AN: Hey! Um, so, this is my first post! Exciting. Just a stupid drabbley piece I did for a friend based off headcanon, so the spelling and grammar isn't anything special, but I hope you enjoy! Reviews are appreciated. Thanks!
One day Charles goes off recruiting on his own, because frankly, you can't leave Alex and Sean in a house together alone without something ending up on fire, or waterlogged, or generally destroyed. Since Erik is more intimidating when it comes to disciplinary matters, he won't be the one going anywhere.
Charles doesn't return until evening, just before supper. With him is a small group of young adults wielding a variety of vaguely impressive mutations. Erik doesn't see him come in until he pokes his head out of the kitchen to call everyone to the table, eyes briefly locking on Charles before scanning the ruffled, rag-tag bunch. He then yells something up the stairs that sounds more like a threat than an invitation.
Soon they're all assembled, and the introductions are polite, if not a bit awkward. With Erik at one end of the dining room, Charles at the other, they converse lightly about the circumstances surrounding their recruitments before the question falls from someone's lips.
"What can you do?"
Charles, of course, had already revealed his power in order to gain the trust such a delicate situation calls for (he may have briefly projected the suggestion to skip over himself, too, but no one really seemed to mind,) so all eyes turn to his immediate left, Alex.
The boy mumbles about plasma and energy and sliced-in-half statues, leaving the newcomers with raised eyebrows and brazen curiosity. When the one with white hair opens her mouth to request a demonstration, Hank launches into an explanation about unrestrained cosmic blasts and experimental chest plates and words just long enough to make the asker regret her question.
"Alright, alright, then what's your mutation?" The pretty one slips in with a smirk when Hank stops to take a breath, effectively bringing his mind-numbing string of words to a screeching halt. Blatantly flustered, he goes red as he struggles for air, a chorus of um's and well's filling the room. Raven, her eyes carefully trained on the pretty one, goes to cover his embarrassment with a quip about large anatomical features when Sean's diaphragm decides that right then is the ideal moment to spasm.
The one with bright eyes makes a comment about cataclysmic hiccups as they settle down after the clean-up, a pile of Sharon Xavier's fine crystal sitting in the bottom of the trash can. Charles' smile is tight-lipped as he assures Sean for the fourth time that he wasn't really fond of that set anyway, and there are at least five more in storage somewhere, but it doesn't seem to matter, as Sean appears more amused with himself than apologetic.
Someone sighs, and the group looks a bit displaced as they try to recall where they left off before the glass-shattering interruption. Charles, ever the considerate host, attempts to ease the tension with a glance at the window and an observation about the cloud cover. Raven, of course, takes this as her opportunity to show off.
The blonde to Erik's right is replaced with the balding weatherman from Channel 3, possibly the only recognizable televised weather reporter in the entire state of New York at this point in time, and he begins to ramble about high pressure systems and forecasts and the chance of precipitation. It's carefully constructed gibberish, but the act is convincing enough to leave their guests slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
Before anyone gathers their thoughts into coherent sentences, Raven has shifted into each of the newbies (and if the pretty one doesn't quite match the original's beauty, it's purely because this is Raven's first time shifting into her, no other reason) and then back into the body of Charles Xavier's sweet younger sibling. The nods and impressed murmurings eventually die down, though Erik can't subdue an eye roll at the smug smile he finds on Raven's face.
The exasperation is quick to blow over when he looks up to see that the focus has shifted yet again. Over half a dozen sets of eyes fall onto Erik, most inquisitive or challenging in nature, though one pair is abnormally blue and cheery in humor, as if the owner knows exactly what he's planning.
And his plans are perhaps a little comical. He could always rip the plumbing from the walls or drag the appliances in from the kitchen or even just tug on the zippers and buttons and pins of everyone's clothing, but no. Erik wants to keep it simple. Docile.
With a silent command and the twitch of a finger, the forks, spoons, and knives laid out on the table drift up and into the air, stopping a few feet shy of the ceiling.
