So, uh, this might take some explanation. So zombieboyband over on LJ wrote the beginnings of a fanfic wherein Erik is a dog-loving vegan and Charles does not understand that pizza is ~not vegan~ and OMG PATCHES. She wrote fanfic - in-character fanfic - about my terrible, awful, no good, deceased dog. (Spoiler alert: She is alive in this story, natch.) I was basically like, fffuck now I have to write fanfic about my shitty dead dog, so uh, I did. Really.
Summary: Life at the Xavier mansion during Training Week gets even more complicated with the arrival of a surly weiner dog. Somehow, this also manages to be an Erik/Charles 'fic (though as zombieboyband will attest, I think Erik/Patches - and one-sided Charles/Patches - is/are a valid side-pairing(s), kthx. Um, I also guess it goes without saying that this contains spoilers for "First Class"? Rated PG-13 - though um, it's possible that Patches tries to join in on Erik's and Charles' sexcapades at some point, which they Do Not Want, so ... would that be non-con? Maybe? Let's go with that.
Get a Long Little Doggie
Sean and Alex find it on the edges of Charles' property. It comes to them willingly, only because Sean apparently keeps dried meat of some sort in his pockets. "It ate like all of my jerky," he complains, but remains grinning at the tiny, spotted creature now residing in Alex's arms.
Charles, who has just come downstairs, Erik in tow, blinks at it. "It's a dog," he ventures, and Alex snorts. It has no collar, and Charles admits that he doesn't know any of their (fairly distant - the nearest house is three miles away) neighbors well enough to know if anyone's missing a pet. "Perhaps it's not such a good idea ..." he begins, but then Raven happens to see it, and squeals, and Charles realizes then and there that he's fucked.
"Ohhh, look at it! It's so cute and small and long! What were these called again?" Raven asks Charles, snapping her fingers a little. "There was a specific name."
"Um," Charles says, and then, "a dachshund, perhaps."
"'Dachshund,' Sean says, gruffly exaggerating the pronunciation. He grins at Erik, who has yet to say anything about this development one way or the other. "Hey," the ginger-haired youth says, pointing a little between Erik and the dog. "It's German. Like you."
"How about that," Erik says flatly. Then he raises an eyebrow when he hears Charles tutting beside him.
"We can't keep it," Charles admonishes, sounding a little exasperated and nervous. He stares at the dog, and, licking its lips, the dog stares back at him sullenly. "It probably just got loose from its outdoor pen or something. I'm sure if we asked around, we would find its owner, probably very relieved to have his or her dog returned, rather than abducted, by a group of mutants, no less."
Raven doesn't look convinced, though she does give Charles a particularly nasty look. "Charles, I want to keep this dog," she says seriously, and Erik's pretty sure he sees the smaller man gulp. "There's a reason it came to us. If you don't let us keep it, it'll be just like the time I found that bunny, and ..."
"All right, all right, you can keep the dog," Charles says quickly, and refuses to meet Erik's side-long gaze. Instead, he clears his throat, and watches as Alex sets the tiny creature down on the floor. "Does anybody know whether it's a boy or a girl, yet?" he asks idly. Collectively, they all watch as the animal sniffs, squats, and then pees a wide, yellow circle into Charles' great-grandmother's antique rug.
"Girl," Alex and Sean chorus, and Charles sighs.
"What should we call her?" Raven asks over dinner. For now, the dog is residing in a corner of the kitchen - on hardwood floor, because Charles doesn't trust her not to saturate something else that cannot be easily cleaned - in a makeshift pen that Erik constructed in about two seconds out of some chicken wire. The smell of food, in spite of the fact that she's just had some of her own (a trip into town for "pet essentials" was brief, yet effective), and the fact that there seems to be a small cavalcade of people sitting around not doting on her appears to upset the small animal. Before long, their conversation is being punctuated every few seconds by a series of loud, shrill yaps.
"Should be something tough," Sean says, his mouth full of food. The dog yelps in the interim, and then he swallows and adds, "Like, the - "yap!" - K-9 Murder Machine, or something."
"That's awful," Charles interjects ("yap"), and Sean's face falls.
Alex shrugs. "What about like, ("yap yap") the Nazi Hunter?" he proposes, but everyone's fork starts to levitate a bit, and he quickly adds, "maybe not."
"So it could be ("yap") a reference to her scientific classification," Hank ventures shyly. "Canis Lupus Hotdoggus, maybe."
"Wow, have you ever gotten laid?" Alex retorts, and Hank coughs into his napkin ("yap"). In an attempt to keep the peace, Charles clears his throat.
"Perhaps her name should reflect ("yap") her unique behavioral characteristics," he offers, and Erik snorts.
"Sir Barks-a-Lot?"
"It's a girl dog, Erik," Raven interjects, and Erik rolls his eyes. ("Yap!")
"Sorry. Fine. Name it Spot. ("Yap.") She has spots."
