Wow, I actually wrote another chapter. The second-person narration was a lot harder this time. To make up for the angst of the first chapter, this one is fluffy. It was inspired by a photo of Ian McKellen cooking dinner for Patrick Stewart. I thought, how cute would it be to see Erik cooking dinner for Charles?

You rub your eyes and sway on your feet a bit as you emerge from Cerebro and start upstairs. You're tired, but it's a peaceful, contented tired; you've never spent so much time in Cerebro at once, and it's incredible to think about how many minds you just touched, how many new mutants are still out there.

You're not bothered by how quiet the mansion is when you emerge on the first floor. You lost track of the time in Cerebro, but you know that you missed dinner, and now the kids must be upstairs watching TV, or maybe even getting ready for bed. You're curious when you smell something strong and spicy in the kitchen. Whose turn was it to cook dinner tonight? The kids, typical teenagers, always ate like a ravenous horde, but Raven must've made sure that they saved you some leftovers. You smile as you push open the kitchen door, and you're surprised to find Erik standing at the stove, still cooking.

"Erik?"

He glances over his shoulder at you and smirks. "Well, look who it is - finally," he says, with a hint of teasing in his voice.

You pause for a second. Erik's good mood takes you by surprise, but you quickly decide to act like you don't notice it.

"I wasn't in Cerebro for so long, was I?" you ask, yawning, as you cross the kitchen to him. You can smell tomatoes and spices in his skillet, and your stomach growls hungrily. "What time is it?"

"It's after midnight, Charles."

Your eyes widen. "What? No, it's not... is it?" But the clock on the kitchen counter confirms it for you. 12:17. You rub your eyes again, a bit unsettled. You would've guessed ten at the latest. No wonder the mansion is so quiet.

You scold yourself mentally. Losing track of the time will be one of the drawbacks of having free access to Cerebro. This new Cerebro, in the lower levels of the mansion, was only completed a few days ago. Hank designed it and Erik built it - and did he look sexy when he got sweaty - so you wouldn't have to use the one at the CIA headquarters anymore.

"I wanted to knock on the entrance and tell you what time it was," Erik says, interrupting your thoughts, "but Raven wanted to let you stay in there late, just for tonight. She made nachos and brownies for dinner."

"She knows I hate it when she eats junk food for dinner! I'm always telling her..."

But you stop when Erik gives one of his rare smiles. The kitchen is dim - Erik has left only the light over the stove on - but when he smiles, you swear the room grows brighter.

"She said that. She said that's why she wanted to... pig out, I believe were her exact words, tonight, when you weren't around to lecture her. Oh, and she wants me to build some sort of timer inside Cerebro. Something to stop you from spending too much time in there in the future."

You love to imagine Erik and Raven having a conversation about you behind your back. They're practically acting like in-laws. But you don't want to smile and scare away Erik's good mood, so you just rub your neck, stiff from wearing Cerebro's helmet for so long, and admit, "Yes, it probably isn't good for me."

"And neither is skipping dinner," Erik adds, in his usual brusque manner again. "I told Raven I would make sure you ate something when you got out of Cerebro. This should be ready in a minute." A metal spoon rises up from the counter, dips itself in the tomato sauce, and goes to Erik's lips. He tastes it and adjusts the temperature.

Now you can't help smiling. Erik is cooking you dinner. You're so happy to see him doing something so normal - and doing it for you - that you decide to push your luck. You lean against Erik's back, pressing the length of your body against his, and hook your chin over his shoulder. He doesn't react, just keeps cooking, but for once, he doesn't push you away, either. You know it's only because there's nobody else around, or even awake, to risk seeing you, but you'll take what you can get.

"So what are you cooking me?" you ask teasingly, your arms tightening around his waist.

Erik says some foreign word that sounds a bit like sneezing.

You blink and ask, "Sorry, what?"

"Shakshuka," Erik says slowly.

"Shakshuka," you repeat, and you crane over his shoulder to peer down into the skillet - peppers and poached eggs in tomato sauce. The hot, spicy steam is welcome on your face after the cool air in Cerebro.

