Ah! Finally done. Goodness, break was not any less busy than during the semester - moreso, really, since I didn't really have any private time without class. Here's hoping this finishes quickly once school starts again!
Beta'd, as usual, by the superb idioticonion.
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xc.
Charles wriggled over onto his side to nuzzle his face into the pillow, and stretched his legs out into the cool depths of the sheets, shivering with the thrill of the temperature change and the pull of his muscles. Then he drew them up again, back into his shell of warmth, and exhaled a soft sigh of contentment.
Although he could see by the light of his eyelids that it was later—far later—than he usually slept, Charles was loath to emerge from the shroud of his dreams. He wanted to believe, just for a little while longer, that he could actually go to Africa and find bands of Homo erectus hidden someplace yet undiscovered; that he could crouch down nearby and watch them as they wrapped long, ape-like fingers around clumsy stone tools. He wanted to think that he could hear the tones of their grunts, and feel their minds turning to grasp the meaning of the rising sun.
Charles wanted to, but when his pushed his nose into the pillow the pain jolted him into awareness. He was still in the mansion, in his rooms, and he had been attacked—had been caught—had just had sex with Erik.
He groaned, and brought his hand up from beneath the covers to massage his sore nose. What had he been thinking, to agree to that? Erik hadn't even coerced him; had only… Only asked, for permission even, given him a way out, and yet… Charles had given that consent.
You were emotionally vulnerable, Charles told himself, moving on from his nose to rub at his eyes. You'd just had a traumatic experience and you were looking for reassurance. It sounded likely. It sounded like it could be true. But… Charles thought back, remembered Erik's clothed body pressed up along his bare skin; remembered draping his leg over Erik's thigh while Erik got him off, long fingers wrapped around—
Charles felt his cheeks go red as he squeezed that appendage between his legs. Knock that off, he told it.
So. He'd had sex with Erik, it hadn't exactly been unpleasant—well, it had been a little awkward, but definitely not unpleasant—and now…
Now I will just have to take care not to repeat the experience, Charles decided, and reached out to the table to find his watch. He patted the wood several times before realizing that he hadn't even taken it off his wrist the night prior, in amidst all the sex and—he grimaced as the chain shifted against his neck—unhealthy possessive business.
He scratched beneath the chain absently as he checked the time. The golden hour hand pointed just a hair to the right of eleven; Charles pulled his lips into an exaggerated frown as he tried to remember the last time he had slept so late without getting a full night's sleep. Not since he had been a student, surely—and a young student, at that.
Lucky blighter, he mused. Oh, to be an undergraduate again—with all the future ahead of him, not a clue in the world, and a bottle in each hand! Coupled with his biologist's knowledge that the symptoms of a hangover were merely the result of dehydration, that could well be paradise.
Charles sighed, and pushed himself up; there was no use in moping around his bed all day.
After considering his crutches for a moment, Charles pulled his chair closer and slid down into it. He shivered, and hurried to collect clothing for the day so that he could get into the bathroom, close the door, and fog the mirror over with steam.
He thought very hard about fruit flies while he sat under the hot water and washed.
Charles dried himself off as thoroughly as he could while sitting in a puddle, then pulled on the oldest of his clothes: the suit jacket, cardigan, and shirt that he had worn with him to the mansion. They were almost indistinguishable from the new outfits in his wardrobe because they were all disquietingly precise clones of what he'd worn prior to his capture.
Or at least, they were all very similar to what Erik had seen him wear. That strange pair of shorts that Charles saved for the rare day out in the sun somewhere quiet and secluded; the leather jacket he'd always meant to wear a third time; the pullovers and, yes, turtlenecks that Charles sometimes wore during the winter when he knew he wasn't going anywhere… They were all conspicuously absent.
Charles paused as he buttoned the cardigan, and saw through the fog of the mirror a vague pattern of dark smudges pulling together into a shape almost recognizable as his own face. He looked down at the marble countertop and saw the same cologne that he'd kept in the cabinet at Westchester, although he'd never used that bottle—it had been a half-empty relic of his father's and Charles had never gotten around to throwing it away. And yet here it was, full again.
He was becoming more and more an image of himself, recreated from Erik's memory.
"How recursive," Charles muttered to himself. He turned away from the mirror and cologne, and leaned over to open the door. Let Erik keep his delusions, if it made him feel better—he couldn't change the truth by ignoring it, after all, and Charles… Well, he wasn't done yet. He felt sure that he wasn't done yet, even if his first plan hadn't worked. It had, after all, been his first.
The gold around his neck was no longer chill—it had been pressed against his skin all night, had warmed under the hot water with him, and rolled over his throat with the towel—but it seemed heavier than it had before. Charles knew, after all, that there had been a reason to be so determined that his first attempt succeed.
Still. Charles had thwarted Erik's Brotherhood for a year using little more than wits and determination. Outnumbered, trapped in his chair, cut off from Erik's mind—little had changed, really, in the grand scheme of things. He could still find a way to matter.
So Charles kept careful posture as he went through the sitting room and to his door. He'd get some work done in the labs; keep his eyes open along the way—
Charles stopped while his mind scrambled to explain what his eyes were seeing. Except that he knew already; knew well enough what he saw—because his old door was gone and the one that had taken its place was steel. There was no handle.
Barely breathing, Charles edged up to that smooth steel door and laid his hand on it. The metal was cool beneath his palm, quiescent and obedient—but not to him. He hadn't heard it being installed, but then, that was one of the advantages of not needing tools, wasn't it?
Charles inhaled, balled his hand into a fist, and knocked on the door.
Because he hadn't expected anything to come of it, Charles jumped when he heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and hurried to back up as the door nudged in.
A guard peeked in around the steel, helmet just out of reach. Frowning with suspicion, he asked, "What do you want?"
"Only to go to the labs and do my research," Charles told the guard, setting his hands down on the rims of his wheels. He squinted at the guard, but that didn't trigger any spark of recognition.
The guard pushed the door open just a little further, and Charles' eyes dipped down to see the bulky, irregular shape of a pistol on the man's hip. He made every effort to keep his expression blank, to keep his eyes from widening. After all, he'd met people who could bend metal with their minds, who could emit blades of energy and careful grasping hands of telekinesis—it seemed silly to feel this rush of fear now, for something as inconsequential and mundane as a gun.
Charles moistened his lips with a daub of his tongue and looked up again, more warily now. He was certain that the gun wasn't meant to be used against he, himself, but… It did warrant caution. Men with guns, after all, were often missing only a reason to use them.
The guard's frown deepened. "You're not supposed to leave your rooms."
"My research is very time-sensitive," Charles replied, because it was at least partially true—he would lose a day of bacteria if he didn't get into the lab. The bacteria would certainly care, if no one else. "If I don't tend to it soon I'll have to start over."
"Doesn't matter," the guard said, narrowing his eyes. "Unless I get orders to let you out, you're not leaving."
"What about food?" Charles inquired, edging forward; the guard closed the door slightly at his approach. "It's past noon. I don't suppose I have to bother you for that, do I?"
"I was told," the guard began, lifting his chin, "that you have a perfectly serviceable call button in there, so that you don't have to bother me at all."
"I'm not sure if it still works," Charles protested, focusing on: slow, clear, calm. He needed to enunciate; he needed to be understood; he needed—
"Only one way to find out," the guard recommended, and then swung the door closed again. It shut with a heavy thud and the clatter of a falling latch.
Charles sat motionless for a few minutes in the dark of his foyer, staring at the featureless steel. It was like looking into the mirror again; his reflection lay there, too: a vague, dull smudge of silhouette. He wondered if Erik could feel light on metal; if he could sense when a photon excited an electron and bounced away again. He wondered if Erik could feel his shadow.
