Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/703376. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage, Major_Character_Death Category: M/M, F/F, F/M Fandom: X-Men:_First_Class_(2011)_-_Fandom, Sneedronningen_|_The_Snow_Queen_- Hans_Christian_Andersen, Mass_Effect, Fa_yeung_nin_wa_|_In_the_Mood_for Love_(2000), Skyfall_(2012)_-_Fandom, James_Bond_(Movies), Harry_Potter_- J._K._Rowling, Doctor_Who_(2005), Cardcaptor_Sakura, Star_Wars_Original Trilogy, Community_(TV), Les_Misérables_-_All_Media_Types, Battlestar Galactica_(2003), Inception_(2010), The_Avengers_(Marvel)_-_All_Media Types, Young_Avengers, Marvel_Cinematic_Universe Relationship: Erik_Lehnsherr/Charles_Xavier, Female_Shepard/Liara_T'Soni, Emma_Frost/ Sebastian_Shaw, Sean_Cassidy/Janos_Quested Character: Charles_Xavier, Erik_Lehnsherr, Emma_Frost, Sebastian_Shaw, Liara_T'Soni, Garrus_Vakarian, Kaidan_Alenko, Tali'Zorah_nar_Rayya, Jeff_"Joker" Moreau, EDI_(Mass_Effect), Female_Shepard, Raven_Darkholme, Ororo_Munroe, Anna_Marie_(Rogue), Elizabeth_Braddock, James_Bond, Moira_MacTaggert, Sean_Cassidy, Prince_Henry_of_Wales, Female_M_(James_Bond), Armando Muñoz, Angel_Salvadore, Saito_(Inception), Clint_Barton, Natasha_Romanov, Pepper_Potts, Billy_Kaplan, Logan_(X-Men), Hank_McCoy, Janos_Quested, Azazel_(X-Men), Original_Characters, Javik_(Mass_Effect), Doctor_Chakwas, Thane_Krios, Kurt_Wagner Additional Tags: 30_Day_OTP_Challenge, 27_Days_of_OTP, self-imposed_challenge, Fairy_Tale Retellings, Young_Love, Holding_Hands, Ambiguous/Open_Ending, Cuddling, Synthesis_Ending, Fluff_and_Angst, Artificial_Intelligence, Alternate Universe_-_Still_Have_Powers, watching_a_movie, Kid_Fic, Chocolate, Infidelity, on_a_date, Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, always-a-girl!Charles_- Freeform, Alternate_Universe_-_Gender_Changes, Secret_Intelligence Service_|_MI6, Spies_&_Secret_Agents, Casual_Danger_Dialogue, Chatting_& Messaging, Sharing_Clothes, Snow_Day, Motorcycles, Cosplay, Tea, Conventions, Unconventional_Families, Families_of_Choice, Shopping, Tea Ceremony, Kimono, Lucid_Dreaming, Meetings_in_Dreams, Making_Out, Always- a-girl!Erik, Fingerfucking, Mansion_Fic, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon, Coffee_Shops, Ice_Cream, Alternate_Universe_-_War, Guerrilla_Warfare, Ambiguous_Relationships, Separations, Scars, Waking_Up, Morning_Rituals, Hotels, First_Kiss, Alternate_Universe_-_Boarding_School, Massachusetts Academy, Ghosts, Survivor_Guilt, Orphans, Spooning, Recreational_Drug Use, Alternate_Universe_-_College/University, Inheritance, Power_Swap, Inspired_by_Music, Suits, Suit_Porn, Urban_Fantasy, Magic_Revealed, Reality-bending, House_Music, Dancing, First_Meetings, Cooking, Hurt/ Comfort, Sickfic, Mercenaries, dreamshare, Guns, Dream_Battles, extraction, Alternate_Universe_-_Restaurant, Kitchen_Brigade, Banter, Trash_Talk, Blow_Jobs, top!Charles, Sparring, Companionable_Snark, Duelling, Trenchcoats, Survival_Training, Staring, Held_Gaze, Weddings, Military_Wedding, Navy_Wedding, Space_Wedding, Inspired_by_Novel, Marine Corps, Babies, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Photography, Winter, Birthday, doing_something_ridiculous, Up_All_Night, sharing_food, Getting_Together, Students, doing_something_sweet, allusion_to_mythology, Sleepiness, PTSD, Imprisonment, Mental_Breakdown, Altered_Mental_States, Mental_Instability, Rough_Sex, Barebacking, Rescue, Rescue_Missions Collections: ninemoons_42's_self-imposed_challenges Stats: Published: 2013-02-28 Completed: 2013-03-26 Chapters: 27/27 Words: 36045 ****** 27 Days of OTP: The Charles/Erik Mostly AU Edition ****** by ninemoons42 Summary A collection of OTP-related fics with prompts taken from here. The fics will explore various themes and various AUs. Mostly Charles/Erik in XMFC, but that is subject to change. [I've tried to tag the pieces in general with everything that applies, partly to show how I approach the individual themes and partly to cover as many trigger warnings as possible. If I miss anything, please let me know and I'll do everything I can to tag accordingly.] ***** take my hand, and lead me ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Erik sped through the halls, black walls and white floors closing in on him. Broken and blind and bleeding, his hands torn from the year of his desperate quest: lashed with rough ropes and pricked by the blades of friend and of foe alike, torn and tender and half frozen now. There was no way of knowing where he was going, and with every step he could hear the Frost Queen coming closer, the Frost Queen and the menacing shadow of her demonic consort. He’d lost his way; he was fairly sure he’d passed this corner before. He was running around in circles, and he was being herded to his death, as surely as a lamb to market and thence beneath the knife. He stumbled, and barely caught himself with his hands on the wall. The icy touch seared him through fur and skin down into his bones, and he wept with the futility of it, wept with the tears that only a broken heart could shed. Come to me, a voice said to him. Not the Frost Queen’s musical tinkling tones, beautiful and deadly. A voice that he knew: the voice of the one whom he loved, and Erik had always been helpless against it, and he threw himself heedlessly forward, into the heart of the great castle, through the doors of its great hall. And in that hall there was a circle of shattered glass, shattered ice, shattered snowflakes, and within the circle stood a boy – but Erik blinked, and the boy was gone. Standing in his place was a young man, pale and cold and beautiful, ice in his hair and in his blue eyes, beautiful and changing like summer skies in a storm. He did not know that with every step toward the man in the circle he, too, was changing: for when he’d begun this year, this quest, he had been a boy who had never known sorrow or loneliness, but now he had been forced to grow by the days and nights of endless searching, forced to grow in the despair that had steadily taken over his heart, piercing into it like shards of snow. The young man in the circle held a hand out to him, and called his name: “Erik.” His voice was sweet and strange and powerful, easily filling the hall with softly whispering echoes. Erik looked into those blue eyes and suddenly, he knew who this was. “Charles,” he said, hoarse and filled to the brim with happiness like blades. “Charles, it’s you. I’ve been looking for you.” “And I’ve been waiting for you,” Charles said. “Come here. Take my hand.” Erik blinked, and heard the footsteps behind him, and saw the line drawn between him and Charles. “Is it not forbidden to cross that circle?” “It is forbidden to others, but not to you.” Charles’s smile was familiar and strange at the same time, older, full of light and of darkness. “I have mastered it. This, at least, is now mine.” “But the castle.” “That, too, will be mine. Or it will be ours. But give me your hand. I cannot do this alone.” “Charles, the Frost Queen is coming to kill us.” When Charles laughed the entire hall shivered in time with his breaths. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” There was a flash of white in Erik’s vision, and a flash of night, and that was what pushed him through the circle. The bits of ice at his feet parted for him, or was that just his imagination? Charles’s hand in his was cold and then warm. “Come, Erik,” Charles said, and drew him close. “Let me take your pain away. Let me close your wounds. Lend me your strength, and give me your heart. Take mine in return. It was always yours.” Erik seized both of Charles’s hands, then, and the motion came easily to him. He was strong again, and he was whole, and only traces of his own blood remained on his clothes. “Thank you,” Charles whispered. “You’ve come so far.” “Are you my Charles?” Erik whispered back. “Are you really him?” “I am him and I am not him, as you are my Erik and yet you are also not,” Charles said. “We are who we truly are, now.” “What does that mean?” Charles smiled, again, and this was a smile that Erik knew. “I did not know that I loved you all those years in our little garret, Erik. I only knew that I wanted to offer you roses in summer and I wanted to keep you warm in winter. Now, I know what it meant when I watched over you when you could not sleep for your nightmares. Now, I know why I could not be content unless you could smile at me.” Erik understood, and smiled at Charles. “I knew only that I wanted to be with you. I did not know that I loved you. I know better now.” Dimly, he became aware of shadows all around them, completely surrounding the circle on the ice. “Will you give me your heart, Erik?” Charles asked. “Only if you will give me yours in return, Charles,” Erik said. “Then so be it.” Charles raised their joined hands between them and placed a kiss over Erik’s knuckles. “So be it,” Erik echoed. “And from now on we will no longer be alone.” There was a light coming from their hands – but Erik never saw it, because he was lost in Charles. Chapter End Notes This first fic is for the theme "Holding Hands". It is a takeoff from Hans Christian Andersen's "The Snow Queen", and owes part of its inspiration to aesc's Tumblr post here. The "Underage" warning applies to this chapter on a technicality, as the relationship between these versions of Charles and Erik begins when they are both little boys. ***** all of us have been changed ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes We’ve lost contact with the Commander! Erik’s fingers fly rapidly over his consoles, and he doesn’t spare a glance for the chatter on the comm lines: panicking voices, explosion after explosion after explosion. He doesn’t spare a glance for the footsteps bearing down on him, doesn’t have to look up into his screens to know that there are people standing around him, everyone looking drawn and fearful where they haven’t simply begun to blank out for the pain and for the blood and for the price that they might all still have to pay. Up ahead, he can see the Citadel: its arms are wide open, which had been one of their objectives, but now he doesn’t know what’s coming next. The Crucible is docked - and then what? And what of the Commander - what’s taking her so long? She should have gotten in contact with them by now - Liara is whispering frantically under her breath, just out of Erik’s peripheral vision - and that cannot mean anything good, because Liara’s with the Commander, and she’s here and not there with Shepard. “Please let me through,” says a familiar voice, and Erik does look over his shoulder then, because that’s CHARLES, and he is still covered in the soot and the grime of London but he’s there, and whole, and looking terribly grim. “Status,” Erik snaps at him. This is no time for politeness. His nerves are strained to the breaking point. “We have lost contact with the Commander,” CHARLES says, curt and cold and fearful, and Erik has never heard him sound like that before, not once, not even once, when he’s been on a shit-ton of missions with the others. “All attempts at contacting her or the Citadel forces have gone unanswered. And I cannot hack into any of the comm lines because none of them are working. The Citadel is dead in this dead space.” “Shit,” someone says, feelingly - Erik thinks it must be Kaidan, whom he can almost see wringing his hands. He doesn’t even have the luxury of that - not the least because he could actually break his own bones if he tried. Besides, his hands are tense and ready on the Normandy’s controls, waiting to fly forward - or, worse, fly away. “We have activation,” Tali gasps after an agonizingly long moment. “Look, look, the Citadel is lighting up!” Erik has no idea what the bright green light means. But apparently Admiral Hackett does because the next thing anyone knows, every single one of the comm channels is ringing with a single broadcast, loud and strong and clear: All ships, pull out! Nearly everyone behind him shouts, and all the words are all the same: variations on “The Commander!” or “Shepard!” Except for CHARLES, who is on his right side, his face and his blue visor lit up with the eerie green glow from up ahead. CHARLES looks worried. “I’m not leaving without her,” Erik mutters. “We must,” Liara suddenly says. “We must - we cannot be here when the Crucible is fired, or we’ll all die - ” “I’m not leaving the Commander!” Erik shouts. “Erik,” CHARLES suddenly says. “I’m not leaving.” “Then we will all perish here. And there will be no one for the Commander to find, should she make it back out alive.” “This is her ship - ” “I am this ship, Erik. And I must survive, and all of you with me, or the Commander will have done all of this for nothing.” “He’s right, Erik,” Garrus mutters, finally, reluctantly. “I can’t - Shepard - ” Erik says. “Signal from Admiral Hackett,” CHARLES says. “We have to leave. Erik, we have to leave now.” The Citadel is all but lost in the brilliant green light of the Crucible, now, and it is the last thing Erik sees as he slurs out several insults in all the languages he knows, as he turns the ship around and kicks it into maximum impulse. * The green light overtakes them, and CHARLES cries out, once, before crumpling to the deck. Erik shouts his name as he loses control of the Normandy. The last thing Erik remembers is falling out of his chair - no pain as the green light washes over him and kills all of the ship’s systems - and he’s no longer thinking about the controls, he’s no longer thinking about anything else but CHARLES’s body, inert in his arms as he pulls him close, heavy head against his own chest, his heart beating double-time, the ship shuddering around them.... * He dimly hears someone shouting: “All hands brace for impact!” All he can do now is hang on to CHARLES, the two of them twisted together on the deck. All he can do is whisper: “Stay with me, stay with me, I’m here - ” * Crash. * “Erik,” someone says. “Erik. Wake up.” He should be hurting all over, shouldn’t he? He has an impression of the ship glowing all around him, bright enough to blind, and he’s been through hell and back and all the forsaken corners of the galaxy - and bright light in the cockpit has never meant anything good, not when he worked so well in the semi- darkness, just enough light to see by from all of the consoles - “Erik,” the voice says. It’s a familiar voice. It’s CHARLES’s voice. It’s a struggle to open his eyes. “What hit me? I need to get to medbay - ” “There is no need for that. Not any more,” is the response. “What - ” Erik begins. Then he looks at CHARLES and every thought in his head careens to a halt and dies in a fiery wreck. Same silver skin, same bright eyes, but the visor is green, and softly rippling currents of green light flicker over CHARLES’s shoulder, where he’s holding Erik’s hand firmly in place. The same currents of green light that ripple over his own skin - and Erik is speechless, he can’t do anything but stare, because the green catches in CHARLES’s eyes and on his own fingers, as if they were passing the light back and forth between each other. “You can stand,” CHARLES says. “I promise it won’t hurt. I have been scanning your bones. No damage. Your nerves are intact. You can get up.” “I - okay, CHARLES, if you say so,” Erik says. CHARLES smiles, and shifts his grip - he gets to his feet and in the next second he pulls Erik up, and they’re standing, face to face, hand in hand. “There,” the AI says, looking quietly pleased. “What happened to us?” Erik asks. “Were we really supposed to survive?” “Yes,” Liara says, when she comes into the cockpit. Erik boggles some more. The green light is an intricate shifting tracery of circuits over the asari’s blue skin. “You too? What is this? You and me, we’re organics - but CHARLES, too?” “That word no longer signifies,” CHARLES murmurs. “There is no longer any distinction between that which is organic and that which is synthetic. We are all the same now; we have been synthesized.” “Synthesized - that’s a good word for it,” Liara says, soft and sad and sweet. “A good word for what she must have been preparing for all along. I have to choose to believe that this was the option Shepard took for all of us - so that we could all still be together, even when we’re here, at the end of all things.” “Is she - ” Erik can’t bring himself to ask the question. “The Commander - ” “I have to believe,” Liara says again. “I have to believe that she lives on like this, in this gift - because I do not think that we will be seeing her, in the flesh, for a very long time....” “I am sorry, Liara,” CHARLES says. “Don’t be.” The asari’s smile is full of pain and full of joy. “We are here. We are all together. We could have lost you, or Erik, or anyone else, or everyone else. Don’t be sorry for me. Don’t be sorry for Shepard. She did this for us.” “Yeah,” Erik says - and he steps closer to CHARLES, because he can, because he won’t break now, not here, not this way. “Look after each other,” Liara says. She leaves them alone, then. And CHARLES wraps his arms around Erik, and holds him close. A firm grip, cool and sturdy and unyielding, and achingly familiar. Erik clutches at him, and when the tears begin to flow he lets himself hang on, and lets himself be held. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Cuddling Somewhere". This AU involves a fusion of Mass Effect and X-Men: First Class. Erik here is a pilot with Vrolik Syndrome, and CHARLES stands for "Computerized Holistic Analytical Reasoning Logistical Electronic System", which is the invention of wallhaditcoming, as explained in this_unrelated_fic. Spoilers for Mass Effect 3: Synthesis ending. ***** alone time ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes “Not another movie night, Charles – don’t tell me you don’t remember what happened last time. And the time before that, and the time before that.” Charles winced, but held stubbornly on to Erik’s sleeve anyway. “I already apologized, didn’t I?” Erik sighed. “Look, Charles, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m not a fan of the brats.” “You only call them brats because you think you’ve got an image to uphold. Come on, Erik, we all know you’re absolutely head over heels for all of them.” “’M not,” Erik said, out of sheer reflex. Charles rolled his eyes and pressed closer. “Yes, you are. I can hear your thoughts as well as I hear theirs, you know. You like them very much, and they adore you. You’re very kind to them.” “...Okay, okay, I am, I like the whole lot of them – only I don’t like them when they keep crashing our alone time. I swear, it’s like they keep tabs on us or something.” “Nonsense, Erik, I’m the only telepath in the family.” “Ask Betsy about that,” Erik said, and it was his turn to roll his eyes. “...Wait, what?” Charles asked. “You seriously don’t know?” Erik asked. “You’re the worst telepath ever.” “Be that as it may,” Charles said, at last, after he was done spluttering. “Please, Erik, give me a chance. Proper movie night. Properly alone. I swear I’ll think of something.” He topped that off with a kiss that curled Erik’s toes in sheer delight, and he had to give in then. But he still dragged his feet about heading to Charles’s place on his next day off. The thing was, Charles would be all alone in that house if not for Raven and Ororo and Betsy and Anna Marie. He’d already as good as confessed to Erik that he had almost forgotten to smile before the girls appeared in his life, trickling in one after the other, and filling his days with running and laughter and outrageous demands to bake fancy cake after fancy cake, mostly in every color and flavor except chocolate. Oh, and glitter: the only thing the fearsome foursome could ever agree upon other than that they all loved Charles. Erik didn’t really have any plans of making Charles forget that he was nearly always wearing glitter in his hair because the girls had way too much of it. Now Erik put his hands in his pockets and reached out to the ornate door- knocker with a thread of his ability, tasting the tang of old weathered cast iron in the back of his throat. Come on in, Charles said. A little busy right now. The bottom dropped out of Erik’s stomach a bit, and as he closed the great front door behind him, quiet and firm click of the lock, he looked around with not a little dread. The girls had to be somewhere inside the house, waiting for the right moment to interrupt – it was something that just kept happening to him and Charles, all the damn time, even when it wasn’t movie night. He followed Charles’s telepathic cues all the way into the heart of the house – all the way into the cozy smaller kitchen, where it was warm enough that he could take off his jacket and his scarf. Except that he couldn’t do that because he was transfixed on Charles, and on what he was doing: namely, that Charles had rolled up his sleeves to show off his freckled forearms, and that he was currently busy icing a really rather magnificent-looking chocolate cake. Pale cream on deep dark brown, light catching on the bowl of silver sugar sprinkles at his elbow. Deep red flush on pale skin, blue eyes like a storm of light. It wasn’t the first time Charles had left Erik speechless, not by a long shot, but there was something about those steady hands and that concentrated expression that left Erik in need of a chair, or at least something to keep him upright, that he could lean on so he wouldn’t just storm over and kiss Charles until they were both breathless. “I don’t know, I could be amenable to that,” Charles murmured, looking mischievous as he finished spiraling the cream over the top of the cake. “You should – finish what you’re doing,” Erik said, somewhat strangled. “Before you’re – we’re – interrupted.” “Hm? Not likely.” “Charles. The girls. The cake’s for them, right? So any moment now they’ll be here.” “Not likely,” Charles said again, “unless they learn how to teleport or how to fly or otherwise how to make it here, when they’re not in the house to begin with.” “What,” Erik said. Charles looked up, then, and suddenly burst out laughing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost! All I said was that the girls aren’t here. Sleepover of some kind at Emma’s,” and he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing out one of the windows. “Tea and gossip and, heavens, scones. And a spa trip of some kind in the morning. I’m not supposed to be seeing them till late tomorrow afternoon.” “We’re alone?” Erik said, at last, after several long minutes to process what Charles had said. “Until tomorrow?” “Yes, and I’ve got a few films we could watch- more James Bond? - unless you’d rather pick up where we left off with The West Wing - Erik!” Erik yanked Charles in at that, and now they were standing so close, and he had Charles pinned against the kitchen counter, and they were kissing, enthusiastic and heated and sweet with sugar and chocolate and time. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Gaming / Watching a Movie". This is a sort of continuation to this, which sets up the fact that Erik and Charles are dating and that Charles is also the adoptive parent of four small, rambunctious mutants named Raven, Betsy, Ororo, and Anna Marie. ***** years of flowers ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes He wakes up in pitch dark, with the sweat pouring off his skin, and he’s breathless and near tears, and even when he opens a window he still doesn’t feel like he can get his thoughts back in order. The world is a scatter of thoughts without words and words without thoughts, and he is at the center of it all, and he is wrecked and he might never be whole again. To Erik, every breath is like fire scoring at his insides, and every breath is like millstones pulling him down, and the terrible part is that he can’t even remember if he was having a dream at all. He can’t remember if the dream was a good one or a bad one. He can’t remember falling asleep. There’s nothing outside his window: just the same old lit-up city, wasted energy, lifeless and strange. It should have been something he’d never seen before, should have been something new, should have been something bright and interesting. Instead he sees the drawn faces of his neighbors, the quiet hopelessness in white-knuckled hands around chipped and battered cups of coffee. Instead he sees a welter of torn-up lottery tickets and laminated menus from cheap restaurants, empty shopping bags whirling aimlessly in the wind. He’s alone, and this is a bad place for a person to be alone. But he’s awake by himself in a room that was built for two, and every step and every breath feels like he’s rattling around in a place that’s far too large for his body and far too small for his heart. Erik reaches mechanically for his cigarettes, shakes one out with trembling fingers. He wastes three matches before he can get a small blue flame going, and he chokes and coughs out the first tentative drag. There’s an inch of cold water left in the pitcher in his refrigerator; it spills over his chin, but not even that is enough to cool him down. He strips down to his undershirt and his briefs and sits on his windowsill, chain-smoking, and he’s down to his last two when the phone suddenly rings. Erik stares at it balefully; it takes him a moment to decide to answer, and another to make a long arm for the receiver. “Hello,” he says. “Hi,” comes the quiet, shivering whisper. “Charlotte,” he says. “Erik,” she says. He listens to her breathe for a long moment. She sounds damp – whether from tears or humidity or both Erik doesn’t know. “You’re alone,” Charlotte says. It’s not a question. “And so are you,” Erik says. “What did she tell you?” “Business trip. What did he tell you?” “Boys’ night out.” It almost makes him crack a smile. “He’s better at this than she is. That – might not be too far off from the truth.” She gives him a soft, watery chuckle. “Especially since I saw the tickets he bought.” “For her,” Erik says. “For her.” “Sucks.” Charlotte chuckles again. “You do have a very succinct way of putting things.” “I do.” “Do you want to go out?” she asks, after a long silence, the two of them just breathing. “It’s too warm.” “Would you rather suffocate.” “...And here I thought that you were just saying I have a very succinct manner.” Charlotte sighs. “I seem to be taking lessons from a master.” “Star pupil,” Erik says at last, and when he laughs a little, he even thinks that he might feel amused. “All right. Coffee shop. One hour. If you get there before I do, for goodness’ sake order something iced. I don’t want you to suffer this heat more than you have to.” “And they say that gallantry is dead,” she says, and then there’s just a soft sound on the line before the final little click. * Even with a summer-weight suit on and a table in the coolest part of the coffee shop, Erik still has several minutes to sweat before the bell over the door rings again to herald the arrival of Charlotte. The pale green dress is a startling contrast to the strong crimson of her lips, to the storm-blurred blue of her eyes, to the constellations of freckles sweeping over her arms and her throat. The waitress serves her a bowl of thin noodles in ice and a golden-clear sauce. Charlotte eats, contemplatively, for several minutes. “They’re probably laughing and singing and doing whatever now,” Erik says after a long time. “Doing whatever seems more likely,” Charlotte murmurs in agreement. “Do you think that they would be reluctant to wash the sweat and the smells off?” “If they were sensible,” Erik says, blank-faced. “This is a punishment of a summer. And they haven’t gone far. Whatever weather we’re getting, they’re getting, too.” “I wonder if I could even muster the energy to feel vengeful about that.” “I stopped wondering already.” “So you feel vengeful,” Charlotte says as she puts her chopsticks away. Erik shakes his head and waves for a refill on his iced coffee. “No. I don’t feel anything at all.” “For your wife? For my husband?” “Yes.” “...Do you feel anything for me, Erik?” “I do. And do you feel anything for me, Charlotte?” “I do.” Erik laughs and looks at her, looks his fill – and he’s pleased when she looks steadily back, when he sees the subdued soft smile in her eyes. “You and I are fools.” “Yes,” Charlotte says. “We pay attention to things, and we notice what other people do not see.” “I see you, Charlotte.” “And I you, Erik.” He’s sitting across from her, and the table is fairly wide. He has a sweating glass of coffee and ice cubes and cream before him, and she has a large black bowl and a small glass bowl before her. The heat is oppressive and the cold weighs down on him, but there is a feeling of closeness rising in his heart. “Thank you,” he says, at precisely the same time that she does, as they look into each other’s eyes. