redders: (bored lou reed)
[personal profile] redders
Here it is inspired by this post by pearlo it's old men in love and swank nursing homes.

M+ / 3000ish words / mostly just about Erik Lehnsherr, retired nazi hunter, getting scoped out by the resident minx, Charles Xavier / that's p much it / handjobs and broken hips

----

Generally, it’s Wednesdays when he first sees the new inmates. There’s a commotion on Tuesdays of medical transporters and nurses and middle-aged kids, thick enough you can’t ever make out anything of the actual patient.

But Wednesdays? That’s when they’ll wander out to the common area if they’re up to it. And if they’re not--

Charles has received the “don’t harass the other ‘guests’” speech from every staff member here at least once, multiple times from a few of them. If anything, he’s been told off by his fellow inmates even more often. But by week four of his six-week marriage to an IV pole, he’s bored as hell and keen to get kicked out--it’d be fine to finish the course at home, he'd manage well enough--so whenever someone fails to leave their room, it's up to him. He comes to them.

Yesterday, there were three new admissions. Two of them--infected foot, new knee--made it out to face his scrutiny. Both prove to be nice enough in the usual dull manner: one a retired banker, the other once the beleaguered wife of one. This rehab place isn’t a complete dive. That's a kind way of saying it is prohibitively expensive, and some days Charles wonders whether he’ll ever meet someone without a business degree and a lifetime of golf-related anecdotes. He leaves the two to swap their tales of valor under economic fire, and goes to meet admission number three.

This patient got one of the larger corner rooms. It's actually just across the hall from Charles’s own, and unfortunately, this rarely bodes well.

Anyone with a corner room is guaranteed to be two things: rich, and dreadfully boring. Not everyone has Charles’s charm or well-kept inheritance (the latter of which he’d only rarely dipped into the last eighty-something years, since selling off that ridiculous mansion was more than enough to cover the needs of a single professor), and the prior inhabitant of the room in question was a kindly new-hip with endless tales of dentistry past.

All the same, Charles thinks, I’ve got a duty here.

He needs to welcome this poor soul.

And what else is he going to do? Crafts? Perish the thought.

He knocks on the door, courteously. Charles has nearly fifty years more experience with basic medical etiquette than anyone here, he’s not about to catch someone in an indelicate situation if he can help it.

What he hears in return is a low, very cross, “What did you forget this time?”

Almost certainly not intended for him, but Charles is just going to take it as an invitation. He opens the door and wheels his way in, and it is immediately apparent why this guy didn’t make it to breakfast.

Another new hip. And from the look of it, a few broken bones along with, his right leg is torso-to-shin splinted. It’s propped up on two pillows, while the owner’s leaning against a few dozen more, touchpad down and glaring over his glasses.

Promising, Charles thinks, offering his most winning smile. Even if shattered-leg here is boring to talk with, he’s at least decent to look at--sharp grey eyes, trim but not too thin, still in possession of an envious amount of thick silver hair--and right about now, he’s a captive audience.

“You’re not Wanda,” the man states, frowning at Charles. Just the voice alone is a delight, clipped and oddly accented in a way that implies he didn’t spend forty years of his life in a Wall Street office and the last twenty in Florida.

“I’m afraid not,” Charles says, taking the liberty to wheel in a bit closer. “You missed breakfast, so I thought I’d come by and offer my welcome.”

“Is that what you thought.” The new guy shifts to get himself propped up a little higher in bed, like he’s trying to be imposing. Charles just grins. It’s difficult to lord over anyone in a hospital bed, age a lovely equalizer, and beyond that--

Beyond that, there’s no missing it, this close-up. New guy isn’t just glaring. He’s scanning Charles up and down, looking him over and pausing on his arms and mouth, and Charles is certainly old enough to know when he’s being checked out.

“Well, such as it is. I’m stuck here,” he purrs, making it showy when he rolls up his sleeve a little to let new guy see his upper arm, under the guise of showing off the PICC line. “Two more weeks of antibiotics, very belated gift from rheumatic fever. And you’re stuck here with me.”

