, sent Moira away, and sent the other boys off to take care for themselves and to clean up.

Erik will care for Charles, now. The man is not in any sort of danger -- but there are wounds that are not of the physical sort that would need healing. Erik had pulled his punches when he'd struck Charles earlier, leaving little bruises, and had only hit hard enough to stun -- even if it did little to detract Charles from his single-minded desire to stop Erik from turning the missiles on them.

He had succeeded -- but not in the way Charles had evidently expected.

Erik sits on the edge of the bed, now. Unbuckles and unzips the strong material of the blue and yellow suit, peeling it off pale, bruised flesh smudged with sand and dirt. He says nothing. After all, what is there to say that he has not already reiterated, time and time again? ]

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Erik is a lot less dignified, don't worry. While Charles is worrying about wanting to go pee with dignity, Erik is battling the world's worst hangover. He's rolling over onto his back, heel of his palm digging into an eye -- silently grateful for the lack of sunlight in the room.

He's groaning, because that little dull ache is rapidly becoming full blown pain. He hears only half of what Charles is saying, but enough to manage to sit up (and regret it immediately). He exhales, then reaches to grasp the other man's wrist, making sure that he's still there, that his lover's all right. He can hear the ragged tone, reminded once again of what had transpired at the beach.

"...Are you all right?"

Charles is wincing, sympathetically, though there is nothing he can do at this juncture to take the pain away from Erik's head. Instead, he shifts his hand down slightly, trying to take those long digits within his own.

"I can move my toes," he offered, a giddy, tired sort of hope in his tone. "But ah ... I think I'm going to need a ..." his words drift off as for the stubbornly independent Charles Xavier this is a painful admission. "A bucket to .. uhm, that is I can't walk..."

And he's closing his eyes tight, setting his back teeth against the dual humiliations of having to ask for a bed pan of sorts and also Erik's headache.

"There are analgesics in the bathroom cabinet, you'll want a couple."

Erik gets it after a few moments, but is aware enough to spare Charles the humiliation of it. He leans over to press a kiss on Charles' forehead, brief before he gets off the bed. He grits against the pain, squeezes his hand before slipping his fingers from his.

He says quietly. "Give me a minute." He'll help the other there -- he owes Charles this much, after all, and sends a gentle, but ragged message that there's nothing his lover should be embarrassed about. He's already seen everything, anyway.

Erik goes over to the bathroom cabinet, pops a few aspirin and splashes water on his face. He takes a deep breath, feels the pain start to slowly, slowly ebb before he returns to him -- fighting the worry that Charles might yet lose use of his legs.

No, no -- that won't happen.

He looks better when he returns to Charles' side, and he says simply. "I'll carry you there." They'll work out the logistics when they get to it.

Its not the idea of having seen or not seen everything, though to be honest Charles had still closed the door when it had been time to take a piss. It was the humiliation of not being able to do it for himself. It was a most basic function, one he'd been managing all by himself since he was two and a half and now ...

Charles screwed his eyes shut, feeling Erik's touch but careful not to reach back a return, not while the other man's mind was tender and overstretched for a non-telepath. Breathing slowly, Charles fought back the edge of hysteria that was starting to inch into his thoughts. He could feel his legs, could get his toes to move but he knew without testing it that he could not stand, that he couldn't even move his legs beyond the twitching of his toes.

Fear tried to grip him and he swallowed hard against an onrush of bile at his helplessness.

Where is your much valued brilliance now, Xavier? Can't even get up to go take a piss. How the hell were you going to ever stop those missiles on that beach?

Turning and pushing his face against his pillow, Charles snarled at himself and began to push his arms up under him. He wanted to crawl to the bathroom on his own, just to prove to himself that he could. He'd always found a work around when he was on his own...

Shoving, dragging and shoving that chair into the moonlight...

By the time Erik returned from the bathroom, Charles had wrestled his upper body upright and was glaring at his legs with a mulish expression in his blue eyes. Awake but still left somewhat unguarded by Hank's drugs, Charles actually allowed some of the frustration he was feeling to leak around the edges of his shields, his mind starting to snap along with plotting out what he needed to do next.

"When," he began, pausing to lick his lips and there was little doubt from the way he was staring down at his legs that these words came from him reluctantly. "My mother's health was in decline, we had a wheelchair for her. It should still be in her rooms."

He wanted to look up into Erik's face, to reach for the comfort the man had given him when they had been tumbled together in the landscape of his mind but he couldn't. Now that he was awake and faced with the reality of legs that would not hold him any time soon, a stark reminder of his humbling on the beach, Charles felt shame and anger curling along his spine. His fingers gripped tight at the bed sheet, barely aware of his own nudity at the moment, only of the naked vulnerability of his own pride.

Erik knows how much saying something like this costs Charles, the amount of strength it takes him to say something like this. There are times when Charles is a lot like Erik, unwilling to swallow pride to ask for help, and he understands completely. He doesn't pull out the torment he's sure it's causing his lover, and simply goes to fetch it without a word. Charles' tension is clear even in his nakedness, and he's not going to rub salt in those wounds.

Erik doesn't coddle his lover either; he keeps his own worry under wraps, and searches through Charles' mother's room. He locates the wheelchair soon enough, pauses for a moment before he wheels it over.

"You won't use this for long." Erik tells him, feels admittedly clumsy for saying something like this in a bid to ease that shame and that anger. But he means it -- he would be there to help every step of the way as long as Charles needs it. He wheels the chair up to him, finds himself despising this particular object, the guilt, sharp and thick curling in his chest and leaving a bitter aftertaste, the reminder that Erik had been partly responsible for his lover's current state.

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