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "On a Date". It's no secret that I'm a big fan of the Wong Kar-wai film In the Mood for Love [Wiki entry here]: I love the story, as haunting and understated as it is, and I especially love the two main characters, Maggie Cheung Man-yuk as Su Li-zhen and Tony Leung Chiu-Wai as Chow Mo-wan. I once wrote an XMFC short fic with this fusion, called flowering sixties. As it turns out, however, now that I've written this, Charlotte really does seem to fit in with this story, too. It was natural for her to say a version of Su's original line, "You notice things if you pay attention." ***** love and helos ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes The basement is a madhouse, but then again, when isn’t it, Charles thinks as he runs critical eyes over the girls and boys at their desks. Rapid-fire clack of keyboards from all sides. They’re good people; they’re sharp people, and they know their jobs forwards and backwards and inside-out. He has it on good authority that they dream in code, most days, even when they’re working on more routine things and don’t actually have the fate of the known world riding on their collective shoulders. Which is all to the good, because right now they’re holding the lives of two double-0 agents in their hands, and they are also about to be responsible for his own. The secure phone on his desk rings, twice, loudly, and the faces at the desks get just a little bit more pinched and wary. Charles takes a deep breath and packs up his laptop before picking up. “Quarter.” “You’re wheels-up in less than ten minutes, they had to scramble the pilot from somewhere and now you need to be in a hurry - you’re going to have to run,” MacTaggert says. Charles smiles and flexes his shoulders, the better to feel the bite of the harness winding around his ribs and one shoulder. The better to feel the weight of the gun concealed in his heavy cardigan. “Luckily for you, I happen to be exceptionally talented at that. Any last words from on high?” “The usual.” Charles says the words with her: “Come back alive,” and then he adds, “You know I’ll do my damnedest best to bring them back.” “She says you’re not listening, Quartermaster. You’re going to have to include yourself in that statement.” He rolls his eyes disrespectfully, glad that no one’s going to have a go at him for the gesture, and without another word puts the phone down and starts stalking toward the door. “Oh, and everyone,” he says, just as he gets his hand on the door knob, “if you get us out alive, I’m buying the whole lot of you dinner at St John. I hear the feasting menus this season are particularly good - and that’s to say nothing of the cellar.” “Are you serious?” Sean Cassidy shouts from the front of the room. Charles grins at him. “Dead.” “Jesus,” someone else mutters. Charles’s smile falls right off his face when he steps through the door and closes it behind him, however - because the only possible response to the grim look on Raven Darkholme’s face is an equally determined expression. He nods at the gun in her hands. “Let’s hope you won’t need to use that, or any of the traps you’ve programmed into this place. Don’t play innocent, I know everything that happens in that basement, and I know exactly what you’ve been mucking around with. Good fucking work.” Her grin has too many teeth. “I wonder who taught me how to be prepared for everything.” Charles almost laughs, remembering a series of programming duels. “I can’t imagine who’d do that to you.” “Quartermaster,” she says as he turns away. “You’ve got to come back.” “I’ll do everything in my power, and you and I both know I always mean that literally. Look after our people, all right? Crack the whip on them if you must, and yell at MacTaggert if you need anything else.” “Will do. I’m looking forward to a good dinner.” “So am I,” Charles says, and then he starts running, and his footsteps are loud in the corridors. * Charles has to stomp hard on the urge to salute the pilot of the attack helicopter waiting for him, even though technically he doesn’t actually have any obligation to show such respect - but it’s very difficult to resist that aforementioned urge when there’s a very familiar fringe of ginger hair falling into those famous blue eyes. He’s about to offer a greeting when that pilot throws him a jaunty wave. The grin is bright and broad even through the bulky helmet. “When I was told to get myself down to Babylon-on-Thames I had no idea I was going to be picking someone like you up,” Captain Wales says with a roguish grin. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” “Hopefully you’ve only been hearing the good bits,” Charles says as he buckles in. Wales’s laughter rings in the cockpit. “No comment, Quartermaster, or the redoubtable lady will have my head.” “I can imagine,” Charles says, faintly. Then his smartphone chirps at him, four pips and then two, and he can feel the levity drop out of the cockpit together with his own smile. He reaches for his scrambler and types in a rapid code before picking up. “Quentin,” he says. There’s a lot of static on the line. “You’re not actually on your way here,” Erik growls at him. “All right, I’m not,” Charles says mildly as he boots up his laptop. “Status?” “Closing in on 007’s location. He’s being bloody hard to home in on.” “Have you considered the possibility he’s pulling your damn leg?” “Several times,” Erik sighs. “You have an ETA?” Captain Wales taps his headset, then, and Charles chuckles before he loops him in to the call. “Here’s the pilot, 008.” “ETA,” Erik says again. “If we’re lucky, and if I’m reckless, we’ll have you in our sights in an hour or less,” Prince Henry of Wales says, hands moving expertly over his sticks. “I’m authorized to provide full air support in case you might have something exciting in mind.” Strangling sounds on the line, and a voice shouting, “What the fuck took you so long, Lehnsherr, are you getting soft in your old age?” “Bite your fucking tongue,” is Erik’s reply. There’s a squelch that makes Charles wince. “What’re you making me talk to the pilot for?” 007 growls. “Who is this and where are you, you were supposed to be here hours ago!” Charles watches Wales roll his eyes extravagantly, but he doesn’t get to hear the insults they trade - goodness, are they old cronies or something? - because his mobile phone is beeping at him again. New text message Message from a-book-forever: I bloody love you. Charles grins as he hits reply, and never notices that Wales is all but catcalling him. Message from a-rose-for-love-and: :-* Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Kissing", and I seem to have cheated on this one but I'm not sorry. XD This ficlet is set in the same universe as A_Lily_and_a_Gun_Barrel, the story in which Charles Xavier is also known as the Quartermaster of the SIS, a/k/a Q, and in which Erik Lehnsherr is also known as Agent 008. Their screen names for the text messages are taken from the Catalan saying "A rose for love and a book forever", which describes the gift-giving that takes place on Saint George's Day (23 April). Yes, I know the chopper pilot in this story would NEVER be seconded to this kind of work. Maybe. I just wanted to write about him for fun. ***** jacket wars ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Hank tries, and very nearly succeeds, in covering up his amused smirk when Charles comes into the room. Charles is very roundly having none of it. “Don’t make me go over there and hit you with something. I have books. I am armed and dangerous.” “Did you lose a bet?” Hank asks, smartphone already out and pointed in Charles’s direction. Charles growls wordlessly, and lunges, but he’s just too uncoordinated in this cold and Hank is just too steady on his feet, and in the end Charles lands a series of pulled punches on Hank’s upper arms to the sound of the camera clicking away. “Is it going to be too much to ask if I ask you to kindly not show the others those photographs?” “Too late,” Hank murmurs - and then his phone rings, and he grins as he picks up. “’Mando, hey, did you get the photos?” Even as Charles trudges back to his desk, rolling his eyes and sighing in his most put-upon manner, he can hear the laughter coming from the infernal little device in his friend’s hand. “I’m on my way,” he thinks he hears Armando say. “I want to see this one for myself.” “Tell him to get lost,” Charles says loudly. “Come on down, and bring Angel,” Hank laughs before he hangs up. “Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you.” “Come on, Charles, it’s actually a good look on you. If you like crimson and purple, that is.” “I didn’t do this on purpose,” Charles sighs. “I’m not actually sure that there is a possible explanation for the chain of events that led to me being here in one of Erik’s garish motorcycle jackets.” “Try,” Hank says. “But save your breath for when the others get here.” “I hate you,” Charles begins, and of course Emma and Ororo walk in right then, and whatever they were gossiping about over their coffee cups dies away in disbelieving smiles when they spot him. “I happen to know who owns that jacket,” Ororo murmurs, grinning as she drops gracefully into the chair on the other side of Charles’s desk. “Only one person in the world could own a jacket like that - much less wear it,” Emma says. “And that person is most definitely not here. It’s a little too big for you, Charles, and it’s also not at all your style, for a given value of style. So tell me - why are you wearing Erik’s jacket?” Charles throws up his hands, and says it again. “I hate you.” * It turns out that Charles gets the last laugh after all, because when they all have to go to the weekly staff meeting they find out that the heating in the room has broken down. Everyone else in the room is sitting huddled together, and the conversations are accompanied by small plumes of exhaled warmth. For once, however, Charles is the only person in the room who isn’t shivering; he huddles gratefully into his jacket and zips it all the way up to his chin and shakes the sleeves down to cover his hands when he’s not working on his tablet computer. Eventually, Moira drifts over to his seat at the long table so she can press into his left side, and Ororo does the same on his right. Charles sticks his tongue out at both of them, and at Emma in the opposite seat, but he doesn’t move away; he slouches more comfortably into his seat and lets the others sit more closely. “Okay, Charles, you win,” a dejected-sounding Armando mutters as the meeting crawls into its second hour. “Warmth for style points sounds like a damn good trade-off to me,” Angel says grumpily as she stares into her oversized mug. “That is an eyesore of a jacket,” Sebastian says, “maybe I should get one of those.” “No,” Emma says, complete with a smack to the back of his head. “Not now, and not in a million years.” “Ugh, killjoy.” * By mid-afternoon Charles has managed to stop listening to the others’ jeering by sheer virtue of being sunk in his work: he spends the rest of the day powering through the documents that he needs to review for his next series of experiments, and when that’s done he turns his attention to some of his grad students’ papers, though he has to get an additional red pen some time after lunch. The day gets steadily colder and colder, and he’s not entirely surprised when he looks up from the electric kettle in the break room to see the snow falling softly and silently over the campus, dusting the buildings and the quads and the dormant trees with crumbling, crystalline white. He drifts back to his office after finishing his tea, absently thinking about putting in an order for another textbook that he could use in an upcoming lecture, when his mobile phone plays a high, tinny transposition of the “Habanera” from Carmen at him. It makes him smile and thumb the screen on. “Hello, Erik.” “Hello, Charles. It’s a damn cold day, and I want soup and I want a game of chess and I want to go home.” “No one’s stopping you from just buggering off from the office, are they?” “Pepper just finished kicking me and Bruce out. I’m on my way to you.” Charles smiles. “Oh, a rescue, is it? I promise I’ll be very grateful.” “You’d better,” and he can hear the grin in Erik’s words. “See you in a few minutes.” “Be careful,” Charles says, just as he steps back into his office; to Hank and Emma, he adds, “I call snow day.” “So Erik’s useful for a quick getaway, is he?” Emma laughs. Charles leers at her. “And for other things which you shall never have the pleasure of knowing.” “And thank goodness for that. Now go away and take those colors with you.” “Sod off,” Charles laughs - but he kisses her proffered cheek warmly, and throws Hank a jaunty wave once he’s packed up and heading out the door. The thickly falling snow means Charles has to squint into the distance when a familiar roar reaches his ears. “Is that - ” Armando says when he ducks through the door, shoulders covered in snow. “Yep,” Charles says, and walks out - and then he stops dead on the sidewalk, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. Same sleek machine, dark and chrome and the very occasional accent in silver- blue; same steady hands, same deep gray helmet - so it must be Erik, it has to be him, except that Charles knows the coat that he’s wearing because it’s nearly an exact replica of the one he’s not wearing today. Dark brown sweep from shoulders to knees - strained seams and sleeves coming short. “My coat,” Charles says, faintly. “My jacket,” Erik says with a grin. “I am almost disappointed that it looks so good on you.” “Disappointed?” And just like that, Charles is laughing and pummeling Erik’s shoulders and chest. “Did you plan this? Did you want to see me look like birthday cake? People have been making fun of me all damn day, I’ll have you know - ” “I’ll make it up to you,” Erik says, soft growl full of promises. “You had better.” Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Wearing each other's clothes". I have no excuse for the fact that the clothes exchanged here turned out to be outerwear instead of something like shirts or underpants or something else entirely. Charles's purloined coat is sort-of modeled on the Tenth Doctor's. ***** outbound flight ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Erik had been on the record as not wanting to do this, not at all, not by any stretch of his imagination [which was broad and deep and wide when it comes to Charles and his mouth and his freckles]. The inherently rushed nature of the trip. The overly bulky luggage. The expensive entrance tickets. The overpriced hotel room in the center of London. The terrible constant clatter of falling rain. The fact that he’d been rather planning to sleep at home instead of haring off on some kind of quixotic trek through endless crowds and endless queues. But as he followed the smiling young woman in a perfectly, perfectly detailed tattered dress, long limp lengths of blonde hair falling out of her grimy cap with its unraveling lace, he thought he was beginning to understand what Charles had been excited about. The heavy wooden clogs on her feet did not seem to impede her progress over the carpet, which was so plush and so thick that he felt like he was sinking into it with every step. Everywhere Erik looked there was something new or interesting or just plain weird to see: here he was in an airy place, sturdy and elegant wood and metal everywhere and tall glass windows, the curtains tied out of the way so the stormy afternoon provided its own startlingly appropriate backdrop to the lively sights and sounds within. Elegant china on the tables, cups and saucers in several shades of ivory and cream; prettily mismatched silver, spoons and forks raising their own musical clatter. Charles laughed as they passed a table, and Erik turned his head to keep looking at its occupants: a man in Hogwarts robes and Hufflepuff colors, who was cutting up a sandwich for the little girl who was dressed as an improbably adorable Weeping Angel. “I - did I just see that?” “You did,” Charles said, cheerfully. “If she’s competing in the masquerade, I’m rooting for her.” “This place is a madhouse,” Erik said, staring at another table, where a man in a gender-appropriate version of the slave-girl outfit from Return of the Jedi was drinking coffee and perusing something on his tablet computer. “You’re only figuring that out now?” The young woman showed them to a table near one of the windows and murmured, “Someone will be along with the tea presently.” “Merci bien, mademoiselle,” Charles said. “They’re not working you too hard, are they?” “I’m only dressed as Cosette,” she laughed, before hurrying away. Erik would have made fun of Charles if only he hadn’t been so busy gawping at the other tables: two girls made up as Tintin and Captain Haddock, though the bushy beard was [understandably] missing; what looked like an entire table of blue-skinned women, who were all grinning and winking at the man in the black hoodie striped in red and white; a girl in a white-and-yellow costume with poufy shorts, the whole accented with a pair of green fairy wings, who looked like she was having tea with a pair of stuffed toys [a lion and an angel, both sporting huge white wings]. From inside the room came a loud shout of laughter and several people pointing out the windows, where they were currently being menaced by a group of men and women carrying an impressive arsenal of paintball weapons. They would have looked more menacing if only they had not been huddling under a series of dripping umbrellas. “I - and you see these people every year, Charles? You run around in the streets of London wearing all kinds of strange gear? Swords and weapons and trench coats and pointed hats?” “And everything that you haven’t mentioned, or can’t,” was Charles’s cheerful reply. “It’s a celebration; it’s how we say that we are all in this together. It’s how we tell each other that we’re not alone.” The tea arrived then, and Charles grinned and shucked his heavy jacket. “Sadly, I speak from personal experience when I say that tea and leather armor do not a good combination make.” With the jacket off, Erik knew that Charles was also wearing the same set of sleeveless tops, dark over light, as he was - but there was a much more decided contrast between the clothes and the freckles scattered all over Charles’s broad shoulders, and he couldn’t help but get caught staring. “Oh, that’s not fair,” Charles laughed as he heaped clotted cream onto a scone. “Don’t I get to stare at you, too?” “As if you haven’t been eyeing me up like a piece of candy all this time,” Erik said dryly as he reached for the strawberry jam. “Because that flight suit looks damn good on you. And I certainly haven’t missed the fact that you walk like a pilot.” “I actually am one, Charles, in case you’ve forgotten?” “And you are also dressed up as one right now, and you’ve never looked so delicious - hence, staring.” Erik laughed and dosed his tea liberally with milk, and finally relaxed into the madness of it all. “Shut up and eat, Charles.” Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Cosplaying". I went through several possibilities of what Charles and Erik would be wearing, and in the end I went with one of my favorites. Reference for their costumes here. The idea for the two of them going to a con and enjoying a cream tea during the event comes from Palalife and Aesc over on Tumblr. ***** lazy Sunday shopping ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes “Erik,” someone said, very close by. “Go ’way,” Erik muttered rebelliously. “Sleeping.” “I can see that. I just wanted to say hello.” “Hello. Go away,” Erik said, and shifted so he could get comfortable. “Going away now, but did you know you’re drooling into your pillow?” “Charles,” he said, warningly. “I just dropped by to borrow your laptop.” “Whatever, go away, don’t bother me.” A sweet soft sensation of a caress against his thoughts, gentle laughter, receding footsteps, someone whistling “With A Little Help From My Friends”. Erik turned over in bed and twitched a finger at his curtains to pull them closed. The oversized afghan that his parents had given him for his last birthday, the worn and creased spines of his books, the plastic basin full of odds and ends of scrap metal. He was at home, and it was a Sunday, and he wasn’t anywhere near either the pizza place or Charles’s house. So why did he just have a conversation with Charles? Erik sat up and groaned softly, muscles still aching from kneading dough and slinging pizza boxes; it was a pain to get out of bed and it was a miracle that he managed to navigate the staircase without simply falling ass over teakettle to the first floor. There were voices in the kitchen, which was weird, because his dad usually worked on Sunday afternoons. His mother’s warm laughter, laced with sympathy and amusement; Charles’s voice, dammit, why was he hearing Charles everywhere, he was desperately in love with Charles but he couldn’t be that far gone already - And then Erik actually stepped into the kitchen. “Hi Erik,” Edie said, waving cheerfully from the table. “Nice of you to join us.” “Mama,” Erik said, and went to lean on the back of her chair. And then: “What are you doing here, Charles?” Charles rolled his eyes without looking up from Erik’s laptop. Erik was a little bit in love with the way those blunt, clever fingers flew swiftly over the keys, rapid and soothing tapping rhythm. “I told you everything when I arrived,” Charles said. “Here to borrow your laptop. I called you about it last night. You told me to come by after lunch. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.” “Why my laptop, again?” Erik said, slowly. “Mmm. Because of the girls. They use my desktop computer, and my tablet, and my smartphone.” “He’s buying something for the girls, and it’s supposed to be a surprise,” Edie said around her coffee. “And I think he’s the sweetest thing because he wants to get them presents, and because of what he’s buying them.” Erik twitched with curiosity. “And that would be - what exactly?” “See for yourself,” Charles said, and turned the laptop around. Black device, large screen. “E-readers,” Erik said, slowly. “You intend to give them one to share?” “No, I’m buying four units, one for each of them,” Charles said as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “I’m not going to assume that they all share the same tastes in books.” Erik thought about that for a moment: Raven hated raisins with a passion. Ororo loved to wear beaded jewelry. Betsy was passionate about horses and dogs. Anna Marie could beat anyone at checkers and hopscotch. “...Okay, yeah, I see where you’re going with that,” Erik said. “But you haven’t answered the other questions - ” “Because you haven’t asked them yet,” Charles said, patiently. A timer went off in the kitchen and Edie got up to peer in the oven. “Bread’s almost ready, anyone for sandwiches?” Charles looked up from the laptop to smile at her. There was a soft red flush high in his cheeks, near his ears. “Yes, please, thank you.” “Erik?” “Yeah, I’ll go and slice the cheese,” Erik said. He floated a handful of knives carefully over to the table and looked in the refrigerator for fixings. As he went to sit at Charles’s side, he said, “I expected you to be with the girls actually.” “I’m picking them up in - ah, about two more hours. School trip to one of the big gardens in the city,” Charles explained. “Emma was going to chaperone, anyway, so she said she’d take the girls off my hands for the day. Again. I kind of owe her now, so one of these days you might want to stay well away from the mansion, because my girls are a handful and her boys are - well, worse.” “Buy her tequila,” Erik suggested. “To drink while you’re babysitting.” “Already done. Two bottles.” That made Edie laugh. “When you’ve got all of the children at your house, you give me a call, and Jakob and I will come over to help you. Perhaps we will show them how to make challah.” “I couldn’t possibly - ” “Say yes and thank you, Charles,” Erik said, grinning at his mother. He got a toasted-floury kiss on his cheek for his troubles. “Still thinking like a teacher, Mama.” “Always,” Edie said, warmly. “Tea or milk or juice?” “I’ll have whatever Erik is having,” Charles said as he squinted at the laptop. “Ugh, so much extra for express delivery? I’m going to have to tell them off about not bloody breaking these things. Usually they’re good with valuables, I mean, they haven’t quite managed to break my phone yet....” Erik made sandwiches and slid one of the plates in Charles’s direction. He wasn’t sleepy any more; he was perfectly happy here, even when Edie decided to paint her nails bright green right at the table, and even when Charles let his food get stone-cold. “Charles,” he said, over the sounds of fretting. “Can I be there when the boxes arrive?” Charles blinked, and made a face at him. “Not if you’re going to spoil the surprise.” “You can shield my thoughts, can’t you?” “...Point. But that means Betsy will ask questions, and when she asks questions, the rest of them do the same.” “Like they’re not like that all the time.” Charles actually pouted at him. “Do you have to be so insufferably right?” Erik stuck his tongue out at him. “Ugh,” Charles said - but the way he kissed Erik’s cheek after that left Erik a little bit happily melty around the edges. Love you, Erik thought, hand on Charles’s wrist. I love you, Charles thought back as he clicked on Proceed to checkout. