CC: Cubic Centimeters measure the volume of engine displacement. Erik's R6 has something lie 599ccs, but everyone just rounds up to 600. The R1 is about 999ccs, hence 1000. 1000cc bikes are also called Liter Bikes. The more ccs, the more power. The lighter the bike, the more performance you get. However, loads of power and a light bike do not make for stability.
It's my birthday, so have some fic.
"Oh, its evil babe the way you let your
grace enrapture me
When well you know, I'd be insane
to ever let that dirty game recapture me"
Shadowboxer, Fiona Apple
Target Fixation
Charles didn't go to the university on Monday, which wasn't a cause for concern on anyone's behalf; he wasn't on the payroll until June. The university had allowed him to set up early as a courtesy. He told himself he wasn't going in because he'd accidentally destroyed a printer, not because of the expected stink eye looks from security after the 'parking lot fracas'. Charles wondered again how Darwin managed to intervene on Deus' behalf and keep the parking lot open to the group.
When Raven called he didn't tell her about Erik-who-used-to-be-Max. Though, he did finally mention the presence of a group that stunted motorcycles at the far end of the parking lot. She found the prospect thrilling, especially when he admitted that one of the stunters was female. When he told her about PMS, the all-female stunting club, she choked on laughter and demanded photos.
He kept busy half the day shopping around for bicycles and eventually bought one for his commute. He spent the rest of Monday exploring the area for local cafes that had decent coffee and ambience. He was ready to do anything to keep his mind off meeting Erik on Thursday, because Charles Francis Xavier did not like dwelling on things that were apt to drive him insane. The resulting caffeine overdose threatened him with anxiety attacks and kept him up half the night.
Tuesday morning, he opted to drive out of the valley to Sedona, where it was much colder and more conventionally beautiful. He took an easy, but picturesque hike, admired patches of snow in the woods, and chuckled about the presence of a purported metaphysical vortex in the area. Charles wasn't curious enough to investigate the vortex any further than reading signs and book covers.
He did end up blaming the so-called vortex when Max's phantom did its best to haunt his mind on the long drive back to Phoenix. It took several changes between flickering radio stations and singing loudly to himself during dead air to exorcise thoughts of the past.
He spent Wednesday in Tucson, hiking in the much warmer Saguaro National Park, trying not to think of Max-who-was-now-Erik. His subconscious, however, had other ideas and had treated him to a night of twisted dreaming.
The hike helped clear his head, despite a nasty brush with cholla cactus, he discovered when he leaned against a rocky outcropping. He managed to knock the spines out of his pant leg with his sunglasses and pull the rest out of his skin with tweezers from a multi-tool.
Even in the early spring of the desert, Charles was thankful he'd come prepared with plenty of sunblock, which he faithfully reapplied every hour and a half. Smoothing the cream over his skin had the unfortunate effect of making him think even more about Max. They had spent most of that fateful summer outside and where Max tanned, Charles' pale skin burned quickly.
Charles could have easily afforded sunblock, but Max took great delight in stealing it at every opportunity. It wasn't that Max didn't have money; he simply enjoyed the challenge and flaunting authority. Life was a game back then with escalation the only rule.
While it was still morning, Charles updated his Facebook with pictures of various desert flora and fauna. By the trickle of comments on the pictures, he managed to amuse some of his acquaintances back in the Oxford biology department. Their familiarity tipped him into a more confident mood. He finally admitted to himself he needed to reexamine his relationship with Max one more time.
There was no relationship in Charles' life that he had dissected more thoroughly, more obsessively, than the one with Max. He knew his attraction had been one born first of admiration. Max smoked, rode motorcycles, got into clubs without ID, and picked fights with people that out-sized and outnumbered him. The older boy was constructed of things meant solely to fly in the face of authority. And while he had the social graces of a felon, Max had introduced Charles to the many wild girls that liked to ride on the back of his Ninja.
