Jealously in July
~ Charles Xavier ~
"Honestly, Charles. I don't know how you survived, living in such hardship."
Once, Charles might have withdrawn from Erik – his face is set in a smirk and a raised eyebrow, and his tone is nothing short of condescending. But now, with Erik allowing him to linger in the back of his mind, Charles merely raises an eyebrow in return, sensing the hidden playfulness in Erik's remark.
It does not, however, mean that Raven doesn't step up. "Well, it was a hardship softened by me," she says.
Charles winds an arm around her waist and kisses her. They have their disagreements – often – but she's still his sister and he's still her brother. He just hopes one day that she'll be able to understand that he honestly does not care what skin she wears, because if there was anything she taught him, it was that family trumps everything else. And although he can fend for himself where Erik is concerned, he's touched that she is willing to close ranks with him at the perceived threat to his family.
"Come on," Raven says cheerfully. "Time for the tour."
She slips out from underneath his arm, and the rest follow her, Alex and Sean still staring with their mouths open, Moira looking startled and trying to conceal it, and Hank busy calculating the various values of half the property.
Charles looks back up at the mansion, and tries to convince himself that he doesn't regret coming here. There's a reason that as soon as he was old enough that the Xavier estate came under his control he took off as far away from Westchester as he could – first to Harvard, and then to Oxford. As heir to the Xavier estate, he could easily afford to hold condos and apartments instead of living on campus or at home, and he took that opportunity as fast as he could. He doesn't hate his familial estate, he just . . . doesn't have quite positive associations with it.
Like "Uncle Nathan". And the secret lab next to the bunker. And the bedroom in the East Wing that used to be his.
He squeezes his eyes shut. It's been over a decade, and he can still remember the slicing pain of his father's scientific curiosity and his mother's distinct apathy towards his fate. He can even remember his "uncle's" face, full of unholy glee as he poked and prodded, and now so similar to Erik's memories of Schmidt that he can't think on it without shuddering, which is a problem, because almost every waking moment of Erik's is concentrated on Schmidt somehow.
It's a good thing, he reflects, that he's spent these last few weeks blocking Erik out in an attempt to prevent his own feelings from leaking over.
A hand lands on his arm, and Charles jumps before he can stop himself. It's been years since Kurt was at the mansion, but the response is ingrained in him now – a touch usually is followed by a slap.
"Charles?"
Erik's face is an unusually open study of concern as Erik glances down at him. Charles manages to muster a small smile.
"I'm just tired, my friend."
Erik tilts his head and then crowds into his space, his hand slipping to rest over Charles's hip in that subtly possessive way he has been displaying more and more since they finally admitted their own feelings to each other. Charles knows that Erik is giving him a gift by letting Charles in and letting him see the strength of Erik's affection for him, because Erik is by nature a very reserved man, but he isn't quite up to revealing some of the darker secrets in his past yet. Even if he knows, logically, that Erik might be the best person to understand them.
"You're lying," Erik says quietly, and Charles lets his eyes drop.
He just isn't ready to talk about this. Only one person alive other than Charles knows what happened to him, and Charles hasn't seen him since the fire. And he's not quite sure how to tell Erik that his childhood wasn't as soft as the mansion implies.
Thankfully, Erik seems to understand that. His eyes grow warm and soft, and he rests his other hand at Charles's neck, thumb stroking rhythmically against his cheek. "When you're ready," he murmurs. The implied You can tell me anything hums through Erik's mind, flavored with protectiveness and devotion, and Charles closes his eyes and basks in it. He's been the older brother, the sole and only child, for so long that it seems like he's never had anyone with whom he can just relax and trust to catch him when he falls.
And yet with Erik, he's free to be nothing more than who he is, no expectations at all. He doesn't have to be strong for Erik. He just has to be himself.
Thank you, he murmurs into Erik's mind.
The corner of Erik's lips curl upward in response, and then he backs out of Charles's space respectively, giving him the space he has asked for, with only one last heated glance that serves to make Charles blush, remembering the night before.
"Are you coming or not?" Raven yells from somewhere ahead.