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Shopping". This is set some time after the action in alone_time. Charles is buying the girls something based on the Kindle Paperwhite, because he thinks they should carry libraries around with them. The idea of Edie being here and doting on these versions of Charles and Erik comes from Afrocurl. ***** floating bridge of dreams ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Charles looks up from where he’s inspecting the vials loaded into the PASIV device, hands stilling over a set of fresh cannulae, still in their sterile wrappers, as Raven comes into the room. “Hi,” Raven says, looking sheepish and amused at the same time, even as she sets a bag full of food on the already laden counter. “Sorry I’m late?” “Traffic everywhere,” Charles says with a sympathetic shrug as he beckons her closer and kisses her forehead. “You’re actually the first one here.” “That’s a relief,” Raven says. “As is this, actually. Who ever thought that we’d manage to get the team all together in the same city when none of us are technically working?” Charles knows he colors at that. “About that - ” Her smile sharpens with interest. “Is there a job?” “There might be an offer for one,” Erik says as he comes in. “Seriously, this isn’t the dream world,” Raven laughs, “I will never know how you do that whole stealth hello/goodbye bullshit. Charles must be getting tired of it.” “No comment,” Charles says, and he laughs when he catches Erik mouthing the words along with him. “Spare me!” But Raven laughs and steals a cupcake from the box Erik brought in with him. “Mmm, red velvet.” “Did someone say red velvet?” Moira asks as she comes in, with a slightly frazzled-looking Emma in tow. “God, I’m hungry, give me one of those before I expire. Wait - are we going to be allowed to eat before we dream or something?” “What happened to you,” Erik asks Emma, deceptively mild. “Don’t ask. Too many appointments. I do have to work out in the real world, you know. Someone has to do it.” Charles grins at her. “Maybe not any more. I was about to tell Raven about it, but now that you’re all here, I might as well start explaining ourselves. At least I’ll only have to say this once.” Immediately Moira raises one eyebrow at him. “This is about all those phone calls to Tokyo, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Charles says, and then, “Thank you,” as Erik passes him a glass of red wine. “So, to the point: Proclus Global. They’ve heard of us. They’ve been watching us. And they want us to work with them.” “I hope you said yes!” Emma says, looking up from her sandwich. “I’m going to kill you if you didn’t!” “I said that I would run it past all of you first, hence the dinner party.” “I’m in,” Raven says, raising both her hands. “I don’t need convincing, honest. Where’s the contract?” Erik smiles, and taps his own forehead. “We’re going to do it this way.” “How?” Emma and Moira ask at the same time. “Eat up,” Charles says, “and after dinner, you’ll see.” * When Charles opens his eyes again all thought of the needle pricking his wrist has gone away. He’s sitting quietly on his heels in a little square of a room, a little less than three meters on each side. There is just enough flickering candlelight for him to see all the corners, and to see that there is an alcove set into one of the walls. In the soft shadows he can just about make out the flower arrangement in the alcove: the centerpiece is a magnificent and impossible head of hydrangea flowers, blue petals shading directly into blush pink. It makes him smile, and calls him to his true purpose. Settling his mind into quiet and meditative patterns, he begins his preparations. Overhead light, golden and languid and bright, throwing the pattern of imperfections in the utensils spread before him into glowing relief. As he lights the brazier, he hears a soft and distant chime. That is his signal. When he gets to his feet, when he crawls carefully out through the tiny door into the tea room, he knows that he has never worn an outfit like this before, and yet he knows how to move so his voluminous sleeves do not get in his way. The silk is a warm whisper against his skin. Erik was right: he does look good in dark copper belted in pale green. The others are sitting on the bench outside the tiny house, chatting softly among themselves. Beyond them is the garden, and there is someone moving through this garden: a tall presence radiating both command and curiosity. The curious extrasensory awareness that Charles acquires when he’s in dreams tells him something of the tenor of the newcomer’s thoughts: surprise and admiration and interest. Charles starts forward on the path, and waits as the last guest comes into view - and then he smiles and bows, deeply and formally. “Welcome, Mamoru Saito.” “Seriously?” Raven whispers from behind him. “How do we know it’s really him?” Moira mutters. “How’d he even get in here - ” Emma begins, and then cuts herself off. “Oh - wait. Oh my god. So it’s real? Dream hacking is real? I’d only started hearing rumors about it from the others - ” “It’s real - for a given value of real,” Erik says, and Charles looks over his shoulder and smiles at him. Erik is just a marvel in the outfit that Charles had dreamed up for him - a black kimono patterned with dark flowing lines, gray-on-gray like the curves and meanders of a river. “But in the interests of security and a paranoia which we would do right to cultivate - please identify yourself, Mr Saito.” Saito bows again and smiles, looking faintly amused. “Gladly.” Impossibly, as the man speaks, the sound of waves fills the garden for an instant. “I was in Limbo, once. An old man, waiting to take a leap of faith. I was provided with a Beretta Storm to wake up.” “I can confirm that - that was Cobb’s gun,” Emma says. “So you really did meet him. Not many people use that gun now, or used it in the past.” “I was the man who gave Dominick Cobb his last dreamshare job,” Saito agrees. “It really is me, here in this dream; I am no projection.” “So how are you here?” Moira asks. “Are you in the apartment with us? We never noticed anyone coming in - and we are paranoid people, as I’m sure you can imagine.” “I am dreaming from one of the Proclus Global satellite offices in Kyoto.” Saito draws a small vial from his sleeve. “And I can do that because of this: a new type of Somnacin.” “I want to know more,” Moira murmurs. “That’s the sort of thing I work with on a daily basis.” “You will have the time and the leisure to work on the blend, and I am perhaps relying on your expertise to allow me to refine it and make it better. We will, of course, keep the specific formulations secret.” “Whatever this is,” Emma says after a moment, “it’s certainly a hell of an experience.” Charles smiles and waves a hand to encompass the entire dream. “Erik and I built this place to look like something that Mr Saito might be familiar with.” “Do we pass muster?” Erik drawls. Saito smiles. “I will tell you when we have finished with the ceremony.” “Ceremony?” Raven asks. “Yes, a Japanese tea ceremony,” Charles murmurs. “And I believe that it is time for us to begin. If you’ll all follow me?” As he passes Erik he reaches out to him, and they clasp hands for a brief moment. This could be the start of something big for all of them. Charles dons his best host’s smile, and steels himself to begin. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Hanging out with friends". I just realized that the title for this chapter, which comes from the Genji Monogatari, also turns out to be a really amazing pun, considering what takes place here. I used information from here and here while thinking about getting these characters together for an implied tea ceremony. Charles and Erik's dreamshare team works out like this: Charles is principal architect and secondary extractor; Erik usually takes the position of extractor. Raven is their forger. Moira serves as chemist and secondary architect. Emma is the point woman. Saito, of course, is Saito from Inception; when I was in that fandom I consistently used "Mamoru" as his given name. If you want a truly epic Inception/XMFC fusion, read Boden's_Mate by kaydeefalls. ***** steal some covers, share some skin ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes As Erika wakes she takes in her surroundings, methodically, slowly, attentively: duvet tucked in around the contours of her body, wrapping her in delicious warmth from shoulders to feet. Sleep-soft pillow under her cheek, and the second one in her arms, around which she curls as she turns carefully onto her side. Yesterday’s aches and pains are gone, though she can still feel the bandages tied off around her right shoulder and her left ankle - the latter injury being the reason she’s still in bed instead of out doing her usual morning run. Doctor’s orders, she thinks, muzzily, and the thought of glowering at McCoy for the rest of the day is a swift amusement, there and gone again, as she shifts again and tries to get comfortable enough to get back to sleep. There is something missing from this cozy arrangement, though - or perhaps someone. The other side of the bed is empty - Erika doesn’t have to look at the other pillow to prove that. Her abilities are awake enough to tell her that she’s alone. All she has to do is think of her own blood, her own bones. Just her. Charles must be somewhere in the mansion, she thinks as she opens her eyes, though it’s hard to think about what could have possibly woken him up. Most mornings begin with Erika leaving Charles in their bed; the reversed situation is new and mildly disconcerting. Just as she decides that it might be in her best interests to get up, there’s a gentle brush of mental presence against her: Awake already, I shouldn’t be surprised. Did you get out of bed? You’re supposed to be resting your foot. “I’m here, Charles,” she mutters into her pillow, mutters in her mind. Stay there, for me? I’m on my way back. “I don’t even know where you are.” Ororo had a nightmare. That makes Erika turn her head to look out the windows: the curtains are drawn closed, but she can hear the storm outside, steady drone of pouring rain. “All of this storm is her doing?” “No,” and she looks at Charles as he comes back in and locks the door behind him. “Not now, in any case. The storm was there to begin with. What she was doing was just helping it along.” “I don’t mind a torrent like that so long as I’m not caught out in it,” Erika murmurs. He laughs softly as he pulls the curtains open. A sullen gray light, much diminished, creeps slowly into their room. “My sentiments exactly. However, I’m not entirely sure everyone appreciates rainy mornings like you and I do. It is a Sunday, after all. The others will likely want to spend the day outside.” “And good riddance to them,” Erika says, mostly in jest. She smiles at Charles with just a little hint of tooth. “You love all of them.” “In moderation. Controlled doses.” Charles laughs again, and finally climbs back into bed; he crowds into the space of her body, fitting himself to her, his front to her back and protected beneath the duvet. “You’re so warm,” he murmurs as he wraps an arm around her waist. Erika shivers at that reverent tone, at the soft hushed awe of his thoughts sweeping gently against hers, and covers up for it with a jibe. “How can I be warm, Charles, when I still feel so cold?” “You throw off heat,” he says, and punctuates the words with kisses along the bared skin of her throat and shoulder. “I’d talk about radiation, but I hardly feel like shop talk this early.” “Mmm, no, you’d be better off being quiet,” Erika says. I can think of other uses for that mouth of yours. Do you know, you might actually be reading my mind, is Charles’s delighted response. He pulls away, briefly. Before Erika can think to protest he’s back, naked, all the warmth of his skin bleeding into hers, welcome overpowering rush, sweet and drugging. “Charles,” she murmurs, letting herself go pliant in his grasp. Sssh, let me take care of you, is the reply. Hands pulling her clothes away, smoothing over the planes of her skin. She can’t help but bite off her whimpers when clever fingers cup her breasts, gently weighing, teasing over the sensitized skin. “It’s all right, no one’s here but me. I want to listen to you,” Charles coaxes. “You make the most beautiful sounds.” “I - Charles,” she says, grasping desperately for her thoughts, for her reason. Both unravel swiftly as he sucks a slow and insistent kiss into her collarbone, leaving her whimpering. “Please -” Yes, Erika? She shifts against him, against the heat and the hardness of him, relishing the pulse that speeds up between the two of them, that gives the lie to their languid movements. Touch me, Charles. Touch me. “God, yes.” You make me so needy I can barely breathe - let me in, let me have this - Erika throws her head back as Charles opens her up with his fingers. He works her slowly, push by gentle pull, and every movement is too much and not enough, never enough, and the pleasure pounds through her, insistent, powerful, glorious. It takes her a while to catch her breath, and a little longer to think about reciprocating. Her hand is none too steady as she reaches for his cock, soft skin over hard throbbing heat. I want this, she whispers. Do you? Charles’s mental voice sounds strained now - as does his real voice. “Show me.” Erika laughs and turns around and pins him down, all in one smooth movement. “I’m going to have so much fun with you.” “Yes, please,” Charles laughs. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Making out". I've been looking forward to this one, a little, because I'm a little bit too fond of Erika Lehnsherr, and because I'd like to think that she often gets lovely wake-up calls like the one I've written. Title and lyrics from a certain Maroon 5 song, which really is where this entire ficlet got started. ***** I'm a sour cherry ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes He’s been stuck in his meeting for about an hour and a half when he gets a message from Charles. If you can find some way to sneak out of that office of yours, I’m going to be at the coffee place for the rest of the day. He glances at the glazed faces around him, and at the woman who’s still droning through her presentation, and hits Reply. Okay, you’re going to have to tell me how you manage such outstanding feats of laziness. It takes a particular talent, is the nearly instantaneous reply, with a smiley. You’d better hurry. They’re going to run out of ice cream at this rate. Erik snorts quietly to himself, and no one seems to notice him. Not bloody likely. Tell Clint I’m on my way. He knows what I usually have. He’s laughing at me now, Charles sends. But he said yes, didn’t he? He did. Erik allows himself a small smile, the first one since he’d arrived at the office, and pushes his way out of the crowded meeting room. * The sidewalk might as well be a stove-top when he finally gets down to street level, and Erik has to stop and steel himself for the walk: he can see the heat radiating up from the sidewalk, and sweat glistening on every face that passes. With a muttered curse, he shucks his suit jacket and his tie and puts his sunglasses on, and barrels past the listlessly wandering tourists, past the businessmen with the wilted collars, and past the children trudging home with soaked shirts and heavy book bags. He doesn’t bother with apologies, and no one seems to mind: everyone is numbed by the heat haze. He almost swears his shoes are melting and leaving an obvious trail of burnt leather as he pounds down the sidewalk. Sweat runs down his face, into his shirt. The patches of shade are few and far between, and every restaurant’s door is closed, the better to keep the climate control in. Not for the first time, Erik wonders how he could have picked such an out-of- the-way coffee shop for his favorite haunt, because it always seems to take him too long to get there from his office, or to go to his office from the shop after a hasty breakfast. Finally, he spots the familiar red-white-and-blue awning, and he practically runs the last few meters to the glass door with its handle painted a bright startling scarlet. The first thing that greets him when he comes in is a loud burst of laughter: the usual group of twentysomething students is in their corner, long limbs sprawled gracelessly over a trio of battered and mismatched couches. “Yo, Erik,” one of them calls: the boy with the red scarf and the oversized silver pendant of a single bird’s wing. “Billy,” he says, and the other members of the group wave at him, with various degrees of laziness. Erik shakes his head and moves deeper into the shop, into one of the farthest corners: he prefers to stay well out of the way, able to observe everyone without himself being observed or disturbed except when he wants a refill on his coffee, and that has been his routine here from nearly his first visit. His favorite armchair is occupied, of course, and comfortably so: Charles is sitting sideways in it, socked feet dangling to the floor as he plays a languid game of chess against himself on his tablet computer. There is a white saucer and a fork on the table next to him, both covered in sugary rubble. Sweating glass of lemonade, half-empty, next to a bud vase containing a single white- tipped carnation in deep red. Erik lets his shadow fall over Charles and the next thing he knows, he’s being pulled down by his cuffs into a tart and sweet upside-down kiss. “Hello,” Charles says with his usual bright smile. Outside the sun beats mercilessly down on steel and glass and concrete and skin; in here, Erik grins back and takes the ottoman next to Charles’s seat, pressing close, shoulder to shoulder. “Okay, you’re here, can we break into the ice cream now?” Clint cracks as he tops off the lemonade from a pitcher full of ice cubes decorated with bright green mint leaves. “Affogato for me,” Erik says. “Ice cream, Charles?” “Yes, I already had an order - I was just waiting for you to come in to have it served. Clint?” “With pleasure,” he says. “Explain,” Erik says, laughingly prodding at Charles’s shoulder. “Will you stop that if I do?” He pretends to think it over. “No.” “Ugh,” Charles laughs. “Incorrigible.” “You wouldn’t be with me otherwise.” “Okay, that’s true,” and Charles saves his game and switches to normal two- player mode. “How about a game?” “Please.” Clint comes back to interrupt them about ten moves in: the sweet hint of citrus in the ice cream is a decidedly heady contrast to the pungent and brassy espresso. To Charles he offers a bowl of white-on-white topped off with a handful of richly red spheres trailing dark syrup, and the comment, “They despair of you in the kitchen, you know.” “I like sweet and I like sour,” Charles says, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. “You can go away now if the idea doesn’t appeal.” “I’m here because Nat and Pep told me to take pictures of your face while you ate!” Erik blinks, utterly mystified. “What the hell are you talking about?” In response Charles picks one of the red bits out of the ice cream with his fingers. “Any guesses as to what this is?” “No. Okay, scratch that. I want to know, and I don’t want to know.” “Sour cherry,” and Charles pops the whole thing into his mouth, staining his lips with the syrup. Erik only has a moment to appreciate that before Charles’s expression crumples in on itself, an exaltation of a wince that brings out all the lines in his face. He puckers and he grimaces and he shudders, and afterwards he blows a syrup-stained kiss to Clint’s camera phone. “Holy fuck,” Clint laughs, and speedily backs away. “What he said,” Erik says. “I know you have a sour tooth, Charles, but this?” “My favorite thing. Next to you,” Charles says as he digs into his bowl of ice cream. Erik quite forgets his affogato, entranced as Charles eats. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Eating ice cream". This was inspired partly by Nigella Lawson's assertion of "You either have a sour tooth or you don't" - and yeah, it allowed me to whack around with Erik a bit, just for kicks. Yes, those are Avengers characters at the coffee shop, and it IS Billy Kaplan, though he's obviously not related to Mags here. The bit about Natasha and sour cherries harks back to my fic omiyage. Happy birthday, Douglas Adams! ***** you know I’m hard to kill ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes There’s a deathly silence in the back of the truck, and Erika Lehnsherr takes the time to assess the men and women under her command. Some old hands, familiar faces: at least one of them is napping, good man, because in a war no one ever misses out on a chance to sleep or a chance to drink or a chance to eat. She thinks she might try to doze just as soon as she can reassure the pale- faced greenhorn sitting right opposite her. One of Emma’s people. At least his hands don’t tremble around his rifle - but he looks like he’s never been in a battlefield like this before. “What front did Emma pick you up from,” she asks, gruff but not unkind. The boy blinks, and then seems to shiver all over before he answers in a reasonably steady voice. “I was supply, ma’am, they left me back at some barracks or another because I lied about my age to enlist.” “That sounds familiar,” says the woman on Erika’s left. Erika rolls her eyes and aims a judicious elbow shot into her ribs. “Like you didn’t do the same, Amanda.” Amanda Muñoz laughs and draws all eyes and doesn’t seem to care. “I enlisted with just four weeks to go before my eighteenth birthday. That time goes by like a breeze when they put you in boot camp and get you running sunup to sundown.” Erika concedes the point. “I was sixteen, angry, and had no excuses,” she says to the greenhorn. “And my mother followed me into the army after two months.” “If we get out of this one,” Amanda says, “remind me to tell you about the time when we had to teach Edie - that’s Erika’s mother - about rifles. Good times!” The truck slows down and comes to a stop, and everyone in the truck looks at each other. Shrugs, people with resigned or eager or surprised faces, and Erika turns to Amanda and says in a clear, crisp voice that somehow manages to stay just within the confines of the truck, “Get ready.” “You got it,” Amanda replies. Erika climbs out of the truck and weaves carefully around to the jeep at the head of the convoy. She watches her surroundings with sharp eyes. Every noise could be an attacker. Every shifting shadow could be an enemy. Every step brings them closer to another battle, another part of the war. “Good, you’re here,” the gruff man in the jeep growls as he stubs his cigar out on the side of his vehicle. “Whoever got here before us, whoever the brass sent in to lift the siege - they’re gone. Utterly destroyed. No sign of them.” She’s not surprised at all. “That’s that,” she says. “Alternative routes?” “Ain’t none. And you’re all under explicit orders to avoid going on foot.” “If it means we can help the people in the town, I’ll be happy to risk a court- martial.” “They’re not gonna court-martial you, pretty lady, you’re too damn good with a gun. Think of the others.” Erika shrugs. “So it’ll be me and someone else I trust, who’s just as good as I am.” “That’ll be the day,” the man begins, and then there’s a loud thump coming closer, like hoofbeats or someone on the run, and Erika’s hands are utterly steady as she brings her machine gun up to bear on the source of the sound. The man reaches over to the shotgun seat and retrieves a pistol that looks more like a hand cannon. “Friend or foe?” Erika whispers. “No way of telling,” the man replies. “Shit,” she says, very quietly. The hoofbeats come closer, and now she can hear the rider, too, calling quiet encouragement. Something about that voice is familiar, just, and she holds one hand up to the man, then taps her ear. “You listening to that?” “Could almost sound like one of our own,” the man mutters. “Almost.” “Come on, come on,” Erika mutters, and right on the heels of her words the horse crashes through the dense undergrowth. Galloping and all but shrieking in fear, the beast traces a wild wide circle around the jeep before its rider cries out, once, sharply, and brings it to a rough shuddering stop. “Damn,” the rider mutters, and then follows that up with an impressive string of expletives. And Erika feels weak in the knees all of a sudden, feels all of her equanimity vanish as though it had never been, because she’s more than familiar with that voice. There is now just enough light to watch as the rider swings out of the saddle and drops noiselessly to the ground. Erika can only see the knives in the rider’s hands because she’s watching for them - because she knows they’re there. Because she put them there herself. “Thunder,” the rider snaps, advancing cautiously on the man in the jeep. “Flash,” the man says. “So you’re still alive, Miz X?” “Barely,” and now the woman is close enough for Erika to make her face out. Freckles and scars. Dark hair roughly chopped off above the shoulders, an unruly windblown mess. A formerly lush mouth, its right corner permanently pulled down by a badly-healed shrapnel wound. Scarf around the neck to cover up the nasty souvenir of an attempted short-drop hanging. Blue eyes, dark as the sky before a summer storm, deep and cold as winter’s night. “We’ve got a handful of people back there and they can hold out for a few more days, no more,” Charlotte Xavier says. “Weren’t you supposed to be here earlier?” Erika finally finds her voice, finally finds the courage to step forward. “Hello, Charlotte. We’re the replacements for the replacements.” “Hello, Erika,” Charlotte says. “There were replacements?” “I’m told they never made it to your position.” “Someone found them first,” the man says as he lights his cigar again. “Ah,” Charlotte says. She winces, briefly, there and gone. “Is there a way in?” Erika asks. “We’ve got supplies, fresh ammo, a medic. Food and water. Amanda’s with me.” The apprehension on Charlotte’s face vanishes behind a smile that Erika is more than familiar with, cold and cruel and beautiful. “Well, if you put it that way, I’d be happy to have the lot of you. It’s going to be nothing but dangerous. I’ll personally execute anyone who puts a foot out of line. You want in or not?” “I’m in,” the man says. “I’m in,” Erika says. “Hope you can all survive this one,” Charlotte says. As she heads back to the truck, Erika can’t help but look over her shoulder, at the magnificent ruin of Charlotte, and it’s not the first time that she curses this terrible war and the questionable - and, yes, entirely justified - wisdom of the men and women who put Charlotte at the very tip of the spear. