Summary: Charles falls ill after overusing Cerebro. Erik offers his assistance. Set during "First Class"; in my mind, this works ideally during Training Week at the Xavier mansion. I am absolutely positive that there are quite literally 8,000 other fanfics out there with this precise storyline, so, uh, this is 8,001. Sorry.

Afterthought

Charles finished emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet, and then clutched the countertop for support as he struggled to stand. His latest session with Cerebro had lasted perhaps a hare too long, but when he thought of all he could accomplish - all that all of them could accomplish - with it, he knew he could withstand much worse.

Still, it didn't help that he could barely stand now. He managed to bend enough to splash water on his face, droplets trickling down his neck and chest, which was flushed. Even so, he gripped the sides of the sink and considered just staying there, his forehead resting against the faucet, until the nausea and headache and general discomfort had subsided.

Eventually, he managed to tug the door open. Standing within the frame, he took a series of staggered breaths, opening and closing his eyes. "Okay ... all right ..." he chided himself, but he still didn't budge from the jamb. "This isn't rocket science, after all ..."

"Probably for the best." The voice was soft and darkly amused, and were Charles not in such a ragged condition, he would have easily sensed the source's presence in his bedroom suite. As it was, the sound made him jump, and he clutched the door for support.

"Erik," he croaked. "You surprised me."

Erik's lean, long frame glided out of the darkness, his arms folded. "I can see that," he murmured, and now Charles could fuzzily make out the other man's black turtleneck and trousers. He drew closer to Charles, taking in the dark spots on his cheeks, the watery eyes. He reached out an arm and tugged the smaller man gingerly towards him. Even so, Charles gave a weak cry as he landed against Erik's chest. "Are you in pain?" Erik asked steadily, and Charles tried not to lean into the touch, tried not to show how much he needed the help.

"I've faced worse," Charles bit out. In his head, he was embarrassed that Erik, of all people, was asking him about pain. 'You've faced so much worse. You shouldn't bother with this,' he thought.

He didn't know that the message had even been sent - he usually had better control over such things, but this cold, of sorts, seemed to be throwing him off, in more ways than one - but then Erik bent forward to whisper in his ear. "Now, now, none of that. I'm not the world's most adorable telepath, after all."

Charles would have snorted had he had the strength. As it was, he nuzzled into Erik's shirt front, the scent and texture and Erik's arms carefully encircling him soothing. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't want anybody to see this."

Erik made a chastising noise, and then shifted so that he could pick Charles up, one arm under his knees. Instinctively, Charles wove his arms shakily around the other man's neck. "I'm not just anyone," Erik said, cradling Charles in his arms like a favored toy.

Charles shivered and met Erik's gaze. "Of course not. I didn't mean it like that, Erik." 'I know,' Erik thought, and grinned rakishly when Charles rolled his eyes. "I know that you will keep my secret, however," he added.

Erik frowned and began moving them towards Charles' expansive bed. "I hope this secret is that you've realized you're not invincible and won't attempt something as foolish as three hours with Cerebro again without pacing yourself," Erik said blithely.

Charles looked down. "It wasn't precisely that," he murmured. He groaned when he felt Erik begin to lower him onto the mattress, albeit with the utmost gentleness, cradling Charles' head until it sank into the collection of pillows below. "It doesn't do to dawdle on this," he continued stubbornly.

Erik opened Charles' chest of drawers, tugging on a brass handle with a quick wave of his hand, and then stole quickly across the room to grab up a pair of pajamas from it. Setting the flannel pants and shirt on the bed next to Charles' legs, he then busied himself with removing the other man's shoes and socks. "On the contrary," Erik said as Charles blearily watched him untie his left shoelace, "I think after you've grown violently ill from what you've been doing is the perfect time to dawdle, actually."

Charles sighed. "Are you really telling me that you wouldn't push yourself to do something risky for the right purpose?" he queried, giving Erik his best Professor X look, albeit a very exhausted one. "For example - oh, I don't know - trying to raise a submarine from the ocean even though you might drown?"