Obliging, new guy stares at his arm a second more before he seems to remember he’s supposed to be glowering. “Might as well offer my condolences,” Charles finishes.

“Hmmph.”

Even the crabby-old-man act is welcome. At breakfast everyone was effusive and obnoxiously cheerful for physical therapy to start. Charles only ever has the next dose of gentamicin.

“Save them,” new guy says, “You didn’t run me over.”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Really,” he says, flatly. Wouldn’t be the first someone lied about slipping in a shower, won’t be the last, but new guy snorts as if he’s dealt with skeptics before and starts tapping assertively at the iPad.

“Yes, ‘really,’” he intones, brandishing the screen.

It’s a news website. There's a clear photo of the man before him splayed out on a road, and along with there’s a skidded Jeep and two police cars and what looks like a great deal of college kids around some ripped posters and a felled table.

The headline reads, “Healthcare protest provokes accident.”

Charles licks his lips, leaning in. Less than ten minutes in, and this guy is already more interesting than anyone Charles has met in the last decade. “So I see,” he murmurs.

The new guy turns toward Charles as best as he’s able with the splinted leg.

“My hip was shattered. Knee’s a complete loss, too,” he says, sounding proud. His voice is now even lower, and Charles feels his blood warming.

“Sounds as if you think it worth it,” Charles says, putting his hand on the new guy’s arm to angle the iPad better, trying to read rest of the story. It is a rather curious headline, after all.

Before he can read a word he sees the tattoo, scarcely faded by time. Shock runs cold through Charles, but new guy doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps doesn't care.

“Oh, it was. Have you ever heard of LaRoucheans?” he asks, and Charles is going to say no, do tell, when the door swings open.

“Dad I’m sorry I completely forgot to bring your--oh! You’re making a friend!”

Wanda,” new guy growls. Charles glances between them. The familial resemblance is unmistakable, but the woman--who looks to be in her forties--has a much less threatening smile. She sweeps in the room, drops off a bag on the table, and reaches to shake Charles’s hand.

“It's a pleasure to meet you. Please don’t let Dad tell you any of his stories. Yes, he pushed over their table and destroyed their horrid posters. Yes, they called the cops, the worms. But he’s the one that stormed right out into traffic, so--”

Wanda--,” new guy interrupts, starting in with her, both of them going off rapid-fire in a language with which Charles isn’t immediately familiar. Trying to be unobtrusive, he reaches down to unlock the breaks on his chair, but the new guy stops him with a touch on the arm.

“No. You're going to stay with me,” he demands. It sounds imperious, yet quite sexual. More and more impressive, Charles thinks. This guy isn’t even trying to hide it from his daughter.

“Oh, but I so hate to impose.”

He says it like a flirtation. It seems to be what new guy’s daring him to do, and it works. Wanda--new guy’s daughter, Charles is sure--blanches, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

“Um. Dad,” she starts, glancing between them, and new guy grins his impressive toothy smile.

“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll practice safe--”

I’llbebackonFridaywiththeboys” she blurts before all but running out the door, and Charles leans against the new guy again, this time with laughter.

“That was cruel,” he accuses when he can. The new guy’s put the iPad aside, has his hand on Charles’s shoulder, and he's still grinning. “She’s a lovely girl.”

“Pfft. Wanda's not been a girl since the eighties. But she is an amazing woman.”

“Takes after her mother, then?” Charles asks. He doesn’t mean to pry, but it feels the question is unavoidable.

These days, everyone’s been widowed at least once.

“Very much so. She’s also very much alive, if that’s what you’re sniffing out,” new guy says, and Charles feels his heart drop.

It’s not as if men of their age didn’t marry for convenience's sake, but there can be a love in that, an intimacy built up from what was once mere ruse. And Charles really does hate to impose.

The new guy moves his hand to Charles’s jaw, tilting his face towards his own. “Magda is far healthier and happier than the day I met her. And, I may add--we’ve been divorced longer than we were ever wed.”