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Genderswapped". This ficlet owes its existence to my husband, who is currently playing through Mass Effect 3 for the third time. He has a Paragon fem!Shep, and in one of her early conversations with Admiral Hackett he tells her that the only way to save the galaxy is to use her as the tip of the spear, to be the rallying point for all sentient life. My brain translated that to Charlotte and Erika in a war zone, and somehow along the way Emma and Armando and Logan showed up. [Amanda is the female version of Armando.] I think there's been trouble between Charlotte and Erika. I think they could have a chance again in the future. Right now, though, I think they've got quite a lot of fish to fry yet.... ***** perhaps, perhaps, perhaps ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes She wakes up and the sun is a faint golden glow on the truncated urban horizon, weak light reaching for her through the postage-stamp-sized windows. The hour is early, but everyone else seems to be awake already, if the sounds coming from the kitchens above and below and next door on either side are any indication. There is a heavy warm presence in the bed with her. Soft snoring. Charlotte has to take a deep breath before she looks over, half dreading and half anticipating. Her husband is here, for now. He is oblivious. There is a lipstick stain just below his ear, and Charlotte looks away, because she used to wear lipstick but she’s never worn a red like that, not even when she was young and reckless and wild and running around in ripped nylons, hair falling past her shoulders, unfettered by any pins. She’s seen the woman who wears that red. She knows that the woman exists. She knows that the woman is still somewhere in this building - somewhere next door. Long blonde hair in a braid that falls to the small of her back, lustrous and eye-catching. Charlotte wears her dark hair short, now, in a deeply unfashionable bob. Even the matron in the dusty dress on the street corner looks better, wears her trendy permanent wave so effortlessly. Charlotte is content with just tucking the wayward strands away from her face with her fingers, no ornaments, no pomade or setting lotion; she doesn’t need to look in a mirror to fix her hair, and not just because she doesn’t want to meet her own haunted eyes. Now she slides from the bed and dutifully lays out her husband’s clothes for the day: a cotton shirt with a lightly starched collar. A handful of ties, red and gray and green - the third one is the odd item out, because he never wore that color before they came to this city. Fresh underwear and socks and a handkerchief. On the pillows, he rolls over and doesn’t wake, though her portion of the bed must be uncomfortably warm in this terrible heat. Into the kitchen for the kettle, for the canister of fine tea. A gift, but not from her husband. A gift from Erik: Rougui tea, sweet waft of earthy spice from dark dry leaves. Boil water. Steep the tea - one small cup. Blue glaze on ivory porcelain, old and fragile. A phoenix with outstretched wings. Dress. Today Charlotte chooses the copper shift. Black lace. The jade earrings are her own, roughly shaped beads dangling from silver clasps. She should be drinking this tea sitting down, Charlotte thinks, when all that’s left are the dregs. It’s an excellent tea, bracing, restorative: ridiculously rare, frightfully expensive. She should show it the respect it’s due. Instead she uses it as an escape: a solitude that she chooses instead of a solitude that she is forced into. The teapot clatters softly to itself as she turns it over in the stream of lukewarm water from the tap. No one wakes, and no one reacts. Charlotte doesn’t leave notes behind, not any more, not when she knows they are no longer being read; she simply picks her purse up from her bureau, and doesn’t look back. * Erik is standing in the scant shadow of a newspaper stand. “Hello,” Charlotte whispers when she slips her hand into his. “Good morning,” he says, still looking at the headlines. “Have I kept you waiting?” He looks at her, but she cannot read his eyes, because they are hidden behind dark sunglasses. All she knows is the strange rough warmth of his voice when he says, “I would have waited for however long it took.” “Mm.” They set off, side by side. He walks near the kerb, at her pace. He is wearing a silver-gray suit and a purple tie. She wants to burst out of her skin with nerves - wants to stop in the middle of the intersection, wants to run, wants to turn around and go back to her apartment, wants to ask Erik if he’d let her into his. Together they flee the downtown congestion, its muggy weather and shrill voices. Before Charlotte has time to blink or leave or entertain regrets, Erik has chartered a taxicab. The driver doesn’t glance at them at all, doesn’t do any double-takes - he just takes Erik’s money, starts the engine, and turns the air-conditioning up. Erik gives him the address of a hotel. “I - never quite got to sleep last night,” Erik offers, when the silence becomes too oppressive and chokes Charlotte’s voice off. “Oh, I was in bed, and I pretended to rest when my wife came home. But as soon as she went to sleep I got dressed and went to sit at my desk.” “It’s a wonder you didn’t die from the heat,” Charlotte whispers. “I never noticed,” Erik says. “I was too busy thinking.” “About what?” Erik shrugs. “Silly things. How I normally begin my days. I smoke and I drink a cup of coffee and then either I’m stuck at my typewriter for hours at a time, or I’m blocked, and I start wandering. I used to go to my wife’s office and sit in the park, where I knew she might be able to glance out the window and see me.” He smiles, here, and he looks like he’s tasting bitter ashes. “I’ve seen lots of places in this city that they don’t write about in the guide books. Beautiful places. Ugly places. Strange people. Good stories.” “Was I just a story when we met at the coffee shop?” “I thought it was strange that you were eating the same breakfast as I was.” Charlotte almost laughs. “I told you, I learned to eat butter and condensed milk sandwiches when I was a child. I was just pleased you could order them here and no one would think it amiss.” “Well, I didn’t know you when you were a child. So when I met you, you were an anomaly, nothing more.” The levity evaporates on the instant, and Charlotte is torn for a moment between moving away and moving closer to Erik - but when he offers her his hand, she takes it, shaking. “We’re still anomalies now,” she says. “Now we do it deliberately,” he says. When they get to the hotel, Erik takes a key from his pocket. “Wait ten minutes, then follow me.” The wait is interminable, and the elevator takes forever to arrive, let alone carry Charlotte to the twentieth floor. Room 2046. Blast of cold. Erik in his shirtsleeves, putting his suit jacket away. His sunglasses are on one of the side tables. He is lying down on the bed, atop the sheets. “Stay with me.” Charlotte is all nerves, but all she says is, “Where?” “Anywhere you want.” She sits next to him. “When I was younger, I would wake up next to all sorts of someones,” she says, softly, slowly. “No matter who they were, though, I always asked them for a good-morning kiss.” Erik smiles. “Good-morning kisses are more intimate than good-night kisses.” “And yet sometimes a good-morning kiss means goodbye, too.” “Sometimes. Yes.” Erik closes his eyes. Charlotte leans over and kisses him, sweet and swift, touch of warmth. He doesn’t open his eyes; he just kisses her back. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "During their morning ritual(s)". This is more or less the sequel to years_of_flowers; maybe these versions of Charlotte and Erik can get some kind of resolution now. Thanks to Kannibal for indulging me when I talked about music to write by and also incidentally break your heart to; I used some of her suggestions and also this while writing. ***** need to be next to you ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes He’s never been in a bed like this before: a real four-poster, the dark wood polished so he can almost see himself in it if he squints, if he tilts his head a certain way. There is so much metal in the bed, more than just the screws and nails holding it together, more than just the springs in the mattress: beautifully worked steel in the canopy and in the frame itself, reinforcing the sturdy wood, sweet tang on the tip of his tongue. If he sat up and dangled his feet over the edge he would only barely touch the floor with his toes. This is not because he is short. Erik Lehnsherr was born in a flat where the walls smelled of boiled cabbage and everyone else’s washing, sharp burr of bleach undercutting all the bread and all the thin coffee. A hazy recollection of sour fruit, its seedy pulp scraped roughly over coarse dark bread. One memory of honey, shockingly sweet: his teeth had ached for hours afterwards, because he was completely unused to the idea that there was something in the world that tasted so transcendent, sugar shock like a physical blow. In that place he had been surrounded by soft sad voices and soft sad songs: men and women and children who were waiting for an end, perhaps the end. One more end to punctuate the years of losses, the years of pain, the years of hiding and terrible disappearances. Entire families, entire villages, there one day and gone the next, never to be heard from again, and his mother and father praying softly and talking about dust and barbed wire and gunshots. He remembers the songs because they sang them to him, and he even sang them himself, after his mother and his father kissed him and said their blessings over him, one last time: torn away from them, the lingering warmth of the final embrace gone before he had traveled five miles. Hidden in false compartments and midnight-running trains, heading west, always west, away from home and away from everything that he had ever known. He remembers the days and nights of being lost at sea, salt and metal and rust souring his rations: fruits that he had never tasted before, hot water mixed with a little rum and a spoonful of soft butter, a single caramel cream in its clear crinkly wrapping. A long journey in which he’d mourned every night: not just for his mother and his father, slowly walking east and away from home, away from him, moving in the opposite direction. He’d mourned with the children who had been, like him, spirited away - many of them younger than he was and yet looking so much older, aged by pain and hunger and loss. He’d mourned the fact that he was different, that he was so much unlike the men and women and children crossing the Atlantic Ocean, because he could feel metal calling to him, because he could make metal do his bidding. He’d mourned the coach that took him away from the other children who’d come to this land - alone, separated yet again, and sent onto a train to a place called Massachusetts. Now here he is in a room of his own, and he is by himself, and he has experienced such strange kindness from the people living here. Who they are, what they are - what he is - is a difficult thing to comprehend. A woman who could read thoughts and speak directly, mind-to-mind - and if that hadn’t been enough, she could also change, from human skin and flesh into glittering living diamond. A tall gawky youth with strange feet that he could use for walking and for running and leaping incredible distances - and for grasping things. A scrawny little red-haired boy who spoke in whispers because he could break things when he shouted. A baby girl with beautiful dark brown eyes and the beginnings of shimmering wings sprouting out of her back. Miss Emma, and Mister Hank, and Sean, and Angel - and then, startlingly, a handful of humans in the midst of a school of mutants. Erik voices the word, softly, just for himself. “Mutant,” he whispers, and the canopy swallows that sound, wraps him in silence. Miss Moira has told him that she is staying in the room next to his, and that he only need knock if he wants anything. He remembers asking her if she had a special ability, and remembers her honest smile, and her answer: “Emma jokes that I am as human as they come, except that I do not mind being around so many people with so many different abilities, so that must count as my ability.” Here, now, Erik is cold, and that has always been his problem. He can never really get warm, or at least that is what it feels like. The bed is placed near an old-fashioned woodstove, sturdy steady heavy steel, and as he listens the fire crackles and pops as it consumes another piece of wood. There are thick blankets on the bed, and Erik lies beneath them still wrapped in his threadbare coat and many-times-darned socks and his mother’s old gloves, ragged wool with the fingertips roughly cut away. He shivers and tries to get comfortable, but everything is soft and new and strange and he desperately wants to sleep. He’s been told that he can wake and eat and rest as he pleases, or come and go at his leisure so long as he stays within the house and its gardens - but all he needs is to let go, all he needs is bed but he can still hear the old sad songs, and he can feel the tears slide down his cheeks again, startlingly hot. Hush, hush, everything is all right, you are safe, you are not alone. Erik sits up, alarm clawing frantically at his heart. He wants to shout. Instead, he whispers, “Who’s there?” I’m a friend. Rest easy. Hello, Erik. “Where are you?” I’m here, with you. You need to sleep. You have to let yourself rest. Soft laughter. There will be a strawberry pie tomorrow, to celebrate that you are here. Erik looks around, slowly, because he is so tired. “I want to sleep. But I can’t.” I can help you with that, if you’ll let me. “An ability? You have an ability? Or are you like Miss Moira?” I’m just...me, the voice whispers. Let me help? “Yes,” Erik replies, and the word is so heavy on his tongue; it pulls him down into the bed, onto the pillows. He gets the faint impression of a faraway sweet smile. Cool weight fitting itself against his back, the idea of small arms wrapped around his hunched shoulders, a light touch on his temple that feels like a blessing and feels like permission. Sleep, the voice says, and Erik does, at last. * In the morning, Miss Emma listens attentively as the house doctor prescribes food and sunshine and milk and sports for Erik, and smiles when the examination is done. “I’m glad you were able to sleep,” she says. “I had some help,” Erik says after a long time, during which they cross from one wing of the house to another. He’s wide-eyed, because he’s never been in a place like this before. “This big house is yours?” “It’s mine, and it also belongs to everyone who lives here. You see, it’s not just a house. It’s a school, too. It’s called the Massachusetts Academy,” Miss Emma says. “This is a safe place for humans and mutants.” She pushes one of the doors open, and points out the chairs and couches arranged in a semicircle; there’s a young woman curled up and fast asleep in the farthest couch, startling shock of winter-white hair fanned out on a cushion. “That’s Ororo.” “What happened to her?” Erik whispers. “A few minor injuries,” Miss Emma says. “She doesn’t like being in small rooms, so she sleeps here instead.” She leads him past other classrooms and at least one library, and Erik stares, fascinated, at all the books in all their shelves. “You can stay in here later,” she laughs softly, “first let me finish giving you the tour. Out that door is the swimming pool, though you’ll understand that no one is using it in this weather.” “Too cold,” Erik says, and he smiles, and covers the smile with one hand. “Yes. I’m sure you will all be fighting over that come the summer, though. And now, here is the kitchen. Do you like strawberries?” “Very much!” And there is a strawberry pie cooling on the sideboard, golden brown crust and a hint of sparkling ruby beneath. Miss Emma directs him to the milk pitcher. When Erik spots it, enameled iron painted with sunflowers, he smiles more widely and lifts it without using his hands, carefully guiding it to the table where there are forks and saucers already laid out and waiting. “Very good,” Miss Emma says, and she beams at him. “We will have to think up some interesting things for you to do with your ability. You have a very rare talent.” Erik is only half-listening to her, because the strawberries are perfectly ripe and perfectly juicy. “I was told that there would be strawberry pie,” he says between mouthfuls. “Hmm?” Miss Emma says. “How did you know?” “Someone told me. A voice. In my room. Last night. I didn’t hear the voice with my ears; I heard it with my mind. Like your ability.” There is a long silence in the kitchen, and it makes Erik look up - into Miss Emma’s suddenly sad expression. “I’m sorry,” Erik says, out of reflex. “Have I said something wrong?” “No,” she says, after a very long moment. “Can you describe your bedroom to me?” “Small. There’s a bed with a canopy. And a woodstove.” “Oh.” Miss Emma blinks, and sighs softly. “I know where you are, now, and I know who that voice was. Is.” “It was a real voice,” Erik says. “Is it someone else with an ability?” “You could say that.” “They helped me sleep last night.” Miss Emma nods. “You should make friends, but cautiously.” * “What’s your name?” Erik asks a few nights later. His companion laughs softly. Erik likes it when he laughs, though it makes the room grow briefly colder. Why should I tell you? I should make you guess. “Because we’re friends, and you know my name,” Erik says. The voice is silent for a while. Friends? “Yes,” Erik says. “Friends.” Friends, the voice says after another long pause. Perhaps. All right. My name is - was - is Charles. * Charles is not in the classrooms or in the libraries or in the kitchen, and he is not to be found in the gardens, but he is a steady presence in Erik’s room. Every night, Erik falls asleep in his arms, to the soft strains of songs from long ago. * “I want to see you,” Erik says after he’s been at the Academy for a year. It’s not always easy to see a ghost, Charles says. You know that. “I want a chance.” The air seems to hesitate and tremble before Charles replies. Why? “I want to see you smile.” There is a long silence. Erik murmurs, “Please, Charles.” Charles sighs, and the room does grow cold, cold enough that Erik reaches for his coat and his blankets. All right. * At midnight Erik is standing in his room. The woodstove is dark and silent and cold. The curtains are drawn closed. There is no light in the room, except for the wrought-iron candlestick floating next to Erik’s shoulder. “I’m here, Charles,” he says softly, and pulls out the hand mirror that Miss Moira has lent him. “Please show yourself.” Look in the mirror, Erik. You’ll see me there. He can barely make out his own face in the dim haze of the candle - but as he stares at his reflection another face swims up from the darkness, faintly visible. Pale skin, wide dark eyes that could almost be the strange endless deep blue of an autumn sky after a storm, strawberry-red mouth, dark hair, and a pair of prominent freckles on the bridge of a crooked nose. Erik looks closer, and catches his breath, softly. “Charles - ” Charles points to the dark scar slashed into his neck with a trembling hand, and says, I didn’t want you to see that. “Who did that to you?” Not important. Miss Emma brought them to justice. “I want to hold you, Charles. I want you to feel better.” Just being around you makes me feel better, Erik, Charles says. “I want to hold you.” There is a pause. You can see me here, in the mirror, he says. If I move, and I tell you to move your arms in a certain way, you can see yourself holding me. “Yes. Okay.” When Charles is standing in front of him, when Erik encircles empty air with his arms, he can see the soft smile on the face of the ghost, and he tries to smile through his tears. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Spooning". Sorry for the feels, which were a direct product of the mood that I was writing this in. This was supposed to be something light and fluffy and happy; I guess my ghost!Charles had other ideas. The "Underage" warning applies on a technicality, as well it should because both Charles and Erik are minors [rather permanently so in the case of Charles]. The "Major Character Death" warning also applies on a technicality, again because of this version of Charles. ***** when I breathe you in ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes “I hate this place,” Charles says when they get out of the taxi. Erik glances sharply at him, tries to take in the tenor of his thoughts. Even without his telepathy he can tell that Charles is not happy to be here, because Charles has been clinging to him since last night. But Charles has an obligation to be here today, because today is his eighteenth birthday, and that means that this house is now his. Other people would be celebrating. Not Charles, who is radiating such dejection-fear-loneliness-hiding-trouble that Erik thinks they might both choke on it, if he doesn’t do something. “Do we have to go in?” Charles squares his shoulders. On him, it looks like something he’s done a thousand times, and the thought unsettles Erik even more. “Yes, we do.” “Then let’s get on with it. Let’s do this.” “All right.” There are seals and locks on the doors. Charles looks at Erik, and murmurs, “Be with me, here.” “How do you want me to do that?” “Come into my head,” Charles says. “Okay.” Erik curls his right hand into a fist, touches those knuckles to his mouth; he reaches out for Charles with his left hand, and hangs on. His telepathy and the contact between them means his thoughts have nowhere to go but Charles, and he lets those thoughts flow between them: he thinks of warmth and sunshine and dark chocolate and pours them all into Charles. “God, Erik, why are you so good to me,” Charles sighs, and he reaches out to the sealed doors with his free hand. Erik can feel Charles’s metallokinesis, heavy and inevitable like gravity pulling them down - unexpectedly deft tendrils, curling around and into pins and tumblers and hinges, making them bend and obey, and so the doors fall open, yielding. The smell of dust and mothballs and neglect makes Erik blink and look away, momentary acrid shock. “How long has this place been empty? There aren’t even any echoes, there aren’t any thoughts left behind - ” I can’t even feel you - you were here, weren’t you? Didn’t you tell me that you lived here...? “An empty shell, that’s all it was,” Charles says. “I was born here, and then I grew up here, sort of, and then - ” I spent a lot of time trying to escape this place. “We should at least bring our bags in. I - I just don’t want to stay in there.” “Yeah,” Erik agrees, and it only takes a moment to toss their backpacks and the small duffel into the foyer, because all that needs doing is for Charles to lift them up by the zippers and rivets and buckles. Erik hangs on to his messenger bag, though, and once Charles turns his back on the doors, great deep quavering thud of them closing, he takes Charles’s hand and starts walking toward the remains of a path. “You’re going to have to tell me where this goes.” “The gardens. A pool house.” “Empty pool?” “Yes.” “Even better,” Erik murmurs, and tugs Charles after him, through the overgrown bushes. They pass beneath trees full of dark green growth, silent and strange and and heavy. “Where did all the people go?” Charles is murmuring as he gets his bearings and tugs on Erik’s copper bracelet to point him down the left-hand path. “An entire team of gardeners, everyone in the kitchen, the men who minded the cars. There was always some other person to talk to, when....” Erik knows why he trails off. And that’s why he’s grateful when another step brings them around the house completely, and they can see more than just moldy tiles going down for seven feet, more than just a ramshackle little cabin with the half the windows broken, more than just a rusted set of table and chairs that looks more like makeshift trellises for unidentified plant life. Beyond the fence that encircles the mansion and its grounds: rolling green meadows, as far away as the eye can see. Even Charles’s thoughts have gone silent; when Erik looks at him, Charles’s blue eyes are suddenly full of bright unshed tears. “I’d forgotten that this existed,” Charles murmurs. Erik smiles, and kisses his temple, and goes willingly when Charles yanks him back in and kisses him properly. Thank you, Erik. I’m just trying to make things better for you. Like I said - you’re so good to me. * There’s no one here but the two of them, not another mind for miles. Erik has hazy memories of his parents sitting next to him on a deserted beach, rocks and sand and waves their only companions, no other humans in sight or within the reach of his then-limited telepathy - but even that time of solitude recedes into the far reaches of his mind when he lets his abilities go. From the corner of his eye he can see Charles shiver as Erik’s telepathy washes past him. “Wow,” he says, softly. Erik smiles. “Sorry.” Charles laughs, a welcome sound in the wind and in the rustling of the world. “No you’re not. Not with a smile like that.” “Okay, I’m not.” “What are we doing next?” “Good question,” Erik says. “Want to look in my bag?” “Okay, it’s never fair playing guessing games with a telepath, I can’t win against you and you’ll always find a way to win against me and - oh. Seriously, Erik?” “Seriously, Charles.” He looks up, and grins at the incredulous look on Charles’s face. He’s holding up a small plastic baggie in one hand, and a package of rolling papers in the other. “Edie’s going to kill us both.” “Maybe,” Erik says. “But it’ll be worth it.” “Yeah.” Charles sounds both awestruck and devilish, and Erik can’t help but stare at him as he scrambles back over. “Definitely worth it.” There isn’t much weed to be had, so Charles moves carefully when he rolls the first joint. “Have you done this before?” Erik asks when Charles produces a lighter from one of his pockets. “I room with Sean, what do you think the answer’s going to be?” Erik rolls his eyes. “But seriously, it’s not like I’m in there with him all the time,” Charles says. The lighter, battered blued scratched-up steel, whirls intricate circles around his fingers. “I wonder why,” Erik says, dryly, and deliberately loops Charles in when he thinks of sweat and of bared skin and of blood-heat. “Not fair,” Charles groans. “I know.” “Stop being so smug.” Charles waves the joint practically in Erik’s face. “We doing this or not?” “We are,” Erik says, and he sits up with alacrity, just in time to watch Charles light up and take the first long, lingering drag. “Any good?” “It’s not bad,” Charles allows. Erik’s first hit fills his lungs with a sweet dusty smell like libraries burnt to ash. And it doesn’t take long before the weed hits - between one breath and the next, Erik’s perception of the world changes. The greens and the golden sunset and the oncoming night are so much brighter and darker at the same time. He can smell flowers and fruits on the breeze, though he’s not going to be able to identify any of them at this rate. He can sense Charles, all of Charles, as he takes another drag: cotton and denim and leather, salt and shampoo and every single layer of the light cologne that he uses. Aromatic sandalwood, apricots in sugar, and a faint hint of citrus. He