Written for rumenes for the 2011 Secret Mutant Exchange. Based very, very, very loosely on Britney Spears' "Criminal". Warning for off-screen violence and abuse.
turn me criminal
by Nilladriel
1.
Charles found the gun in the bedside drawer.
He'd never seen one before. It felt - solid, the metal smooth against his palm. He studied it curiously, with eyes and hesitant fingertips. He curled a finger around the trigger. He wondered if it was loaded. It probably was.
The sharp bang of the bathroom door distracted him. The sight of Erik - hair darkened by water, face clean-shaven - was even more of a distraction.
The overhead light threw Erik's eyes into shadow. He smiled, just wide enough to reveal a flash of teeth. Four long strides took Erik to the bed.
"Put that away," Erik said. His hand was large around Charles', his skin still damp from his shower. "I've got a different gun for you to play with."
"That's - what was that? That was terrible."
"I know. It sounds like something you would say."
"Terrible," Charles repeated. He realized he was smiling wide enough that his cheeks ached. He put the gun back in the drawer. Erik's shoulders loosened; he turned Charles' face up for a kiss, and Charles obliged that too.
2.
They had met, as couples do, at a party.
("Charles Xavier," Charles said, and held out his hand.
"Erik," the man said. His thin lips twisted, though not in displeasure. His mind was a delight, sharp enough to cut, and when he finally shook Charles' hand Charles could see the red of his knuckles, from where he'd punched Cain.
"I don't think he deserved that," Charles said. He thought he should let go, now.
"He deserved more," Erik replied, and tightened his grip on Charles' hand.)
3.
Charles was not in love.
Erik was a terrible man to fall in love with. Not that he was a terrible man - he had more good in him than all of Kurt's carefully philanthropic colleagues. It was simply that he wouldn't stay, not forever.
4.
"That's fascinating," Charles said, when Erik finally - grudgingly - admitted how he earned his money.
"You're not surprised," Erik said.
"Oh, well, no," Charles said, wondering if he should mention that he already knew, that he'd always known. But that would necessitate a confession of his own particular talent, and -
- and Erik was seated astride his motorcycle, and Charles was struck with a sudden vision of Erik's face, twisted in disgust (or maybe fear), and he said instead: "It sounds exciting. You should take me along."
"No." Erik's expression shifted, from wariness to something that softened his sharp features. He didn't smile, but he did hold out his helmet.
"I mean it," Charles said. "Take me along."
"No," Erik repeated. "You'd get in the way."
"I don't mean for your heists" - Erik laughed at the word, and Charles stumbled on - "I mean - when you leave."
Erik only looked at him, mirth dying, his lips a slashing line across his face. After a moment, Charles took the helmet and climbed on beside him.
5.
Sometimes - often, if Charles had been escaping to Erik's more frequently - Erik dreamed of killing Cain.
They would be back in the garden, meeting for the first time. Except Erik didn't stop at a punch - didn't stop when Cain begged - didn't stop when Cain lost consciousness - didn't stop even when Cain was absolutely still on the ground.
Charles would awake, feeling flushed and aroused - and guilty, from invading Erik's privacy.
6.
Charles had a watch, some sort of exclusive and dreadfully complicated Patek Philippe that would probably sell for hundreds of thousands at auction. It had been Kurt's, once; and then it had been Erik's; and now it was Charles'.
There were other gifts - all of them metal - but the watch was Charles' favorite. Charles didn't wear it often. When he did, sometimes he'd feel infinitesimal tugs. Proprietary.
("It's remarkable, the way you do that," Charles said. "With the watch, I mean." The words passed from his lips without any permission - or any prior thought - and he didn't miss the way Erik's entire self coiled, mind and body.
"Remarkable," Charles repeated, locking eyes with Erik, until Erik lifted a trembling hand and just - pressed it against Charles' face, wonderingly, as if Charles were more precious than any of the ridiculously expensive objects he'd stolen.)
7.
Later - much, much later, when they were curled up in bed, Charles aching pleasantly and still able to feel Erik between his thighs - later Charles would wonder if he should have confessed, then.
You're not alone, Charles thought of saying. I'm like you - I'm surely not the only one like you -
Except, of course, that they were hardly alike. Charles frowned at Erik's ceiling. Whenever a car passed by, the sudden light caused the stains to coalesce into a face. It was eerie.
He turned to his side. Erik, perhaps caught in a bad dream, was frowning; when Charles brushed his thumb over the lines on his forehead, the crinkles at his eyes, Erik only frowned harder. Charles shifted closer, pressed his cheek against Erik's stubbled jaw. He wished he were asleep.
8.
Erik's hands were always gentle. They were gentler when he was treating Charles' wounds. The first aid kit, now regularly restocked since they'd met, was open on Erik's single chair.
It wasn't so bad, today. The black eye had been a mistake - Cain wasn't usually so careless - and the bruises could be hidden under his clothes. His palms were bleeding slightly from a bad fall.
Very clearly, Erik thought: I could kill him.
"Oh, please don't," Charles said, but his mind immediately conjured the image of the gun in Erik's drawer, and he was struck with - not a thought, but a strange intent. He shivered.
He noticed, then, that Erik had stilled, was looking at him in slight alarm. He'd misunderstood Charles' words.
Charles bit his lip, and then smiled when Erik's gaze flickered down. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, go on."
He couldn't quite pull his thoughts away from the gun. He remembered, most of all, the weight of it in his hands, and the way his fingers had fit on the hand grip.
9.
Charles called Erik from a payphone.
He'd walked for nearly three hours before he found it. A part of him - the part not wrapped in cotton-white shock - was amazed that working payphones still existed.
Erik picked up immediately. Charles, who'd expected at least several seconds of fortification, could only say: "Hello," in a dumb, dull tone.
"Charles," Erik said, and then, again: "Charles. Where - "
He cut himself off. Erik's breathing was harsh - irregular bursts of static over the line. Finally he asked, barely calm: "Charles, where is my gun?"
Charles twisted the cord. His stomach felt hot, as if he'd startled awake in Erik's bed. His feet hurt. He felt as young as Erik saw him, perhaps younger. His bag was at his feet, filled with clothes and underwear and money and all the valuables Kurt was too arrogant to miss.
"Charles," Erik said, and his tone was increasingly frantic. "Charles, where's my gun? Are you alright?" And then: "What did youdo?"
He said, "It's with me. I'm fine," and couldn't bring himself to answer Erik's last question.