The hospital room was quiet, if not even silent. The shades pulled, obscuring what might otherwise be a beautiful day. A normal day for many. A devastating one for Charles. The last of the day’s sunlight haunted the edge of the curtains, brilliant and warm. Hank’s exhausted eyes scanned Charles’ hospital chart, hands having not stopped shaking since his return to room 120. Charles had been sedated for five days now; his body immobilized in a thick brace. This afternoon, however, his sedative had been lightened, and he was expected to wake any hour. Deep pockets of worried mat grey skin lined his eyes and even in his sleep, he clutched his blanket firmly, fingers tangled in the sheets.
The doctors told Hank that they couldn’t really know the extent of the damage until Charles woke and they could thoroughly assess him. Hank thanked them for their time and promised to call, when (not if) Charles woke. His injury wasn’t life-threatening, not now that they had exited the first forty-eight hours, even if it was life-changing. But Hank held on hope. Perhaps once the swelling had time to lessen Charles might regain some feeling, Hank swallowed hard and allowed his eyes to fall to Charles’ chart again.
Each day without any movement in his legs lessened the chance of eventually recovering.
Hank wondered if Charles could hear his thoughts, even from beneath the sedative. There was so little he actually understood about telepathy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charles stir. Hank involuntarily eyed Charles’ legs, if only for a moment, but could not allow himself much consideration. He looked again to his face, eyes now beginning to flutter, thoughts struggling to come to the surface of his mind, not unlike drowning, reaching desperately for air.
Hank tentatively placed a warm hand on Charles’ wrist, gentle but firm enough to inform Charles of his presence.
“Charles?” Hank’s thumb drifted across the raised line of the bones in his wrist, “You’re safe.”
Charles was struggling still, his other free hand ghosting across his face, “My head…” he whispered, throat dry and painful, “hurts…”
“Can you open your eyes?”
Eyes roll, then drift open, blue, pained.
“Hank?”
Hank only hummed, hand still gripping his wrist, he looked away, then back. Swallowing fear back down into his stomach, hands beginning to shake again, he calmed them, “I’m sure you have questions.”
“You’re…” Charles’ eyes roamed what seemed to be a human form.
“Ahh,” he looked at his own hands this time, pale and thin fingers stretched over Charles’ hands, bruised from the iv, “I had to be here when you woke up. I couldn’t do that looking blue.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter right now.”
Charles’ eyes drift across the expanse of his hospital room, brain tumbling through scenarios and grasping to vague memories. He doesn’t quite remember what happened. In his head, a jumbled memory plays back, but it’s garbled and doesn’t make much sense.
“How long?” Comes Charles’ curious voice.
“Five. Days, that is.”
Five. Charles thinks.
Charles began to talk and then stopped himself, voice breaking, he cleared his throat, “Something doesn’t feel right,” Charles’ brain was still fuzzy and dull with sedatives and morphine. Hank’s heart began to race, “Hank, I…” Charles’ hand twisted to clutch Hank’s without thinking as a group of physicians clambered into his room.
“Dr. Xavier, pleasantly surprised to see you awake.”
It was through only a very basic understanding of the situation that Charles tried to follow what the doctors were telling him.
Charles’ hand gripped Hank like a lifeline. The room spun, briefly, his head swimming, recollection coming to him in frightening pieces. People were talking to him still but it wasn’t for a few more moments that he began to tune in again.
People were saying his name but Charles wasn’t really hearing them. He was staring at his feet, watching, almost having left his body, floating somewhere inside his own head, trying to escape the reality of the situation, as the doctor pulled back the sheet. He was nauseous, perhaps it was the drugs as they wore off, or perhaps it was the reality of the situation dawning on him.
“Dr. Xavier?”
“Xavier?”
Then suddenly, “Charles?” That was Hank’s voice, he looked up, vomiting sliding up the back of his throat.
“Hank, what…what happened?” He cleared his throat again, trying his best to ignore the taste of vomit on his tongue. He reached tentatively to the thin tube on his face, supplying him with extra oxygen. He was confused.