Erik sets his hand at the small of Charles's back and pushes him forward. Then he says, Are you going to show me your room, or I am going to have to wait until tonight?
You still have to choose a room, Erik.
Erik laughs, his smile full of teeth, and he leans close as he opens the door, bending just enough to place his mouth in the vicinity of Charles's ear. "Perhaps. But I wouldn't be sleeping in it, would I, Professor?"
Charles chokes and nearly stumbles over the door. He doesn't understand, sometimes, why he didn't realize just how Erik felt about him until he let Charles kiss him, because Erik is right, he realizes – Erik is very unsubtle when there is something or someone he wants, and just as fiercely territorial and possessive.
Tonight, he agrees, feeling his face flaming with color.
Erik laughs at him and then jogs off after the kids to choose a room without a backward glance.
The first day is a blur of settling people into rooms. Charles hasn't been back to Westchester since he left after graduating from Harvard, and Kurt had made a dent in the serving staff, so practically everything's still covered in drapes and dusty and definitely need a suitable amount of time to air out. The food stock is alarmingly low, what with there being three ravenous teenage boys in the house, and Charles starts making a mental tally of what he needs to get when he goes shopping. And he has to keep his mind open, always, because someone is usually getting lost somewhere, and he spends a lot of time guiding people around as subtly as he can, although thankfully not with Erik, who spends most of the day with Charles or staking out the mansion.
So when night comes, even though Charles arrives at the study first and gets the fire and drinks and chessboard ready, it's no surprise to him that within minutes he's blinking sleepily, farther and farther apart until . . .
". . . Charles?"
He jerks upright when someone touches him on the shoulder, rubbing frantically at his eyes – but oh.
"Hello, love," he says groggily to Moira.
She gives him a soft smile. "It's been a long day. You should probably get some sleep, Professor, why don't – "
"I'll make sure he gets there in one piece, MacTaggert," says a cool voice from the doorway.
Ah.
Erik.
Who is leaning casually against the door, grey eyes warm as they rest on Charles's face, arms crossed, face impassive, the perfect replica of a stalking predator sure of catching his dinner. It sends a low heat curling in Charles's belly, and he pushes himself to his seat and gives Moira a perfunctory, if absent, kiss on the cheek before heading over to Erik, who straightens and shuts the door behind them.
"You're broadcasting," Erik observes.
Charles tries to stop it, but another yawn cracks through his self-control, and he leans against the wall, drained from a day of trying to bolster his shields. It's going to be a long night too; mostly everyone is dreaming, and he's grown used to only sensing Erik –
He yelps, rather undignified, when Erik smoothly scoops him up and heads up the stairs, his breathing so even that he could have been strolling down the street.
"I am an adult, Erik, and perfectly capable of walking," Charles says indignantly.
Erik smiles, the soft sweet smile that Charles only ever sees in private, and his thoughts whisper of adorable-lab-rat/too-pale-too-drained/time-to-sleep. Up ahead, Charles hears his door lock click open, and Erik steps through, his powers providing the necessary pull to open the door without any effort, before gently setting him down, placing his arms around Charles's waist to steady him, affection rumbling through Erik's mind like the steady splash of waves against the beach. He dozes, barely awake, as Erik perfunctorily strips off his clothes and manhandles him into his pajamas, and Erik's laughter at the childish blue-and-white pinstripes only makes him twitch and mutter incomprehensibly.
Where're you going? Charles slurs, partially due to the scotch he's imbibed and mainly because he's absolutely exhausted.
Erik hesitates, half sitting on the bed and half standing, looking as if he's torn between staying and leaving. A wash of confusion-uncertainty-want pulses through his mind, making Charles's hand tingle from where Erik's hand is resting on it. The desire thrumming through Erik is delicious, and it makes Charles squirm, being the center of that kind of attention; he's never met anyone so clear and focused about what they want from Charles.
"You need sleep," Erik says mildly.
Charles feels he should be vaguely insulted by that, but instead he merely pushes his own sleepy content into Erik's mind, a silent request to stay.
