Rest for the Weary

Though it does not happen frequently, there are nights when Charles will fall asleep in his chair. His head will slump at an awkward angle, and he his shoulders will tip sideways, and his mouth will drop open, drool collecting at the corner of his lips. It’s hardly the most dignified of positions for an otherwise perfectly dignified man, but such is life during wartime.

Erik likes to right Charles’s head, straighten his shoulders, nudge his chin until his mouth is closed again. If they have an extravagant amount of time, he will lift Charles out of his chair and lay him on one of their few tiny aircraft cots. On nights like that, Erik will crawl in after him. His old bones creak as he moves, but it is still worth it for the touch of Charles’s skin against his own. It’s one of the few indulgences he has left, much like the warm echo of Charles’s thoughts inside his head, no longer a threat but a comfort.

The children do not understand it, of course. They watch the two of them together with wary, curious eyes, and whisper bloated exaggerations between themselves. It is of no consequence to Erik. They are concerned, not for themselves, but for Charles. They understand that there is no room for doubt or distrust on the battlefield.

Erik has always envied Charles for the loyalty he could inspire in his students.

Tonight, as Erik lifts Charles out of his chair with his powers, Charles blinks awake. A gentle smile crosses his face. “I’ve never quite believed it, you know,” he says. His voice is soft, a little scratchy. “That we would fight together again.”

Erik snorts. “We do seem to be making a habit of meeting like this.” He glances out the nearest window. It shows them nothing but dark clouds. Though the Sentinels themselves are not made of metal, their transports still are. Erik is ever attuned to scanning that distance, ever watchful for danger.

He sets Charles down on the bed, as gently as he is capable of, and he kneels on the thin, hard mattress of the cot so he can press his forehead against Charles’s own. Charles’s skin is warm, hot to the touch. His breath is soft and even. His eyes are kind, the kindest Erik has ever seen them. Erik had always dreamed that a vicious war would harden Charles further, would imbue him with the same tough bitterness that has sustained Erik since childhood, but it has just made Charles softer, more tender. His forgiveness comes so much more easily.

Charles chuckles. Erik can feel the vibrations in it. “We do have the unfortunate tendency of coming together only in times of great crisis, yes,” he says. His lips are dry and chapped when he presses them against Erik’s own. He cups Erik’s cheek in one large, careful hand. Erik feels his chest constrict with the force of the feeling.

How long had Erik wished for this? To have Charles, all of Charles’s power, at his side, at his disposal, in his bed. It was bought with nothing more than the simple acknowledgment that this war was best fought together rather than apart, with the understanding that their differences paled in comparison to their common enemies. It’s true, then, what they say. Youth is wasted on the young. He was a fool. They were both fools.

Erik breathes in deep. “I fear that we may be at the end of all things, my old friend,” he says. There are too few of them left and too much at stake. The enemy they face is relentless, unstoppable, and will hunt them down until there is nothing left. Though they’ve agreed to leave the past where it is, Erik is not without bitterness. Charles did not believe him when he had the chance, did not wish to entertain the possibility that the humans would turn on them so quickly and so forcefully. Erik always knew that they would, that they would take the first chance they had to exterminate mutantkind from the face of this Earth.

“Perhaps,” Charles says. His smile is small and secretive, as infuriating as always.

“Hope again?” Erik says. “Surely you must be past that by now. There is no room for it here.”

“There is always room for hope,” Charles says. His fingers drift over Erik’s face, over each new wrinkle, along his chin, across his brow. His eyes are heavy-lidded and sleepy.

Storm peeks her head into the cabin. Her eyes narrow when she sees Erik there. Erik pays her no mind. “Shadowcat has contacted us, Professor,” she says. “They have something to tell us. We have their current position if you think it would be wise to rendezvous with them.”

“Thank you, Ororo. That sounds like an excellent idea,” Charles says. “I think I might take a nap if you will.” His eyes drift closed as he lowers himself into a reclining position.

Storm takes that as her cue to leave, returning to the cockpit.

“This conversation isn’t over, Charles,” Erik says.

“Is it ever?” Charles asks. He shifts, his ribs pressed against one of Erik’s thighs. So warm and so alive, even after everything that has happened between the two of them. This too, is a gift.

“I suppose not,” Erik says.

He stays there, listening as Charles’s breathing evens out into sleep. Soon. Soon, they will listen to what Shadowcat has to say. Soon they will have their next futile plan to fight this war. This may kill them in the end, but for now he has this, this simple pleasure of Charles’s company and their uncertain future ahead of them.

He supposes that must be enough.

FIN.