The doctor at the foot of the bed paused, taking a moment to decide how to continue, and giving the two men a moment to speak.
“You were shot.”
“I was shot?” Charles was understandably skeptical. He laughed, actually laughed, “I wasn’t shot. That’s,” he took a second, trying to recall what had happened, “that’s absurd, Hank. Please.”
“I know this is a lot of information to take in at once, Charles. We’ll get there.”
Charles looked at Hank, confusion written on his face, but more so it was the fear in his eyes as Charles began putting the pieces together, “I wasn’t shot,” his laugh became increasingly nervous, “I…I wasn’t…who…that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Dr. Xavier, if I may.”
Charles returned to make eye contact with the doctor, noticing how a number of other doctors had left the room, “I’m sorry, yes. Continue, doctor if you please.”
“Henry is correct in that you were shot.”
And although Charles was beginning to understand he still whispered, “I wasn’t…” there was a long silence and Charles slowly became more aware of his body, the narcotic and sedative lightening, eyes drifted slowly to his legs, “I…” then, “…where?”
“Somewhere between your T12 and L1 vertebrae. We can’t be entirely sure of the placement given that the bullet had already been removed by the time you reached us,” the doctor uncrossed his arms, “But based on the entry wound, somewhere to the left of your spine.”
“My T,” the word caught in his mouth, “…my thoracic, the left of my, of my spine…” Hank figured it was at this point that the reality of the situation truly began to unfold on Charles, “…oh fucking hell.” Charles threw his head back against his pillow, he had taken anatomy at Columbia and at Oxford, and he knew what that meant. He felt like he wanted to die. He wanted to do anything but continue this conversation.
At the moment that Charles looked away, the doctor took the opportunity and placed a thin needle against the bare skin of Charles’ foot, making eye contact with Hank. The movement was quick, and quiet, and did not elicit a response. The needle vanished and the doctor ran an object along the sole of each foot. Still, there was no reaction.
“Doctor, if I may for a last time,” Charles looked up from where he had fallen back with a huff, “tell me, Dr. Xavier, can you feel this?” The physician placed a hand on the top of his foot, but it didn’t feel like his own foot, and yet…
Charles said nothing. The lack of sensation in his legs meant only one thing. Charles felt like he was drowning all over again. The question now Charles knew, was whether the situation he found himself in was permanent.
The doctor asked again, pulling the sheet further up, and laying a hand on the deadened skin of his calf, “And what about this, Doctor Xavier? Can you feel my hand here, touching your leg?” The doctor was careful in that he did not expose the catheter that ran up the inside of Charles’ leg. There was only so much change a man was able to bare in a day.
“Can I feel that?” Charles was nothing but incredulous, “No. No, I can’t bloody feel that. I can’t feel that at all.” Anger bubbled up in his chest, and he closed his eyes, taking a breath as deeply as the brace he had just now noticed would allow. He placed a hand, which had been intended for his chest, flat against the brace, willing his breathing to slow. His voice broke and he said, “I can’t feel anything.”
The doctor nodded, and slowly pulled the sheet back down to cover Charles’ feet, he said, “May I ask then Xavier, Dr. Xavier, what were your studies in?”
Charles furrowed his brow, the question out of place. After a second of reaching out with his mind he understood, “Biology, psychology, genetics. Hank here has a number of degrees himself.”
“Among the educated then. At any rate, I suspect you know what this means, for you, Dr. Xavier, for moving forward.”
This time Hank spoke, “How extensive is the damage?”
“Extensive enough for Dr. Xavier to need some level of assistance, likely for the rest of his life.” The doctor looked back to Charles, “With time you should be able to be independent primarily on your own. But still, there will be things you won’t be able to do.”
Charles cleared his throat loudly again, a disguise for the sob caught in his chest, Charles cast a thought to Hank, his inner voice shattering. He couldn’t say it, not yet.