Erik stills, and Charles can feel his want melt away into that silent exasperated affection Erik tends to feel whenever he thinks Charles is acting, in his words, like a spoiled brat. But Erik still flips back the covers and slides in, and when Charles reaches for him he throws an arm and a leg over Charles's own, drawing him close. Charles rests his head against Erik's chest, inhaling his scent and letting his heartbeat soothe his mind, already half-asleep again, grateful for Erik's proximity and presence.
"What were you talking about with Moira?" Erik says, his voice soft and his accent stronger now that he's relaxed and starting to doze off.
Nothing important, Charles mutters.
"Hmm."
Charles gets the sense that something is bothering Erik, something small and vivid and clinging, but Erik's fingers are brushing across his nape and through his hair and Erik's mind is a swirling pull of sleep-rest-love-you, and Charles is caught like a fly in a spider's web, drawn into sleep's gentle embrace, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.
When he wakes, to his surprise, Erik is still there. And for once, Erik is still sleeping.
He doesn't relax fully even in sleep, Charles realizes, staring at the angles of Erik's face. They are sleep-soft, but barely; his jaw is only relaxed enough to not cause pain to his teeth from his clenching. And his arm around Charles's waist is heavy and strong, enough that he couldn't possibly wriggle successfully away from Erik's grip. He is like the kind of predator who dozes instead of sleeps, and only closes both his eyes to give his enemies the false hope that he can be surprised.
He's still achingly beautiful, and nowhere near the monster Charles knows Erik thinks he is.
Charles burrows closer, tucking his head under Erik's chin, delighting in the smell of Erik's body and the warmth of Erik's bare chest under his palms. Erik doesn't particularly care whether he sleeps naked or clothed; Charles supposes that kind of luxury was beyond his control when he was under Shaw. In fact, Charles suspects that Erik only really wore clothes to bed during their recruitment trip because Charles went bright red the one time Erik walked out of the shower in only a towel, and even then he was laughing at Charles in his own privately amused way as he pulled on pants.
(Such sensibilities, Charles, I'm surprised you survived university, Erik had said, leaning against the wall, a statuesque figure with gleaming eyes. Charles had thrown a pillow at him, and then proceeded to bury his face in his hands in embarrassment. Erik had been careful to wear at least pants from then on.)
Erik shifts, and his breathing picks up. There's a moment of silence, when Charles is sure that Erik is remembering where he is and who he lying next to, before Erik is pushing him away and on to his back, pinning Charles like a hawk pins his prey and towering over him, a speculative gleam in his eyes.
"Pinstripe pajamas, Charles?" he says, amused. "How decadent."
Charles bats Erik's hand away, but Erik isn't deterred; he merely leans his body weight more heavily on Charles, trapping him in place. "They're comfortable."
"I'm certain," Erik drawls.
His gaze softens and he bends to kiss Charles, slowly and indulgently, such a change from the first few times when Erik kissed him like he was starving and Charles his last chance to eat. Charles knows that it's because Erik is used to having prizes dangled in front of him only to be taken away, and he's grown into the habit of taking what he wants exactly when it is presented, because there is no guarantee, with him, that it will be around later. He's actually surprised Erik intended to wait after discovering he wanted Charles.
There's a knock on Charles's door, and Erik's head snaps up. He pushes himself off of Charles and crouches on the bed, eyes a little distant, and Charles hears the metal in his bedroom begin to hum.
Charles sits up and presses a hand to Erik's back. "Easy, Erik," he soothes. "It's just Moira."
Erik gives him a flat stare. "What does she want this early in the morning?" Erik grumbles, shifting restlessly.
"I don't know. Do you want me to ask?"
Charles doesn't wait for a response before he lifts two fingers to his temple, because he can't exactly explain why Erik is here, in his bedroom, in his bed, barely half-dressed, clearly not having slept in his own bed last night. It's not entirely an altruistic move either; Erik is attractive to both sexes even with his clothes on, and Charles knows that even Moira would stare if Erik waltzed around in his current state. And, of course, there's this nasty little thing called a ban on sodomy, and the last thing Charles or Erik or any of them, really, needs is for their leaders to be jailed for it, because Erik would view it as an attack that showcased both human cruelty and human unwillingness to accept those who are different – not to mention an attack on Charles, and if there is one thing Erik absolutely refuses to accept, it's someone he cares for being hurt because of him.