"It's very popular in Israel," Erik adds abruptly, and this gets your attention.

Everything you know about Erik's past comes from reading his mind in the water on the night you first met. He never volunteers information about himself, not even to you, but you know that his years in Israel were almost happy ones for him. He'd been proud to serve in the newly-formed Israeli Defense Forces, alongside so many other Shoah survivors. There he wasn't the only one with numbers tattooed on his arm.

With your body against his like this, you can feel every little movement - his breath, the shift of his muscles as he turns the heat off, to let the dish cool. You can tell that he's cooked it before.

"Is that where you learned to make it?" you ask.

But Erik just darts his eyes, his shoulders shrugging beneath your chin, and you know when to back off.

"It smells rather spicy," you say, changing the subject.

"Too much for your mild British mouth?" Erik asks, smiling again. Making him smile feels like winning a prize, and you keep a mental list of every time you've been able to do it. The last time it was your turn to cook dinner, you made everyone omelettes; you made Erik's with peppers and hot sauce, and he wolfed it down like it was candy, with a big smile on his face.

You can't imagine Erik pigging out on junk food with the kids, so he probably skipped dinner, too. You let go of him to take two plates and glasses out of the cabinet and pour water. He dishes the shakshuka onto your plates, giving you a slightly larger portion, and you eat standing up at the kitchen island. Erik would eat all his meals like this - alone, standing up - if you let him. He only sits down to dinner with the rest of you every night because you insist.

The shakshuka is spicier than you would like, but you're so hungry, and so touched that Erik cooked it for you, that you eat ravenously. After a few bites, your mouth adjusts, and the heat becomes less intense. Your chest and belly warm up pleasantly, rather than burn, and your cheeks flush. You could get used to this.

"This is really good, Erik," you tell him, licking a smear of tomato sauce off your finger. "You should make it again, next time it's your turn to cook dinner."

To your surprise, he agrees. "I could use milder peppers," he says, going to the sink to refill your water glass. "It might be easier on you."

You take another bite of shakshuka to hide your smile. It's an anomaly to see Erik in such a relaxed mood, and up so late. He's always been the early bird to your night owl. Your body is still on your schedule from Oxford, when you spent almost every night either up late studying or out late partying. But Erik's body is still on his schedule from the Israeli army. He gets up at dawn almost every morning - even if he just went back to sleep after a nightmare a few hours before - to go for a run around the grounds of the mansion, or even along the country roads outside the gates, beyond the reach of your mind.

When he gets up to go running, you like to roll over into the warm, rumpled spot on the sheets where he'd just been, and go back to sleep until the sun is high enough to cast shadows on the floor. Sometimes even the teenagers get up before you do. You snore on the Erik-scented sheets while outside, he runs through the early-morning mist as if something is chasing him.

Before you can think better of it, you blurt out, "Erik, you're up so late tonight, why don't you sleep in tomorrow?"

He frowns at this, as if you're trying to trick him, which is so typical of your self-punishing Erik that you almost laugh. But you almost cry too, because you know, deep down, that the reason Erik pushes himself so hard because he still blames himself for what happened in Auschwitz.

You put down your fork to put your hand on his arm. "Come on, Erik," you plead, "you stayed up till almost one just to cook dinner for me. You deserve to sleep in." I'm tired of waking up without you, you add in your mind.

"I could never sleep as late as you do," he argues, shaking his head.

"Well, don't," you shrug. "I need to stop sleeping so late anyway. I'm setting a bad example for the kids. Maybe I can start getting up a little earlier, and you can start getting up a little later." Before he can argue, you hastily finish your last bite of shakshuka and gesture to your empty plate. "Look, you always tease me for having a mild British tongue, but I just ate this whole plate of spicy shakshuka, and it was really good. So you might like sleeping in."

He hesitates, then makes a motion between a shrug and a nod. "I suppose I could try it," he says softly, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You grin back at him, and when you lean up to kiss him, you can taste the spices on his lips. Even though you've just eaten dinner, you're suddenly ravenously hungry again.