“I see,” Charles murmurs. “Is there--”

“Do you interrogate all your nursing home conquests?”

Charles smiles, unrepentant. “They don’t often have quite your depths,” he says, leaning forward that last little bit, daring a kiss. New guy surges against him, mouth hot and welcoming, and when Charles breaks it off they’re both panting. “You so rarely need to interrogate bankers,” he jokes, breathless.

“Funny. That used to be my job,” the new guy says, and Charles doesn’t have any doubts that he means it literally. Even now, there's a sort of lethality in this man that Charles finds painfully attractive, and he pushes forward again, kissing with force.

Things start to progress rather quickly, as they kiss and let their hands roam. Charles pushes up to pull off his own shirt, minding the PICC line, and then sets to unbuttons new guy’s, wary of his injuries. The new guy gives him a long appreciating stroke, shoulders to waist, before urging him up slightly.

“These doors,” he says, glaring over Charles’s shoulder, “I don’t suppose they lock?”

“Not exactly,” Charles admits. He has been with partners who insisted on wedging furniture under the handle, but Charles hopes this guy isn't so paranoid. It's hard work, moving a chair on his own, and all it really does is piss off the staff. “But no one should be by, I don’t think. You’re not due any medication soon? Not even painkillers? I have another--” he glances at the small clock on new guy’s already-decorated bookshelf. “--hour and a half before I need to be decent for the nurses.”

“No, nothing,” new guy says. “And Wanda’s been traumatized enough. I suppose it’s all right.”

They’re on the end of the hall, and you can hear the medication cart coming a mile away. New guy’s probably realized that much by now, and Charles grins, unbuttoning his pants.

“We’ll just have to make this quick, won’t we?” Charles asks. Perhaps they should introduce themselves before his next question, but he can’t help himself as he transfers to the narrow bed and shoves his own pants to the knees.

“I’m afraid this has been rather touch-and-go for me, ever since Korea,” he admits, propping himself carefully on new guy’s uninjured side. “How is it for you?”

Undeterred, new guy is already running one hand down Charles’s chest, thumbing firm and demanding at one nipple; he’s skimming down the softness of Charles's stomach to slip his hand between Charles’s thighs.

The sensations are diminished but the image exquisite, and Charles groans. It’s not been terribly long for him--new guy isn’t mistaken, there have been other nursing home conquests, what else is Charles supposed to do with six weeks away from his apartment--but this guy is viciously gorgeous, and Charles can’t help wondering what he'd be like if he weren’t basically in traction.

“Why don’t you find out?” new guy finally asks, spreading his good leg outward. Charles looks down the rangy, scarred lines of his body to curse in approval.

Despite whatever pain medications new guy is almost certainly on, he’s still getting hard. And the size of the bulge, canting left--away from the shattered hip, thank god--Charles is suddenly and for the first time thankful for Hank’s insistence that the apartment was “a touch crowded” for an IV pole.

“Now that is lovely,” Charles says, reaching down. The angle isn’t perfect, and the way the hip brace is built, it could double as a chastity belt. But eventually--with new guy’s help--he manages to ease that impressive cock through the gap in his boxers and rucked-up trousers, he curls his fingers back to grope the loose warm weight of new guy’s balls before circling the fat shaft and starting to pump.

Charles wishes the bed were wider, that they had more time, that this guy wasn’t hissing in suppressed pain every single time he tried to thrust into Charles’s hand. He wishes they were at his apartment, both of them healthy enough to use some of the equipment he’s gathered over the years--particularly since he’s sure the sling would be better for new guy’s hip than this tiny bed. He wishes they had a bit more privacy, that he could make this guy scream.

Because Charles is certain he could. Whatever new guy’s been up to in the last few years, it doesn’t seem to have involved his prick, a thought Charles finds absolutely criminal. He reacts to every little brush of Charles’s fingers, groaning and cursing with each stroke, sensitive as a man a quarter his age. And though Charles isn’t getting hard, he’s helpless before that passion. The man kisses with desperate, brutal thoroughness, his free hand cupping the back of Charles’s head like he doesn’t mind the lack of hair at all; he nips at jaw and neck and murmurs lewd encouragement in Charles’s ear.