Charles' had lacked all authority after his father had died and Kurt Marko came into his life. While his mother sought support from the bottom of a bottle, Kurt undermined Charles' confidence with constant belittlement and emotional sabotage. He had gone on to threaten Raven's place within the Xavier home, though she had long since been adopted. Marko often stated that her presence within the family was contingent on Charles' behavior.
In hindsight, Charles knew Max represented everything he wanted to throw at his stepfather: the whole nine yards of teenage rebellion. However, his admiration had only been a stepping-stone into understanding the frustration of a rebellious teenager with no foundation or polestar. Max rebelled because he thought he had nothing to lose: after he died, it was the only idea that had ever brought Charles peace. At the price of forever trying to disregard the lingering, though chaste, kiss he'd pressed hard against Charles' red lips.
How long Charles stood staring at the sunblock was beyond him. He checked the time on his phone and resumed applying the cream. There was still plenty of water and trailmix in his pack, but he decided to rest a few more minutes before heading back.
Over ten years ago, he needed Max to fan the embers of his lost self-esteem. Now, he had everything he needed; his own strength, self-confidence that often ran into arrogance, and control. Hell, as a professor he had authority over his own life and a surplus of authority over others'. The new version of Max, this Erik, probably had little more than trouble to offer once answers were delivered.
From what he'd seen and heard of Erik, his social graces hadn't improved. If anything, the adult version of Max was twice as grim. There was just one problem. During the seven-month period he had known Max, the greatest beneficiary of the relationship had been Charles.
Taking a deep breath of dry air, Charles released a slow sigh and accepted the results of his soul-searching. If Erik was not reduced to a dog on a leash, if it would not result in undue danger, if Erik was amenable, Charles would try to give back.
It was only thanks to the physical and emotional exertions in Tucson that Charles was able to sleep well that night. He cut himself off coffee when the morning was over and submerged himself in a multitude of online genetic forums, articles, and research papers. Seeing his name and articles referenced in a few of those resources improved his mood exponentially.
Over the course of the day he traded nonsensical texts with Raven; a game that eventually devolved into increasingly obscure or amusing English words. A quarter past seven, he texted 'masticate' to Raven, before taking his bicycle out of the apartment's balcony and heading for the university to meet Erik.
The sun had already set, but he wanted to burn a bit of his rising nervous energy. As an extra measure, Rachmaninoff was a soothing presence in his ears on the way there.
The older security guard making rounds at the university was not soothing; his disapproving stare had not lost any intensity. Charles smiled at the curmudgeon with great cheer and waved at him with gusto. The stare became a narrow-eyed glare that would have looked natural had laser beams shot forth from his eyes and burned the genetics professor to a crisp.
Feeling immensely pleased with himself for being annoying, Charles pedaled over to the light pole the R6 was smashed against. The concrete base wasn't damaged, but it would likely keep the streak of blue paint for several years. Of the R6's plastics and other bits and pieces there was no sign.
He wondered if Sean had been sitting on the Yamaha when the Civic had bucked. He'd been so focused on Alex and the Civic that he'd never seen Sean or the R6 until the action had ended. Likely the redhead had not been on the bike, he supposed. It was doubtful anyone had the reflexes to escape a vehicle moving so fast and unpredictably.
Charles checked the time and found himself fifteen minutes early. Max's punctuality had been a thing of flux, so he wasn't sure what to expect now he was Erik. Much of that unpredictability had been a matter of Westchester being on the other side of a rival gang's turf. Max had often crossed into the territory to initiate high-speed chases and he had quickly discovered that his notoriety occasionally got in the way of meeting Charles on time.
It was that notoriety, in fact, that had led to the high-speed chase that precipitated Charles' first and only visit to a holding cell.
His phone pinged as he waited, alerting him to Raven's newest entry: onanism. The leap from masticate to a synonym for masturbation was natural enough, he figured, but wasn't sure what to use as a follow up.
A throaty rev alerted Charles to a motorcycle's presence. He looked up from his phone's screen into the fox eye-shaped headlights of a black sport bike. It looked like another R6, which brought a frown to Charles' face. Did Erik steal a replacement?