Eventually, he went back into the sitting room and found the call button that he'd mostly avoided while his legs had regained more of their function. Charles pressed the thick black rubber and waited, eyes roving over the bright glass of his window as his fingers made their way to his neck and found the chain beneath his shirt.
The collar rankled, but the gold was, after all, only symbolic of the larger problem; a convenient distraction. With a sharp pair of shears and good finger strength, Charles felt sure that he could be rid of it easily—but cutting the collar off wouldn't change anything. Being free of the chain around his neck would not make him free, because it was only… A symptom, perhaps, of such greater things as the locked door. And even the door itself was only an extension of Erik.
Beth entered, then; she carried a tray of cucumber sandwiches and tea because she'd drawn the appropriate connection between the call and the time. Charles was intrigued to see that she still wasn't wearing a helmet, and he extended a quick probe of thought to see—why? Why lock him into a room under armed guard and then offer him a way to communicate with the outside world, if he dared?
Her mind was full of studied nothingness as she tried not to think about anything at all—she didn't know what he'd done, exactly, but she knew he was in some way a traitor. She knew him well enough not to be afraid, so she was more… Embarrassed, perhaps? Embarrassed for him, and trying for his sake not to notice that he was a prisoner, but there was nothing there that hinted she might be a trap. Interesting.
"Good morning, Professor Xavier," Beth said, keeping careful eye contact with the plate of food as she set it down on the end table. She seemed about to ask how he was, but then she glanced at his face—he saw her eyes flick to the bruises on his cheek—and looked quickly away, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Well. Here you are."
"Thank you," Charles replied, remaining where he sat. He considered asking whether she knew when he would be released, but… He knew well enough that she didn't, and asking despite that would be petulant. "You'll be back for the dishes, yes?"
Beth met his eyes and smiled tentatively; Charles sensed her relief that he hadn't complained to her. "Of course," she assured him.
"Good," Charles said, and waited until she'd turned away to press his fingers to his temple. He closed his eyes, and it was like catching a firefly; like reaching out to encircle slow hands around one of those obliviously drifting insects so that it landed unharmed on his palm, benignly confused and crawling up, up along the creases of his fingers on tiny insect legs, flashing gorgeous yellow-green all the while.
Before it could take off again—before Beth went out the door and took the glow of her mind with her—Charles whispered the barest breeze of a suggestion: be curious; be cautious; remember anything to do with me.
He watched her leave, and dropped his hand back to his lap as the door shut behind her, to be locked again by the guard. Maybe she was a trap set to test Charles' obedience, but what did it matter? Even if another telepath—Frost, or whoever else the Brotherhood may be able to employ—could find such a subtle command, then what might they possibly do about it that was worse than this?
Because Charles hadn't forgotten what it had been like, at the beginning. When no one but Erik had visited, and then after that when there had been nothing to break up his day but Brotherhood meetings and the occasional all-too-brief talk with Raven. Charles remembered the blankness of those weeks, staring out the window while time passed too slowly, moving from distraction to useless distraction only to find that he had no real memory of the day; no real way to mark that it had happened at all.
He remembered too vividly what it was like to be idle and alone, and knew that he would not be able to deal with that isolation any better now that he'd enjoyed company and work.
Charles stared across the room at the steam wisping up from the spout of the teapot. Something wedged and scratched in his throat like a living thing. He was going to be alone—he was going to be alone again, and silent, with nothing but his own mind to distract him, and what could he do about it? Previously, he had bargained with Erik—he had rationalized—he had told himself that it was a small trade: a kiss for a visit from a friend; hands stroking his skin for the right to research; and maybe—what? Letting Erik lean over him and take him apart piece by piece in exchange for a punishment less cruel?
He would almost rather have faced the brief and violent penalty Erik should have given him, because at least then it would be over. Because… What if Erik never let him out again? What if he was to be trapped here, alone, exactly where Erik could always find him, for… Weeks maybe, or months, or even…
Charles realized that he was squeezing the padding of his arm rests flat, and his fingers hurt from driving into the metal, but he couldn't let go. He closed his eyes, instead, so tightly that he went dizzy in the featureless black. He couldn't; he couldn't be alone again, he couldn't—and it was weak of him, so weak and fragile that he couldn't even bear to go without talking to people for a little while, couldn't even manage to get over being bored, couldn't come up with some way to distract himself, couldn't resist the same way that Erik would probably resist, if Erik were in his place.
And now, he wasn't just back to square one—he was worse than square one, because the only thing Charles had left to bargain was his body, precisely that thing he'd thought so easy and meaningless to give away. He'd known that it would come to this—had known even before Erik had kissed him—but Charles had thought that it would happen while he gritted his teeth and kept an eye on his watch, counting the seconds while Erik thrust into him. Until Charles could be done, and do something else.
How naïve, to think that anything involving Erik could come without emotional involvement; that anything Erik did with him could be so impersonal and businesslike. There would be no watching the clock if Erik had sex with him, because Erik would be there the whole time making sure that Charles was comfortable, that he was—Charles shivered, eyelids still ground shut—enjoying himself.
But Charles didn't want that. He didn't want to remember what humanity Erik might still have left; what humanity he might now lack, to ask such a thing of him. Charles didn't want to know what Erik had given up to become a tyrant and he didn't want to—to feel anything, to be made to feel—he didn't want to—but he would; he undoubtedly would.
Charles opened his eyes and found that his lashes stuck together with moisture, so he pressed at them with his jacket sleeve; quick little pats that left his cuff speckled with dark stains of wet. He would just… He would just have to figure out a way to not have sex with Erik—either by finding a better way to cope with his loneliness, or by finding a better way to bargain.
I don't want you, Charles told the Erik in his mind. I don't want to care about you.
I don't want to grieve for you.
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xci.
Eventually, Charles drove himself to eat his sandwich and drink his tea—he needed to eat, after all, and he'd slept through breakfast. He barely tasted the bite of the cucumber, focusing instead on simply chewing enough to swallow without choking.
Beth came and went, taking the emptied lunch tray with her—but not before Charles dipped into her short-term memory to see if she'd learned anything about his predicament while walking around the mansion. He was unsurprised to find that she hadn't, and Charles let her go about her way with no more than a small nod of acknowledgement. It had only been an hour, after all.
Then… Then he waited.
Charles tried to remember what he used to do, while he waited. He seemed to recall that there was an awful lot of staring out the window involved, so he went to it and tried to lose himself in the people out there. There was snow now; their brief respite from the cold had come to an end and now the sidewalks made a concrete grid through glittering white, pristine except for where some intrepid person had braved the sock-high snow and forged a path leading from one corner to the other.
There was no hint that anyone had ever played in the courtyard—that anyone could have felt free enough to scoop some of that snow up and send it flying through the air.
Charles found that he was much less content to simply look, now that he had been down there himself, and he tried not to consider—unsuccessfully—whether everything would be that way, because… Because he was fairly certain that it would. He did not need to imagine what it would be like to go work in the labs, because he had done it; nor did he need to wonder what kind of people walked below. Now he found that he missed them; even those things he hadn't liked very much, like the Brotherhood meetings.
So it was that Charles soon grew tired of watching, and then shortly after that he found that he actually began to loathe that view of the courtyard, laid out before him like a taunt.
Hissing quietly between his teeth, Charles spun himself away from the window and went instead to the small bookshelf in his neglected office. Of its three shelves, only the top two actually contained books—those two that were in easiest reach from the chair.
He scrutinized the spines carefully and, seeing that none of the titles were new, sighed and reached out to free On the Road from between its fellows. It didn't take long, however, for Charles to grow dissatisfied with his choice in reading material. The author rambled, and worse: Charles was beginning to suspect that Kerouac actually expected him to sympathize with the narrator.