(And, besides, no jail cell in the world right now could possibly lock Erik in or out, and it is a little too early in the morning for mass hysteria caused by anyone, much less Erik, who never does anything halfway.)
Erik laughs softly, and his body relaxes.
"Oh shut up," Charles tells him, "and let me handle this."
Moira? What is it?
He can feel her jump. Oh. I'd forgotten you could – Right. Do you have some Advil around here, I have a headache. Now that she mentions it, he can feel the slight throbbing in her mind that signals a headache, and he sighs.
Hold on, let me think. . . Why don't you –
He yelps, rather inelegantly, when Erik's arms slither around his waist and tug him to sit between Erik's legs, Erik bending his head to nuzzle at the juncture between Charles's neck and shoulder.
"Erik!"
Erik doesn't say anything, but a sense of smugness radiates from him. We all have to train, don't we? he challenges, arms tightening around Charles's waist as he nips at Charles's neck, causing him to gasp and squirm fruitlessly, trying to get away, frantically trying to separate the lust flaring in Erik's mind from leaking over to his connection to Moira.
"Erik, if you don't stop, I'm opening the door!" Charles hisses.
"So let her see us." Erik smiles against his skin. "But, ah, yes, I had forgotten – you like to be normal, don't you?" Erik flicks a negligent finger in the door's direction, and with an alarming whoosh, Charles sees the hinges melt, running down the door like liquid water until they seal the door in completely, the point where the only way it could possibly be opened would be for Charles to kick it down – something which, he admits, is beyond him.
"Erik, open my door!"
"As you wish, vicar," Erik says, rolling his eyes, and Charles makes his escape.
Moira stares at his messy state, but he can feel her attributing it to him being a lazy, late sleeper, so he has no trouble getting her away and down to the kitchen, where he can fish out the Advil in piece and toss it to her.
"Here," he says curtly, annoyed despite himself at being interrupted with his moment with Erik.
She raises an eyebrow. "Where have your manners gone?" Moira teases.
"With my good night's sleep," Charles teases right back, closing the cabinet with a snap. "I suppose I should restock this, no?" With all the teenagers running around, doubtless Charles will need more of that medicine.
Erik comes down then, showered and dressed, and slinks past Moira with a curt greeting before passing deliberately close to Charles to reach the coffee.
"Morning," he murmurs, pressing a hand to the small of Charles's back briefly.
It feels like brand, burning into Charles's skin with the weight of Erik's possessiveness in the face of Moira, whom Erik doesn't particularly like as a human, and Charles feels the absurd desire to tug Erik's head down and kiss him and prove that Moira really cannot measure up to Erik right now – not any offense to Moira, but Erik is just . . . Erik. Moira's lovely and smart and determined, but, compared to Erik's beautiful broken mind – glass walls and metal symphonies, rage and love and hurt balled into one – that called so strongly to Charles that he was jumping off the boat before he had any idea what was really going on . . .
Well.
There isn't much of a contest, and Charles is a telepath. If he falls for someone, he doesn't care about the gender or their IQ or their past. He cares about their mind, and if Moira's is a star in the darkness, Erik's is a supernova that is at once excruciatingly bright and yet exquisitely entrancing, and Charles cannot look away.
Also, telepathy is enhanced by contact – which Erik definitely knows – and Erik is standing there with his hand pressed against Charles's skin –
Charles flushes, mumbles an excuse, and flees, feeling Erik laugh at him the whole way.
They split up for training the kids. Erik runs them into the ground – or the wall, more commonly – with brutal regimens in exercise and sparring, leaving them nursing a constant array of bruises and cuts that make Charles sigh and restock the first aid kits. Erik even tries to get Charles into it, but their sparring match that morning turns into something completely inappropriate, and after that Erik concedes that fighting Charles doesn't do much good.
