Day 2 of my Finale Finale! Charles's firsts = Erik is sick. So Charles gets to play babysitter for once. I have no idea who requested it, but to whoever it was – this chapter is dedicated to you.

To people I can't PM:

To Guest #1: Thanks for the review! And the good luck, I definitely needed it.

To Guest #2: Well, now you can see how Charles deals with a sick!Erik.

Chapter Twelve

~ Erik Lehnsherr ~
The first thing Erik notices when he wakes up is that is room is a complete and total mess, like some sort of major natural disaster of epic proportions had hit it – scratch that, he thinks, looking at the way his dresser's on the ground and his desk is upside down and his closet doors are swinging sadly off the rail, possibly several types of natural disasters. Right after one another. At that moment, his chair squeaks alarmingly before collapsing into sad little pieces, and Erik winces. Perhaps a cousin of that strange summer that had landed a tornado, an earthquake, and a winter storm in fall in the same region.

No, scratch that, the first thing, the very first thing, Erik notices when he wakes is that he's coughing so hard he swears his lungs are going to fall out.

Erik groans and flops down in the bed, smothering himself with a pillow. Heck, he's even surprised that his bed survived, as there is metal in it to. And he hates it, absolutely hates it, when he gets sick.

He hears a tentative knock on his door, and he bolts upright to yell, "Wait!"

Just in time for Charles to stub his toe on the fallen dresser, yelp, and fall back on his butt, his face full of such sheer surprise that Erik wants to laugh his head off – except, of course, between his coughing and his headaches, that probably would be the worst idea ever. Not to mention that there is iron in Charles's blood, and although he's strong enough to sense it and guesses he's possibly strong enough to tamper with it, he doesn't want to find out the hard way.

Erik? Charles asks tentatively. What . . . happened?

"I – "

But the words never make it out, because his throat decides he's given him a long enough reprieve and send him doubling over in another coughing fit. So, instead, he says, Get back, Charles!

What? Why? Charles is all petulance and concern – at first.

Then the window frame bends and screeches, and the window itself shatters completely, sending shards everywhere, and Erik retains just enough frame of mind to gesture violently at the door and slam it shut, a solid barrier between Charles and the shards.

That would be why, Erik says, as the coughing spell eases.

Charles is quiet for a moment, but Erik can sense his restlessness. Charles always has had a caring nature, and when he sees someone hurt or in trouble, he always want to help. Even if, sometimes, he just can't. And in this case, he really can't. When Erik's sick like this – which has only happened once or twice since he manifested – he's a danger to everyone and everything around him. He definitely can't go the hospital, for one thing; the machines around him wouldn't be able to handle the onslaught of the devastation he can wreak, and there's only so much equipment that can be substituted with plastic. The only thing he can do is wait – sit it out and wait for the cough to subside.

Erik knows Charles can probably read all this in his mind. In fact, he's probably read in Erik's parents' minds. But Charles is as stubborn as they come, because the next thing Erik knows, Charles has shoved the door open and is crawling over the dresser before he jumps on the bed, blinking innocently at Erik.

"Charles," Erik scolds.

Unfortunately, at that moment, Erik's mother pushes her way through, sighing as she catches sight of the destruction, and Erik winces. It won't be easy, replacing these things.

"I'll fix it later?" he offers.

His mother merely sighs. "We'll deal with it later, schatz," she says, but her voice is warm and full of concern as she turns to him, so he knows that right now she's more focused on finding out what's wrong with him and fixing him than she is about how much money will be needed to repair the damage wrought by it. "How are you feeling?"

Erik considers it for a moment. He actually hasn't had the time yet. "Headache. I can't smell anything. And I'm actually pretty cold."

A hand nudges his own, and he looks down to see Charles curling gentle fingers around his wrist. Then confused blue eyes are staring up at him. "But you're burning up," Charles protests. "How can you possibly be cold?"

Erik's mother clucks her tongue in sympathy, leaning over to feel Erik's forehead and sighing. "It sounds like a common cold, schatz," she murmurs sympathetically. "Not much to do but wait it out, I'm afraid. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I – "

A cough builds its way in Erik's throat; he claps both hands over his mouth and tries to breathe deeply, and so ends up wheezing pathetically, which still causes some of the magnets pinned to his dry erase board calendar to go shooting towards him. Erik's mother dodges them with the ease of nearly eighteen years of dealing with it when Erik's abilities turn him into a supermagnet and everything metal or magnetic goes hurtling towards him. Charles isn't so lucky; Erik hears a small "Oof!" and then Charles clambers around him, pouting and huddling between him and the wall, rubbing at his back with one of the magnets presumably hit him.

"You're a right danger to society."

Erik snorts, and then regrets it when his head throbs. You're one to talk, maus. Remember the first time you caught the cold going around your school?

"Let's not talk about that," Charles says hastily.

It's well that they don't, actually. Charles's fever had been high, way too high, and he had been sweating and tossing and whimpering. It had made Erik frustrated and angry, unable to do anything except offer water and stroke Charles's hair – when he was in the right frame of mind to do so, of course. Charles's telepathy had been even more out of control than Erik's powers are now, enough that he tended to accidentally project his symptoms (Erik had spent an hour sending his breakfast and lunch down the toilet before he realized it wasn't food poisoning and was just a queasy Charles) or project his desire for things (Erik twice caught himself nearly giving Charles M&Ms, which, considering Charles's inability to keep anything but soup and water and sometimes yogurt down, was a very bad idea). It had been a horrifyingly awkward three days before Charles recovered enough to rein his telepathy back in – during which time Erik's parents had fended off the DMFC a bunch of times when they had come trying to see Charles (and determine if he needed to be quarantined in a telepathic-nullifying room) – and Erik was rather relieved when it was over.

