Essentially, I wrote this in response to the first issue of the "Magneto: Not a Hero" comic mini-series, which was released this month. However, since I highly doubt this is where it's going (though IDK, comic canon can get pretty hilarious), this is crack 'fic more than anything. Nonetheless, if you're planning to read the issue (you don't really need to in order to 'get' this, in my opinion), beware of light spoilers.
Summary: Magneto is framed, and the X-Men must work to clear his name; rinse and repeat as needed. Also, there are robots. Implied Magneto/Charles.
Not Not a Hero, Maybe
The fact that it's all over the news the next day is irrelevant; Charles has already been roped into a heated Skype session with the leader of the free world entire minutes before the story, and plenty of grainy cell phone pictures, hit the blogosphere.
"As I've already explained," he frowns when the President continues sputtering at him, "Magneto could not have committed a terrorist act five hours away from Utopia last night."
"Look, Charles." The other man's worn visage seems to sprout a few more gray hairs as he speaks. "The fact of the matter is, unless someone is keeping him under lock and key, there's a very real possibility that he wasn't where he wanted you to believe. Unless you can verify his location at approximately 8 PM in the coordinating time zone the other night ..."
"I can," Charles says, a bit too hastily. His eyes slide down briefly to his carefully folded hands. "He was ... with me yesterday evening."
"The whole time?"
Charles coughs. "Yes."
"Ah." The silence quickly lapses into uncomfortable shifting territory for both of them, at which point the President clears his throat. "Well," he says finally, "keep me posted on any developments, yes?"
"Of course," Charles replies, eager to end the conversation. "God damn it, Erik," he mutters, wishing he had hair to run his hands through in frustration. He settles for pressing the buttons on the arms of his chair with purpose, wheeling himself out to one of several patios that surround the X-Men's new island base. There, he finds Magneto. Privately, it thrills him that the other man has joined their side, even if it means that his lover has seemingly adopted Scott's penchant for wearing fugly bowling shirts. Today's, Charles can't help but notice, is purple.
Erik looks up from where he's perched in a (metal, of course) folding chair, eyes following Charles' journey towards him with bemusement. "What did the President have to say this morning, honey?" he smirks, and Charles feels like a dick for the fact that he's about to ruin the other man's rare good mood.
"Apparently, after three rounds of very strenuous love-making the other night, you snuck out of our bedroom, flew to a location five hours away, murdered a bunch of anti-mutant protestors, and arrived back here in plenty of time to spend the morning doing Sudoku puzzles."
Erik's eyebrows are nearly up to his hairline now. "I was busy last night."
"Indeed." Charles is still sighing and contemplating whether or not it's still too early for a drink or five when Scott wanders in, his face set in its usual pre-grimace. "I just got a really weird text message from Tony Stark," he gripes, and then glowers in their direction, though he shakes his fist at Erik specifically. "Why were you out killing people last night?" he demands.
Erik yawns. "You shouldn't trust someone who wears rubber underwear, Summers."
Charles pipes up before the squabbling threatens to make the migraine already brewing in his head worse. "I can vouch for Erik's whereabouts when the incident took place," he sighs, rubbing at his temples. "So whoever did kill all those humans the other night obviously did so with the intent to frame Magneto."
"Well, who would want to do that?" Scott asks. Gradually, all three men look back and forth at one another. Finally, Erik stands up, grumbling.
"I'll get the list."
Two tireless days later, Charles gives a sloppy follow-up report to the President, a laborious tale involving Neo-Nazis and an insidious plot to incite yet another spate of anti-mutant warfare using ruthless robots, styled after the Master of Magnetism himself. Thanks to the ineffable efforts of the X-Men, all of mankind was safe yet again, yadda yadda; after convincing the President that said robots had been fully deactivated and were no longer any kind of remotely conceivable threat, Charles locks down his laptop - the last time he'd forgotten to, he'd ended up with a bevy of embarrassing Facebook updates made on his behalf that he still hadn't lived down, or discovered the culprit of - and thinks about how this peacekeeping business is vastly overrated.
Erik finds him some time later, luxuriating in a bubble bath. "I've reprogrammed all of the robots, Charles," he says. Today's bowling shirt is red. He squints, watching the bald man wipe at his face with a giant, sudsy loofah. "What do you want them functional for anyways?" he asks. "You nixed my idea for using the leftover Sentinels even in the Danger Room."
Charles waves his hand airily. "I'm not planning to use them to train the students," he clarifies, and then eyes his lover pointedly. "Now, be a dear, Erik, and make sure that there is one robot stationed at each corner of my bed, hmmm?"
Erik splutters. "You're using them as sex toys?" he growls, and then cocks his head, considering this more thoroughly. "Can I at least watch?" he concedes.
Charles regards him dubiously. "Only if you take off that God-awful shirt," he decides finally. "Wearing the helmet wouldn't hurt either," he adds.
Erik sighs loudly. "Fine," he grouses, and stomps out of the room. Charles smiles as the door closes, and then hums a little as he begins to fashion himself a mohawk out of soap.