Though a colorful helmet obscured his features, Charles knew the grey-green eyes on the opposite side of the clear screen. Erik pulled up smoothly, placed both feet flat on the ground, and switched the key off. He flipped the visor up with the gloved fingers of his right hand. He looked pointedly from Charles to the bicycle.
"Are you planning on talking here?" came Erik's muffled voice. "I've only the one helmet."
Blinking, Charles turned to his bicycle and then back to Erik. "I thought you'd be in the truck given your hand injury. I figured we'd put my bike in the back."
Erik held up his left hand, which was bare of leather. The rudimentary brace had been replaced with a metal one that held his last two fingers straight and secure. Charles didn't think the metal braces were available in stores. "I only need the first two for shifting."
"Let's talk here then?" Charles suggested. "At least take the helmet off so I can hear you clearly."
Making no move to get off the motorcycle, Erik freed his right hand from a gauntlet-style racing glove to better get at the D-ring buckles that fastened his chinstrap. He pulled the helmet off his head and rested it on the black tank. Charles noted that Erik smelled faintly of exhaust fumes and aftershave. With a little guilt, he also noted the fading bruise on one sharp cheekbone.
"I had hoped to eat," Erik admitted. "I'll end up having a few drinks tonight and something greasy would help keep me sober."
"There's plenty of greasy food within walking distance," Charles offered. "This is a university, you know."
Erik stared blankly at Charles for a moment then shrugged his leather-clad shoulders. He took the helmet off the tank and offered it to Charles. "The suspension isn't set for two-up, so expect a bumpy ride."
"Walking distance," Charles repeated. "Besides, I don't ride two-up anymore, remember?"
Erik continued to stare and kept the helmet proffered for a couple more beats before setting it down on the tank again. He sighed. "Fine, but you're buying."
"Happy to," Charles grinned. "I'll lock up my bike."
Erik nodded back and started the black Yamaha again in order to park it next to the light pole. While Erik secured the motorcycle, Charles rode over to the closest bicycle rack and locked the new mountain bike up. Erik was finishing threading a chain through the Yamaha's front wheel and around the light pole when Charles returned to his side. He snapped a heavy padlock shut and stood.
"You wouldn't be so paranoid, if you hadn't been a thief," Charles quipped, though his use of past tense begged correction.
"A chain discourages casual thieves," Erik replied, ignoring the cleverly hidden question. "If somebody really wants your bike, they're going to get it no matter what you do."
"Spoken like a true professional," Charles returned, not letting go of the subtext.
Erik shrugged again. "Lead on, we don't have much time."
Impressed that Erik hadn't taken the bait, Charles shook his head ruefully and began to walk across the parking lot. "Did you come with your definition ready?"
Carrying his helmet by the re-buckled strap as he walked, Erik nodded. "Less a definition and more a set of criteria."
"How German of you," Charles remarked. "Care to let me in on the criteria?"
"I won't tell you anything that could get either of us in trouble," Erik stated bluntly, without looking at Charles.
Charles nodded, having expected the criteria before Erik had even set it forth. "You mentioned a set of criteria? That's only one."
In return, Erik glanced at Charles and then resolutely forward. "You don't need to know the rest."
"I distinctly remember a more light-hearted you," Charles admonished gently, "but fine. Let's start. What did you do to get kicked out of the East Coast?"
"Broke a fragile truce by attacking the wrong people," Erik replied without hesitation. His tone was casual as he continued, "Killed two of them in the process."
Despite how hard Charles was trying to be calm and withhold any sort of judgment, his eyes rounded at the second half of the explanation. He glanced quickly at the taller man beside him and found Erik's as expressionless as before. "Is that a rehearsed answer?"
Walking between the parking lot's islands of illumination, light came and went, but there was enough to see the barest twitch at the corner of Erik's mouth when he looked at Charles. "Charles, why are you always the most perceptive asshole?"
"Good genes," Charles deadpanned. "I shouldn't really be surprised that you killed people; not with the crowd you introduced me to. Your sponsor must like you."