"No, thank you," he muttered to himself, tossing the book onto the end table. "I've had quite enough of that lately."
Then he stared at the cover for a while, drumming his fingers over his thighs before snatching the book back up to take to the shelves. It wouldn't do, to have Erik come in and decide to read the rest to him.
Charles wondered vaguely whether the books on the shelves were Erik's selections; but then again, the books Erik brought to read in the evenings weren't boring, so if they were Erik's choice then the man was clearly set to torment him. Unless… Could it be possible that Erik's reading material was only interesting because…?
Charles shook that thought away. No, that was patent nonsense; he was old enough and well-read enough to have his own tastes in literature. Anyway, everything else was such a close copy to what he'd had in his own life that Charles was quite sure that, had Erik supplied him with books, they would all be exact duplicates of whichever well-worn copies had been by his desk in Westchester.
Going to his desk, Charles pulled open a drawer and withdrew a pen and a thin pad of yellow paper. Perhaps if he could not read, then he might instead write—after all, he had interesting stories to tell, didn't he? And writing couldn't be so hard, if people like Kerouac could do it. It was essentially just talking, but on paper—and Charles was perfectly adroit at that.
"Very well," Charles muttered to himself, quietly shocked at the loudness. "I'll start the Memoir of Charles Xavier." He poised his pen at the top of the page and considered—how should he begin?
He stared at the paper for a while longer, frowning. The blankness of the page—well, the stripy yellowness of it—was awfully… Blank. Goodness. And wasn't it true that the difference between zero and one was infinitely greater than between one and any other number? Clearly the same must be true for memoirs.
Charles waggled his pen between thumb and forefinger, then tilted that same hand over to check the time. As a younger man Charles had worn his watch on the left, like most right-handed people, but once he'd started his thesis research he'd started to needing reminders of things like when to eat, and when his appointments were, and it was just so much harder to bring his left wrist all the way up when Raven wasn't there to usher him from one table to another. His right was at hand already, so to speak.
Writing, Charles reminded himself sharply. He'd always thought that if there'd been anything he needed to write he would simply do so, but now he was starting to believe that perhaps some amount of precautionary practice might not have gone amiss. His thesis must have been an absolute bore to read, he realized now, and then it occurred to him: I wonder if the members of my panel are still alive—maybe I should find them and apologize…
Charles snapped back to the blank page again. Yes; writing. Where to begin? Where was the beginning? The war; meeting Erik; Charles' youth; his birth; the evolution of the human species… Each implied a different scope; a different tone.
Scratching his chin in perplexity, Charles mused grudgingly that—Kerouac excepted—perhaps there was some particular skill necessary for writing. Although it was hardly as if anyone were going to read it, so it didn't exactly matter how—
There was a loud warning knock at his door—banging, really, because it was amplified by the steel—and Charles leaped into motion, pulling his chair back from the desk and darting into the sitting room to see who might possibly have come to visit him. If it were Erik—although it would not necessarily be Erik—then Charles would… He would… Well, he'd give Erik a piece of his mind, certainly; something about how it was rude to lock up old friends without at least providing any decent reading material—
He braked to a stop when he saw that it was Raven who had come to visit. She stood framed in the foyer and she looked… Rather upset with him.
Her arms were crossed over her bare, scaled breasts, and she couldn't seem to decide whether she was hiding behind them or being indignant. "Charles," Raven began, frowning. She kept her voice carefully, tenuously even. "Magneto told me that you snuck out of your rooms last night. He said that you were probably with Beast in the pharmacy, digging around with the lights all turned out."
Charles' mind flashed through the possibilities—he could lie; nobody, after all, had actually seen him around medical storage. The best anyone knew was that he'd been heading in that direction, and that he'd been in the area when Zeus and Skink found him. He could claim that he and Beast hadn't been together, that Erik had no business hypothesizing on his activities—which he didn't—but…
…But this was Raven, whom he'd always trusted enough to leave to her own thoughts. Whom he'd never feared, even after she'd left him injured on the beach and teleported away to call herself by a new name, to turn to nudism and extremism, all in her rebellion of the life Charles had led with her. He had failed her in so many ways already; the least he could do was to be honest with her.
"I'm sorry," Charles offered, "But I can't ignore my principles."
Raven exhaled expansively and let her arms swing down as she paced across the room to look out the window, where the sky had gone orange with a too-early sunset. Then she leaned back against the wood paneling and stared at Charles, arms returning to cross more firmly over her chest. "You know, Charles, I really thought we were making progress. I thought that if you could come to understand us, surely the rest of the resistance could. I suppose that was all an act, though?"
Charles watched her from where he sat, brows faintly creased. He shook his head in a short little twitch. "Helping isn't an act. I want to help. But for me… This is helping. I can't support a regime that's built on fear and discrimination, no matter how nicely you ask."
"So you were going to solve violence with more violence?" Raven asked. "Was that what you were planning to do? Were you going to poison Magneto? I can't believe that you would do anything… Anything so permanent; so…" She struggled for a word, hand waving vaguely.
"Mean?" Charles supplied, wryly, and Raven's lips quirked into a mirthless smile.
"That I can believe," Raven told him, and continued before he could protest: "What happened to negotiation? To taking the nonviolent way out? Don't you do that anymore?"
Charles looked over her narrow blue body where it faded into the deepening shadows of evening, searching for words and longing for simpler times. For when they'd shared everything—a flat, their meals, their days—and even without telepathy to smooth the way, it had been… Peaceful. They'd understood each other, then.
"I do," Charles replied, quietly. "I'd like to. I just don't know that it's possible anymore."
"Charles," Raven sighed, letting her arms down to lay along the wood behind her. "I don't like this any more than you do, but… He listens to you. You can change this; I think you might be the only one who can. You don't… You don't have to poison him, or whatever you were going to do."
"I don't want to kill Erik," Charles assured her. "But I don't think I can help here. Maybe he listens to me, but not to the right words."
Raven pushed off from the wall and started forward. "No—he does; he does to you more than anyone, and that's because he listens to us—to me—even less, or for the wrong reasons. You don't understand; he's not… Magneto doesn't have a direction anymore. He doesn't have a goal and he can't imagine a brighter future than the one he's certain we're doomed for. He has nothing to strive towards. If he does anything you tell him to, even the smallest, most inconsequential bit of feel-good nothingness, whether or not he thinks it will work—Charles, it's more than we had already."
Her yellow eyes were fixed on him, wide and beseeching, and Charles had to look away. "I can't do it," he said, in a ragged whisper. "I can't stay locked up here and praise Erik for every little thing he does right."
Raven stepped closer and held her hand out; Charles dipped his chin and pressed his forehead into her palm. Her thick, dry skin was cool against his, and he let his eyes fall shut as she spoke. Her voice was low and smooth. "Can't you? Isn't it worth some minor suffering on your part, if it improves the lives of millions by even the smallest amount?"
"You don't know what you're asking me to do," Charles muttered, pushing against her hand until he felt her fingernails scratch gently into his scalp. Because she was right—it really was a minor thing, to let Erik have what he wanted in exchange for whatever hope Charles could still offer the world. It would be easy—so easy—to surrender to Erik; to let Erik dote on him and coddle him. All Charles had to do was to be there with an easy smile and to kiss Erik whenever he wanted it.
