"I know it's old-fashioned, but it works," Charles said as he set the mug in the microwave and set the timer.
"I doubt that."
Although the latest study Charles had read about had been inconclusive, suggesting that the effects of a glass of warm milk before bed were as likely to be psychological as anything else, he'd never been above lying to anyone, least of all Erik. "It's true. It encourages your brain to produce more selatonin. It'll put you right out."
After ninety seconds, the microwave beeped, and Charles wheeled back over to the table in his power chair, more grateful than ever that Hank had finally dropped it off last week now that it allowed him to navigate with one hand while carrying a hot beverage in the other. Instead of having to tell Erik to get up and fetch his drink, Charles was able to hand it to him where he sat at the kitchen table, looking twice as drawn as he had before he'd finally admitted to insomnia a few minutes ago.
Whether he'd appeared that way for weeks, or had just allowed himself to show it was hard to say. Looking back, Charles couldn't remember much other than noting that Erik always seemed to come to bed after he did, these days, and always seemed to be up before him in the mornings, as well. Hard to say if he should have realized it was more than Erik's natural tendency to need several hours' less sleep than Charles always had, more than Erik needing even less at this age. There was so much else to worry about these days, after all; anything that didn't announce itself in so many words was like to, well, have to before it occurred to Charles to add it to the list.
Erik took the mug and sniffed it, making a face. He took a tiny sip and made another. This continued until he'd drained the mug of its contents, a process that took long enough for Charles to start off by wishing he'd thought to add sugar and nutmeg, and finish by wanting to tell Erik it couldn't possibly taste that bad, no matter what Erik thought of most of Charles' experiments in the kitchen.
In the end, he held his tongue. If Erik—the most stoic person Charles had ever met, except when felled by the common cold—was bad off enough to actually complain about not being able to sleep, then it was probably bad enough for Charles to excuse face-making.
Anyway, watching Erik make that face would still have been worth it, had the milk worked. Unfortunately, it did not, and although Erik consented to lie down for a while, he sat up again an hour later.
"You still can't sleep?" Charles asked, forcing himself awake. If he hadn't been waiting to see what Erik would do, he probably wouldn't have noticed the movement. He wondered how many other nights he hadn't noticed, before Erik had stopped coming to bed at all.
"Your trick didn't work," Erik said.
"You're not sleepy at all?"
"No." So saying, Erik stood up and headed toward the restroom. Evidently the milk had worked only on his bladder.
When Erik came back out, Charles said, "Come here, darling."
Halfway to the bedroom door, Erik paused. "It didn't work. What's the point?"
"Well, if you come back over here, I might be able to help you sleep a little more directly." Once, Charles would have added, 'If you'll let me.' Now, he'd reason not to be too terribly concerned about whether Erik would allow any particular thing. He had an idea there was little Erik wouldn't consent to now that Charles was—now that they were together again.
Erik scoffed, but came back anyway. "You're welcome to try."
Now, that much couldn't be allowed to stand. "I haven't said a single word to suggest you can't do whatever you want to with that roll of quarters you're always playing with," Charles said. "I'll thank you not to doubt me too much." Though Erik wasn't suggesting anything untrue. The likely main reason Erik couldn't sleep was the reason Charles could: Their powers were both too weak at the moment to attract notice from Sentinels, too inconsistent to be anything other than a burden to any of their fellows. It was why they were currently stashed out here, at one of Charles' properties he'd rarely used and told very few people about in the years before—well, before. "At least, not out loud."
Erik hmphed, but once he was back underneath the covers, he turned to Charles and submitted to Charles' fingertips against his grayed temple. Charles' telepathy was come and go these days, and he nearly always had to reach for it now rather than having to actively block out surface thoughts he didn't want to hear—but as much as had changed, touching the person he was trying to read still made it that much easier; the gesture itself helped, too, if not as much as it used to.
It didn't hurt that this was Erik, either. He'd spent fifty years keeping Charles out with that helmet of his, but there had been many, many occasions during which he'd let Charles back in. The walls of the bedroom he'd slept in since he was a boy weren't as familiar to him as the corridors of Erik's mind. And, for some reason, although he'd tried to read Erik's mind on any number of instances over the last few months and been repelled each time, not because Erik was throwing him out but because something else barred the way, this time he was able to get in without having to break a window to get the door unlocked, only for the police to show up seconds later.
If he'd gone in for any other reason, Charles might not have emerged for a very long time, uncertain whether he'd be able to do this again any time in the near future, if at all. Now, he ignored everything he wanted so badly to explore—particularly everything leading up to Erik's declaration that whatever happened now, they'd face together—and said, simply, Go to sleep, dear.
This sort of thing had always worked best when Charles didn't worry too much about how it worked, what parts of the mind he was manipulating to get his results. He didn't worry about it now, precisely, but when he emerged to find Erik's head had dropped to the pillow, and his face had gone relaxed and soft in a way Charles hadn't seen in longer than he cared to acknowledge, he did wonder. About that, and why this of all things should have been so effortless—a matter of need, perhaps. But if need were all it were, wouldn't his telepathy have come back ten or eleven months ago, when they'd first become desperate for someone to use Cerebro? Wouldn't it have made an appearance fifteen or twenty times since? How many mutants, how many friends might still be here if he'd been able to harness his gift—
Or perhaps it was need and time. Perhaps he'd had time enough to acclimate to this new body, now. He'd try to reach Hank or Moira in the morning, see about running another of those scans.
For now, though, Charles ran his fingers absently through Erik's hair as he wondered, and despaired, and reached out. In the end, he sat up half the night trying to get some glimmer of what the nearest neighbors were dreaming about.
As for Erik, he didn't seem to dream at all—or if he did, what dreams he had were neither terrible enough to wake him, nor loud enough for Charles to hear.