"Not really," Erik replied, holding up his injured hand and studying it, "but I have talents that keep me alive."
It didn't take long to arrive at the outer edge of the university and on the wrong side of a busy road filled with four and two-wheeled traffic. The eateries across from the university were many and happily varied.
"You have a preference?" Erik asked, paused on the sidewalk.
"Mexican," Charles ventured. "Do you know any good places around here?"
A bit of a smile appeared on Erik's face. He shook his head slightly, "That's right; there weren't any good Mexican places in Westchester. And the chances of Oxford having decent Mexican food had to be low."
"Let's get something authentic," Charles nodded, "to make up for my years of ignorance."
Charles could practically see the gears working in Erik's head as he considered the possibilities. "The most authentic food will show up around midnight in trucks," he began, "I recommend you find the Tacos Sahuayo truck, just don't get the cabesa tacos until you can withstand the grease."
"That sounds like experience speaking," Charles laughed despite himself. "Did you get sick?"
Erik bit his bottom lip in an old and well-known attempt to avoid a smile. "There are much better ways to spend an hour in a bathroom. You should know considering how many of my pillion girls ended up in them with you."
"You know," Charles admitted, a little chagrined, "throwing away one's virginity in a cramped bathroom, with a girl that had fingernails like talons, isn't really an improvement on food poisoning."
Erik's eyes narrowed a fraction in suspicion and then eased as he gave in to a sudden derisive snort. "Das Idioten! I didn't think of it. I can't even remember her name, but I swore the gouges she gave me would scar."
Charles grinned with wry amusement. "I don't think any of us knew any better back then. We were trying too hard to be cool and we ended up unskilled, inelegant, and awkward. Even Max Eisenhardt."
"Especially that guy." Though he didn't say where he was going, Erik started across the street in a lull between traffic. "I hope you're doing better than romancing girls off another man's bike."
Charles shrugged though Erik couldn't see him and hurried to catch up. "I do well enough." It was an understatement, but he didn't feel the need to brag. He also saw no need to mention that his flings were not confined to the opposite gender. Of course, Erik might have learned that from back when his Facebook was public. What Erik wouldn't know was how their kiss had led Charles down that path.
From behind he noticed Erik's limp again. He was reasonably sure Erik was trying to suppress it, but had more trouble doing so over longer distances. It was little wonder why he had been hesitant about walking far. It looked like he had trouble extending the leg into a fully straight position.
"What happened to your leg, anyway?" he asked, when he caught up on the opposite sidewalk.
Erik's cautiously open expression shuttered, his eyes turned opaque and unfriendly. "That isn't within reason."
The response threw Charles for a moment. "Why?"
Erik didn't reply, but corrected his limp as thoroughly as possible. He managed to walk normally, though Charles noted the muscles in Erik's jaw bunched as he did so. "Ask something else," he suggested through clenched teeth.
The dead end frustrated Charles. Why would anyone be so recalcitrant over an injury? Embarrassment wasn't really in Max's limited emotional set. Pride? That was more likely. Perhaps it was information that was dangerous to know?
"Fine," Charles said, ready with the question that had bothered him most of all, "Why didn't you tell me you were alive?"
The question eased the bunching in Erik's jaw and the limp made a subtle reappearance. "It was better for you that I didn't. Until that night, nobody really knew who you were. When they found out, there were two camps; those that wanted to kidnap you to extort Marko and those that didn't want the attention yet. Not that they wouldn't, just that the timing was wrong."
It was hard to keep the skeptical look off his face. However, Erik wasn't looking at him and the taller man's face stayed perfectly serious. "You're not joking."
Erik gave Charles one of his blank looks. "No, I'm not."
They walked in silence for a few minutes as Charles digested the information. The police had known right away who he was. Kurt had filed kidnapping charges against Max, though the police had decided to treat it as a runaway situation. Charles turned seventeen while on the run and they only had Kurt's word that Max was nineteen.
Neither Kurt nor the police had ever been able to produce records for a teenager named Max Eisenhardt. Charles knew they wouldn't; Max had entered the country illegally under mysterious circumstances. In all likelihood, Max was an alias, too.