Erik would do that for him, Charles knew—if he let him. But Charles wondered what Raven would do if she knew exactly what that cooperation would entail; whether she did know, somehow, that she advocated allowing the leader of the Brotherhood to use her brother for sex. Some mean thread of his mind considered: maybe. Maybe her innocent teasing about their relationship was all an act…
No. He didn't need to read her mind to know that if Raven knew, she would not do anything so calm and rational as try to talk him into more of the same. Charles longed to tell her, longed to hear what she would say to Erik—and for a moment, he imagined telling her… But no. He couldn't. He…
"I'm only saying that there's another way for you to go about this," Raven told him, bringing up her other hand to join the first in massaging slowly through his hair. "You don't have to be enemies. You don't have to fight at every turn. Just—be a friend. You're good at that; it's what made you so good at putting your resistance together, back in the day. Your—" he heard the fond smirk in her words— "your X-Men, I think they called themselves?
"It's what brought us all together, before that," she continued, around Charles' silence. "You slip right into people's lives and know everything about them, when you make the effort to. You know what kind of people they want to be and you inspire them to be that kind of person. That's all it took then; that's all you need to do now."
Charles bared his teeth in a taunt, painful grin. "Yes," he laughed. "I could do that. I… I could try to do that." And the cost would be—what? Only himself; nothing more than his own free will. His volition—a word that sounded so much like volare: "to fly." As if, so long as he possessed the volition to do so, Charles could simply… Drift away. As if it were a sort of weightlessness.
"Think about the world as a whole," Raven urged, shaking his head a little between her hands. Charles realized, suddenly, that she couldn't see the collar beneath his shirt.
"Please?" Raven asked.
Charles straightened up, pulling his hair from her fingers with a shake. He opened his eyes and blinked at her, surprised by the darkness that had crept up around them. Raven's eyes were no more than a faint glint in the midst of a bent shadow. "All right," Charles told her, feeling very small and alone. "I'll consider it. I promise."
He felt the dread settle around his shoulders like the heavy body of a python; like a tether, keeping him anchored down in his chair.
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xcii.
Raven had switched on the lamp and curled up neatly on the couch. She smiled, but Charles was aware more than ever of how different this woman was from the girl who'd snuggled onto his lap while he proofread his thesis aloud. That girl was still there, yes—he could see hints of her in Raven's smirk and the fidgeting curl of her toes—but that brightness did not quite reach her eyes and the purple scar pitting the skin beneath her right clavicle did not want for company.
"I've had to abandon our little human versus mutant appearance experiment," she sighed, tugging her knees closer to her on the couch. "I just don't have time anymore."
"That's all right," Charles assured her, feeling somewhat lost.
Raven granted him a sympathetic pout of her lips. "It seemed important to you," she explained, then lifted her shoulder in a shrug and looked down at her hand.
Charles waited for her to continue, then prompted, "Why don't you have time?"
"Ooh," Raven groaned to herself, shifting her legs around again. "This and that. Mostly—work, I guess. Using the gifts evolution gave me."
Arching his eyebrow, Charles mused, "You haven't been away. If you're spying on anyone, then… You're doing that here?"
"Working from home," Raven confirmed, and then looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Should I be telling you any of this?"
"According to some experts, I'm just as much a part of the Brotherhood as you are," Charles drawled.
"I don't think that still applies—you have all but confessed to trying to overthrow what little government we have," Raven pointed out.
Charles scoffed. "Oh, come now; that hardly makes me unique."
A sly smile crept onto Raven's face. "True, although I could say that many of those Brotherhood members didn't live long enough to lose their membership."
"What life do I have left?" Charles remarked, and then hastened to beat the ensuing silence with: "Anyway, it's not as if I could use the information for political gain."
"It's nothing you couldn't guess," Raven said, shrugging again. "You've already witnessed it first-hand—just people being afraid of change. Things had only just started to settle down into any kind of predictability before you showed up, and now that it looks like Magneto might change things around again—well, they're scared. Nobody knows what to expect and people get stupid when they're afraid."
"So… You're infiltrating your own government?" Charles frowned, and inquired, "To what end? Finding dissidents to silence?"
"Careful," Raven warned, with a wink. "Keep being cheeky and I'll find some way to silence you."
"Now, that wasn't warranted," Charles admonished, pushing his eyebrows together in mock seriousness.
Raven's teeth flashed white against the blue of her lips. "No, but I felt like saying it—and who knows? It could still come true! Anyway," she began, picking her hands up and re-folding them on the arm of the couch. "I'm not doing anything quite so drastic, yet. At this stage I'm really just watching; keeping an eye out, listening to what people say when they aren't under the eye of the Brotherhood…"
"Oh, so that's entirely different from what I said, then," Charles quipped.
"It is," Raven protested. "For one thing, we're not silencing them. We're trying to be careful about this, Charles. We're trying to address people's fears, instead of confirming them."
"That's very progressive of you," Charles observed dryly, and Raven frowned at him.
"It is," she assured him. "I told you. Magneto is trying to change."
Charles looked down at the polished shine of his shoe; struck, suddenly, by the ridiculousness of it—wearing his pristine shoes around his rooms when he couldn't even walk in them. And, because it was true, his mind added: where I'm not even going to be seen by anyone who doesn't already know what I look like without clothes on. He fought not to shiver.
Blue fingers crept near to his own, and Charles held still while they brushed lightly over the backs of his knuckles. "I was worried about you, Charles," Raven whispered, leaning over to reach him. "…Last night."
"You and everyone else, it seems," Charles muttered, and Raven's fingers closed over his. Her yellow eyes were fixed to his face, and he remembered the bruises again.
"Don't laugh," she chided, too earnestly to make it into a joke. "I was there. I was out with Zeus' men, holding out between the manor and the barracks building. It only took me an hour to learn enough to radio back where to search for you, but I thought for sure they'd find your corpse."
Charles dipped his chin down and curled his lips up awkwardly. "I think I hardly need to tell you that they didn't."
Raven's hand was tight around his fingers, and her eyes sought his. "I didn't know that then. But that's what I'm busy doing, Charles—what a lot of us are working to do. We're trying to keep everyone safe, and that includes you. Okay? We want you to be safe."
Turning his hand around to squeeze hers, Charles stretched his lips into a smile. "By whatever means necessary, right?"
"Exactly," Raven agreed brightly. "Whatever it takes."
.
.
.
xciii.
As soon as Raven left and Charles had seen her out the door—hardening his heart against the sound of the steel latch locking back into place—he went back to the couch and pulled himself over, onto the cushions. He sat there, back straight and hands folded in his lap, and stared blankly at the opposite wall.
Charles held himself almost perfectly still for several minutes, until very quickly leaning over and pushing his chair further to the side; out of the way. Then he returned to his carefully posed waiting. He barely breathed; certainly, he didn't allow himself to think. He wasn't sure that he could—before, his mind had been a clamor of noise, refusing to latch onto any one thing; now it was in free-fall, ignoring all the hand-holds rushing past.
He thought that he might be all right with that; at least, it helped the time pass more quickly, staying blank like that. He'd stopped worrying about the function of his watch. Here, finally, he'd found the contentedness that he'd so missed, earlier in the day—the unthinking comfort that came from being nothing at all. It wouldn't be so painful, to go back to this; to turn himself into something purely sensual, merely reacting to the world around him.
Charles swallowed, clutched his hands a little more tightly together, and told himself that it was only because he'd been sitting there so long. Certainly not because any part of him was frightened—because it wouldn't be at all like death, would it? Everyone would get to keep on living, after all.
"I don't want to do that," Charles whispered, voice cracking because he'd said it too quietly. He cleared his throat and tried again, slightly louder: "I don't want to lose myself."
But what could he do?
He had no desire to look at his watch, and because the sun had already set Charles could not guess the time except that he felt very tired; exhausted, even. Then again, he'd woken up past eleven that morning after staying up until six, and it had only been a few hours after that when the sun had set. It was enough to confuse anyone's sleep schedule. Not to mention the toll stress took on the human body.