("I'm perfectly capable of fighting, Erik – you just happen to be bloody heavy." "Yes, and Shaw will most definitely take that into account when he sends his minions after you, Charles." "Isn't that what you are for?" " . . . I wouldn't let them hurt you. Ever." "I know.")
Charles contents himself with studying their gifts. Even when it becomes a little dangerous and leaves Erik a little antsy.
Just like when Charles practices with Alex, whose aim is improving, thank you very much.
Then, one day, Moira and Sean come down to see, as Erik is apparently "torturing Raven" and Sean has just escaped, and Alex is nervous but willing to show them how far he's come, and just to prove it Charles stands by the dummy just like he did the first time.
He catches one flare of alarm from Moira, and then pain explodes across his senses. He immediately yanks at his shields, building them up into high, impenetrable walls that slam up to prevent him from broadcasting too far. Red spots dance across his vision and he stares dazedly up at the ceiling, feeling his elbow and knee throb painfully in tune, and he can hear the tinny sound of someone saying something but it's just not registering and then –
"Charles!"
He blinks. Sound returns to the world. As does order.
And Charles becomes aware that he's lying on the ground, and his arm is on fire. He only just barely snaps his teeth together to prevent the torrent of swear words, in every language he knows – and some he doesn't, thanks to the storm of profanity Erik unleashed on him in Florida when they met – from escaping his lips. As it is, he can't stop himself from gasping in pain when he sits up and his sleeve tugs at the burned skin.
Moira and Hank drag him to the kitchen and seat him on the table, and he follows, half-dazed, trying to prevent the pain he feels from bleeding over. He only really becomes sentient when Hank rolls up his sleeve.
Charles hisses in pain.
"Sorry, Professor, sorry!" Hank exclaims, backing away worriedly.
Moira shoves him aside and takes up the task. She's actually rather efficient at cleaning things up, and her examination of the wound is fairly quick yet concise.
"Dare I ask how you know this?"
"I used to be a teacher, Charles. I saw a lot of things," she says, smiling at him as she winds the bandage around the burn with a practiced eye and steady hand. "Not the same thing as a plasma ray burn, I'll admit, but I imagine the principles are similar."
"I would hope so," Charles sighs. Alex already is feeling guilty and startled enough as it is. Charles can already see how long it will take to get his courage back up. And probably he's going to need to soothe Erik for a long time before he settles down either, as he's becoming increasingly overprotective – not noticeably or terribly, just . . . there, and sometimes it's appreciated to know that Erik's watching his back and actually cares about what happens to him, but sometimes it's just plain annoying.
As if summoned by Charles's thoughts, Erik slips into the kitchen, movements weary and languid from his workout, followed by a blue-scaled, red-haired Raven, both dressed in training suits.
Erik stops short, and his eyes narrow to focus on where Moira is carefully tying the bandage. "What's this?" he asks, stalking forward, suddenly alert and tense, menace in every line of his body as if he's ready to tear Moira apart.
Charles forestalls him with a raised hand – his good hand – and presses it briefly against Erik's chest. "It's fine. Just an accident."
Erik's forehead creases, and although he halts at Charles's gesture, his fists remained clenched at his sides. "An accident," he repeats flatly. "An accident that leaves you burned. Explain to me how that is an accident, Charles." At the very least, he has shifted his attention from Moira to Charles, but his tone remains heavy with the implication of what Erik might do to Moira if his worst suspicions are confirmed.
"Alex slipped, that's all. Nothing to worry about." Can we deal with this later? Charles continues, shooting a pointed glance at Raven and Moira, who are doing a fantastic job of pretending not to listen.
Erik's jaw twitches, and he whirls around abruptly to storm away.
Moira looks up. "Is he all right?"
Charles sighs. Sometimes, he can read Erik like an open book, and vice versa. Other days, it feels like he's blind and Erik's mute and communication between them is nigh impossible. This, unfortunately, seems to one of the latter times, and Charles refuses to intrude on Erik's privacy to determine what really is the matter, because Erik doesn't waste energy on causes he deems petty, and if he deems this important, it's probably important to Charles too.