"But why would they?" Charles finally exclaimed. "I was a prospect! I wasn't a full member yet, but I was an official prospect!"
No disagreement came from Erik. He finally turned into a slightly rundown strip mall. Among the many businesses lurked a Mexican restaurant with décor that had seen better days. Erik didn't pause to answer. He walked up to the door and opened it wide, his hand lingering as he went through to keep it open for Charles.
"All it takes is one dissenting vote," Erik finally said, as if that was answer enough. Which it was, once Charles thought about it. All the club would have to do was call a vote and then the person that wanted to hold him ransom could object to Charles' entry.
Even with the slight limp, Erik was oddly graceful as he strode to order from the young woman smiling at them from behind the worn counter. Charles saw familiarity between them; Erik had likely been there a few times before.
He let Erik order for both of them and then tried to pay with his credit card. Laughing slightly, the woman pointed to a hand-written sign on the counter that clearly said CASH ONLY.
"I need an ATM," the professor blurted, turning to Erik.
Erik handed Charles his helmet and withdrew a wallet from the interior of his black Alpinestars jacket. "You can owe me."
He put down a couple of crisp bills and turned to sit down without waiting for change or taking back his helmet. Charles followed, helmet in his hands. He looked down at the design as he placed it on the table. It was a little flashier than what he expected from Max; a black spade above the forehead with red, black, and gold lines radiating over the top of the white background.
"What time do you have?" Erik interrupted Charles' study of the helmet.
"Half past," Charles replied and then chuckled seeing Raven had texted him again.
Stumped? I win!
"What's so funny," Erik asked, leaning forward. He reached out with his splinted hand and pushed his helmet from between them.
"Raven," Charles sighed happily. "We're playing a vocabulary game. We text each other obscure words; loser is the one that stops first. She thinks she's winning, because I haven't replied for a while."
"Raven," Erik said and leaned back as if to enjoy the lingering taste of her name on his tongue. The expression struck a nail of peevishness straight through a corner of Charles' gut. Erik's greenish eyes cast up thoughtfully, likely remembering Charles' energetic sister. "Well, Charles, you can't let her win. Your honor as an Oxford alumni and professor is at stake. Did she go to university, too?"
The peevishness began to wane; obviously Erik hadn't kept tabs on Raven. "Yes, and she was exceedingly popular. She's a gorgeous and sharp-witted young woman." Proud of Raven as only a doting brother can be, he opened a picture of her on his phone and turned it to show Erik. It was from Christmas the year prior.
"Perfection." An unfettered expression of satisfaction filtered onto Erik's face. It wasn't a wide smile by any means, but it carried a softness that Charles often felt when thinking of Raven. "Tell her zaftig."
"Zaftig…" Charles turned the phone in his hands and typed the word out. "Isn't that like… curvy?"
"In the best of ways," Erik snorted softly. "If you ever need to threaten her boyfriends, feel free to use me. With your cardigans and sweater vests, I don't think you have the right image for it."
"Does this mean I can take your picture?" Charles asked, ignoring the slight against his dressing habits. Max had never allowed anyone to do so. In fact, he'd used his cigarettes to burn his face out of Polaroids and even broken cameras in his vehemence.
"Better I let you than you get one from Sean," Erik muttered cryptically.
Charles wondered at that, but had no chance to pry when a plastic tray with food-laden Styrofoam plates, plastic utensils, and a cup was placed before them. The young lady from the counter smiled particularly at Charles. "Are you going tonight?"
Stymied for a moment, Charles glanced at Erik in bemused curiosity. Erik shook his head in response. "No."
She didn't question the blunt reply, but threw a wink at Charles as she walked away.
"Does she mean wherever you are drinking tonight?" Charles asked, staring at the three tacos set before him. Each one was double wrapped in soft corn tortillas; nothing like what he was used to. There was no tomato or even cheese. Erik had ordered him three different kinds: carnitas, pastore, and barbacoa. All looked equally delicious.