Charles' shoulders slumped, and his knees drooped apart from their prim right-angle readiness. It was tempting—so tempting—to simply go back to bed. Erik, he knew, would find him there; might even leave him in peace, if Charles was honestly tired. He could deal with it all tomorrow…
But no; Charles jerked his back straight again and widened his eyes fiercely at the opposite wall. He had to work this out now, before Erik took it into his own hands—figuratively or literally. He had to decide what to do… He had to…
Charles squinted to focus his vision, blinking rapidly. It was very dark in the room; the lamp glowed warm and yellow beside him but that radiance did not reach across the wooden floor, or to the walls surrounding him. His legs tingled, and he resisted the urge to draw them up beside himself and curl around them.
Circulation through the legs was facilitated by muscles forcing the blood through valves, he recalled; without movement, the blood collected and forced its way back against those valves until they lost their elasticity and fluid pooled permanently in the lower limbs. Charles already had five years of not moving his legs regularly, so now he flexed his calf muscles surreptitiously—his gastrocnemius muscles—wondering self-consciously whether that was actually enough to help. Whether it was even worth correcting for, at this stage…
Charles slid his legs up onto the couch next to him, tugging his shoes off to drop to the floor so that he could fold his knees and tuck his toes down into the cushions. His shins were sore with relief. He wrapped his arms around his chest and huddled down into his shoulders, half-closing his eyes.
He felt very warm, in his suit jacket and cardigan. He felt secure, even though he knew that he was not; that soon, the erstwhile ruler of the world would be coming to visit him and it was very likely that Charles would have to surrender something. He knew that it was a bad idea to fall asleep now, here: on the couch and vulnerable. But then, where could he go where that wasn't the case?
Charles stared at his watch without reading the time, because the numbers and hands had all oozed into a golden blur. He told himself that he would be fine. Everything would work out; he still had control, for now.
Charles blinked, slowly. Nothing was going to happen to him if he didn't let it…
.
.
.
xciv.
Charles heard a clink of metal on metal and jerked his chin up, eyes springing open. He smelled food; he saw food—spätzle and broccoli, prime rib soaked in béarnaise sauce, red wine—and his mouth was already watering. He was ravenous.
Then he looked up farther, and met Erik's softly amused regard. Charles closed his mouth quickly and swallowed. Erik had brought him dinner; Erik had brought him a nice dinner, just the one plate and glass, and who knew how long he'd been there, watching Charles sleep?
"I only just set this down," Erik told him, with the suggestion of a chuckle—having anticipated Charles' unasked question. He indicated where the tray sat on the end table, which he'd evidently moved to stand in front of Charles. The telepath tried not to look too relieved, although—what did it matter, really, if Erik did stand around watching him sleep? At least Charles got rest out of the bargain.
All that suspense and now Erik was there. Charles felt woefully unprepared; he'd hardly been anything resembling prepared earlier, but now he was groggy as well. To collect himself, Charles surveyed his surroundings, avoiding Erik. He glanced down at the steaming food, then around the room until he saw the metal lid by the window. The wine was already in a single glass; there was no bottle. He wasn't sure what had made the noise that woke him up, but he thought that the utensils settling down on the brushed steel of the tray made likely suspects.
Charles nodded, and wet his lips. He stared down at the plate, avoiding Erik's face. He made no move for either knife or fork. "Am I to eat while you watch, then?"
A low, considering noise came from Erik's chest. "I've already had my dinner," he explained, and trailed long fingers over the armrest of the wheelchair. Charles tensed, anticipating that Erik might try to sit down in it—unsure what kind of objection he would make if that happened, only knowing that the chair was his—but then Erik turned back to the couch and sank down at the opposite end.
Erik was wearing his Magneto outfit again, although the cape—Charles flicked his eyes away quickly to check—was already hung on the coat tree. A small paperback nestled in his hand, mostly hidden by his fingers. In his red jacket and polished helmet, catching the golden light of the lamp behind Charles' shoulder, Erik almost… Glowed. His eyes were very green, in that light, and his skin looked very…
Charles swallowed again, but not because he was drooling, this time. Or at least, not entirely—Erik was staring back at him, brows tilted and with a subtle smile curving his lips. The skin around Erik's eyes had creased up and his fingertips rested lightly on his thigh, moving slightly, thumb stroking, and Charles remembered—he remembered that hand on him, around him, and oh god they'd had sex and if Charles wasn't so hungry at that moment, if his stomach wasn't so mercifully distracting—
"Are you going to eat?" Erik asked. "I did have to hurry to make sure it was still hot by the time I arrived, you know."
Charles tore his attention away; he picked up the wine glass and hid behind it. "You still have me eating like a king, I see," he remarked.
Erik's smile tipped into a smirk. "Someone has to," he reasoned, "if not the king himself."
Charles paused, with the delicate glass brushing his lower lip. The smell of the wine filled his nose like a physical presence. Cabernet Sauvignon, he guessed, not without authority. "I'm not sure I'd believe you if you told me this isn't exactly the same meal you were served for dinner. Did you like it so much that you ordered another?"
With a smooth, elegant shift of his body, Erik lifted one leg to drape over the knee of the other. He raised his eyebrows. "You're right in one respect—that is the exact same meal served to me. I thought you might appreciate it more." At Charles' squint of confusion, Erik went on to clarify, "It seemed a… Waste, to have such nice food when I barely… Well, it seemed like you might appreciate it more, at least."
Charles sipped at his wine; he was not so expert that he could name the winery or vintage, as he tended to care more about function than prestige, but he could appreciate the taste. "Don't let yourself starve," he advised. "I might still require you."
"Is that so," Erik rumbled, but since it sounded hypothetical, Charles ignored him and simply picked up his knife and fork. He invited no further conversation while he ate and Erik didn't offer, although Charles could feel his eyes clinging to his every movement.
The food was exquisite—it was entirely possible that Charles had tasted better and he was fairly certain that he had, but absence did in fact make the heart grow fonder, it seemed. Cows had suffered rather more through the war than smaller domestic animals, so while Charles had not grown unaccustomed to meat—a luxury in and of itself—it had indeed been some time since he'd tasted red meat, and he'd forgotten just how rich and succulent it could be. Charles tried not to waste any; even choked down the gristle that he might have otherwise simply cut off, earlier in his life.
Charles had just begun to eye his plate and wonder whether it would really be so terribly rude to smear the side of his finger over it when Erik cleared his throat, and the geneticist cringed in surprise.
"Was it good?" Erik asked, from his side of the couch.
Charles looked over his shoulder at the man, who didn't appear to have moved at all from his artful sprawl, watching with shadowed eyes. Now that he had eaten, Charles felt his drowsiness return, and… He really didn't want to do this; not tonight. He didn't want to bring his wits to bear against Erik; he wasn't so sure that he had wits to spare, right then.
There was no choice, however—or rather, there was, but in order to make that choice in the future—well, Charles couldn't do anything, one way or the other, if he was confined to his rooms. He needed to get out, and to get out—he needed Erik.
Charles lowered his eyelids, only half-feigning his sleepy contentment—his body was satisfied, regardless of what he thought—and dragged a finger along the bottom of the plate. When he brought it up again, a drop ran down toward his palm, and Charles darted in to catch it with his tongue; it spread in a shock of cream and oil. He tried not to be awkward about it—tried to recover some of that deliberate grace—but Erik was paying him a keen sort of attention that lead Charles to believe that the other man didn't much care.
