Disclaimer: Only in my wildest dreams do I have any part of the X Men franchise
Author's Note: I'm not completely satisfied with Xavier's Characterization in this so I'm looking for any criticism or advice you can offer on the subject! Thanks and I hope you enjoy it !
Charles Xavier had never actually walked into a strip club before he met Erik Lehnsherr. Once, for his 21st birthday his mates dragged him to one close to Oxford, but Charles never made it inside. It wasn't just pure lust that oozed from the club, Charles could have handled that (more than that actually, he probably would have reveled in its wildness, not that he's ever admit it).
No, there was lecherousness, filth, depression, loneliness and sodden dreams crawling out of every crevice, seeping through the floors, and pooling in the shadows until they came to rest in Charles' mind, haunting him.
And he just couldn't, couldn't go in there and watch as some girl who used to sneak into her mother's closet and play dress-up, and dreamed of owning horses one day shimmy out of her clothes for his amusement.
So he pretended to be far farther gone than he actually felt and let his mates drag him back to Oxford to finish the evening.
Going with Erik felt different. It was a business trip, in its own way, in and out, a tactical move to save one girl. Easy.
Charles had to remind himself to relax. He had to consciously force himself to lower his shoulders and ease the grip on his glass. And to breath. Normally. Somehow that was the hardest to accomplish.
Erik on the other hand lounged easily at the bar and fiddled idly with his drink as he scanned the bar for the girl they had come to see. A mental prod from Charles told him when he'd found her and he summoned her quite expertly with his eyes. When she sauntered over he held up a bill just large enough to get them a private room, and just small enough to avoid causing a stir.
It occurred to Charles that Erik might have done this before.
The two turned to face each other, and in Erik's composure Charles relaxed. Erik's wit and mirth were contagious, and somewhere in the banter among the three of them Charles started enjoying himself fully. In a strip club. With a killer and a most likely under aged stripper. With his friends.
Will wonders never cease to be?
Charles Xavier had never held a gun before he met Erik. He knew theoretically how it worked and was clever enough that he assumed he could always figure it out in a pinch, if the situation ever called for it.
The situation never arose. Genetics proved a very un-violent field.
Now he held a gun to his friend's head and tried to convince himself that, yes, it was actually okay to pull the trigger. Erik's wild grin told him that.
It didn't help.
Charles lowered the gun, and Erik's face fell.
"Come on Charles, you know I can block it!" Erik said placing the gun back on his forehead.
In Erik's head Charles could see the dozens of times Erik had stopped bullets just like this, amongst the hundreds of times Erik had dodged bullets in general. He still couldn't pull the trigger.
Mostly because he didn't want to pull the trigger. He didn't want to be the sort of man who fired at a friend simply to prove a point, simply for practice. He didn't want to be the sort of man who risked a friend's life just to make him a better weapon.
The hypocrisy of the sentiment stirred in Charles' mind. Hadn't he been doing the exact same thing with the others? Forcing Sean to jump from the dish and fashioning Hank into one of Alex's dummies were just different forms of the same intent.
Somehow holding a gun directly at his friends head seemed much more…drastic. There must be a difference between expanding powers and becoming a weapon.
The Gun.
The Gun made all the difference. The gun forced the situation. The gun itself was a weapon, how could it create anything else?
Charles handed the gun back to Erik and turned to the giant dish several miles away.
Violence only begets more violence.
Charles Xavier had never been in a fight before he met Erik. The occasional scuffle with Raven when they were still children, a quick and mostly mocking tumble with the chaps after an evening at the pub, but nothing more.
So when Charles launched himself at Erik during the fight in Cuba, the inspiration came from a place of deep desperation, and more than a little ignorance.
While Erik wore the helmet, Charles had no other way of fighting.
Charles couldn't tell who was more shocked by the impact: him or Erik. He was just shocked by how much the collision had simply hurt, and the distressing fact that he didn't seem to be getting any air. He couldn't read Erik of course. But he looked stunned, and maybe a little impressed.
Charles scrambled for the helmet, but Erik's hands moved with much practiced speed and beat him there, holding the helmet in place. Charles persisted.
"I don't want to hurt you Charles!"
But Charles wasn't listening. He fought Erik with what strength remained after containing Shaw for so long, though his actions were clumsy at best compared with Erik's years of practice. But he couldn't let the missiles go; he couldn't let the humans be right.
Right about when Erik elbowed him in the face Charles realized the enormity and the ridiculousness of what he was trying to do. He'd never really stood a chance in a fight against what, for all intents and purposes, was assassin. A fact driven home when Erik punched him square in the face and left him lying dazed in the sand.
Charles had never been shot before he met Erik. Somehow the idea had escaped him when the day had turned into a battle between the mutants, not between humans.
The gunfire he heard then, as he lay stunned on the beach, remained completely inexplicable to him.
As he staggered to an upright position he wondered thickly whose mutation allowed them to shoot bullets…
Moira of course. She'd need some way of protecting herself. She's not a mutant…
He wavered only slightly as he stood.
The realization that he probably shouldn't stand in open gunfire hit him just before the bullet did.