Erik made a noncommittal noise and started in on his own greasy cabeza tacos. At one point he gestured inelegantly at the cup on the table and then at Charles. So, the drink was his.
The food was much better than Charles expected. He said nothing, content to do little more than open his mouth in order to shove more food within. The drink Erik had ordered him was a delightful rice milk confection that tasted strongly of cinnamon. It was perfect when he mistakenly poured hot sauce on one of his tacos. Charles had never developed his tolerance for spice, despite a love for Indian food. Three tacos were a little much, but Charles put them all away without regrets.
Erik finished his food first and sat quietly, observing Charles. Erik's staring wasn't an uncomfortable weight, even knowing how dangerous he could be. Charles was satisfied that his former friend had no designs to draw him back into the outlaw lifestyle. The next step was to find out how dangerous it was to be around him, because, if he was going to be honest, he could already feel himself being sucked back into orbit around Erik's personal gravity.
Wiping his mouth with one napkin and his hands with another, Charles returned Erik's quiet gaze. "So, what do you do for a living now?"
Erik drew in a long breath and slowly sat back. He had grown into a man that used silence as an eloquent part of his answers. After a moment he twitched one shoulder in a shrug. "Motorcycle engine and performance work: Japanese models only. Cash up front."
Then he leaned forward just enough that both shoulders came off the seat's backrest. "But what you really want to know is if I'm still a full member of the Hellfire club."
As ever, Erik went straight to the heart of the matter. Charles nodded. "That's it, exactly."
"But why would you want to know?" Erik continued. "Simple curiosity gets you in trouble in this world, Charles. Knowing things gives you an unhealthy value."
"Personal reasons," Charles replied, "and you know my curiosity has a thirst that cannot be easily slaked."
"Your funeral," Erik said, shaking his head slightly. "I don't think you'd be in more trouble than you already are for knowing. My club is Deus intra Machinam; I'm the founder. I'm affiliated with my sponsor still, but nobody else in the club is. I plan to keep it that way."
"So," Charles pressed, "you don't do anything illegal anymore?"
The comment caused Erik to roll his eyes. "Just being in this country is illegal. Though I never get pulled over for my skin color nor carded for my accent. Working under the table is illegal. But I don't run drugs, guns, or participate in extortion. I've specialized in the work that keeps me valuable to my sponsor."
"You're still stealing motorcycles," Charles confirmed quietly. "Collector models."
"Mostly European models," Erik nodded. "Collectors are elitist bastards, so it doesn't matter who has what. My sponsor prefers Ducati: he lacks taste."
They were interrupted by Charles' phone pinging with a text. Erik's expression softened slightly, assuming it was Raven. As Charles checked the message, Erik picked up the tray and stood to throw the plates out.
Callipygous.
Charles couldn't help it: his bright blue eyes darted swiftly to Erik's jeans-clad backside as he cleared the tray into the trash. It was definitely an appropriate adjective. Thumbs moving swiftly over the surface of the screen, Charles typed back. Do I win, if I send you an appropriate illustration?
"What did she say?" Erik asked, sliding back into the seat across from Charles.
"She made a play on zaftig; callipygous," Charles replied casually, looking down at his phone still. Raven always inspired him to behave badly; it was even worse when they were together. The bad behavior usually devolved into increasingly infantile antics, which Charles would defend with adamant claims of 'The maturity just isn't taking.'
"I have no idea what that means," Erik admitted, reaching across the table for Charles' drink. He popped the lid up and drank from the edge rather than the straw. Charles wondered if, perhaps, Erik feared his cardigan was a contagious disease. When they were teens they had never feared drinking from the same cup.
"Nice ass," Charles stated, trying to play cool while contemplating how to fulfill his quest should Raven take up the gauntlet. Though Erik had granted him permission to take photos, he very much doubted the older man would be keen on modeling for a definition of callipygian.
Erik's conversational silence dragged long enough that Charles finally looked up at him. The man was staring at Charles with one eyebrow slightly raised, the Styrofoam cup in a holding pattern near his mouth. "Was that a compliment or a definition?"