Fighting to control the nervous flush of his skin, Charles smiled at Erik and offered his finger, angling his hand to prevent further dripping. Béarnaise sauce, butter, and meat juices—fat, fat, fat, and salt, essentially, but Charles doubted that Erik swayed forward out of real hunger.
"Try for yourself?" Charles suggested, forcing nonchalant confidence into his words.
One of Erik's eyebrows tilted incredulously, but clearly he wasn't too concerned because he leaned over and almost prowled down the couch, pulling his shoulders over with the walk of his hands. Erik's legs uncrossed, narrow hips turning over as he bent his knee up under his body and pushed himself that last little ways down the couch; then Erik was right there, breath light on Charles' hand and his long eyelashes hiding his eyes as he looked down at Charles' proffered finger.
Why did I think this was a good idea, a distant part of Charles despaired, as Erik met his eyes again and smiled slowly—indulgently, almost; as if this were something that Charles wanted and Erik was doing him a favor.
Erik steadied Charles' hand with a loose grip around his wrist—Charles was surprised to see that it was indeed shaking; was surprised to be surprised—then Erik angled his head around and, without further warning, wrapped his tongue around Charles' finger.
Charles stared, vaguely aware that he'd been considering saying something witty, but he had no idea what it had been and now he was watching Erik' eyes close as he opened his mouth and drew Charles' finger in between lips and teeth. Charles' knuckles brushed against Erik's cheek, inside the wall of the helmet, and Charles couldn't see Erik's tongue, but—well, he could certainly feel it, and it was… Very warm. Slick. And damp. Also—warm; the unexpected heat inside Erik's mouth was… Startling. And surely his finger must be clean by now?
Erik's eyelids opened heavily, watching him with drugged lethargy, but Charles couldn't look away when Erik slid his finger out of his mouth, slipping over wet lips. Then Erik began to lick in between his fingers, ticking the webbing there with the roughness of his tongue and tracing along Charles' other fingers each in turn.
"You'll make my hand sticky," Charles found voice to protest, barely.
Erik smiled at him—a predatory, creeping expression that did absolutely nothing to loosen the tangle of words caught in Charles' throat—and leaned forward to kiss him. Charles didn't hold his breath when Erik's lips touched his—he was barely breathing enough already, he didn't want to risk passing out, after all—and when he felt the tip of Erik's tongue tease the line of his mouth, Charles opened to him; let that tongue dip in and taste him from within.
Drawing back just far enough to meet Charles' eyes, Erik smiled. "I like the way that you taste better," he murmured.
Charles stared back at him and replied, vowels going high-pitched and squeaking, "…I'm not on the menu." Then, realizing what he'd just implied—damn it, he'd meant the opposite, he was supposed to be seducing Erik—Charles hurried to clarify, "That is. I mean. Not… Literally." He lowered his eyelids and looked up through them at Erik in what he hoped was a coquettish sort of way, and the other man raised his brows again.
"You're really terribly transparent at seduction, Charles," Erik commented, straightening up and putting space between them.
Charles frowned, then curled one corner of his mouth up, deliberately. "Is it working at all?" he asked.
Erik exhaled sharply through his nose. "It's endearingly manipulative, but I have no use for fantasy." His gaze shifted back to Charles' face, expression indifferent. "I'm not so deluded that I'm unaware of what I've done to you."
Erik's hand, still on Charles' elbow, began to slip away, and the geneticist caught Erik's fingers between his own as they passed. Trying to ignore the fact that those same fingers were still damp from Erik licking them—and feeling his blush start up again because of it—Charles protested, "But I… Last night, you… And I…" Oh, god he was blushing even worse now—why couldn't he say it? It was only sex, after all, he wasn't anything like virginal, and he enjoyed being bluntly forward, usually. But now Erik was looking at him with pitying patience, and Charles found himself stammering to a halt under that regard.
"I touched you, and your body responded," Erik explained, squeezing Charles' hand before letting it go. "That's all. And perhaps you do find some things about me to be… Intriguing, but I assure you: you'll come to your senses soon enough."
Charles scrutinized Erik's face, lined with weariness but strict with honesty. "Can't it be more complicated than that?" And he really hadn't meant to sound that indignant; oh dear, this really wasn't going well, was it?
Erik quirked up his lips, and reached out his hand again to set beneath Charles' chin. "I've always known, Charles. I always knew that you wouldn't kiss me back, even all those years ago," Erik told him; then he wrapped his fingers around Charles' jaw and lowered his voice to add, "That is, unless you had to."
Charles held himself still in Erik's grasp, staring back into those dark eyes. Very green, he thought again, in that light—and for all that Erik glowered at him now, and for all that what Erik said might well be true… Charles could not find it in himself to be angry. Instead, he felt—betrayal; disappointment; grief? Charles wasn't sure which.
Charles raised his own hand up to cradle Erik's neck, just below the helmet. "Then why?" he whispered, ragged.
Erik's eyebrows tipped back—only a little, only for a moment—and some emotion flashed over his face, in the wideness of his eyes and the falter of his mouth; then it was gone, twisted by a snarl. Charles felt a tug around his neck—the collar—and suddenly he was yanked close, Erik's hand in his hair tipping back his head. Charles held his breath as Erik's eyes bore into his, and as warm air from the other man's open mouth gusted over his face.
"Because," Erik growled, flexing his fingers in Charles' hair. The geneticist made a low noise of discomfort at the pain in his scalp; in response, Erik pressed him in closer, against his chest. "Because I wanted to. Because—it doesn't matter anymore."
"Does it—" Charles grunted— "Does it really not matter how you treat a friend, now? Is it no longer worth it to try?"
Erik leaned down, lips brushing the corner of Charles' mouth. "You tell me—would it change your opinion of me if I stopped tonight?"
"Yes," Charles gasped, back contorted uncomfortably to fit beneath Erik. He stared into Erik's eyes as he said it, trying to tell him without telepathy—true, it's true, believe me—even though he wasn't sure at all—and the skin around Erik's eyes had creased in doubt, in consideration—
But then those elegant brows furrowed down, and Charles saw the wrinkles of another snarl on the bridge of Erik's nose, vanishing under the beak of the helmet. "Liar," Erik hissed, giving Charles' hair a sharp shake. "Nobody's that naïve, Charles, least of all me. And—I don't care what you think, because I have you exactly where I want you now."
Then he pushed forward, crushing his mouth against Charles', except that this time Charles didn't open to him; he kept his lips pressed tightly together as Erik growled against them—Charles felt the vibration of it—and then Erik simply abandoned the kiss in favor of pulling Charles' shirt collar aside and sinking his teeth into the junction of neck and shoulder. It was a familiar enough gesture but now Charles yelped and tried to twist away, because this time there was no teasing behind it; no sensuality. This time it actually hurt, as if Erik were about to rip a chunk out of him.
Charles pushed at the other man with his hands, pain tearing through his arm as his muscles twisted in Erik's jaws until finally Erik stopped, teeth still sharp in Charles' neck—then, slowly, he drew them out and lapped his tongue over the indentations while Charles lay tense and immobile in his grasp, panting with adrenalin.
Erik took his tongue away, too, and then exhaled over the bite. Charles' skin, already flushing hot with inflammation, cooled as the saliva evaporated. "But we can still be civil," Erik murmured, pressing a soft kiss where his teeth had been. "We still have that, at least."
Charles gave into a helplessly bitter laugh. Civil; yes, of course they could still be civil. What was a little molestation between friends, after all? What was a little pain and torture?
Erik released him, and Charles caught himself with a hasty grab for the armrest of the couch as Erik composed himself on the next cushion over.
"I didn't come here for this," Erik said, smoothing his trousers over his thighs with an absent stroke of his hands as he looked over toward his hanging cape. Then he twisted, and picked up the book from the opposite armrest; it almost vanished in his hand. "I had been hoping to read this to you."