can see the exact way that the wind flows through Charles’s hair, and the way the seams of his shirt strain around his shoulders. He can even feel the heat that Charles is giving off, which is a feat considering that it’s been a muggy day. Erik blinks, and brushes his hand against Charles’s - and suddenly starts shivering. Only a brief spark of contact, but he suddenly knows everything that Charles is thinking about: a lingering hatred for the house that still looms over them even though they’ve both turned their backs on it. Unease and a morbid curiosity for the people missing from the house. Longing and affection and desire, and a stray idea of Erik undressed under the stars that are now emerging from the gloomy evening. “I think we can do that,” Erik says, and on any other day he would laugh at how gravelly his voice has suddenly become, but right now all he wants is to get his hands on Charles. “Okay, okay, god, you’re bleeding over, I can actually sense your thoughts,” Charles babbles, “but we still have one hit, and I think this is yours - ” “You take it, I can’t wait any more - ” “No, wait, I have an idea - ” Erik has been flat on his back since the second hit, eyes tracing out familiar constellations that seem to be whirling overhead - and then that sky is replaced by Charles, looming over him, barely lit up by the tiny shard of fire at the end of the almost-depleted joint. “Hi,” he says. “Hi,” Charles says. It’s much darker now, but Erik can see what Charles is up to: he watches, pinned in place, as Charles takes the final hit. The end of the joint flares brightly, brief glimpse of Charles’s storm-dark eyes, and then he’s coming closer. He’s holding his breath, and there is a thought in his mind that runs in a lust-haze of a loop: Open your mouth, Erik, open your mouth, I’m gonna - Fuck, Erik thinks, and Charles’s mouth burns against his, fills him up with heat and sweet smoke, burning vanilla and dust - and there’s nothing for it but to scrabble at Charles’s clothes. “Naked. You need to be naked. Now.” “You too,” Charles says, laughing long and languid and lazy, and they’ve come close to ripping each other’s clothes off in the past. This time they actually succeed. There’s nothing sweet in this, which is just right for them in this state of altered consciousness: and Erik drowns in the sensations of Charles, who kisses him hungrily and kisses him everywhere and kisses him with far too much teeth and tongue. Every bite and every lick and every bruise fans the wildfire of his need, and he knows he’ll never be the same again, not after this, not with Charles needing him like this - Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Doing something together". I was thinking of something relatively tame and then this showed up on my dash. Um, yeah, that actually worked so well for me :) This fic is a sequel to the previous power-swapped one, in which Erik is a telepath and Charles is a metal-bender: let_you_into_me. It is also sort of related to my Inception fic The_pleasure,_the_privilege is_mine. ***** the beginning is the end is the beginning ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Three nights ago, Erik had been as ordinary as he could make himself, as ordinary as he preferred to be: nine-to-five graveyard shift, worn-out band t- shirts and comfortable old sneakers, conversations with people who thought in terms of programming and machine languages, hours and nights speeding by as he dreams in code and holds the world together with ones and zeros. That’s all gone, now. Everything that he thought he was is no longer true. Everything that he believed in has been laid bare. He’s different, now; he’s someone else, something else, and he still looks the same as he always does. Okay, maybe the formal suit is nothing like what he knows, nothing that he’s ever been used to. After all, nobody invites code rats to black-tie galas. But it feels right to wear crisply tailored, slim sharp black and white, while he learns how to bend the world itself to his will. And it’s more than nice to watch as others do the same: specifically, the man who fell into his life three nights ago and triggered the Change. (Erik thinks that capital letters might not be enough to express the magnitude of it, the impact of it. One moment he’d been on his last coffee break for the night, hurriedly sucking down the last remnants of the cigarette he’d bummed off Armando; the next, he’d somehow run and braced himself for impact - only to have blue eyes like bright stars in a bright night looking up at him. Only to realize that he’d caught a man in his arms and never even staggered from the sudden weight, the sudden push of momentum that should have driven them both down to the sidewalk and didn’t.) He looks up from the lightning arcing back and forth between his hands, power that tastes like copper and iron and steel on his tongue. The city is awake and alive far below his feet. He can still hear the noise from street level, a hundred thousand voices, a hundred thousand minds, and the rumble of the metal that lives in the bones and the sinews of the buildings and the cars and the bridges and the underground. At the same time, he’s caught and pinned on the man suspended perfectly in the night, feet hovering above the very edge of the railing around the helipad. He can see those blue eyes, gone nearly opaque and fathomless, filled with terrible strength. He can see those hands in detail, the dark starburst of freckles in a ragged facsimile of a barred spiral galaxy on the back of the right hand. (Erik bears a mark that is much simpler, much more elemental, and much more pronounced: Fermat’s spiral, a thin continuous dark line tracing out a shape that is slightly larger than his own hand. It is placed exactly between his shoulder blades.) The man is singing to the night: the words are in no language that Erik has ever heard spoken before, but the more he pays attention the more he understands, on a more visceral level. The man is singing the balance of the world into existence, and the suit he wears shifts and flows and changes to the rhythm of the balance. Now the suit jacket turns into a long coat, almost like a cassock, its hems flying in the strong wind. Now the long coat falls away silently, shattering into feathers, reforming into a scarf twice as long as the man wearing it is tall. “You’ll get to do this, eventually,” the man says, when he looks over and catches Erik staring. “It just takes time.” Erik wants to smile, wants to laugh, wants to be sarcastic, wants to be. “And I suppose you’re going to hurry me along, because there’s not much time, or something. Isn’t that what happens in the stories? Some poor sap is told he’s so much more than himself, or comes into some kind of fortune, or gets swept away on a quest - but that’s because he’s going to become cannon fodder, or because he’s about to embark on a tragic journey - which is pretty much the same thing?” The man laughs. “Maybe if we were really in a story, that would be true,” he says as he steps over thin air and then down to solid ground, to stand in front of Erik. He’s no longer singing, but the power never quite leaves him: it shows as silent rippling electricity contained in his cufflinks, wrapping around the middle finger on his left hand for a ring. Erik watches the other man glance at the light he’s still holding in his hands, only now that he’s been distracted, the power has changed form: ones and zeroes and parentheses and semicolons, and abstracted symbols that might have started off as letters from the Latin alphabet but are now well on their way to becoming gibberish. “Not quite gibberish; I think I can read some of that,” the other man says. “More to the point, I don’t want you to stop doing that.” “I’m doing it wrong,” Erik says. The man laughs softly, and only a little mockingly. “I only showed you to work with lightning because it was the image that had been foremost in your mind at that time. Clearly, I haven’t been paying attention.” “You haven’t been paying attention?” Erik stares. “I thought you were going to tell me off.” “No, not at all, quite the opposite. I’m going to tell myself off.” “Why?” The man smiles. “Because you see the world like this. These are the building blocks of the world to you. This is the essence of reality in your head.” “Yes...?” “So this is how you shall conquer your old self. Your old fears. The old way of looking at the world.” And before Erik can react or even take another breath the man is seizing both of his wrists in a gentle but inexorable grip - the man is pulling him forward, forward, and the railing melts as they pass through it. They should be passing over it, Erik thinks. He might be slightly panicking. The numbers and symbols he’s holding up are trembling and rippling. “No, no, don’t lose your concentration. See the world as you truly see it. Fix this in your mind,” the man says, quiet, encouraging, steady. “You’re a programmer, aren’t you? You make machines do what you want them to do. It’s the same thing here. You work with the world, make it work for you.” “Not interested in falling; blood doesn’t go with suits,” Erik mutters. “We’re not going to fall. I know we’re not. I know you’re going to keep us here. I’m safe as houses with you in this place, in this time, in this moment.” Bright blue stars in a bright blue night: Erik looks into the man’s eyes, sees the reflection of the world, and as he stares the world begins to twist and splinter into a syntax that is nothing like any programming language he can learn from a book. Ones, zeroes, reality, the world and its rules. Erik takes a deep breath. He knows ones and zeroes, at least, and when he sees the man as a reflection of things that can be switched on and switched off, he comes to see himself as the same. And then, suddenly, they’re suspended there. They’ve fallen just a few feet. The city’s sidewalks are just a little closer. And over his suit jacket, Erik is now wearing a cape: an honest-to-goodness cape that flies and flutters in the nonstop evening wind. The man laughs and keeps holding on to Erik’s wrists. “There, you’ve mastered your first lesson. That means I can keep my end of the bargain.” Erik nods, and remembers the conversation from the beginning of the night. “Tell me your name.” The man pulls at Erik, just a little, so he can murmur, “I’m Charles.” Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "In formal wear". And yes, I WAS playing the Smashing Pumpkins when I finally decided on a concept for this tale. Um, basically, I had the final book of the Wheel of Time on my mind when I thought about Charles, Erik, black suits, and magic - all I did was update the setting to our present day. So yeah, think about this as time-transported Asha'man or something. Hee. Afrocurl says she likes Erik as an IT kind of guy, so Erik is a programmer who becomes, well, ANOTHER kind of programmer. And I just really liked the idea of Charles running around in a nice suit, throwing around some serious magical firepower. ***** now I can dance ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes It takes Erik a moment to recover from the sudden flash of overload when he finally makes it past the bouncers and the velvet ropes: music and lights and shouting. The heavy pulse of the music overtakes the rush of blood in his veins, dictates the tempo at which he walks, weaving and ducking to get past the multitudes. Promising - even if people are staring at him for some reason. He makes half a circuit of the dance floor before he finally spots some familiar faces: thank goodness for a strobe light that illuminates two men standing with their arms around each other’s waists, standing up on a platform raised a few feet off the main level. The taller one has dark hair worn in a low ponytail; the shorter one has a wild wavy mane of bright red and gold hair. Janos immediately starts laughing when he catches sight of Erik. “I didn’t think they’d let straightlaced types like you in! I mean, what are you doing here in a suit?” “I’ve had enough people staring at me since I came in,” Erik says, sounding weary. “Chill, man,” Sean offers. “The thing is, no one here realizes that you dress like you’re at home when you’re at work.” “Because I am at home when I work. It’s a virtual office, hasn’t anyone heard of it before?” “They are merely jealous,” Azazel says when he appears at Erik’s elbow and passes him a beer. “Drink. You look like you need it.” “I do,” Erik says. When he’s halfway through the bottle the music stops and the lights come up on the girls working the DJ tables. “Good evening,” the blonde says, gesturing for silence. “It’s really nice to be back here! We’ve really missed you!” The crowd cheers for them; even Sean and Janos join in the raucous applause and whistling coming from all sides. “It’s good to see all the new faces! But we can’t forget our old friends and regulars,” the other DJ says. There’s a wide streak of neon blue at her left temple. “So we’ve put together a little something that’s just right for everyone. Something old, something new, something borrowed - ” She points at her own head. “I’ve got your something blue here. You guys ready?” She doesn’t wait for an answer; she yells “Go go go!” at the other DJ, who flips her a thumbs-up and gets the music started. And it’s a beat Erik knows right in his bones, it’s a beat he loves and it’s a beat he can move to - he races the others back down to the dance floor, and they dive headlong into the crush. Sean and Janos dance like they’re dueling, Erik thinks as he passes them by, and it only takes a few seconds before Azazel is pulled into a throng of wildly gyrating bodies. With every shift of mad strobing light Erik moves from partner to partner. It’s exhilarating and deeply unsatisfying at the same time; perhaps the people here aren’t precisely used to dancing with strangers, much less strangers wearing fine blue suits. The beats go on and on, changing, capricious, and in the end he lets go of the idea of dancing with others and dances with himself instead: he clears a space around himself and doesn’t think about the avid eyes watching him. He uses every perfectly timed kick and gesture to punctuate the driving music. He lashes out with clenched fists, he steps and swerves and shimmies, and everyone else is like shadows flitting past, insubstantial. All there is, is the power of the music that pounds hotly in his skin. The rhythm drives Erik on, even as it starts to distort and drag, making him desperately aware of every movement and every breath, the steady drip of sweat into his wilted collar. Suddenly someone pulls at his necktie and he only has a moment to be astounded at the strength that wrenches him right around - before he’s staring into blue eyes under artificial blue shadows, bright hectic hypnotic spark looking right at him. Brief glimpse of dark clinging trousers, the hems artfully torn up; the top three buttons on the jade-colored shirt are undone, and in the haze of the adrenaline coursing through Erik’s veins he can just about catch a glimpse of collar bone and jugular vein and delicate curling dark hair falling over an arched eyebrow. “You’re not half bad yourself,” the man growls. “Your suit’s held up pretty well for the most part.” Erik finds himself leaning closer, finds it startling that the man is pulling him closer. Still, he manages to hold up his end of the conversation, “It had better be; it’s all I’ve got in the way of club attire.” “I like your way of thinking, and I like the way you dance solo,” is the immediate riposte. “Do you think you can do just as well when you dance in tandem?” “Depends on who my partner is.” The man smiles, bright and amused and sharp. “Me, of course, who else is dancing with you right now?” Erik shakes his head. “Not even my own friends wanted to dance with me.” “They don’t know what they’re missing,” the man declares. “And I’m curious like a concussed kitten is curious, so, I’m dancing with you, damn the consequences.” “Not unless you tell me your name first,” Erik says. “Charles. And you are?” “Erik.” “Let’s dance, Erik.” Charles takes his hands: bright hot strength, pulling at Erik, drawing him in, as merciless as he is inexorable - and so as the music roars back into existence around them Erik finds himself wrapped around Charles, inextricably tangled, every nerve ending alight and aflame in blue and the beat that spears through them both. Later on there might be time to talk, and later on there might be time for deeper instincts to take over. That’s later; this is now. And now means he has to dance; now means he has to step in time with the rhythm that Charles sets. Now means being lost to the music, to the dance - now means being lost in Charles. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Dancing". I love the challenge of writing physicality, and when it's expressed like this it's all just insane and reeking of synaesthesia and I can never get enough of it, so I'm glad that this was on the list of OTP topics. I had some experience of house music and other EDM in the late '90s to the first part of the 2000s, and I've drawn from that in the writing of the dance sequences here. ***** make you feel my love ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Erik opened the door and looked Charles up and down. “I still have objections to you being here at all.” “I still have objections to being ill in the first place, thank you,” is the slurred mumble of a reply. “Bad timing. Terrible. When I have things to do, important things, needful things. Can’t stop. Mustn’t stop.” “You go out tomorrow,” Erik said, “and I’ll personally make sure that everyone knows you’ve got the fucking plague. That you’re Patient Zero, you’re the carrier.” “Evil.” “Only when it’s absolutely necessary,” Erik said, and the words were cold but his thoughts were warm, the ideas twined with affection and worry and a deep desire to be protective. He knew that Charles was in a bad way when he reached out for him and picked him up, supporting him around the shoulders and the backs of his knees - and Charles made no protest when he would normally have used his abilities to make Erik put him back down. Hate feeling so watery, Charles thought at Erik. I have all the strength of wet noodles, and I hate it. I hate it. “It’s only reasonable you feel that way, though,” Erik pointed out as he carried Charles through the apartment, through his bedroom door, to lay him out on the one bed. “You’re running a temperature and you’re probably going to get worse before you get better.” “Help,” Charles began. “I will. I will. Just.” I’m absolute crap at taking care of people. Fair warning. Charles shook his head, and winced immediately afterwards. “Fibbing. You look after me.” “I’m doing what I can. Medicine, soup, sleep?” “Yes, yes,” Charles said, huddled in on himself in the blankets, a miserable curl of a man, sweating and shivering. “I’ll be back,” Erik said, and hurried to the kitchen so he could check on the pot that he’d left to simmer. Chicken stock faintly scented with mace and bay leaf. Split peas, golden and tender. He went back to his cutting board and knife, slicing up the rest of the frankfurter, the motion of it mindlessly soothing: his hands steady on the knife. There was a little bread to go with the soup. The bowl was chipped and the worn-down enamel on the handle of the spoon clashed with the red-checked tray. Still, Charles attempted to smile when Erik came back with the food; he tried to sit up on his own, and succeeded for the most part, though he was somewhat listing to one side. Erik steadied him and pushed the tray in this direction. “If you need help eating - ” Thank you, I think I can still manage - and you’ll know if I can’t - “Okay,” Erik said, and watched patiently and tirelessly as Charles ate the soup, slow mouthful by slow mouthful. “Really good,” Charles said when he was mostly done. “Feel warmer now.” “I’m glad,” Erik said as he put the bowl back on the tray and put the tray on the floor. “It’ll help, I promise.” Family recipe for people feeling poorly? Charles thought as he sank back down into the pillows. Mama’s idea of a cure-all, Erik thought. He climbed into bed with Charles, carefully wrapped his arms around him, gently pulled him close. Mind you, she’s not actually wrong. This is usually all I can eat on the rare days when I’m under the weather. “Ah. Yes,” Charles said. The fever was burning within his skin, leaving him shaky and fumbling in Erik’s arms; it took him the better part of two minutes to turn around so they were facing each other, lying on their sides. Charles’s fingertips burned and trembled as they skimmed over Erik’s face and throat and shoulder, and eventually Erik caught both of Charles’s hands in his and held them in place over his heart. Ten points of shaking heat. Sorry, so sorry, Charles thought. You’re busy. You just recovered from this same bug yourself. I fussed over you. Wasn’t helpful. Now you’re doing this for me. Erik kissed Charles gently between his furrowed eyebrows. “Don’t worry about it.” Erik - “I said don’t worry about it; I’ll make you soup and care for you when you’re not well and make sure you’re all right. Whenever you need it. However you need me.” Charles yawned and blinked and nodded slowly. Don’t leave me. Erik smiled. “I’ve nowhere else to be.” Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Cooking / baking". The recipe for yellow split pea and frankfurter soup is taken from Nigella_Lawson; the title comes from the Bob Dylan song, which has been covered by artists including Adele. ***** don’t think about elephants ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes There is a gun in his hand, a necessary heavy weight of a weapon, and he is standing in a corridor lit in shivering silver light, and he doesn’t know how he got here but he does know what he’s doing, and Charles’s subconscious mind catches up with him just in time for him to hear footsteps coming toward him. He doesn’t think, just changes the pistol for something much heavier and much more powerful, and his finger is tense, just off the trigger. He trains his SMG on the source of the incoming sound. And then Erik is hurtling around the corner, skidding into an ungainly dive - Charles clocks the look in his eyes, the way he’s running, and as soon as the men in the nondescript black suits heave into view he starts shooting: one Mozambique drill after another, the echoes of it reverberating in the trembling hall. He only has time to look over his shoulder, checking his six, before Erik fetches up nearly at his feet. He’s covered in dust. There is a long cut running over his left cheekbone. His hands are scratched and battered, but for all that, he’s perfectly steady as he gets up and holsters his pistol. “Thank you,” he says. Charles nods. “You’re welcome. Did you get what we were looking for?” Erik winces. “Some of it. Not all. We’re going to have to look for the rest.” “They’re not going to like that topside,” Charles says, and he briefly considers giving in to the urge to groan. Instead he settles for exchanging his SMG for his usual Beretta; he digs in his pocket for a fresh magazine and loads and chambers the gun. “We did know things weren’t going to be quite that normal coming in,” Erik says, almost growling. “For a given value of normal.” Charles looks around at the corridor. “They’re almost certainly aware of us now. This is my architecture, and it isn’t. It’s starting to turn on me.” “That’s not good,” Erik says before he takes Charles’s free hand. “Not with no way to kick out.” “That’s your job. I’m in here to watch your back.” “I know. You promised.” The corridor flickers and twists sickeningly around them; Charles has to wrench it all back, impose his will on it, to keep them where they are within the labyrinth of this dream. He has to stamp down hard on the urge to throw up. “We’ve stayed here too long,” Erik says, and looks worried now. “Can you move?” “I will because I have to,” Charles says. “I hate it when you have to say that.” “It’s still true.” Erik concedes the point with a quick nod. “Yeah, it is. Come on.” Down an identical-looking corridor, up a set of stairs, through a door and past a room that’s been torn up from floor to ceiling. “You did that?” Erik asks. “No, it was like that to begin with. Moira’s suggestion. At least we know this part of the maze is still ours.” “Like something out of a horror movie.” Charles turns away from the wrecked room and keeps going, following the clear path he’d laid down. “It only becomes a cliche after we’re all done expecting it. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true to begin with.” “I know.” The next time they stop, it’s because Erik holds up a fist in warning. “Voices ahead.” “Do I need something bigger?” Charles asks. “I can’t tell if they’re ours or theirs.” “Only one way to find out,” Charles says after a moment, and he reaches out to one of the walls, knocking out a signal: four rapid knocks, pause, two slow knocks. Silence. Charles signals again. “Find them! They’re somewhere in here!” Erik smirks, and there is no trace of humor in his eyes at all. “Raven.” “Raven,” Charles agrees. “And we can kick her out if she’s with anyone we don’t want in here.” “Makes life easier,” Erik says. Someone fires into the ceiling, and the corridor’s acoustics and structure tell Charles exactly where their enemies are. “Good work, Raven,” he murmurs under his breath. To Erik, he adds, “Follow me.” “To the ends of the earth,” Erik murmurs. “Into dreams and deeper,” Charles replies, and then they’re moving forward: step by deliberate step. He watches the corridor, and Erik watches his back. They pass two corners without incident - and then there’s a shadow moving toward them, and Charles fires off the first two shots as soon as he sees the thug. “Down!” Erik yells, and he doesn’t think to question, just drops to a ready crouch on the floor. There are more gunshots coming from behind them; Charles whips around and takes out the three men creeping up on Erik with a series of precisely placed shots. “I can hear you,” a voice hollers. “We’re taking Raven out to a serious steak dinner after this,” Charles almost laughs as he reloads and gets up and dashes around the corner. Erik’s on his heels, he can feel him breathing more or less down the back of his neck, and as far as Charles can remember, that has never been a problem or an annoyance, if it’s Erik doing it to him. He takes it as a sign that it’s Erik, the real Erik, and he takes it as proof that the man’s still watching over him, working together with him. They find a woman in a black suit standing amid a welter of dead bodies. Her eyes flash golden for an instant. “It’s us, Raven,” Erik says. “I know,” she laughs. “You’re looming over Charles.” “I am.” “And Charles, you’re practically purring.” “No comment,” Charles says, allowing himself a small smile. “So I’ve no doubts it’s really the two of you.” Raven holds up a folder in one hand. “I brought you something.” “Thank you,” Erik says. “Kick soon?” “I should hope so,” Charles says after a moment of looking up at the ceiling. “There. We should have another few minutes of safety.” He reaches out and finds Erik already taking his hand, large and warm and rough, and he hangs on as best he can, tense and watchful until they can leave. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "In battle, side by side". The title of this fic is taken from the Inception soundtrack. It is a follow-up to floating_bridge_of_dreams. To repeat part of the end notes from the previous story: Erik is the team's primary extractor; Charles is their primary architect and secondary extractor; Raven is the forger. ***** if you can’t handle the heat... ***** Chapter Notes First of two parts. Story continues directly in Chapter 21. See the end of the chapter for more notes Charles carefully catalogues the myriad pains and aches in his arms and shoulders and back and thighs and calves as he plods past the stoves and the prep stations and the sinks. Basically, everything hurts, and he’s probably pulled a muscle in his arm again if the pain that’s setting his teeth on edge is any indication. The smoke from the kitchen has completely blurred out his vision to the point that it takes him two tries to find the handle on the door that leads out to the alley. Turning that same handle is another matter entirely; the simple motion leaves his fingers cramping and the rest of him weak like water as he steps outside. There are footsteps following him: “Chef,” Angel says with a sympathetic wince as she hands him a double shot of tequila. “One of those days, huh?” “One of those days,” Charles mutters. He doesn’t wince at all as he throws back the drink; it burns going down, and it is the only welcome source of heat he can tolerate right now. It beats away the springtime chill nicely, but it doesn’t do a damn thing for his aching head. “You want me to send ’Mando here? Someone should look at your hands, at the very least.” “No,” Charles says, and looks down at the fresh set of crisscrossing burns on his hands and wrists and forearms. “No point getting these seen to now. It’s early hours yet.” Still, he dredges up a smile for the worried lines between her eyebrows. “I promise I’ll have this looked at as soon as I can. All right?” “Ice bath later, during your break,” Angel says, still looking dubious, but she takes the empty glass from him and goes back into the madhouse of the kitchen. Leaving him shaking and fumbling for the lighter he’s carrying around in his pocket. The cigarette pack’s been empty for three weeks now, and even though he still finds himself waking up with an overwhelming craving for nicotine, at least he’s managed to move past the whole needneedneed that had plagued him when he’d quit cold turkey. Charles amuses himself with the lighter, tossing it from hand to hand, flicking the flame on and off. It gives him something to do with his hands, and the beat-up chrome is at least better to look at than the mess of old and new blisters and burns and cuts. So many scars he’s no longer certain where they end and his actual skin begins, light and dark lines and spots that clash with the freckles spattered all up and down his arms. From the other pocket he produces a battered watch, the crystal as scratched-up as the rest of him feels. He still has ten minutes before he’s allowed to go back on duty. Not much to do when he doesn’t have his phone with him. Charles slouches against the wall, trying to get comfortable, and cursing another busybusybusy Saturday night at the Blackbird. He’s been hit hard already - several steaks and fish in just the first two hours after opening - and he has no doubt he’ll be dans la merde soon enough. The door opens again; Charles turns his head, catches a faint glimpse of black leather, catches a familiar sticky-spun-sugar scent, and then - movement, he’s being backed up into the wall, up onto his toes and there’s a solid overwhelming warmth all around him, hands tangled in his grease-stained jacket. “Erik,” he hisses when the other man lets him snatch a breath - he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t want it, he just wants Erik - and he surges forward and takes control of the second kiss. More violence, he can feel the contact in his teeth, he can feel Erik fighting toward him as he bites savagely at his mouth. “I’ll never get it,” Erik growls when they really have to step apart. “You’re in those damn fumes all night and you don’t smell like oil or fat or pepper at all. I breathe you in and you drive me crazy. You smell like salt and lemons.” Charles laughs in his face. “Is this how you show your interest? Strange food metaphors? Oh but what else should I expect from a pâtissier. You lot talk about sugar and fruit and chocolate and tropical fruits that don’t taste real at all.” “You’re one to talk.” Erik smirks at him, knowing, one-sided. “You take the piss out of every damn table that orders something that isn’t cooked the way you like. Which is just about fucking everything: you hate them when they order chicken because that means they have no idea what to eat at all. You hate them when they ask for a well-done steak because that means they might as well be eating charcoal. You hate them when they want fish fillet because that means they don’t appreciate the flavors of bone and head and tail.” “Yes, and what’s your point? You disdain croquembouche, you laugh in the faces of people who ask for chocolate-covered bacon and for salted caramel sauce. You think white chocolate is not chocolate at all - not that you’re wrong, but you might as well be topping the blonde mocha dessert with the words ‘Fuck you’ in icing!” Charles punctuates the sentences by shaking his own middle fingers in the other man’s face. Erik takes a swing at him then, and Charles dances out of his way, just a step back before he darts in and lands a pulled blow to Erik’s ribs. His hands hurt, and there is a fresh streak of blood over the knuckles of his left hand when the impact reopens one of his knife wounds. “Get that looked after - ” Erik begins, though he’s still got his fists up. “The others can tell me that and I’ll tell them, sincerely even, that I thoroughly intend to. But don’t you coddle me, don’t you be kind to me.” “Fuck off, Charles, I wouldn’t dream of it.” “Good!” Charles declares, and cocks his fist for another punch - and when it’s neatly and decisively blocked he tries to slap Erik with his free hand. That one doesn’t get anywhere, either - and Erik, the cheating bastard, uses Charles’s own momentum against him so by the time he’s motionless he’s also been pinned to the wall, facing it this time, both arms trapped in a double hammerlock. Charles hisses and struggles and knows that Erik is the steady fierce weight all along his back, bearing down into him: knows that Erik is more than welcome to do this to him. That he needs Erik to do this to him. And he’s damn grateful that Erik doesn’t fall out of character when he growls, “That’s as far as you get or I’m going to get beaten up for injuring you, grillardin.” Tell-tale shiver in that rasping accent: Charles knows what Erik wants, what Erik needs, and is more than prepared to give it back. “Can’t have you out of commission or who the fuck knows what would happen to this dump.” Charles twists and struggles for show; his wrists are the dead giveaway, because he’s deliberately willed away all the tension in his hands. His fingers are loose and pliant, and he can use them to brush careful little spirals into the burning skin of Erik’s arms. “All right, both of you, you’re done here,” Ororo says when she sticks her head out the door a moment later. If not for her smirk, she’d look completely unimpressed. “Charles, you’ve got several orders waiting; Erik, your fruit delivery’s about to come in.” Charles pretends to sneer at her, tipping her a wink after a moment. “You can’t boss me around, it’s my name above the door.” “Sure I can; it’s part of my job description to tell everyone what needs doing.” And Ororo is the best damn expediter in the city; they can’t get along without her, and they all know it. “We’ll be right in,” Erik says, and he keeps looking at her until she laughingly withdraws. When he lets Charles go, Charles sighs, and reaches out for his equally gnarled hand. “I fucking hate Saturday nights.” “Just another long line of mouths to be fed,” Erik says, nodding wearily. “On the other hand, you’re the brilliant mastermind behind this place.” “Ugh, do me a favor and shut up.” Charles stretches and then rubs absently at the sore spot on his arm. “See you later?” Erik’s smile is beautiful and exists just for Charles and Charles alone. “Yes.” He tries to ignore the hot pulse of blood beneath his skin, the warning haze of desire setting in around the edges of his vision, and steels himself to face the fires again. When he inhales, though, together with the salt and the smoke and the spices he remembers sugar and musk, and that makes him smile. TBC Chapter End Notes Written for the connected themes "Arguing" and "Making up after", hence the double post. This is written for Afrocurl and for Papercutperfect. A pâtissier is a pastry chef; a grillardin works the grill station in a restaurant. ***** ...get INTO my kitchen ***** Chapter Notes Second of two parts. Continues directly from Chapter 20. See the end of the chapter for more notes Continued from previous chapter It takes him a long time before he can finish scrubbing the sugar and the chocolate and the rest of the mango coulis off his hands; when he sniffs his fingers he can still smell pastry and butter, and the great irony of his life is that he’d never had much liking for sweets. Here he is, now, making his living with shortening and eggs and far too many kinds of sugar than he knows what to do with. His is the last station to close, as usual, and after the orders have all been plated and carried away he still has cleanup to worry about; he insists on doing this himself, and only begrudgingly accepts the occasional offer of assistance from one or the other of the commis. It’s well into Sunday morning by the time he’s done, and every muscle hurts, from his neck all the way down to his feet. He only barely manages to stifle a groan when his weariness nearly makes him trip over the stairs as he climbs back up to the main kitchen area. “You look like hell,” Armando observes as he makes a final sweep of the stoves. “I feel like it,” Erik says. “So I’m gone, and you’re all just going to have to fend for yourselves tonight. You’re not going to be seeing me till Tuesday.” “The perils of Sunday brunch. Not to mention inventory, and climbing up into the hoods to scrape, and yelling at suppliers. You got your list all marked up?” “Yeah, it’s waiting downstairs.” “Okay, good, now get out, you’re making me dizzy just looking at you.” He waves his middle finger in Armando’s face and gets nothing but a hearty laugh for his troubles. By the time he staggers out onto the sidewalk he’s so tired that he barely notices that Charles is waiting for him next to his motorcycle. “How many people were celebrating birthdays in there tonight?” Erik asks, slurring over half the words as he clumsily lifts the helmet that Charles passes him. “There was a dispute over that in the kitchen; Moira said six, Emma said seven.” “Too many cakes. If I never have to touch the blue and pink icing again it’ll still be too soon.” He watches as Charles shakes his head, then pats his hair down so he can put his own helmet on. “So long as people think it’s better to marry in June, we’re going to have a lot of people celebrating their birthdays in March.” “Apparently,” Erik says, and he sighs tiredly and tries his best to hold on as Charles revs the engine and speeds them home. He perks up a little when Charles gets a pot of coffee started. “Here’s to those of us who toil in the kitchens at night and drink coffee to get to sleep by daytime.” “Hear, hear,” Erik says, and then he only has enough presence of mind to move back from the table when Charles goes to sit in his lap, warm welcome heavy real. “You really do look wrecked; what else happened down at your station?” Erik shakes his head and leans up for a kiss, and he smiles a little when Charles gives it with alacrity. “Don’t want to talk about it. Just - tired. Long week was long. And we spent most of it getting slammed.” “I know,” Charles murmurs. “Bloody holidays. You’d think the cold would have scared everyone off.” Erik closes his eyes when Charles runs his fingers over his scalp. Rough as those fingertips might be, catching on the strands of his hair and scoring rapidfire lines of fleeting pain over the shell of his ear and the nape of his neck, they are soothing and sorely needed after hours upon hours of being lost in the bustle of the kitchen. He’s most of the way to asleep when the scent of coffee fills up their spartan postage stamp of a kitchen; still, he reaches eagerly for the mug when Charles slides it toward him, and pours a generous dollop of honey into the dark depths. It’s Charles who gets up after a few sips, and Erik follows him through the apartment, shedding clothes as he goes so by the time they’re in the bedroom Erik is down to his boxers and the still-steaming cup in his hand. Charles looks dismayed when he glances at Erik’s chest. “I pulled that punch, I know I did, so why are you bruised there?” “I know you pulled the punch, Charles, but you’re still pretty strong whether you do that or not,” Erik says. He takes an experimental deep breath; it pinches, a little. He’s been burned worse than this. “Come to bed?” “Are you sure?” Charles asks when Erik pulls at him, so he’s on top. He’s still wearing the t-shirt he’d had on beneath his chef’s jacket, so thin around the seams that the white is practically see-through. “I’m damn sure I need it,” Erik says firmly. He shifts his hips upwards, experimentally, and nods when Charles groans softly. “And you won’t rest until you get it, either. I know how you are when you’re exhausted.” “That wouldn’t be the reason I couldn’t sleep,” Charles says, punctuating the words by nipping sweetly at Erik’s mouth. “I’d have problems because I wouldn’t be able to stop wanting you.” “So don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop. I want you to want me.” Erik makes a disappointed face when Charles rolls off him in response - but he’s back a moment later, completely naked, and he wastes no time in stripping Erik of the last of his clothes. Someone groans when they’re lying next to each other, touching everywhere, skin to skin; Erik doesn’t know which one of them made that sound, and in the next moment he forgets about it, too busy being lost in Charles’s kiss. Sometimes, when he’s more lucid than this and not lost in watching his caramel before it burns, Erik tries to think about how to describe the way Charles moves, the way he touches Erik. There is a spark of lightning about him, a kind of energy and strength that can barely be contained by freckled skin stretched taut over compact muscles. It’s the passion of him, the passion he has for life and food and wine and - improbably enough - Erik himself. That passion surrounds Erik now, deadly vice- grip that he craves and craves and can’t get enough of - and it’s the need that finally makes him move, that makes him grip Charles’s arms hard enough to leave bruises, that makes him arch up desperately into Charles’s kiss. “Want you want you,” Charles is whispering into his skin, burning words. “Please please please,” Erik replies - and he gathers his strength, rolls them over. He swallows Charles’s surprised cry in a vicious kiss, and listens intently as he slides downwards: licking over Charles’s throat and the rapid bobs of his Adam’s apple. Teethmarks over the prominent spur of collar bone, a ragged circle of kiss-bruising around his nipple. Down, to Charles’s groin, and Erik ignores the hard red cock in favor of mouthing at his balls, and Charles’s voice fills the air with reverent obscenities - not the rough speech from the kitchen, or the sharp sarcasm that he uses with the rest of the kitchen brigade. This is something for Erik and Erik alone: the sound of Charles willingly falling to pieces beneath him. When he goes down on Charles the words stop entirely, and Erik smiles, because a Charles reduced to speechlessness is a Charles abandoned to his instincts. He hollows out his cheeks, sucks with sloppy enthusiasm, and Charles is hot and writhing beneath him, almost enough to throw him off entirely. “Erik - Erik stop - ” He looks up, alarmed, but when Charles reaches for him and throws him back to the sheets he laughs and he goes, enthralled anew, utterly willing. Lust pounds in his bones as Charles reaches for the lube, a darker and darker rhythm as Erik is opened up, one then two then three fingers, and then Charles is sinking into him and Erik shouts his name, over and over, and this is the way he wants to fall, spiraling down into Charles, shattering with and for him. END Chapter End Notes Written for the connected themes "Arguing" and "Making up after", hence the double post. This is written for Afrocurl and for Papercutperfect. A pâtissier is a pastry chef; a grillardin works the grill station in a restaurant. Some ideas taken from Anthony Bourdain's book Kitchen Confidential. ***** dueling hearts ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes One moment, Erik is in his room. The air smells stale, like old broken-down rain and rust, undercut by grease and the brackish yuck of old coffee. Remnants of a late dinner in cardboard boxes strewn all over the table, discarded plastic utensils disturbing the thin layer of dust that shows the traces of his movements. He’s sitting in silence and the embrace of the smoky city night: the lights flickered out on him for good at the beginning of the evening, and it’s now too late to look for the super and get some help. The room is not unlit, however: Erik is more than used, now, to the fact that he no longer throws off shadows when he moves around. Now soft white light follows him wherever he goes. It manifests as a wide glowing band around his left wrist, snug against his skin, mildly buzzing against his nerves, pleasant and constant companion. Rings, too, on the five fingers of his left hand, connected by glowing cords shaped like flat chains to the band. Sometimes he catches himself moving his hand just to watch the flickering play that results, sparks of afterlight and temporary blindness dashing across his vision. As he looks around his room he consciously seeks out the currents of the world and its underpinnings. Streams of energy winking in and out of his perception, interference rippling in the corners of the room where he can most clearly see the shields he’s placed upon the little rathole of space where he lays his head down to sleep. The shields pulse at him now, weak at first and growing stronger and stronger as he stares: arcing flutter and flash, the seals and barriers slowly shading into blue: a color he’s more than familiar with, now. A color he can’t seem to get enough of. Blue in his dreams, like staring up into endless sky and down into depthless ocean at the same time. Blue in the faint shadows that buildings and people throw at the endless instant of highest noon. Blue worlds around blue stars, blue heat and blue dark. He looks up at the faint push on the edges of his perception, and thinks that his fine black suit plus the cloak hanging around his shoulders are fundamental incongruities in this dwelling, and says, softly, “Come.” Tonight Charles’s black suit is hidden under a manifestation of a military-like wool greatcoat, complete in every detail down to the shoulder marks. Black slashed with blue. The hems do not move even as he walks rapidly through the room. “Hello, Erik,” Charles says. Once again Erik is unable to describe the precise shape and color of Charles’s eyes: he’s too focused on the long eyelashes, strangely vivid shadow against the pale skin of his face. He’s too caught up in the strange flashes of light crisscrossing the irises. Charles seems to enjoy looking at him, or maybe that is just Erik’s imagination, because he’s looking up into that blue that looks back at him, steady and warm and crackling with unimaginable power, until he’s out of breath and more than glad that he’s still sitting down. “Come with me?” Charles asks, deep dark sweet lilt in his voice to match the faint lines around his bright smile. Erik gets up, slowly, still staring, and takes the hand that is offered to him. The apartment vanishes, clap of faint thunder that reverberates into his bones. “You’re going to have to teach me that soon,” he murmurs after a moment. It’s the work of a second to reach back to that place where he is rooted, and check on the shields: they are whole, and they are stronger. The currents of Charles’s passage are lending their power to the lines that Erik has already laid down, and even now that he’s nowhere near that space he can feel that it’s there, that it’s real and it exists. “I did that, yes,” Charles offers after a moment, and Erik starts when he looks down, because has Charles been looking at him all this time? “I can point to my home across worlds and realities and existences. I always know where it is. I can always make my way back.” “Will I be able to do the same?” “You will now.” Erik smiles. “Thank you.” “You might need it,” Charles murmurs after a moment. “I did not take you from your home so that we could go sightseeing.” “More training?” Erik asks. “And not just with me, though I will take the role of the primary instructor still,” Charles confirms. “Do you remember the story of my Change?” He does. “There was a war. You were a child. You were powerful; they wanted you to support the front ranks. But you asked to fight.” Charles looks haunted and old and pained for a long moment; Erik watches him pull the smile back on. It seems to take a long moment. “Yes. We were unprepared then. So many painful lessons to learn. Now we will not make the same mistake.” The wind of their passage takes them to a great vaulted chamber sitting upon a rainbow bridge. “Yes, we call this Valhalla,” Charles says, nodding at Erik’s bemused look, “but we have no access to Asgard, I’m afraid. That is a purely human idea, and not without its merits. Follow me, and mind your hands and feet.” As soon as they enter - the walls bow out, briefly, and the door admits them with a crackling flash of light that lingers, a not unpleasant rainbow, around Erik’s cuff and rings - he knows why the warning was necessary. They have to duck and weave around men and women and the occasional child, around the cries of battle and the crash of weapons meeting. Erik stares, open-mouthed, as a woman wielding a spear comes within a hair’s- breadth of running her opponent through. The opponent in question is a little boy, no older than twelve, who smiles and shoves his unruly blonde hair out of his eyes and then makes a punching motion forward with one chubby fist. The woman grunts and falls, as though something has been dropped onto her, and after a moment’s futile struggle she falls limp and begins to laugh: joyous and sincere and musical. “Nicely done,” Charles says to the boy. “May I introduce my companion?” Erik stands a little bit straighter, and doesn’t know he’s doing it. “Hello, Charles,” the boy says, and adds, “hello, Charles’s companion. I’m Jason.” “I’m Erik,” Erik says. As he shakes the boy’s hand it is all he can do to not fall down himself: the power in Jason manifests as gravity, a profound and regal weight. Jason smiles, a little bit apologetic. “I understand my strength is the antithesis of yours; Charles teaches you to fly, while I teach others to stay grounded.” “I think people need to be able to do both,” Erik says. Charles beams at him, and he can’t look at that bright smile, not directly or else he’ll be blinded - but he pulls it into himself nonetheless. Another woman joins their group. Erik spots the short skirt first, and then forgets it exists as soon as he notices the two hatchets hanging off her belt. He wishes he had one of those. “Hello, Charles,” the woman says. “I see you have brought your companion here for a lesson. You should not beat him up too much.” Charles laughs softly and shakes his head. “I think that he will take it amiss if I go easy on him!” “Excuse me,” Erik says, “what are you talking about? Are you all here to spar?” “That’s what we use this place for,” Jason says. Erik grins and meets Charles’s challenging look head-on. “I really wish you’d said that right at the start instead of being mysterious.” “I wonder if I can make you regret that,” Charles says, and then he moves, rapid and decisive and surprising: suddenly there is a gun in his hand, softly glowing lines of light. The muzzle is pointed right between Erik’s eyes. “I’ve had quite a bit of time to practice, you see.” Erik ignores the weapon. He focuses on Charles’s smile. “Try me,” he says, and he never breaks his gaze even as he jumps away, straight up, until he’s a handspan away from the ceiling. All around him, the men and women in black continue to spar with each other. It only takes a moment before he’s thinking of his weapons: sword in his right hand, shield in the left. A one and a zero - “on” for offense, “off” for defense. He can see Charles’s expression sliding toward determination, toward mischief. Erik smiles, and prepares to do battle, and never takes his eyes from Charles’s. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Gazing into each other's eyes". This fic is a direct sequel to, and will not make sense without, the_beginning_is the_end_is_the_beginning. Quick summary of this AU: Charles is empowered and he triggers Erik's empowerment, and the powers they both wield have to do with reality itself, including the manipulation and protection thereof. They have different approaches, as they always do; but this time they seem to complement each other instead of work against each other or be driven against each other. ***** amor vincit omnia ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Erik has learned to wake up very carefully since the world went dark around him. He still remembers the fight on Mars. He still remembers screaming wordlessly as he was rushed toward bulkhead, no way to react or think or escape, bracing himself only for impact - and then again, again, pain like his mind on fire as it had never been when he was using the full extent of his biotic abilities. He still remembers an otherworldly sneer on an artificial face: rage and contempt. He’s had to learn many things since then. He’s learned about the Normandy’s desperate flight to the Citadel; he’s learned that he was rushed to Huerta. He’s learned about the myriad duties and responsibilities and burdens of a Spectre: he’d always thought that spec ops was already its own strange lure and tangle and headache and then he found out what exactly was expected of someone ordered to a higher calling than that. He’s learned about his visitors who were also his protectors, foremost among them a drell biotic who watched over him with a solemn gravity that hadn’t just come from the seriousness of his condition. He’s learned about the gifts on the nightstand: a bottle of Peruvian whiskey, a cap with a familiar SR2 designation - and two battered books. He remembers seeing the books the moment he’d woken up, and remembers knowing exactly whose hands had placed them there. Worn and fraying and dog-eared and unspeakably precious now, with so many stations and worlds and moons and vessels lost to firestorm and unspeakable indescribable destruction. Familiar words in a familiar voice echo in his mind, in his own raspy voice, as he breathes, careful, deliberate, knowing that he will soon have to wake up: Further back, there were times when we wondered with all our souls what the world was, what love was, what we were ourselves. Something pings him on the bedside console and he smiles when he finds that he has one new message. Erik, I think you’ve still got some of my things mixed in with yours. I’m really sorry about the mess; we had to leave with all possible haste. In any case, maybe there’ll be a way for us to reconcile the differences and the jumbled-up things after tonight. I think of you and remember that I must see the galaxy with my eyes, with my mind, and with my heart, so that I will not lose that which is essential. Even if my heart is, well, what can we call it, when we know it’s made of silicon and electronics and all kinds of things that just happen to get mixed in with flesh and blood. I look forward to seeing you in another few hours. Just let me know, however, if you would like me to rescue you from some of the others. Apparently you and I are to have attendants. Take them out if you must, we’ll burn out in one of the Kodiaks, and we’ll apologize to Chakwas later. I love you. Charles XS Soft buzz of the proximity alert. Erik smiles, and shakes his head, and gets up from bed. He still has to brace himself with one hand on the wall; the dizziness is still there, but there is less and less of it every day, and that is a mercy he’ll gratefully take. “Come,” he says. Bulky blue armor, a friendly face for all it’s crisscrossed with terrible seams and scars. “You all right, Erik?” “I’ll be fine, Garrus,” Erik says as he makes his way to the head. “Hello, Erik,” says a feminine voice, and he knows about EDI, he really does, but there is still some animal part of him that quails away from the look in her eyes behind the orange visor. She seems to be hiding behind the protrusions of Garrus’s armor. Her hands are out in the open, and - notably, though he’s been told she always goes about like this anyway except when she’s going on a mission with the others, and even then she doesn’t take up arms until they’re all down on Deck 5 - she isn’t carrying anything at all. “Hello, EDI - now please excuse me a moment,” Erik says, and when he looks at himself in the mirror over the sink he’s pleasantly surprised to see himself smiling. It might be because of the day. It might be because he’s back here on the Normandy where he has always belonged. It might be because he knows he’s in the same place as Charles, among friends, among family. It might be because he’s somehow managed to stay alive and make it through hell and black holes and back to himself at last. Cleaning up takes only a few minutes, though he does take the time to scrub his hair clean and make sure that his cheeks are completely clean-shaven. He still remembers making surprised and displeased faces once he’d woken up on the Citadel, because of all the scruff sprouting every which way. By the time he’s done Garrus is standing near the corner of the room looking like some kind of funny turian-sized hat stand: he’s holding up a couple of suit bags in his hands. On the made bed near the pillows is a velvet box, which EDI opens to reveal a battery of familiar-looking decorations. In fact, they’re Erik’s own decorations. “I was told I’d have attendants,” he says as he towels his hair dry, “and I was told I could kick them out if I saw fit, but I don’t think I’m going to do that to either of you.” Garrus huffs, embarrassed and amused at the same time. EDI only keeps working, complacent, competent. “So we will be grateful that you have such forbearance. Although I am not sure that it is not something you might need anyway, in your daily dealings with the Commander.” “You’re learning to make jokes, EDI, I’ll love listening in to you cutting Joker down to size,” Erik says as he goes to Garrus and relieves him of one of his burdens. “I can get started just fine, thank you,” he says. “I’m not just sure as to why neither of you’re getting married in your armor. It’s what we’d do on - well, it’s what we’d do at home,” the turian grumbles. Erik tactfully ignores the hitch in his breath - he remembers the sorrow in Charles’s eyes when they’d talked about the turian homeworlds, fallen and gone, Palaven and Menae burning and lost - and concentrates on threading the studs into his shirt. He could use his abilities for this, and no one would be the wiser, and no harm would come to the shirt. Instead he focuses on the simple pleasure of getting dressed the old-fashioned way, on the fact that he can tell his hands and feet and body to do things and they obey him, without any hesitations, without any pain, without any delays. Pain is all around them in this time of war, but not today. The shirt is clean and neatly pressed, and the trousers are heavy and gleaming, and Erik smiles when EDI takes the second suit bag from Garrus. She deftly extracts the formal jacket from inside, with its major’s insignia on the shoulders and Erik’s own collection of unit patches, and holds it out for him. “Thank you.” “You are welcome, Major. Now you must let us see to your colors,” EDI says. “Can you stand still?” “I’m honestly surprised he’s not a fumbling wreck yet,” Garrus mutters. “Then we’d lose the Normandy and all hands,” Erik says with a malicious little grin as he briefly manifests the unmistakable blue-fire aura of a biotic life- form. He doesn’t move; he simply lets EDI go about her task. Precise movements of silverglint-covered fingers. “I really think that’s no way to celebrate a wedding day.” He can actually see Garrus roll his eyes, and counts it as a rare victory. “All done,” EDI suddenly says. “And may I say, I have seen records of people getting married, but you seem - so much more than merely happy. You have my best wishes, Major.” “Thank you very much,” Erik says, and he surprises even himself when he pulls her in for a quick embrace. “You too, Garrus, come here,” he says. “You’re the one who’s pulled Charles through everything,” Garrus says as he offers a firm handshake, rough with years of combat and projectile weapons. “Maybe now I have a more than ironclad excuse to do just that.” Garrus shakes his head and grants Erik the turian equivalent of a wide grin - and then the moment is broken, as moments on the Normandy inevitably are, by the chime that precedes a shipwide broadcast. “Attention all hands, please make your way to the War Room where we will try to fit as many life-forms as we possibly can, unless someone is up to helping us violate all the laws of physics that we know of,” Joker announces over the comm. “Important day, important doings, and as such Major Erik Lehnsherr Alenko’s presence is requested, and I quote, tout fucking suite.” Erik raises an eyebrow at EDI; she rolls her eyes, as best as she can, and then she waves at Garrus to precede them out of Erik’s quarters. He’s more than grateful for their presence as they board the elevator. It’s good to have company just before one goes on the most important walk of one’s life. Faces familiar and new all over the place when the doors open again. The dark- haired Battlespace reporter, who for once is not being trailed by her camera drone; comm specialist Traynor, who is sniffling into her sleeve; Liara and Tali and an indifferent-looking Javik. Dr Chakwas steps up to Erik, and he gives her a hug, too. “You feeling all right?” she asks, kind and brisk and already a little damp around the edges. “Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t miss this for the galaxy,” Erik tells her. “That’s the spirit. Still, I must ask, and I must make sure. Remember to take your medications on time, or I will program your omnitool to interrupt you, and you won’t want me to do that.” “I’ll remember, Doctor,” Erik says. “And thank you.” “Not at all. Now go, go, I’ve never seen him that antsy before - and amusing as the situation is, I rather think he’d want you to put him out of his misery now.” Erik nods and looks around at the others, all in their finery or what semblance of it exists on a ship heading into war, and as he makes his way to the Quantum Entanglement Communications room, one of the Marines yells “Oo-RAH!” - and suddenly, the crew is cheering and whooping. “Do I have to yell for order here,” someone says, suddenly, and Erik knows that voice. He spins around nearly fast enough to give himself whiplash - and standing in the room to the galaxy comms is Charles. The jacket has seen better days, and there are far too few medals when the man has spent the last few years saving the galaxy time and time again, and he still looks like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. But he’s beautiful, and he’s there, and he smiles at Erik as though there is no one there with them. Nothing could be farther from the truth, not when Erik can hear the quiet soft thud-thud-thud that sounds very much like Liara bouncing from foot to foot in excitement, and not when there is an image in light up ahead that looks very much like Admiral David Anderson. He kisses Charles anyway, with his heart and his soul on his lips. “Ahem,” the Admiral says after a moment, “can you two at least pretend to wait until after I’ve helped you out?” Charles is laughing as he breaks away; Erik groans softly, and then grins, and then straightens his sleeves and walks up to the comm console at Charles’s side. “I could have used you here, Alenko,” Anderson says, “but far be it from me to keep you two separated a minute longer. That said, we can still cling to ceremony here, cling to something that makes us who we are. You two ready?” “Yes,” Charles says. His voice might be quiet, but it is heavy with determination. They’ve had more than their share of disagreements and pain, but Erik wouldn’t have him any other way. “All right.” Anderson actually cracks a small smile. “We are gathered here to join in marriage these two men; are there any who would object to this union between Charles Xavier Shepard and Erik Lehnsherr Alenko?” There is dead silence on the deck. “Thought so,” the admiral says. “All right, no objections, and I’m pretty sure you’re all armed and whoever would have said anything should have made out their wills beforehand. Then we’ll proceed. Shepard, Alenko, if you’re sure that this is what you want, take each other’s hands.” Charles’s hands are cold in his. Erik thinks about sharing warmth with him, and a soft blue glow springs up around the Commander’s freckled and scarred wrists. “If you have any vows to make,” Anderson says. “Everything I was and everything I will be and everything I am now - all of it is yours, has been yours, from the very moment we met,” Charles says. A single tear slides down his cheek, towards the curve of his smile. “Whatever truths are out there, whatever fires might come, whatever light or shadow or evil is lying in wait, I know I can stand and face them, if I have you with me. I want to be yours, Alenko, if you’ll have me.” Erik trembles, but he manages to say his vows in a clear and steady voice: “I don’t care for sunsets or lamplight or foxes’ tails or boa constrictors digesting elephants. I care only for you, because you are water and light and all my laughter and tears. You are my heart, and I want to be next to you, Shepard, now and always, if you’ll have me.” Anderson coughs, once, and consults his omnitool for a moment. “Will you be with each other and protect each other and fight and live for each other, in a galaxy at war and in a galaxy at peace? Will you bear each other’s burdens and each other’s happiness?” “I do,” Charles says, and so Erik echoes him, joyfully. “Then be married, and be happy, and be together, for all the time we might have remaining for all of us,” Anderson says. Erik wraps Charles in his arms and there are tears and laughter alike in their kiss - and then he concentrates, and focuses on their bodies and their weight, and he generates just enough of a mass effect field that he lifts them both off the deck. Just a few feet, and just for a moment, but it’s enough, it’s his first wedding present to Charles. The rest, well, they can’t be here for that. So Erik only laughs when Charles groans and tears himself away, only to bestow a silly grin on all of the crew and then: “We should go.” “Let’s,” Erik says, and they run for the elevator, hand in hand. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Getting married". This is also a Mass Effect fusion, primarily taking place during the events of the third game, but it is not in any way, shape, or form related to the other one I did in this series [all_of_us_have_been_changed]. This one is for wallhaditcoming and papercutperfect. I don't know much about navy weddings, and in any case I'm working off a video game 'verse, so I have taken some liberties with the quick ceremony that takes place here. References are made to The Once and Future King and The Little Prince. ***** a son of the spring ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes He wakes up in the same bitter cold weather as he had gone to sleep in last night, and foreboding runs its freezing-cold fingers over the skin of his throat as he struggles out of his bed and into his thickest dressing-gown, old and bedraggled around his ankles. In the bed, a lump of blankets that looks rather a lot like Erik shifts and growls softly before settling. I’ll be right back, Charles thinks. He closes the door behind him, reaches out to the rest of the house. Many of the students have gone home for spring break, so he’s not hemmed in on all sides by winter-dreams and people wishing that the sun would come back soon, and it’s a relief, as it always is every year. Spring and summer are the slack seasons at the mansion, when there are often more people out than in, when it is possible for the permanent inhabitants to snatch some semblance of rest or privacy or warmth. Though that last one has been in distressingly short supply since the winter storms came in, one week too early: record freezing temperatures all throughout the holidays. The snow clings to everything, stubborn, tenacious, a chill that reaches easily past clothes and skin, making its way toward the heart. The snow begins to fall afresh as Charles turns the key in one of the side doors, so he has to stay inside, because he’s not dressed for the weather – and neither is the patch of earth just a step away. He’s going to have to buy a fresh supply of bulbs come the warmer weather – that is, if the warmer weather ever consents to return. He has the distinct impression that it might be wiser to give up on his foolish hope. He’d hoped to have something for Erik today, a rich armful of pale white petals exuding a sweet fragrance, a breath of life in the midst of the seemingly never-ending snow all around them. Maybe he should have accepted last night’s offer of hothouse roses from Ororo and the others, after all. Not even Erik is sure of when his true birthday must have been; all he knows, and he only knows this because Charles had helped him find this stray memory, is that the first scent he clearly remembers is that of tiny wild strawberries, tart and sweet at the same time, perfectly warmed in early summer sunshine. A repeated offering, something given to him as a gift, every year, in the years when it was still possible for him to run freely in fields full of sun and flowers, among friends and neighbors and family. It’s all the evidence they have, and it’s not necessarily going to support the idea that he had been born sometime in the spring, and Charles remembers pointing that out himself all those long years ago. Still, he hadn’t been surprised, exactly, when Erik had begun to refer to himself – if only in his deepest thoughts, the ones only Charles was privy to – as having been born early in the year. Now March is drawing to a close, and it has been a long and snowbound March, and there will be no lilies for Erik. Charles allows himself a moment to feel his defeat, really be despondent about a failure that he couldn’t have foreseen or acted against – and he still closes the door softly, when he turns back around and thinks about heading back to bed. Except that when he passes the kitchen there are a few soft voices murmuring. Familiar voices, familiar minds, but not among the ones who had been here last night. Raven calls out to him, then, just as he’s hesitating on the threshold. Charles. Hello. Are we too early? Is no one awake? Where is Erik? So he pushes in, smiling – but the smile drops off his face in shock when he sees his sister cradling a soft bundle in her arms. “I – when?” he asks, rocking back on his heels. “Congratulations! Why didn’t you let us know?” “Not entirely expected,” is the low, gravelly, amused response from Azazel, who is rooting through one of the cupboards. “And then over before it began. No harm done to her or to the child. Something to be grateful for, something to celebrate. Now, where is your liquor cabinet? Have you moved it again?” “Yes, and please accept my apologies. Most unfortunate. Some of the children very nearly got into it a month or two ago. South library. Near the fireplace. Mind the books, all right?” “Obliged,” Azazel says. “I’ll be back,” he says to Raven, and then he’s gone in a quiet puff of sulfur. Raven grins and doesn’t get up from the chair, and looks proud and happy. Bright white teeth in her dark blue face, lit up with happiness. “Wanna meet your nephew?” “...Nephew. That sounds good. And yes, please.” He pulls a chair around so he can sit next to her, so he’s close enough to feel the child. Tiny thoughts pulse against his, wordless, unformed, content. Carefully, Raven pulls down a corner of the swaddling, revealing blue skin like hers, though without her characteristic scales, and three chubby fingers clenched into a fist. Dark blue-black fluff of curly hair. “He’s magnificent,” Charles says as he presses a kiss to her temple, as he rubs gently over soft little knuckles. The baby shifts, and catches his finger in a gentle, barely-there grip. “How beautiful. Erik will be thrilled.” “I’ll be what?” Erik himself says when he stumbles in just one moment later. He’s mostly put together, dressed and jacketed, but there are still sleep- creases visible in his face and along his throat, and he has to yawn before and after his question. “Happy birthday,” Raven says, covering up her laughter. “Thank you.” Erik pauses and sniffs the air. “Azazel?” “I sent him off to the liquor cabinet,” Charles says as he gets up, meeting Erik halfway in a soft kiss. “Happy birthday, beloved. I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you today. The winter’s killed my garden. All the lilies are gone.” “If you’re here, and if we’re among friends, I will take it. I’m starting to feel the years in my bones, and I’m starting to learn how to take my victories where I can get them.” “Tsk. You’re nowhere near old yet,” Charles says as he watches Erik get on with the preparations for coffee and tea. The kitchen lights play over his hair, half gray and half dark; they catch on the deepening lines around his eyes, visible every time he yawns or smiles. “Worth the search party, as always,” Azazel says when he reappears next to Erik. “If you are pouring the coffee, I only want half a cup.” “Pour your own,” Erik drawls. “I’m not supposed to be ordered around today.” “Right, right, your so-called birthday. So you’re a man of a certain age now? Have you met my son?” “Son?” Charles raises an amused eyebrow at a giggling Raven. “Come here, and meet – ” “Kurt,” Raven supplies. “...Really?” Charles asks. “I didn’t name him for us, Charles, I promise.” “The name of the doctor who helped us,” Azazel says gravely. “We were completely unknown to him, and we should have been anathema, because we look as we do. Instead he did everything he could to make sure the ordeal was not so terrible. He did not even allow us to pay him.” “And he should have, if only because I damn near screamed my head off in the birthing,” Raven adds, looking rueful. “I’m glad you had that,” Erik says quietly. Charles watches him take the seat on the other side of Raven, and peer carefully at a still-oblivious Kurt, who gurgles and twitches in his sleep. Erik is quiet for a long time, long enough that Charles feels compelled to reach out to him, taking hold of his shoulder. “Erik?” he asks softly. I’ll be fine, is the eventual reply. He reminds me of my sister. I remember being led to her crib, and I remember that she would not sleep unless I was in the room next to our mother. Another memory recovered – that is something to be thankful for indeed. “I just needed to remember,” Erik says, and then, to Raven, he adds, “May I hold him?” “I – of course,” Raven says. “He knows what to do,” Charles mutters, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Okay.” Gingerly she hands Kurt over, and gingerly Erik tucks him into the crook of his arm. “Camera,” Azazel says. “We need a camera.” “Yes,” Charles says, smiling so widely his cheeks hurt. A good kind of pain. A warmth that lodges firmly around his heart. He heads toward one of the kitchen cabinets, where Moira keeps something for when the strangest things happen around this same kitchen table, and after a quick check to make sure that there is film and that the batteries are still in working order, he peers through the viewfinder and focuses on Kurt’s closed eyes, on the damp trails on Erik’s cheeks. Click. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "On one of their birthdays". This fic was partially inspired by people talking about writing things in which Charles and Erik are no longer young, but aren't exactly old quite yet. It is also inspired by pretty much everyone in the UK complaining about the terrible weather they have been having. This is a canon AU, and if Charles and Erik were approaching their thirties at the time of the movie I've imagined this one as being set somewhat in or near the 1980s. ***** lightly fall our hearts ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Room 2046 is much cooler and much quieter than she remembers it from the last time - a far cry from the relentless humidity outside, from the hovering weight of rainstorms and shuddering thunder. The bed is small and a little creaky, but it is comfortable, the more so when she carefully peels off her dress: the linens are soft against her camisole and slip. Reluctantly she gives in to the urge to close her eyes, and she sighs and promises herself a quick catnap while she waits for Erik to follow her here, to find her and be with her. When she wakes up, however, the little room is full of a fresh sweet scent like spun-sugar and sunshine, and Erik is standing over her. A complicated mix of emotions in the lines of his face, like fondness and amusement and a carefully concealed longing. It’s getting more and more difficult to hide her own emotions from him, so she’s thankful for any distraction she can get - and she sits up with alarm and knows that her cheeks are burning red with embarrassment. “Please excuse me,” she murmurs as she forces herself to meet his eyes. “I was tired, and the bed was comfortable - ” Erik smiles. “I know it is, and you don’t need to apologize. I was trying not to disturb you, actually. You looked like you needed the rest.” Charlotte returns the smile, tentatively, from the pillows: here she is at the head of the bed, stretched out along one half of the mattress; and she watches as Erik shucks his suit jacket and his tie and his shirt, as he sits down at the foot of the bed, facing her. “It was still rude of me to fall asleep while waiting,” she says. “I don’t really have much of an excuse. I was kept up all night last night. My husband came home, reeking of beer, wanting to talk.” She makes a face. “Or he wanted to make sure that I was really there, and really listening.” “What did he want to talk about?” “Nothing important. A new co-worker. Eating at a restaurant where the service was terminally rude. Breakdowns on the MTR. Trifles,” she says, and sighs again. “Up all night for nothing. He wasn’t looking for a conversation. Just someone to nod in all the right places.” Erik looks at her with sympathy. “Well, at least yours is still speaking to you; that is much more than I can say for mine. Granted, she has never been much of what anyone might call - grandiloquent. Silence has always been her gift, but there were days when it was possible for me to hear her voice, if only to ask me to pass the soup, or to - I don’t know - hand me a book or something. Now? Now is a different story.” Charlotte smiles, half bitterly, half with genuine amusement. “One wonders how yours and mine could get along, then.” He nods. “Yes. One wonders. Though you and I both know damn well that they do. For a certain value of getting along.” There are any number of correct responses to that: she could kiss him, again, because she likes the single-mindedness of the way he kisses her back. Or she could reach out and hold his hand, because he’s already confessed that he likes it when she touches him. They’ve crossed a line, already, and there is something easy and something right in the crossing, and yet Charlotte holds herself back and contents herself with asking, “Am I dreaming or am I really smelling strawberries?” Her reward is Erik’s surprised and quiet laugh, and his hands sliding a small wickerwork box across the sheets in her direction. “Yes. Strawberries,” he says, grinning now, as though he’s been caught out in some little prank. “I had a devil of a time finding those, I don’t mind telling you that.” She inhales again. Sweet and bracing and just a little tart, the strawberries announcing themselves with their tantalizing fragrance, and when she can no longer be content with just the smell she reaches for the box and opens it. Red and green wrapped in several layers of newspaper, to protect them from being crushed. The colors are otherworldly and luscious and strangely unreal. “They’re lovely,” she says, and then, “you really shouldn’t have - ” “It was my pleasure to seek them out,” Erik says. “I seem to have too much free time on my hands these days.” “Your writing - ?” “Still on hiatus. My editor wants me to wash my hands of the manuscript I just turned in. It takes me some time to leave that behind and get into the mindset for something new. Perhaps I might have a week or two left before I can start again.” “That sounds ridiculous,” Charlotte says after a moment. “You should just write - that is, if you already have an idea.” “I have many ideas,” Erik says as he digs in his pockets for a battered black notebook. “They’re all waiting for me in here. Perhaps you can help me with some of them.” “I don’t know much about writing, but I will certainly do my best,” Charlotte says. “That’s all I ask. Now, perhaps you’d like to try the strawberries. You can put me out of my misery; I’ve been wondering whether they’re any good or not.” She actually laughs. “You silly man, didn’t you try them yourself?” Eagerly she dips into the wickerwork box. The strawberry is cool on her lips and offers a welcome resistance to her teeth when she bites in. The juices explode in her mouth, wash fresh sweetness across her tongue. It makes her sigh. “That is just glorious. Thank you. Thank you so much.” “You’re more than welcome,” Erik says with a smile. She passes him a strawberry, but again he does the unexpected thing in response: instead of taking the fruit from her hand, he takes her wrist in a gentle grip and pulls her gently closer, guides the fingers holding the deep red fruit toward his mouth. “Please don’t bite me,” Charlotte says, faintly. “Not unless you want me to, I promise,” Erik says, his voice gone low and rumbly, before leaning in to catch the strawberry in his teeth. Fascinated, Charlotte watches him chew and swallow, and stays where he’s put her, her wrist in his hands. “That is excellent,” Erik murmurs after a while. “I guess it was worth all that effort after all.” “I guess it was,” Charlotte says. With her free hand she reaches for another strawberry, large and plump and softly damp, and she bites it in half and offers him the rest. His mouth brushes her skin as he takes what she offers; she shivers, and so does he. She looks at him, helpless, rapt, and he stares back at her with a depthless intensity to match, and that’s when she makes one final decision. That’s when she shifts closer, when she leans up into his personal space: “Tell me to stop,” she murmurs when she’s just a breath away from kissing him. Erik shakes his head, and pulls her into his lap. “I would die if you stopped. I need you.” “I’m here,” Charlotte whispers. “I’m really here. I’m with you.” “Are you?” Erik asks, but not to be skeptical: he looks lost already, undone, desperate. He looks like desire and despair and delirium all at once, disbelieving, utterly devastated. Charlotte can understand that; it’s how she feels. It’s how she has always been around him. But there are no words for that, none they can easily make sense of. So she kisses him, mingled strawberry scent and recklessness, and with her heart and soul offered up on her lips. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Doing something ridiculous". This gifset_of_a deleted_scene is certainly silly enough and serves as a visual inspiration for Charlotte and Erik in this fic. I think this might well be the third and final installment in the story that began with years_of_flowers and continued in perhaps, perhaps,_perhaps. Will it be a happy ending or not for them? I leave that to you, dear readers. ***** always bound to you ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes “Charles, are you even still alive in there?” He blinks himself abruptly awake, and tries to move. And that’s how Charles realizes that he’s gone and fallen asleep in his chair, slumped over the great big ugly boat of his desk - a boat that now resembles a paperbound shipwreck, because he is surrounded by mountains of books and dust and loose pages and staple wire. It hurts to breathe, not the least because his nerves are now loudly protesting the awkward position he’d gone to sleep in. When he manages to pull away from the book beneath his cheek he winces when he notices he’s left a puddle of drool behind. Hastily he swipes his cuff against his mouth, and his sleeve against the pebbled burgundy leather. A little gilt comes off onto the cotton in the process. About the only thing that hasn’t been ruined or fiddled around with or otherwise displaced from its usual position is the zippered case in which he keeps his pens and a small flat cloth bag in which he keeps the bare handful of notes that Erik has passed him over the years. They don’t share many classes, and it’s been over a year since they were last in a classroom together, because they are pursuing very different things, so when they can wangle it they almost always sit together, all the way at the back of the room, and whisper commentary to one another before being asked to share their thoughts with the class. Still, Erik passes him notes, and Charles keeps the notes, and not just because of the words on the paper. There’s no time for him to read or reread those notes as he often does when he’s reminded of them - the great crash of the library door being shoved heedlessly open heralds the bright blue and red of Raven’s appearance. Charles musters up a tired smile for the way she stalks in. “Hello,” he says. She folds her arms over her chest and tsks at him. “You haven’t been out at all, and you should be so I can call you something that our rudest and most irritating cat dragged in from some forgotten mire somewhere in this place.” “You can still call me all kinds of names, you’d just be joining the club,” he says around a weary yawn. “Why’d you let me come here at all? Why’d I wake up among my books when I finished all my finals yesterday?” “I tried to stop you, Charles,” Raven says. “You looked at me with this weird crazy-eyes expression and stalked right in here and closed the doors behind you. I almost thought you were going to mind-whammy me or something.” He feels the blood drain out of his face. “Oh my god, please tell me I didn’t - ” “No, no you didn’t, but I really thought you were going to.” “I am so sorry.” “Fortunately, there is a way for you to make that up to me and to the rest of us,” she says, and she rounds the desk and gets her hands on his arms. One mighty heave, and he’s swaying on his feet with every bit of his spinal column wailing loud and creaking protest. Raven smiles at him, mostly fond with a large side of mocking, and proceeds to march him out of the library. “Up to your room and don’t forget to scrub the ink off your face,” she says, “and then you are to get out because Erik has threatened, I quote, to pull this bloody dorm down around your ears if you’re not in the linden grove in two hours.” “But I didn’t forget - ” Charles says. “You’re not forgetting it because I woke you up and told you to get,” Raven says. “Which, really, get. Out you go because you haven’t seen any damn sun in a week. You are a human being, you are Homo sapiens superior, and you are not a lichen or some other strange thing that dwells in the dark.” “I knew it was a mistake to let you sit in on one of the classes I TA for,” Charles complains, but mildly, and he leans over to plant a kiss on her cheek at the end of it. “You’re gonna pay for that some day soon,” Raven laughs. She doesn’t stop making him walk until they’re outside his actual bedroom. “Shower, scrub, shave, and dress in something decent for once. We won’t wait up for you.” Charles blushes, and nods, and reaches for his door. “Thank you,” he says, and sends her a wave of affection-gratitude-be safe-I love you. “I’d really be lost without you and Erik.” “Damn straight,” Raven says, and she smacks a loud kiss against the side of his head before letting him go and sprinting lightly back down the stairs. Charles heaves out a sigh, and scrubs again at the corner of his mouth. * The sky above him is an endless clean blue, and the distant wisps of cloud remind him of dandelion fluff coasting along on the brisk breeze. He can normally make it to the linden grove in thirty minutes, but the beautiful day makes Charles tarry in his steps. More than that, he’s still worn out from the weeks of little sleep and irregular meals. He aches from head to toe, and the hot shower has done nothing to loosen the kinks in his nerves or the lingering bruises on his arse from sitting down for hours on end. Still, he remembers Erik’s message, and he starts jogging down the path as soon as he catches sight of the grove. You’re almost late, is the thought that he catches as soon as he begins to climb to the crest of the hill, and Charles wheezes out a soft laugh and doesn’t reply - he just keeps going. Talking will just mean further delays, and he’s kept Erik waiting long enough. “You look terrible,” Erik says from one of the branches when Charles finally collapses into the thick soft bed of grass growing within the grove. The trees aren’t in flower yet, so there’s no need to worry about rolling around in buds and pollen and other things. “Like I don’t get like this every year?” Charles asks as he wiggles around, trying to get comfortable. “I keep regretting going into genetics, sometimes. Too much work.” “You should have just stuck with the lit classes.” “Oh god no, that’s worse. Many more papers in a shorter period of time. This way at least I can take exams and be done with it.” “Which means you’ll be useless for now,” Erik drawls. Charles turns his head just enough to glare at Erik, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect, because Erik merely rolls his eyes and shimmies back down to the ground, limber and graceful and so beautiful it chokes Charles up sometimes. “I don’t know what’s making you look like that,” Erik says when he sits down next to Charles. “I just like being around you, that’s all,” Charles says. “God, I’m so tired I can’t see straight. Can I lie down in your lap?” “Yes.” Charles sighs and settles in, and flings his arm across his eyes. “You have a book?” “You’re going to read?” “No, you are. I want you to read to me.” “Pushy,” Erik observes, but Charles doesn’t need to look at his thoughts to know that Erik is smiling as he says it. Please, Charles thinks at him. I will, I will, get settled, Erik thinks. You feel muffled. You’re just tired. Charles nods. “Yeah, maybe,” he whispers. Erik clears his throat and begins: “The Golden Bough, by Sir James George Frazer....” The prose ought to be dry and far removed from them both, but Charles isn’t really listening to the words. He’s focused on Erik’s voice, its rise and fall and modulation. Erik is deliberately keeping his voice down, in deference to their quiet place and Charles’s own condition, but there is no denying that he really is interested in this book as he always has been. Charles remembers giving him this particular copy soon after they’d met, remembers the shock and surprise on Erik’s face that had faded away into a cautious and gentle happiness. He likes to think that he alone is the cause and reason for Erik to ever look like that, in the moments that they snatch for and with each other. Moments such as this one, where they can pretend that they are the only two people around, when Erik can let his guard down and Charles can drop his shields partway. And there, again, is the peculiar distance in a part of Erik’s mind, but out of respect for his privacy Charles lets him be, and surrenders to sleep once again, curled up in Erik’s lap. * Erik lets out a quiet sigh of relief as soon as he notices that Charles’s thoughts are no longer conscious against his - that the light of his mind has dimmed, strong and vital but a little more distant, which is what happens when he’s unconscious. He loves Frazer, could never get enough of debating the tales and the myths, but he’s also using Frazer as a shield, because he has a surprise for Charles. Carefully he thinks about the ring in his pocket, now, and it floats up into the hushed space of the grove as he lets his abilities flow along the nicks and imperfections of the metal. Imperfect as it is, it’s important, because of what he’s chosen to make it into. Silver band inset with a representation of two spiraling strands joined by visible horizontal bonds. A DNA ring, a present for Charles. Erik directs the ring down, towards Charles’s left hand. He places it on Charles’s ring finger, snugs the ring so that it’s not too tight and won’t fall off. He leans over and kisses Charles’s fingertips, and then he goes back to his book, and settles in to wait. When it comes to Charles, he knows he can wait. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Doing something sweet". I already managed to brainstorm the idea of young!Charles and Erik sleeping in the outdoors somewhere, but then Afrocurl turned up something that just made that good idea so much better and so much more awesome: this DNA ring_in_sterling_silver. So I worked that into the story and now I think I might need to brush my teeth or schedule an appointment with my dentist :) I love the idea of this Raven being happily blue and happily kicking Charles's arse around because he can't be without her. I also really just liked the idea of Erik reading The Golden Bough; I like characters who are interested in mythology. ***** he’s come undone ***** Chapter Notes Inspired by the following, which was posted to Pangeasplits’s Tumblr: “Drop it,” Erik growls, and the man under his boot bares his teeth, fights to twist away, and Erik rolls his eyes and PINS the man down with all the metal on his body, and there is quite a lot of it, from the implant in the elbow to the rivets in the jeans. “Now tell me where Xavier is - ” /Xavier is RIGHT HERE/ - and the Charles who walks out of the shadows is a tatterdemalion demon with blazing blue eyes, who growls, “Chief scientist. He’s mine.” Erik grins, and gets out of his way. See the end of the chapter for more notes Erik very nearly gives in to the irrational urge to roll his eyes when he finally crests the last rise and catches sight of the facility that the others had located for him. The boxy little building is embedded partway into the mountain, and looks like a cancerous growth on it: too much stone, too much concrete, but even that is reinforced by thin threads of steel running all throughout the construction. They might as well have rolled out the red carpet for his arrival. He’d bring it all down without a second thought - there are days when he refuses to get his hands dirty, especially for most tasks like this. He’s going to have to bring the personal touch to bear on this one, though, because this facility is a prison and it is holding someone he’s been searching for. The information from Raven and Emma and the others indicates that the entire place is shielded against telepathy, top to bottom, except for one room sunk into the earth: something more powerful than Cerebro, something that can be used to destroy mutants as well as find them. His mission is to make sure that machine is reduced to dust and rubble, to its component molecules if he can, and to that end he’s carrying a series of special little packages, crafted by the geniuses at the Westchester mansion. He allows himself a moment to remember the grim snarl on McCoy’s face when he’d taken delivery of those packages. Dark shadows under his eyes, visible even in his blue fur, and the way he’d whispered, “Bring it all down, please.” “With pleasure,” Erik remembers saying. That is a pleasure that now spikes through his veins and sings a high warning note in his head. He needs to do other things before he can let the packages do their work. He gets to his feet and takes his helmet off, tucking it neatly under his arm before he reaches out a hand to the cloudless sky and pulls - the earth’s magnetic fields answer him, keen focus and keen hatred and keen worry, and he is borne silently from one cliff’s edge to another, a hundred miles or more in one long step. Men with guns up ahead, and he cannot feel their guns but he can latch on to the iron that flows in their veins and it’s easy to tear them apart, render them down into bloody red dust. Red is the right color to be wielding and seeing and creating here. Vivid splashes of death against pale crumbled rock, silently gone; they will not be missed. He uses the building against the men and women within it: the doors fall open at his touch, the corridors twist and turn so they all lead back to him, and those who hurtle into his path fall screaming to their knees, and soon are no more than wet smears on the floors and walls and ceilings. Anger in his blood, and he can almost see it, cold white light wrapped around the hands that he extends before him. He is not using them to feel his way forward. He is using them to find and sense his enemies before they can even see him: minute traces of iron, better than homing beacons, allowing him to kill, silent and easy and swift. It’s more mercy than they ought to deserve for chaining down a telepath. For locking a telepath within his own mind. For taking Charles Xavier away from him. Rage is its own serenity, now, for Erik, and he lives in that quiet seething space in the turmoil of his mind: a turmoil that needs to coexist with the dark shadows within Charles. He calls out to Charles, heedlessly, broadcasting his thoughts as loudly as he can: I am here. I am here. Find me and don’t let me go. Find me. I am here. Silence answers him, pure dead nothingness. Erik walks into the heart of the facility, deeper and deeper into the mountain, leaving McCoy’s little packages behind like a trail of death. He comes to a great domed room. The plates are heavy but they are still metal. He’s had more than enough practice with this alloy, though: all he needs to do here is look at one of the plates, and it peels away to the bare rock, floats silent and resisting but obedient to his superior will. “Come on out, if you’re still in here,” Erik says quietly into the dead silence of the room. “Come on out and give me what I want. And if you do that, I’ll give you a painless death.” The man who comes out is carrying another one of those nuisances, a gun made without metal parts. Its muzzle trembles and wavers violently. Erik does roll his eyes then. “Put that away before you hurt yourself.” “Guards!” the man cries out. “There are none,” Erik says, shrugging one shoulder. “No one left but you. I made my way down here, floor by floor, room by room. You can walk out if you like and see for yourself. No one else lives who wears those badges and coats, who carries those weapons. It’s just you and me. So think very carefully about what you’re going to do next. Unless, of course, you can just give me what I want.” “I’m not giving you the telepath. He’s ours.” Erik sees red. “He is not the telepath,” he says, evenly, though every instinct is screaming at him to kill the man already and be done with it. “He is Charles Xavier. He is powerful and he is mine. I am his. I have come for him. Give him to me.” The man levels his weapon. In a flash Erik reaches out to all the metal in the man’s body. Their first mistake was to take on a man with so much of it embedded in him - screws in arm and leg and shoulder. Titanium is non-magnetic, but in these screws it is part of an alloy - and the other half of that alloy is iron. It makes him smile as he latches on to those familiar atoms and pulls, delicate and decisive. The man’s screams echo for a long, long time around the domed room, long after he’s been driven down to the floor with his shattered bones. Erik tunes him out and keeps shouting for Charles within the silent spaces of his mind. Charles! Charles, I’m here! ...no no no you’re not real you’re not real leave me alone That rocks him back on his heels, that galvanizes him, and he strides to the fallen man and yanks him roughly up by his collar. Fresh screaming - Erik silences him with a smart blow across the mouth. Blood on his gloved hand. “Where is Charles Xavier?!” The man tries to speak - he chokes - he turns his head and spits out one of his own teeth. “I - I - please - ” “There is no more mercy left in me,” Erik hisses. “I never had much to begin with. Don’t waste my time. Where is he.” The man points down. “Holding cell.” “Thank you.” He gets a grip on the iron rushing through the man’s veins, through his heart - and he tears that in two with the next thought. The man falls to the floor, eyes wide and staring. Erik sends the panel he’d taken from the dome straight down, like a scalpel: it reveals a warren of rooms in the rock. He follows its path, shearing steadily, and the effort of it makes the sweat run down the back of his neck. Erik - but it can’t be you it can’t be you my mind is mine alone and I am the only one here “Charles!” The room he ends up in is tiny, no more than fifteen meters on a side, and there is a bed and a set of thin blankets and the wrist that protrudes is chained to the wall. The links are plastic, but the spike is still made out of steel, and Erik carefully eases it out. He cannot look away from the pale bruised skin, from the head covered in rough light and dark stubble. I want Erik. The real Erik. Not just a figment of my imagination, Charles thinks at him. Every word is distorted with the weight of his fear and despair and exhaustion, the unreal passage of time in a shielded place. It’s me, Charles, I swear to you it’s really me, Erik projects as loudly as he can. You put a gun to my forehead and wouldn’t shoot. You pulled me out of waters as dark and as hot as blood. You showed me your scars when you saw the brand on my skin. “Scars,” the man on the bed croaks, and finally he shifts and pushes the blankets away and Erik comes face to face with the ruin they’ve made of Charles Xavier: he is so pale and so gaunt, starved, cracks in the skin all around his mouth, bruises from shoulders to hips. Blue eyes, cloudy and dark and dazed - but he’s looking at Erik. “I’m here,” Erik says. “It’s me.” “There were people here.” “I’ve killed all of them.” Charles blinks, and then - he smiles. It cracks open his lower lip, and blood stains his pale skin when he replies, “Good. Though I wish you had saved some for me.” Erik smiles back, fierce and rough and feral. “All right.” Silence again. Charles struggles up from the bed, and Erik lets him have his pride, and doesn’t offer to help other than with an outstretched hand - which Charles takes, eventually, reluctantly. When he’s upright at last, he whispers, “How did you find me?” “I had help,” Erik says. “A lot of help. Evidently you were missed; you were needed.” “And you, Erik, did you need me?” He nods. He has always told Charles the truth, all of the truth, every single meaning and nuance of it. “Every single day.” The smile he gets is thin and haunted and unimaginably old. “I want, I need - but how do I know you’re real? How do I know I won’t wake up and be back in the machine? How do I - ” Erik cuts him off, swiftly, decisively, and he isn’t gentle with teeth or tongue: he kisses Charles, rough and demanding and reckless. Charles is unresponsive for a long moment - and then his hands come up to Erik’s wrists, familiar powerful grip, and there is a groan that echoes in Erik’s head, needy and wild. Hands ripping at Erik’s jacket and shirt and trousers. Thoughts hammering at his mind: Give yourself to me give myself to you find ourselves again - Erik all but cries back Yes yes yes and follows Charles’s lead, lets Charles tug him roughly into place so he’s braced on his hands and knees over Charles. His robust frame is worn down around the edges but is also still recognizably Charles, so beautiful he makes Erik’s heart ache, makes the blood in his veins pound hotly, insistent passion. Cold shaking hands framing his face, thumbs moving in soft little circles. “Is it really you?” “What kind of proof can I give you? What kind of proof do you need?” Charles smiles - and the shadow in his eyes is something that Erik has seen before, though it’s never been as strong as this. Darkness like the shadows Erik carries around in his own heart of hearts: the things that have been twisted beyond redemption. In Erik these things are sheltered and set aside. In Charles, his dark side now follows him palpably, visibly: now Erik can see the old scars that have faded from his skin but not from his mind. Rejection after rejection, loneliness and boredom and hatred and neglect. So Erik lays his mind bare as he never has before, shows Charles the seams and the cracks within him, the places in his thoughts where his fear and his anger and his sorrow have taken root and sunk so thoroughly into his being. “Is this you, Erik - so wrong, so good,” Charles moans, and his voice reverberates thinly around the room and fans the flame of Erik’s want. This time when they kiss they fight each other for dominance: determination, fervor, the slick slide of their bodies as they warm up to each other, sweat and need easing the way. Charles leaves savage bites and bruises and drops of his own blood on Erik’s skin; Erik lingers worshipfully over freckle and fresh wound and faded scar. Erik winds up working himself down to his knees on the floor, between Charles’s legs which are spread as wide as they can go - and he takes a deep breath and takes Charles in, overwhelming musk and iron and copper - it makes him gag as he works his mouth down and down but he fights it off, and doesn’t stop until Charles hits the back of his throat and then he swallows, again and again until Charles is screaming beneath him. “Fuck Erik fuck fuck fuck,” and the words fall broken and shocked from Charles’s lips. “Fuck, please, ah - ” Come on, Erik thinks - and then he drinks Charles down. When he comes back up, gasping for air, there’s a hand on his chest and he’s being pushed roughly down to the floor - he goes, falling into a clumsy heap, and Charles is on his knees above him, his own fingers shoved into his mouth. The noises he makes are wet and loud and obscene and Erik can’t stop him, won’t stop him, is helpless to stop him - not even when pain flashes through the spaces between them. Wide-eyed, he watches Charles prep himself, rough and clumsy and hurried - he’s reckless, he’s working himself up, and then it’s too soon before Charles pulls his fingers out with a loud shocking pop. Erik only has a fraction of a moment to ask, “Are you sure - is it safe - ” “Fuck being safe,” Charles growls, and his voice and his words go straight to Erik’s cock, and he cries out and reaches for Charles’s shoulders, pulls him roughly down. Bright spark of pain, unavoidable, but Charles is setting the pace, he’s in a hurry, and he is hot and wet and so so tight that he takes Erik’s breath away, he’s like a punch in the gut, he’s like a bullet to the brainpan, and Erik can’t find the words or the strength to make him stop - doesn’t want him to, not when he can hear Charles screaming More more more more, and it’s too soon when he buckles under the incredible bliss and strain of it. He’s entangled in Charles in the aftermath, sweat and semen smeared across their skins, and Charles is holding on to him with all the strength he has left - and Erik reaches for him, too, crushing him to his heart, until the facility and the long months apart recede under the weight of captivity and reunion and the two of them. Chapter End Notes Written for the theme "Doing something hot". Lots of warnings for compromised mental states and PTSD and really rough sex. This is a fic in which Charles is not his cuddly gentle self at all - dark!Charles is a real weakness of mine and it was a real pleasure to write about him, as seen through the eyes of Erik. Thanks to everyone who read every day and to everyone who left lovely comments. Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!