Erik's mother rolls her eyes and ignores them. She's grown used to the fact that Charles likes speaking telepathically to Erik, and that Erik likes responding the same fashion. In fact, Erik's seen her more than once smiling fondly at them as they squabble with their minds, Erik poking Charles with pens and Charles poking right back mentally.

"I'll start making some chicken soup, all right? I'll call you down when it's done."

So saying, she marches from the battlefield, picking her way carefully around the valiantly felled bodies of Erik's room with all the grace and assuredness of a tried and true commander.

Erik just groans and flops back down on the bed, moody and ill.

Why is she making chicken soup?

"Old wives' tale. Supposedly helps with immunity and stuff. And colds."

There's silence for a moment, and then Erik opens his eyes to find Charles watching him with a strange expression. It's not wistful, really; more along the lines of a bit confused, like he's just been told that he's not actually a telepath or that he's just won a bazillion dollars in a lottery contest.

"What's wrong?" he asks gently.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Charles."

Charles wraps his arms around himself, looks at the wall, and then takes a deep breath. "It's just . . . strange."

"Why?"

"You being sick."

"Why?"

Charles shrugs. "I don't know. I'm just used to you being . . ." He gestures, for once seeming unable to articulate whatever he's saying. Which is strange in and of itself; Charles never ever lacks for words.

"Everyone can get sick, maus," Erik says cautiously, gently, unsure of whether he's guessing what Charles wants to say. "I'm not immune because I'm a mutant."

"I know. I just . . ." I'm used to the idea of you being invincible.

It's kind of flattering, once Erik thinks about it.

In an awkward way.

But Erik has long since grown used to awkward since he gained Charles. And he understands where it's coming from; Erik has spent a lot of time and energy becoming the safe haven for Charles, his anchor in a confusing sea of getting used to a world that his stepfather doesn't control every second of, his harbor where Charles comes to rest and confide and relax, his shield between unpleasant grown-up things Charles isn't ready for. Charles has grown used to the idea of idolizing him.

For this, he makes Charles look him dead in the eye. "I'm not perfect, maus," he says, slowly and clearly and utterly serious. "I'm not invincible. I'm just trying to be family."

Charles nods, blue eyes locked on his. I know. Now.

Erik pulls him in for a rough hug, ruffling his hair. "I still love you, you know." And he hopes Charles gets his unspoken message: Don't try to be perfect for me. Because I love you anyways. I always will.

I know, Charles whispers in his mind, and he hugs the boy all the tighter, trying to pour every ounce of that love into the desert that encompasses all the years before they met, all the years where his stepfather and stepbrother beat him and hurt him and neglected him, this glorious, adorable telepath that Erik never had any chance at resisting before he fell under his spell the same way Erik's mother and father had.

Erik's mother calls up that the chicken soup is done, so Charles releases him, scoots off the bed, and goes to retrieve it. When he returns, Erik's had two more coughing fits and is slowly recovering from the third, hiccupping.

Charles balances the tray on the bed. Can I try something?

"Feel free," Erik says hoarsely.

Charles sits in front of him with a serious expression on his face, and then he closes his eyes just as Erik feels the warm sunshine touch of Charles's telepathy. Then something happens – something unlocks, or relaxes, or fades away, but either way, Erik feels something unclench in his chest, and he suddenly doesn't have the burning desire to cough up a lung anymore.

"What – What did you do to me?" he asks, astounded.

Charles bites at his lip. "I tried to tell your brain to calm down. I think it worked."

"Well, whatever you did. . ." Erik takes a deep breath, delighting in the ability to breathe without hacking away and wreaking more havoc on his room. "Definitely thank you," he decides, and grabs Charles to ruffle his hair.

Charles eyes him strangely, wriggling away. You get really weird when you're sick.

"You just noticed?"

The boy shrugs. I've never seen you sick before, actually. It's . . . a little entertaining. He cuddles close to Erik, who sighs and puts an arm around him before he reaches for the soup and starts to eat. Charles stays at his side, radiating contentedness as he curiously rummages through Erik's other memories of being sick. Do things really do . . . that all the time?

"Do what?"

Fly at you when you cough?

"No, sometimes they go shooting down the street. Especially when I sneeze."

Charles's eyes light up. I want to see that!

Erik pokes him, causing Charles to squeal and wriggle away from him, arms clasped firmly along his ticklish sides protectively. "I am not some sort of circus act, maus," he says crossly. "So if it happens, it'll be because it does and not on – "

Of course, that's when his body betrays him.

There's silence in the aftermath, for a moment. Perhaps Charles is actually feeling pity for the picture frame Erik's just sent across the room, out the door, down the corridor, and, if the sounds are to be believed, tumbling down the stairs as well.

"That was amazing!" Charles cheers. "Do it again!"

"No."

"Erik!"

"No."

"But it was cool."

"Charles . . ."

"Please?"

"No!"

A/N: Hmm. Less fluttery!comfort!Charles than I started out with. Oh well. . . Oh yeah – I am not a doctor, so take my telepathic cure from Charles with a grain of salt, I made it up off the top of my head.

Coming up next! Charles meets another telepath for the first time. Three guesses who.