"I certainly can't stop you," Charles murmured. He reached up to rub at his neck, glancing over at Erik in case he had the gall to forbid him from it—but Erik hardly looked at him before flipping through the first few pages and tucking his thumb between them. Then he lifted his arm, rested his elbow on the back of the couch, and watched Charles expectantly, eyes glinting in the light of the lamp.
Charles paused with his hand beneath his collar and frowned at Erik, because the man expected him to cuddle? After being gnawed on? But evidently he did, because Erik raised his eyebrows and kept still, waiting.
Staring back at him, Charles resumed massaging the bite and considered. He could say any number of disparaging things to Erik—and Erik deserved them—but… He'd set out to seduce Erik, hadn't he? And god, wasn't that an enjoyable prospect now.
Focus, Charles told himself. His pulse still fluttered in his throat—distracting. Only… Erik had never really caused him pain, before this; even when he'd made Charles pass out, it hadn't hurt. Did he think himself free to, now that Charles had proven himself untrustworthy?
Charles blinked to clear his head again; Erik continued to wait, eyes glinting. It was almost… It was almost as if Erik was deliberately trying to prove him wrong. Every time Charles insisted that Erik could do better… He did worse.
Examining Erik with fresh consideration, Charles thought: Interesting. That was… Interesting. And if true… Well. He wasn't sure what that would mean, and he certainly wasn't going to try and figure it out now. It changed nothing, in the short term—except that he had some guide to prevent Erik from doing it again, at least. How comforting.
Finally, Charles sighed in exasperation, dropped his hand from his neck, and scooted over. He braced himself before settling in against Erik's side, and as Erik's arm wrapped around him and Erik's body heat seeped though his jacket, Charles shivered. He looked down to where Erik's hand spread over his chest, fingertips dimpling his cardigan; he could almost see that line of turbulence where Erik's lethargic heat mixed with his own cold horror. Charles' creeping malaise, which had fled in the struggle, returned anew.
"What did you bring?" Charles asked, without trying to see. He attempted to sit as if he were in fact not leaning against Erik's side.
Erik's voice came from near his ear. "Fahrenheit 451." Then he added, rather unnecessarily: "By Bradbury."
"I would have thought that it'd strike too close to home," Charles commented.
"You're cheeky tonight," Erik remarked, tightening his hold on Charles. "But I don't encourage blind belief and miseducation. It's not that close."
Charles turned his head slightly; not enough to see Erik's face but simply to signal his closer attention. "Don't you? What about this city that you've been trying to convince people to believe in?"
"I wasn't under the impression that your city was a fool's errand," Erik told him, fingers plucking at the edge of Charles' jacket. The telepath felt him shift, and Erik turned the book over to look at the title. "'Fahrenheit.' Hm. In another generation, no one will know what that means."
"Ah, yes—your worldwide metrification."
"It's not as if the rest of the world wouldn't have switched over anyway, given time," Erik said. "You can hardly hold that against me."
"I'm not," Charles protested. "I'm a scientist—I support anything that makes my job easier. That is—" Charles hastened to clarify— "anything that doesn't hurt people."
"You grew up using Imperial," Erik stated, sounding amused; "Surely, switching over couldn't have been painless."
Charles shrugged, and his shoulder nudged up into Erik's arm. He didn't bother correcting Erik, since it hardly mattered that he'd grown up with US customary as well. "I drilled myself in it."
"Oh?" Erik asked, and tipped the book toward Charles. "Tell me, then—what would you call this, in metric?"
Charles glanced down without interest. It'd been a very long time since he'd set out to memorize the conversions—he'd been eleven; long before he had any real reason to—and since then he'd rarely needed to deal with any large number not already in Celsius. Charles, however, had memorized the equivalencies between every increment of fifty in both systems up to two thousand degrees, and four hundred fifty-one was near enough to four hundred fifty that it didn't matter. There was no challenge at all.
Still, Charles had his pride; he narrowed his eyes, preformed a quick addition in his head, and answered, "Roughly five hundred and five."
Erik was silent for a moment; then: "Kelvin. You are being cheeky tonight."
"You're being patronizing," Charles countered. "Ask if you want, but don't be surprised if I do, in fact, know the things that I claim to."
There was a low chuckle behind him, and Erik's fingers spread out over his chest as the man leaned down to nuzzle into Charles' hair. "Of course you do," Erik murmured. "I should expect nothing less. Now—would you like me to read?"
If Charles were to be honest, he didn't—because he knew, just as well as he knew the conversion between Fahrenheit and Celsius, that as soon as Erik stopped reading—Charles would have to try to seduce him again, whether he'd been bitten or not. He would much rather focus on Bradbury's novel than on what he could say to Erik, or what would happen after.
Regardless, Charles nodded, and Erik held him close as he cleared his throat softly and began, "Part one: the Hearth and the Salamander. 'It was a pleasure to burn. It was a pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed…'"
Charles' heart fluttered in his chest. The bite ached, now that he no longer had the task of clashing wits with Erik to distract him. He could only be glad that his skin hadn't broken—but then, Erik would never be so sloppy as to do something such as that unintentionally. If he had meant to, though…
He didn't, Charles told himself, because it was true. Because he was increasingly sure that the bite was merely part of some childish tantrum. But if he had… Well. Erik was certainly capable of hurting him, if unwilling; but obviously not entirely unwilling, it seemed. And… It would be very easy, to be hurt again.
At least I won't be walking strangely after, Charles thought to himself, fighting not to give into a small, hysterical giggle. Not that it would necessarily come to that, of course; if he could help it. After all, Erik had been so indignant the last time that Charles had been willing to wager everything.
And Erik's approval was, of course, the most important aspect of that arrangement; not whether it was right, or anything so quaint as that.
"'…Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her face was slender and milk-white, and in it was a gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity. It was a look, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them.'"
Despite the difference of pronoun, Charles could tell from the way Erik's fingers clutched into his chest that Erik was imagining him on that street corner. A chill passed down his spine before melting away in Erik's warmth; Charles might not have read Fahrenheit 451 before, but a newly-adult Raven had loved it dearly.
Although she preferred to take an author's writing at face value, Raven had stopped in the middle of her enthusiastic review to muse, "It's really not much of a romance. It's like—she seduces him with an idea, and he falls in love with the idea, not with her." Then she had stopped, and grinned at him. "I thought maybe if I said it like that, you'd read it."
Charles had been intrigued, back then, but it still hadn't been quite enough to convince him to take a break from his schoolwork and read it for himself. Now, though—here—Charles felt in some way the secretive thrill of prophecy; as if some American author who might already be dead had, more than twenty years ago, seen some glimpse of them now and had graciously disguised their identities on the page.
Only that was ridiculous, of course, because the book was nothing like his life.
Charles half-closed his eyes to prove to himself that he was in fact not very interested, and since Erik made a convenient pillow, he rested his head back on the man's ample deltoid. Erik's reading voice sounded almost breathless with Bradbury's commas, and Charles amused himself for a while by thinking of how different this voice was from that of Magneto. So much lighter; almost tenuous. Wistfully strident.
"'He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity but—what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. One time, as a child, in a power failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, hoping that the power might not come on again too soon…'"
There were ellipses on the page, but Erik's silence was his own. Charles waited, unaware that he was holding his breath until Erik's fingers slid out from between the pages and he closed the book. Then Charles exhaled.
Still, Erik said nothing.
Charles drew in a deep lungful of air to steady himself, and then raised up the leg closest to Erik. He tried to copy the other man's simple economy of movement as he circled his ankle around Erik's shins and laid his thigh over Erik's lap.