Raven considers this. "What about ... Patches?" she ventures. When nobody protests or sends any more silverware flying in her direction, she beams, satisfied. "Fine," she says, turning to look at the mouthy, beady-eyed creature currently barreling all ten or so pounds of herself at the chicken wire in an attempt to get free, still punctuating each effort with a bark or three. "Patches it is, then," Raven says, and the dog cocks its head.
Charles creates a series of "Lost Dog" signs to hang around the neighborhood (and possibly throughout the entire state of New York, if it means he'll never suffer another lost heirloom to an attention-whoring weiner dog), but laments the fact that he has no pictures to accompany it. "Allow me," Erik says, and before long, he's doodled a rather impressive caricature of Patches onto a piece of paper. "Are those stench lines coming out of her arse?" Charles giggles, and Erik nods.
"So there's no mistaking her for another cow-spotted animal that shit all over the bathroom this morning."
"That's mean," Charles laughs, but privately agrees. It's been exactly one night, and he's already used half a container of bleach while running back and forth, cleaning up Patches' messes, most of them bowel movements. "I never knew such a small creature could make so much," he muses, and Erik snorts.
Later, they're in Charles' study, playing chess together, a past-time they realized a mutual admiration for during their shared road trip. The door is open ajar, and Erik, his back turned to the door, does not realize that they've been intruded upon until he hears Charles say, his voice admonishing, even wary, "Oh no, Patches. Don't you even dare think about peeing in here again."
The dog's agenda seems to be more innocent for once, however, as she simply toddles over to where the two men are perched on chairs, and gazes up at them. Then, as they both continue to eye her curiously, she rears up and places her stubby, front paws on the rim of Erik's chair, and then lets out a single, shrill yelp while staring him directly in the eye.
"I think she wants you to pick her up," Charles observes. Erik rolls his eyes.
"I'm not picking her up," he begins, but then Patches barks again. And again. "All right, fine," Erik sighs, and places her quickly on his lap, though Charles notices how he instinctively picks her up with care, cradling her back legs so as not to put excessive pressure on her back. Patches stands on Erik's leg for a long moment, wags her tail a couple of times, and then plunks down unceremoniously along the inside of the chair, subtly working herself into the small space left between the arm and Erik's body. "It's your move, Charles," Erik tells the other man gruffly, and Patches sniffs his hand suspiciously when he brings it in after moving a chess piece. "Do you ever say 'no' to Raven?" he asks, and Charles smirks.
"Oh, my friend, you've obviously never had a younger sister."
Raven returns from the store the next day, more bleach in hand, as well as a bevy of dog-training supplies that Charles is fairly certain Patches will completely ignore. In her hand is a copy of Charles' and Erik's flyer, complete with Charles' desperate "Please, I will pay $50 to the person who claims her" tacked onto the bottom. "BUNNY, Charles," she hisses, her usually pale-faced disguise flushed a furious pink in the cheeks. Charles squeaks and makes an excuse for why he has to leave the room quickly, Patches at his heels.
They decide to take the dog to the vet, on account of what Charles can only conclude is an unnatural propensity towards urination that can only be caused by some kind of serious health issue. An un-Godly amount of time and money later, the vet sort of shrugs helplessly at them and hands Patches back to Erik, who sighs. "Why does she smell so bad?" he grouses, and Charles looks up from the list of procedures that he's paying for Patches to have endured there today. On a whim, he adds a small, black leather collar with tiny metal studs to the overall expense, because he'd seen Erik looking at it earlier with something approximating affection on his face.
"It looks like they squeezed her anal glands, so that would explain the, ahem, aroma." He spots a young, sweet-faced vet assistant out of the corner of his eye and smiles apologetically. "Sorry again for the mess, love," he calls to her, indicating the large, brown-ish splotch on the front of her smock, courtesy of the dog he's just handed over his credit card for, only to be told that, "To be honest, Mr. Xavier, sometimes dogs are just ... ornery. She's got a clean bill of health, though. Just keep her nails trimmed nice and short, and that'll help her steer clear of early back problems."
The girl looks up and then away quickly. "No problem," she mutters before disappearing into an exam room, and Charles sighs.
In between training for their seemingly inevitable fight against Shaw and the Hellfire Club and dealing with the ridiculousness that is Patches, it's hard to find a spare moment between the two of them. Charles finds that he misses the near-constant presence of Erik during their road trip, something that even their nightly chess games do not completely make up for.
Still, there are occasionally pockets of time to be found for chess and curling up on the couch together, listening to some hideously old music that Charles' grandfather might not even have enjoyed as much as Charles does, and reading the paper in the morning, and finding themselves standing out on the balcony jutting out from Charles' bedroom suite together, just gazing at the setting sun and wondering how their lives have taken them here. There is even time, sometimes, for an even greater intimacy, and this is what occupies their time on this particular evening. "Mmmph," Charles murmurs as Erik straddles him, pressing his wrists lightly against the soft, cream sheets with his own hands. Soon, he's got Charles rolled over and is preparing him for intimacy of an even more invasive variety, when ...