Yet Erik still comes to Charles's bedroom that night for chess, still slides into bed next to Charles, still wraps his arms and body around him and whispers, "Sleep, schatz." And Charles decides that Erik's probably sorted it out on his own.
So it's probably a bad thing that it isn't until Charles catches flashes of Moira's thoughts about Erik being rather curt and rude before he realizes that Erik's been acting distant and cool for the past three days. It's probably even worse that it takes a brush with Erik's mind during their ritual chess games to realize –
"Erik, are you jealous of Moira?"
Erik drops the rook he'd been about to move, expression startled in a way Charles has never seen before. Erik almost never loses his cool. Then Erik's features shift and harden, and he stands and moves to, supposedly, get another drink, but the damage is done.
"You are, aren't you?"
Erik raises an eyebrow as he turns around, sipping placidly at his drink. "Why would I be jealous of a human, Charles?" he asks, tone repulsed and slightly bored, as though Moira is more akin to a speck of dust than a living, breathing rival to Charles's affections. If Charles wasn't a telepath, the illusion would be flawless.
But Erik's other hand is clenched at his side, and his eyes are tight, and his mind trembles with jealously and a raw, raw fear of losing Charles.
"Because I talk to her a lot," Charles says, picking the answer out of Erik's memories and fears.
"That doesn't change anything."
"It does in your mind."
Erik's eyes flash. "Get out, Charles," he warns, setting his drink down, menace oozing from his tone.
Charles raises his hands and carefully distances himself. "My apologies, Erik," he says cautiously, "but you really are broadcasting all over the – "
Erik raises a hand and suddenly Charles finds himself yanked upright and then dragged forward until he smacks into Erik, his metal belt and cufflinks vibrating under the force of Erik's power. Erik whirls, turning them as if they're dancing, and backs Charles up until his knees hit the back of the bed and Erik can loom over him, caging him in with his arms and legs. Then he smiles and dips his head to Charles's ear, his breath warm and making Charles shiver.
"Scared, are you?" Erik rumbles, sounding amused.
Charles takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax. This is Erik – someone he loves and who loves him back just as much, if not more and in different ways. Erik will never hurt him. Ever. He tilts his head, allowing Erik better access as he nips at Charles's neck. "No. Not of you."
Good, Erik's mind whispers, just before he shifts, suddenly, and –
Charles's military training kicks in before he can stop himself. His hands flash up – one to knock back Erik's jaw, another to punch Erik in the stomach.
Erik jerks back, seemingly startled, before leaning in and pinning Charles's wrists to the bed with one hand and his watch. His grey eyes bore into Charles, searching, before he rests his forehead against Charles, face softening as if in apology. "Where did you learn to do that?" he murmurs, pressing lingering kisses to the top of Charles's head.
Charles sighs. "Long story."
Only Raven knows about his deployment to Korea, and he intends to keep it that way. It's not that he mistrusts Erik. But he has grown comfortable in his secrets, and he clings to them almost as strongly as he clings to his belief that there is good in the world, somewhere, because if he didn't have those beliefs, he would probably go insane. Or cold and depressed, because as a telepath, he hears everything, and most of the time, that "everything" is more of the bad in this world than the good.
Besides – Erik needs all the help he can get, to learn to trust and to love, and Charles doesn't think Erik would react well to learning that Charles is almost in the same shape as him – abused by his stepfather, bullied by his stepbrother, taunted and teased in school, beaten up by war, and in the end, all too aware of the evil in the world – with one key difference.
Erik still remembers his mother's love. Vaguely and dimly, but it's there.
(The first thing Charles remembers about his mother was that she never said "I love you" and that the first thing she did after giving birth was to hand Charles over to a wet nurse.)
In the end, if Erik knew, he would probably just call Charles an even bigger idealistic idiot than he already thinks Charles is. So Charles keeps quiet. Maybe, one day, when this whole Shaw affair is behind them, he'll tell Erik. Maybe.