The phone's answering ping and the beginning of Charles' flush were in perfect synch. Charles dropped his face down to read the screen and to conveniently hide his embarrassment. He focused quickly on the phone.
New game: whoever takes a pic of the best booty wins! And don't you dare send me one of yours.
Charles' blush felt like it could become life threatening. Without looking up at Erik, he croaked, "Definition."
His face was still a bit flushed when they got back across the street. However, Erik seemed to take no offense. If anything, his overlying grim attitude had lightened considerably. Charles admitted to himself that sacrificing his dignity was an acceptable price.
The curmudgeon security guard that always gave Charles dark looks split his usual glare between them as they walked past his car. Erik didn't give the man so much as a glance and Charles followed suit. He liked being on the good side of security teams, but he saw no discernible way to scale the battlements currently between them.
At Erik's motorcycle again, Charles ran his fingers across the Yamaha's clutch lever. He could see scratches in the aluminum lever's black finish that were likely from the metal brace. "Is this another R6?"
"R1," Erik replied, placing his helmet on the tank. "They look alike. By taking all the decals off, I made it harder to tell."
"1000ccs?" Charles mused, "But this thing looks so light. Isn't it hard to control?"
"I only really use the power in a straight line or sweeping curves," Erik nodded. "I doubt anyone can take a liter bike to its full potential. I've got soft tires on it, though, so I try. "
"Please don't try," Charles sighed, "if you'll be drinking tonight. You know, why don't you take my number and call me, if the tacos don't shield you from whatever rotgut you're drinking?"
The long gaze Erik settled over Charles was uncomfortable, but the professor saw it through. He wished he knew what Erik was thinking. His grey-green eyes were never so hard to read. It was like Erik had something to protect. "Charles, I'm not nineteen anymore. I've hit thirty and I'm in far less danger than I was when we met."
"Erik," Charles returned, weight creeping into his voice, "you have a gang of anti-Semitic idiots trying to kill you."
The older man's head cocked slightly to the side, his expression grew far more opaque. "You've been talking to Darwin. What else did he tell you?"
"Your exploits," Charles huffed, "have never been well-kept secrets. People talk about you amongst themselves, you know. That's never changed, even if your name has."
"I can handle the idiots," Erik relented. He didn't stop staring, but the character of the look was less hard. Charles wished again that he could read the man's mind. What did Erik see when he stared at him like that?
"Fine," Charles decided on a different tactic. "Where are you drinking tonight?"
"I'm not sure that's within reason." This time Erik's suspicion was obvious.
"I still have questions," Charles pressed. He knew he was pushing his luck, but a little over an hour simply hadn't been enough time, after all. Damn his pride for pushing for Thursday.
"I'll be here Sunday," Erik countered. He crouched down and unlocked the chain from the front wheel and post. He looped it loosely around his left arm so when he stood he had his hands free to pop the pillion seat off the bike's tail. With the seat in one hand, he stowed the chain inside the tiny space beneath. A space that was considerable enough for drug running.
"One last question," Charles stated, seeing he was getting nowhere. He would just have to be patient.
Erik replaced the pillion and threw his bad leg over the side of the motorcycle. Sitting comfortably, he returned his full attention back to Charles. "Let's hear it."
Ready to take in the dangerous man's every movement, Charles fired his best shot. "Why did you kiss me that night?"
Though he must have tried not to give any reactions away, Erik's brow furrowed and his lips thinned slightly. "You ask too many questions."
"Sunday, then," Charles said. It wasn't a question.
No answer was immediately forthcoming. Erik pulled the helmet over his head and awkwardly threaded the chinstrap through the D-rings. Forgoing the one gauntlet-style glove, he inserted the R1's key, turned it, pulled the clutch lever in, and hit the ignition. He pulled his right leg up, kept the left one planted, and blipped the throttle in first gear. The R1's rear tire spun as Erik muscled the bike to the left, peeling out and away in a brief cloud of burning rubber.