The room is silent save for a muffled choking noise from Charles, who is already stifling laughter before the thought is verbalized.
"Silverware? You can control silverware?"
The sound of metal clattering against dishes mixes with an eruption of snickers, the newcomers' incredulous giggles weak against Alex's snorting or Raven's open-mouthed gasping. Hank attempts politeness by covering his smile with a napkin, but he isn't fooling anyone.
"Yeah, we call him Captain Cutlery," Sean titters, turning redder than usual.
"Über Utensil."
"Super Spoon"
"The Fantastic Fork."
Perhaps it was the group's poor alliterative skills, or Charles' amused mask of disapproval, or some unspoken rule about the appropriate amount of time to lose your shit in front of near-strangers, but the names eventually stop bouncing off the walls, and the laughter dies away until the only sound is that of Hank's stuttering breaths as he tries to calm down.
Erik sits in stony silence as he watches them rein it in, eyes hard and calculating. This could go several ways. He might chuckle and brush off the misconception, playfully tugging at the pretty one's steel bobby pins and the one with wings' copper belt buckle, throwing in a few words borrowed from Hank for a more direct explanation. Or he might not.
The flatware goes airborne again, but this time, the forks and spoons stay behind, a cloud of knives forming above the table. Their target isn't immediately evident, but as Sean had started the name game, his seat was as good a guess as any.
"I'll make you wish cutlery was the only thing I could control, Cassidy."
The ginger shrinks against his chair, yelping when a blade comes a little too close for comfort, nicking a few hairs from a curl resting on his forehead. Before the rest of Sean's locks can face a similar fate, Charles clears his throat.
"Erik."
The word is enough to halt the entire operation. Knives still buzz around the nervous teenager, but after the two men lock eyes, they return, somewhat hesitantly, to the tablecloth. The room's collective sigh of relief is audible.
Erik isn't happy, and Charles knows it.
The rest of the evening is awkwardly stumbled through, Sean making a ridiculous excuse to leave the table and Alex producing something equally terrible to follow him. Hank slinks off with a few words about the lab and overdue duration periods, with Raven almost slipping out on his heels had Charles not reached out and gripped her arm in passing.
There were a few short sentences exchanged, leaving Raven with strict instructions to show their guests to their bedrooms in the east wing, and to please, for the love of god, remember to show everyone the way to the bathroom so they don't find themselves lost at two in the morning like last time. Everyone files out quickly, a few timid thanks and farewells shared before Charles and Erik are the only two left in the room.
Erik wastes no time in scooping up a few used platters from the table and sweeping into the kitchen, headed straight for the sink. It may not be possible to scrub the tension from a situation, but his arm would fall off trying. Besides, this would give him something to focus on when Charles would inevitably follow him in here, full of chiding remarks and admonishing glances and the do's and don'ts of role models.
Alright, should he have aimed a few dozen knives at a young man's head over a bit of harmless name calling? No. But did he want to admit that? No.
Erik has already lathered the soap and is going to town on the cheese-encrusted lasagna dish when he more feels Charles behind him than hears him.
"Are we still on for chess tonight, Captain?"
The sponge hits the sink with a wet smack. Erik slowly turns on his heels, eyeing the cardigan-clad man leaning cheekily in the doorway. The curve of Charles' lips and the quirk of his eyebrows reflect the intonation of his voice, edged with something a little too suggestive to be entirely innocent.
Oh.
Never one to be flustered, Erik leans back against the counter, tugging at his rolled-up sleeves. His gaze sharpens predatorily, mouth lifting at the corners.
"You tell me, Professor."
"We do have a maid, you know." Erik looks down at the dishes in the sink. The chore had somehow lost its appeal.
"Meet you in 10?" He'd already grabbed hold of a towel, drying his hands off as his eyes watch Charles' retreating form, lingering a bit too long to be deemed appropriate.
"Ay ay, Captain" was thrown over the shoulder with another half-mocking, half-seductive glance. Erik shivers. Maybe this new nickname isn't so bad.
Besides, Magneto doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, especially in the bedroom.