Hank, however, got directly to the point, “What level of assistance are we expecting him to need?”
Charles closed his eyes, choking on the very idea.
“Well…as it stands right now, Dr. Xavier, you have a spinal cord injury. At the moment you are paralyzed, you have a catheter, only time will tell if you are able to regain any sensation or movement below your waist. Currently, you cannot walk. I suspect that you may never be able to walk again. You’ve got a lot of damage and inflammation around your spine right now, so the immediate plan is to wait, and see if there are any improvements.”
On Hank’s hand, Charles’ grip tightens, he wonders if this might actually be a bad dream after all, a nightmare, it couldn’t be real. Certainly, this couldn’t actually be happening.
Charles swallowed, his chest burning, his other hand which was unoccupied fingered the brace which was tight against his abdomen, “You’re very sure of all of this then?” Charles asked, looking at the doctor, who was seemingly occupied with some information in his chart.
“We are, yes, Dr. Xavier. I’m terribly sorry about all of this. But with time chances are very high that you should be able to live independently.”
“But you don’t think I’ll be able to walk again? Ever?”
The doctor again crossed his arms, looking down at Charles with somewhat of a frown, “Of that, I’m fairly confident.” He sat on a small gray stool, making his way closer to the both of them, sanitizing his hands, and then pulling open a different folder, “You know,” the doctor said, looking down at Charles’ chart again, “You’ve got…well your spine is pretty badly damaged, doctor. While the bullet itself didn’t damage your actual spinal cord it did some damage to the bone, which in turn injured your spine. At this point the inflammation…well that’s where the problem is.”
Charles understood, but his heart was still racing, he furrowed his brow, “What about feeling, sensation?” What about my cock? He wanted to ask but didn’t.
“That’s the bit we are still unsure of.”
Hank still held Charles’ hand in his, and he spoke up, “Are you saying that he might regain some sensation with time?”
The doctor shrugged, “We just don’t know. But right now, Dr. Xavier, I’d feel confident in diagnosing you with what we call a complete spinal cord injury.”
Charles heard Hank wince, very low and very quiet under his breath, which probably didn’t bode well. Charles looked to Hank, hurriedly, “As opposed to what?”
“Incomplete,” Hank said, “which is what I was hoping for.”
“The difference being what?” Charles asked the doctor.
“The difference is in that we don’t expect improvement over time, though it doesn’t rule out the possibility. Does this make sense?”
“Unfortunately,” said Charles, his eyes drifting again to his feet, again.
“Okay then, with that explained, we need to perform a sensory assessment, just to confirm a few things. I’m going to ask you to close your eyes,” the doctor applied more sanitizer to his hands, “and then I’m going to ask you a few questions, all you have to do is say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Okay?”
Charles nodded, eyes drifting shut, he realized he was already tired.
Hank stood back, watching silently. This test would neither prove that there was less damage than the medical staff thought or it would confirm everyone’s worst fears.
The doctor started with an assessment of deep touch, and once again asked Charles if he could feel his hand, this time on the inside of the lower calf, near his ankle.
But instead of answering, Charles just began to cry.
Instead of continuing, the doctor turned up the morphine drip and left the room, there would be time.
-
That night, Charles slept dreamlessly, the morphine and sedative did their job, and despite not being able to feel his legs, he wasn’t in any real pain at the moment.
Hank, for what it was worth, got some sleep as well, though fitfully. His long frame was drawn out and uncomfortable on a too-small bed that was specifically for loved ones like friends and family. On his chest, there was an open book on the treatment of complete spinal cord injuries, as well as a handful of other books with similar titles strewn about the floor. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t make himself useful.
The hospital, Erik thought, seemed unusually quiet. There were a few nurses scattered throughout, though none looked up at him as he passed. Having Emma on his side these days was quite nice. But they had to be careful not to let Charles hear her, even from miles away Erik knew Charles could, at the very least, sense her presence. Charles was infinitely more powerful than he let on. Erik wasn’t aware of how heavily sedated Charles was, so he wore his helmet anyway. Through odds and ends of her own meddling, Emma was able to locate Charles’ room. Erik paid very little attention to the hospital around him, there only to recover information on Charles’ condition, of which he knew very little. Professional interest perhaps, but more so out of Erik’s own concern. Charles had gone radio silent, which ultimately didn’t bode well.