"Charles. She's ... she's licking my ass."
Charles cranes his neck. "What?" he asks, slightly alarmed, and also trying desperately not to sound like he has the world's hardest erection being smushed into the bedding right now. "Who?"
"Patches," Erik manages, and sure enough, the sounds of the dog noisily giving the taller man a rim-job are soon the only thing Charles can focus on. Bad enough, he thinks, that they can't even crate the bloody creature at night; the one time they tried, she kept the entire household up, earning him glares even from Moira, who, up to that point, had been exceedingly patient about, well, everything.
"Make her stop," Erik says, nudging at the dog with his foot. Patches, however, keeps coming back, lapping at his entrance with even greater fervor, now. "Stop," he growls at her, and then holds out his hands in supplication. "Can't you like, 'convince' her to go away?" he asks Charles pleadingly. "Make her think she wants a milk bone, or something?"
"You know my telepathy doesn't work on animals," Charles replies unhappily, and then squawks a few moments later, when Patches begins to hump his leg. "She's like, biting at my ankle," he complains, and Erik chortles in sympathy.
"You want me to kick her out? Maybe go stick her in Hank's lab or something?"
"No," Charles sighs. "Just ... let her finish." When she finally does, she falls asleep atop the pillows on Erik's side of the bed, snoring annoyingly and then kicking him in the face with her tiny weiner dog foot after he tries to tuck in himself.
When the battle with Shaw at last arrives, everyone is jumpy and high-strung; tensions run at a fevered pitch in the mansion, and in everybody's haste, there is not a lot of time to spare for Patches, who seems to have contributed to the fervor by expelling a not-entirely-solid, yet large amount of stool that everyone spends most of the early morning stepping over. Finally, Hank, who is now blue, though not by choice, steps on it with his newly-furred foot; he bares his teeth, but reluctantly goes to fetch what has been colloquially termed "the bleach bucket."
When it's time to leave, it's Charles who spares a glance at the dog, yipping at them excitedly from her (reinforced, a couple of times, at this point, by Erik) chicken wire coop. "I suppose we can't take her with us," he shrugs, and Alex snorts.
"Maybe she could be our secret weapon against that Shaw guy." He mimes holding Patches up like a rifle, and then frowns at Raven (who is also now blue, though apparently it's because she wants to be; anything, perhaps, to stick her teenage rebellion up Charles' ass), who is biting her lips and trying not to laugh. "Your dog sucks," he tells her, and she sticks out her tongue in response.
"'Bye, Patches," Charles calls to the tiny creature, who is now gnawing on part of the chicken wire gate. He hears Erik snicker when he adds, "Be good," and then locks the door behind himself as the group files out, one by one.
When they return, at last, fewer in number and significantly more morose, Charles sighs gratefully when Hank automatically begins to mop up the various and sundry bodily excesses left on the floor (and somehow, on the leg of a kitchen chair) in their absence, and allows Sean to push his wheelchair into the room. The dog wanders around the large house curiously upon their arrival, sniffing in corners, lingering near the doorway, obviously expecting someone else to walk through it. "I think she misses Erik," Charles hears Sean stage-whisper to Alex. "You know. German and all."
"Yes, I'm sure we all miss Erik," Moira cuts in sharply, shooting Charles a sympathetic glance before glaring at the boys, who look sheepish. 'So crass,' Charles hears her think, and sighs inwardly. She offers to help him upstairs, but he shrugs her off, opting instead to finagle some evening wear out of one of the dressers in a downstairs guest room. He spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom by himself, before finally, sending a short message to the others that he won't be joining them for dinner that night, and to please eat without him. Then he retires to the same spare bedroom with a book in hand, willing himself to get lost in its pages for a short while.
He's not surprised when he can't. Sighing, he sets it down on an end table and stretches sore neck muscles. When he hears scuffling, and then a soft pattering on the carpet, he looks up, eyes shiny with unshed tears. "Patches, he's not here," he croaks, and clears his throat, feeling foolish. "He's not here," he says again, softly. "He's gone."
Patches stops, looking up at him, her thin tail sticking straight out. Then, slowly, she lopes over to his wheelchair and sniffs it, and then jumps atop a squat foot rest next to one of the room's other chairs. Smiling just a little, Charles wheels himself over carefully and gingerly picks her up, setting her on his lap. Before hunkering down in the soft blanket he's thrown over his now-still legs, the tiny dog reaches up and gives him an experimental lick on the cheek. Her breath is stinky, and Charles is sure she's mostly attracted to the salt in his tears, but something about the gesture warms his heart, nonetheless. Cuddling her, he picks up the book again and opens it to the bookmarked page. Patches sniffs the inside of it briefly, and then lays her head on Charles' lap and closes her eyes. She's still snoring loudly when he sets the now-finished tome down over an hour later, and then begins the arduous process of putting himself to bed, a snoozing Patches in tow.