Erik looked amused, and then set to work unfastening Charles' belt and pants. "Exactly my point," he replied swiftly. "You can persuade other people to pace themselves, but then you refuse to take your own advice." He worked Charles' trousers down his legs, and then tugged them off completely. "Am I to assume, then, that one should adhere to Charles Xavier's school of 'do what I say, not as I do'?"

Charles groaned. "Are you calling me a hypocrite, Erik?" he asked tiredly. He assisted the other man in slipping his pajama bottoms up to his slim hips, and then relaxed again.

Erik smirked and then sat sideways on the bed, closer to where Charles was propped. "Not in so many words," he said pointedly. "But I am telling you - arms up," he coaxed, and Charles raised his limbs so that Erik could remove his sweater - "that you will stop running yourself ragged." He skimmed down the buttons on Charles' undershirt, and Charles shrugged out of it, too.

Charles frowned. "It's my choice, Erik," he said, a bit more heatedly than he meant to. He looked away from Erik's raised eyebrows. "I need to do this," he said more quietly, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He blamed it on the cold. "I have to help them. I've seen who they are, now, how many of them - of us - are out there, Erik. I have to let them know there's a place for them to go. Even if some of them aren't ready or outright refuse, I have to try." He looked back at the other man, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I have to try, Erik," he repeated in a whisper.

Erik rested his large hands on Charles' upper arms, and then used one to tilt Charles' chin. "Listen to me," he said softly. "Nobody is saying to stop looking for mutants. You just need to slow down; build up to it more gradually. No more making yourself sick. What good is any of this without you?" he said pointedly.

"What if it's not enough?" Charles murmured.

Erik's gaze was persistent. "It will be." His mouth quirked. "You'll still be able to save the world with your brilliance tomorrow, Charles. I'm quite sure of it."

Charles smiled in spite of himself. "You flatter me, my friend," he said softly.

Erik kissed his forehead, nice enough, even, not to mention how sweaty it was. "I only speak the truth," he said simply. "Now," he continued, grabbing Charles' pajama shirt, "Let's get you to bed, Professor."

When Charles was tucked delicately underneath a fluffy, wine-colored duvet cover, he peered sleepily up at Erik, grateful warmth emanating lightly through their telepathic bond. He didn't ask Erik to stay, but he hoped as he drifted off to sleep in the dim light of the room that waking up brought with it the same tranquility that going to sleep did.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. Charles did wake up to Erik's presence, but instead of a wry smile and stoicism, Erik was hovering at his bedside, speaking to him in hushed, worried tones. "Charles ... Charles, wake up."

"Erik," he mumbled, and realized his mouth was dry. 'Water,' he thought, and was relieved when Erik took the initiative to reach over to Charles' bedside table and pick up a glass, as well as the ever-present pitcher he kept there. The liquid was a bit warm, but refreshing. "Erik," he said again, less froggily this time. "Hello."

"Hello yourself." Erik squinted at him grimly and then placed a hand to Charles' forehead. "You've been mumbling in your sleep for some time," he explained. "Also, I think your fever finally broke."

Charles blinked. "Was I dreaming? Did I project anything while I was out?" he asked curiously.

Erik looked away briefly. "Nothing of interest," he said finally. He rubbed at his eyes, and Charles reached out a tentative hand, patting his shoulder.

"Rest, my friend," he smiled. "You have done much for me already. I should not monopolize any more of your time."

Erik smirked. "Well, it beats reading your thesis, anyway."

Charles laughed softly. "In that case, you could stay," he offered carefully. "It's a very large bed. Actually, I get quite lost in it sometimes."

Erik patted his cheek. "We don't want that, do we," he husked, and Charles beamed, watching Erik strip down quickly, and then climb under the covers. The larger man made a delicious pillow, as it turned out, and Charles found himself slipping into dreams anew; hopefully, happier ones than those of abusive stepfamilies and neglectful mothers and a world where he had never loved a man he had pulled from the ocean and then promised everything to. He only hoped he could do all that he had offered.

On the fringes of consciousness, he felt long, nimble fingers play an unheard rhythm under his shirt, up his spine. Charles leaned into the touch, and promised himself that he would do everything in his power to make the world someday as perfect as everything was at that moment.