Erik lifts his head and looks at him. "It's always a long story with you, isn't it?" he asks, seemingly privately amused in a way Charles cannot comprehend and is content to leave alone.
Charles merely smiles.
For once, it doesn't seem to bother Erik, and in fact he seems strangely smug. Charles at first attributes this to the fact that his mind reacts instinctively to the welcome warmth of Erik's mind, whispering good and love you and Charles – and of course, how his mind reacts dictates how his body does, and it's little work to let Erik strip away his clothes and let them fall where they will the same way it's been happening for the past few nights.
But then, when it's over and lazy contentment has settled deep in Charles's bones, he rubs at the spot where Erik bit him when white-hot pleasure wiped out their vision. The spot twinges as Charles rubs as it, scowling, and he can tell it's going to be a spectacular bruise by tomorrow –
Oh.
Erik is grinning like a shark when Charles glares at him, and his smugness is probably why he yields easily when Charles pushes and prods until he's lying on his side and no longer suffocating Charles.
"Why would I be jealous, you ask?" Erik says. "Of course I'm not jealous. Why would I be, when the whole world will know you are mine?"
Charles sighs and lets his head fall forward to rest against Erik's chest. "You are lucky that I wear high-collar shirts," he grumbles. It's not the first time Erik has marked him, or expressed such a sentiment, given his possessiveness; but it is the first time Erik's marked him in a place where anyone might be able to see. He thinks, I should have expected this, probably. Charles already knows the extent to which Erik will go to ward off anyone he sees as a rival – he actually should probably be thankful that Erik hasn't done anything more drastic.
Erik considers it. "Not tomorrow, you won't."
Charles flushes furiously at the increasingly lurid images bouncing around in Erik's mind – in particular, the one where Erik is methodically planning on stealing every high-collar shirt Charles owns before forcing Charles to wear one of Erik's, and while Charles has stolen one of Erik's shirts to sleep in once or twice when he was lazy and feeling mischievous about driving Erik crazy, this is a rather different matter entirely.
"I hate you," Charles mutters fervently.
Erik laughs and gathers Charles close, his thoughts shifting past his plotting and descending into wordless, primal affection, strong enough that Charles can feel it echoing at the very core of Erik's mind, unshakeable and undoubtedly there.
"Go to sleep," is all Erik says.
The next morning, Erik makes good on his threat and Charles is forced to leave off his beloved cardigan, and he only barely keeps from blushing as Hank shoots him odd looks as they strap Sean into Hank's flying contraption whenever Erik lounges lazily against the other window, eyes fixed on the barely-covered bruise on Charles's shoulder under his pale blue oxford shirt.
I really, really hate you, Charles says.
Erik's grin grows wider, just in time for Hank to look up as Charles leans out the window to assure himself that Sean is still alive and think some rather alarmingly calm calculations that Charles doesn't really want to think about, thank you very much, and thank God that Hank is a scientist and can think about sex in numbers and biological terms, but Charles can still feel his face growing redder as he hastily withdraws from the window and tugs at his shirt collar in an attempt to control any further damage. He looks everywhere but Hank in the meantime, trying to ignore Erik laughing in his head, and his gaze falls on the satellite in the distance.
I will get you back for this, Charles threatens.
How? Erik wonders.
Charles smirks and looks again at the satellite. It's completely made of metal, or at least made of enough metal to give Erik a proper challenge. And hopefully it will keep Erik's mind off of Moira for the time being.
Come outside, Erik, it's time for your training, is all Charles says.
And Erik . . . brings a gun.
A/N: Seriously screwing with the timeline here, I know, I know. But the training montage doesn't really give me a firm grip of how long they were actually at the mansion, and this if fanfiction, so . . . just go with it, please?
Sneak Peek: Argument in August. It isn't like Erik hasn't argued with Charles before. They argue over practically everything and anything, and generally Erik enjoys the presence of a partner able to carry an intellectual conversation with him as much as he enjoys being able to slip into Charles's bed and cradle him close and safe in his arms. But this – this argument is different. This argument is about Shaw. And God help him, but Erik will kill Shaw – with or without Charles.