They've barely finished when Charles props himself up against the headboard and reaches for his briefcase on the bedside table. He pops it open and brings out a stack of papers, a red pen, and a pair of reading glasses. He sets the glasses on his nose and begins reading, frequently pausing to make small marks, or, only slightly less frequently, to scribble a more substantial opinion in the margins. After a few minutes, he purses his lips and begins making a "to, to, to, to, to, to, to," sound through his teeth.
It's amusing at first. Erik contents himself with watching Charles until it's not amusing anymore — which doesn't take long. He's never liked sharing Charles, never liked having less than Charles' undivided attention. They don't see each other often enough for distractions, and it rankles.
"Charles," he says, more sharply than he intends to.
Charles doesn't even bother to glance up. "Hmm?"
"What are you doing?"
Charles does glance at Erik then, regarding him over the rims of his glasses before he looks back at the page he's on. "If you'd had the courtesy to call ahead prior to abducting me from my own bedroom, I could have had all my grading done already. As it is, it's nowhere near finished, and these essays need to go back on Monday."
"Everyone gets a B," Erik suggests. He doesn't bother pointing out that the one time he had called ahead, Charles spent the entire weekend bemoaning the death of spontaneity.
"I don't remember that," Charles says vaguely, as if Erik didn't just remember it for him in all its irritating detail. "And no, I can't do that. Not this time. These are the first assigned essay of the year; if I don't grade them individually, that sets a terrible precedent. Anyway, they're meant to be persuasive essays, written on the subject of their choice. It's quite interesting, actually. You learn so much about someone by what they choose to write about. What they choose to argue about. It's fascinating."
"Really."
"Mm-hmm. Telepathy won't tell you everything, believe it or not. And these really are interesting." Charles finishes scribbling at the end of the current paper, then places it at the bottom of the stack and moves on to the next. His pen hovers down the first few lines, then he laughs.
"What's so funny?" Erik asks.
"Oh, Miss Cassidy means to persuade me not to assign any more essays."
Erik, for his part, finds this very persuasive.
"Oh, it's not as clever as all that. I get at least one of these a year. Often more. And no, it never works."
"Cassidy," Erik says as Charles flips over the first page. Banshee's been off Erik's radar for any number of years; he'd stayed with Charles for less than five, if Erik recalls correctly.
"Yes. His daughter."
Erik intends to inquire about her mutation, but he's dissuaded by the sight of Charles' thinned lips. He doesn't want to quarrel, even if it has been nearly a decade since he last borrowed one of Charles' students. He hadn't intended to nearly get that kid, whatever his name was, killed. Ever since then, it hasn't been worth it. It would take a great deal more than it ever has to make it worth it.
"Scott," Charles says. The corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly.
"Yes. That one."
Charles turns over another page, then says, "She's got his hair." He makes five notations over the next two lines of type. "And his spelling."
At some point, Erik rolls over and falls asleep. He wakes up with Charles absently rubbing his thigh. His hand is warm.
Erik turns over to look at him. He's still working, though he takes a moment to smile down at Erik.
"Did I wake you?" he asks. "I didn't mean to. Sorry about that."
Erik says, "It's fine."
He lies there and watches Charles in the lamplight. He finds himself wondering just when Charles started needing reading glasses. Erik's never noticed them before. He would have; Charles always reads the paper in bed, every single morning, no matter where they are.
"This past spring. Late March, early April. Somewhere around there," Charles says.
Their most recent trip had been last October. Erik knew he hadn't missed something so major as reading glasses.
He scrutinizes Charles more closely, looking for what else might have changed over the past ten months. To his relief, there doesn't seem to be much; Charles has had those deep laugh lines for years, and it's not like he'd had any more hair to lose.
"Oh, darling. You flatter me so," Charles says dryly. Erik's not chastened, not when he knows Charles couldn't have missed a single thread of Erik's affection, his regard for him, woven through every observation.
Erik flicks his fingers at Charles, lurching the pen out of his hand and levitating it up to the ceiling. "Come back to bed."
"I'm already in bed," Charles points out. But he places his work back in his briefcase, more neatly than Erik's ever seen him put anything else away. He takes off his glasses, smiling, then gives Erik his undivided attention again, for at least a little while.