It’s exciting, fucking like this. They could be discovered any minute. Fuck, they could pop the staples on new guy’s new hip. I don’t even know his name, Charles keeps thinking, and he moans loud into new guy’s mouth, body tensing as he feels the slow telling pulse of the cock in his hand.

New guy isn’t noisy when he comes, but he’s not quiet, either. He gasps sharply against Charles’s ear, panting harshly as his prick spurts weakly in Charles's hand. Almost right away, he moves to grasp at his wrist, stilling Charles.

"Hmmm," Charles murmurs, relaxing into the kiss he's offered. "With an hour still to spare. Not bad for a new hip," he jokes. New guy mutters to himself, but he still doesn't stop caressing Charles's back and arms.

"You enjoyed yourself," he says, like he's asking. It sounds more like he's stating a fact.

"Naturally," Charles enthuses, "and this is perfectly lovely, too."

He'd always been a bit of a cuddler, even as a young man. The appeal has never worn off.

"Is that so?" the man asks. He traces idly over Charles's face, over his lips and and nose and up over his forehead before stroking over his scalp. It's as if he's trying to memorize Charles, his gaze is so piercing.

"You're quite beautiful," he says, and Charles can't help but smile. But the man breaks away soon enough, gathering tissues from the nightstand.

Charles accepts a few, cleaning off his hand as he watches the new guy sort out pants from brace.

"You can't flatter me like that without giving me your name," Charles finally suggests.

"Yet this indiscretion is acceptable." The tone is teasing, at least. It can be so tedious--and dangerous for one’s health, considering their abysmal compliance with the most basic of precautionary measures--sleeping with men who think it still the fifties.

The man keeps buttoning his shirt as he glances back at Charles.

"Erik," he says. "Erik Lehnsherr. I'd shake, but--"

"Yes, but. Considering the circumstances," Charles agrees. His own pants back to rights, he slips on his shirt again. "Charles Xavier," he offers in return, once he's comfortable again by this Erik fellow's side.

"Charles," Erik says, and he puts an arm around Charles's shoulder and flashes his broad, sharp grin. "I have the feeling my time here has just become a bit more interesting."

"And mine," Charles says. "So, regale me again, the tale of your hip."

And Erik does, and they fall to talking, all consideration of time and the building beyond this small room forgotten. When the nurse opens the door, it startles them both.

Erik sits up like he thinks he's able to go anywhere, only to fall back with a curse.

"There you are," the nurse says, narrowing her eyes at Charles. "Thought I'd find you here," and Charles clears his throat.

Really, a few moments here and there and a man suddenly finds himself with a reputation.

"Yes, well," he says, glancing at Erik. At the moment, he seems too annoyed with his propped leg to pay much mind to Charles's ill repute. "You see--"

"Can’t he have the antibiotics in here?" Erik interrupts.

Charles raises his eyebrows. He wouldn't have dared to make the suggestion himself, but the nurse only looks resigned when Erik asks.

Maybe he's already a reputation, too. They've talked enough now for Charles to know Erik isn't independently wealthy per se, he just has three comfortably-well-off kids who like him enough to want him to have decent care but not nearly enough to put up with him at home. Charles has only known him an hour and half, but he has the feeling Erik can be a touch difficult.

"I suppose," the nurse says, "But only on one condition."

Erik starts grumbling, but Charles places a hand on his arm, stilling him. Charles gives the nurse his most innocent smile.

"Of course," he says.

"You won't bother anyone next Wednesday."

"Of course not," Charles promises. The nurse gives him a withering, suspicious look.

"On my honor," he adds, glancing back at Erik, at the handsome rough line of his jaw. "I suspect I'll be rather busy, regardless."

And he is, for his every Wednesday after.
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