Upon entering the room, he noticed first how absolutely exhausted Charles appeared. This alone caused his heart rate to accelerate, if only slightly. His eyes were baggy and dark, maybe even wet, from crying. Had Charles been crying? He looked stiff. He looked hurt. There was too the thick brace plastered across his breast and abdomen. Given, Erik wasn’t sure what it meant, not at the moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he registered Hank’s form and turned to take him in. No longer blue, somehow. It was the book across his chest, however, left him with his heart in his stomach and beating fast. Turning back to Charles he very carefully lifted the blanket to expose his left foot. He gripped it, softly at first but when that didn’t garner a response, he pressed harder. Still, nothing. Erik even risked moving Charles’ foot slightly, sort of wiggling the ankle joint, as if to gently rouse him, praying that the book Hank had been reading was unrelated. Very quietly he cursed under his breath. He looked down, noticing the medical chart there at the foot of the bed. He gripped it, bringing it closer, and opened it, hands shaking.
What it said confirmed his fear.
Erik swallowed forcefully, looking again at Charles, as he lowered the medical file. Erik faltered. If the information in the chart was accurate, and he had no reason to believe it was not, then Charles was very likely never going to be able to walk again. That was on him and him alone.
Again, Erik pressed a fingernail into the bottom of Charles’ foot, which did fuck all.
Suddenly it dawned on Erik, and somehow it hadn’t before, being paralyzed, as it said in his chart, meant he’d need to use a wheelchair for…well for the rest of his fucking life. Erik looked at Charles again, this time taking in smaller bits, the catheter, the iv bags, and their many points where they entered Charles’ body, the brace, holding his spine together while he healed, and at last, the wheelchair parked next to the bed. Erik sucked his breath, perhaps a bit too loud. Hank began to stir, but Erik didn’t move, still staring in shock at what he had done.
Charles had been…well Erik thought that Charles had appeared more or less intact back in Cuba. Sure, he had been in pain. But looking at him now, it was different. It was real. Supported by various machines, pissing into a bag, unable to take a deep breath, unable to move…
Hank fumbled for his glasses and moaned in pain as he shifted on the bed was clearly too small, the movement finally waking Erik from his stupor.
Before Hank had time to react fully react to his presence he whispered, “Hank, tell Charles I’m sorry.”
Hank now barely registering, was still addled from sleep, but getting to his feet, Erik expected anger instead Hank said, “You don’t deserve his forgiveness.”
Erik looked to Hank, who fumbled to get to his feet, “I know, I’m not asking for it. But I want him to know that I’m sorry.”
Hank crossed his arms, somewhat defensibly, “And what good will that do, do you think? Do you think it will help for him to know you didn’t even have the fucking guts to show up while he was awake?”
Erik took a long moment to turn his next words over in his mouth, almost as if he were making sure he was brave enough to say them. He decided against it.
“Charles has a long road of recovery ahead of him. You either decide to be here for it or not. But if not, then don’t pretend to care, like you’re doing now. It’s only going to hurt him in the end.” Hank’s voice broke, but only slightly, Erik didn’t seem to hear it, “And even then,” Hank continued, “some of what has happened the body can’t recover from.”
Erik heard, though maybe he was imagining things, the very slightest bit of love in Hank’s voice. He knew that cursed sound by heart. He wondered if Hank had acknowledged it yet.
“Take care of him, Hank. Someone has to. He’s never been very good at doing it himself.” Without looking at Charles again, Erik turned on his heel and left.
Silence again descended on the hospital room. Hank sat, sinking back into the bed, and took a deep breath, and another, and another, before turning back to the book he had been reading before going to bed.