"What do you want, Charles?" Erik asked, sounding tired. He'd moved the book out of Charles' way and made no move to initiate any further contact.
"I want to be able to leave my rooms again," Charles declared, keeping his voice even. As if they were discussing what to have for lunch.
He felt Erik's chest jump with silent, bitter laughter. "I thought you hated bargaining with me."
"I do," Charles admitted, pressing the arch of his foot to Erik's leg, opposite. Flattery hadn't worked; perhaps honesty might. Or, at least—half-honesty. Charles no longer had the energy to lie, anyway. "But I also want to get out."
Erik didn't answer immediately, although his fingers closed in a slow fist in the fabric of Charles' cardigan. "You committed treason," he said, finally. "I gave you access to my headquarters because I trusted you, and you abused that trust."
"You've allowed people with far greater powers than mine get away with worse."
"If I was only worried about your telepathy, Charles, I would let you out in an instant," Erik explained. "Your words are far more dangerous. I don't believe for a moment that you had to make anyone do anything, to accomplish what you did."
"I can't stay here," Charles whispered. Then he fell uncomfortably silent, because it seemed like anything he could say to elaborate might be entirely too honest.
Erik moved behind him, hugging him close and pressing his nose to the top of Charles' head. "I can't trust you," he murmured.
Charles wrapped his fingers around Erik's, holding the other man's hand to his chest. He kept his leg over Erik's lap, although his better judgment clamored for him to move it, arguing that he embarrassed himself enough already. But—he had his resolve, after all. "I want to bargain for another chance."
Erik disentangled his hand from Charles' and moved it instead to the telepath's chin, pulling his head back onto Erik's shoulder. Charles shivered as Erik's breath teased over his neck, and lips brushed below his ear. He thought of Erik's teeth. "What are you trying to do, Charles?" he asked. "Are you trying to convince me—" his voice lowered to a growl— "that I can fuck you into being trustworthy again?"
Charles moistening his lips and flexed his leg over Erik's thighs, drawing himself half onto Erik's lap. His toes, in their black dress socks, wrapped around Erik's shin; a daily victory of motion, uncelebrated. He tried to relax, to sink in against Erik, but every one of the muscles along his spine clutched at him, unwilling. "If," he began, then swallowed and started again: "If you want to."
He heard the low hiss of Erik drawing breath. "I'm fairly certain it doesn't work that way."
Charles clenched his teeth, stared down at his legs, and willed himself to relax. Slowly, his knees fell to their sides and he lay back against Erik's shoulder. His skin tingled with the effort of staying there as Erik's hand caressed his throat in passing and then moved down to his waist. "Doesn't it?" Charles asked. "After all, I think… Clearly I have to trust you, to let you. Touch me. Like this."
Erik's hand caressed Charles' side. "You're shaking," he commented.
It appeared to be true. Charles closed his eyes and exhaled, finding that he hadn't relaxed after all, except that he had been wound so tightly to begin with. He tried again, and this time succeeded; he sank into Erik, inhaled again, and opened his eyes. "I'm nervous," Charles admitted. "I think that's reasonable."
"Mm," Erik grunted, returning his mouth to Charles' neck. "If it's a matter of trust… I'll bargain with you, Charles."
"Really?" Charles turned his head to peer back at Erik. "Well, then, I offer—"
"No," Erik interrupted; he grasped the inside of Charles' thigh around the cover of Fahrenheit 451 and tugged the telepath over to straddle him fully. Charles stared down at where book and hand held him spread open, eyes wide. "No, I think it's only fair that if I'm to risk everything by letting you out, even under guard—which you will be—then I get to demand the same of you. So that is the bargain. I'll let you return to your previous duties in exchange for everything. In exchange for you, yourself."
Charles swallowed, still staring. Erik's legs pressed up between his own, warm and firm with muscle, and the sight was… Somewhat distracting. "This very instant?"
Erik's voice was a deadly purr. "Forever."
"You have a very impressive view of my stamina," Charles remarked, faintly.
Erik chuckled, and Charles was intently aware Erik's body jerking beneath him as he laughed. "I wasn't referring to your body, Charles."
He'd known. "I thought that I was… Yours… Already," Charles said, moistening his lips.
A low growl rumbled through him from Erik's chest, and the other man removed book and hand to frame Charles' hips as he nudged Charles' legs further apart with his knees. The telepath sucked in air; he felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, soaking in the heat from Erik's lap.
"Thank you for thinking so," Erik murmured low into his ear. There was a touch on Charles' throat, and he realized with a sort of lethargic interest that the gold collar was snaking over his skin, writhing around his neck and caressing over his pulse. It didn't seem about to choke him, however, so Charles didn't protest.
"You never struck me as romantic," Charles mused, speaking simply to speak. He didn't want to dwell on what his body was doing—and what was his body doing? It seemed content just to drape itself over Erik. He felt pliant and malleable, like the gold around his neck. "I thought that if you ever spoke about the human heart, it'd undoubtedly be literal."
"I don't literally want your heart," Erik assured him. "I want your permission to cut you open and rip it out of you."
Charles hesitated. "…Are we still speaking literally?"
"Yes," Erik confirmed, and the collar around Charles' neck felt… Different. It tickled over his carotid artery, scraping with a freshly razor-sharp edge. "If you really trust me so much, then you shouldn't be afraid to grant me that permission."
"Your logic is marvelously circular," Charles said, resisting the urge to lean his neck away. His heart beat in his chest, but he still felt strangely calm. It was true, he realized; he didn't fear that Erik would kill him. Whatever else Erik might do, Erik wouldn't allow him to come to serious harm.
That was not, however, the detail that concerned Charles. "If you're trying to make me promise to… To love you, then I feel I should warn you: people don't work that way."
"I don't expect you to sing my praises and flutter your eyelashes at me," Erik said, squeezing his fingers around Charles' hips. The telepath bit the interior of his cheek; Erik wasn't, well, very aroused, yet, but he could still… Feel him, there. Charles' legs tried to twitch inward, and succeeded only in pressing up against Erik's. It ached where the other man's knees drove into his thighs—but in a pleasant sort of way, like a healing bruise.
"I only ask that you… Pledge yourself to me," Erik continued. "Anything that I want to do to you—allow me to. Anything that I ask you to do—do it, as well as you are able. Trust me not to hurt you. Be mine."
Charles turned his head until he could see, from the corner of his eye, the barest sliver of Erik's face. "That doesn't sound like a request that can be described with 'only.'"
A wry smile teased at Erik's mouth. "True—but it will be my only offer. If it isn't worth it to you, don't accept."
Charles stared, eyebrows furrowed, and then—with the smolder and curl of a leaf flashing into flame—he was angry; gritting his teeth to ask: "So what does that leave me, then? I'll be once free and twice a prisoner—all for the privilege of doing what most sane people would pay me to do."
"You'll have everything within my power to give you," Erik assured him, frowning.
"And what is that worth? You can't even stock my bookshelves," Charles pointed out, gesturing sharply toward his study. "Am I supposed to be content, going to work with your minions during the day and returning to my rooms in the evening to satisfy you?" Then he stopped, and flicked his gaze up to the ceiling. "Oh, but that's right—you don't really want to have sex with me at all, do you? No, you're pure and noble and all you want is unparalleled access to my pleasant—"
Erik's fingers ran down the arc of Charles' pelvis, toward his groin, and the telepath stopped with a gasp and a shudder. "Of course I find you attractive, in many ways," Erik explained patiently. "But I'm not a beast, driven to indulge my every passing desire. You're not just a body to me, and you're not negotiating with my cock—which, admittedly, has much… Simpler cravings. You're dealing with me, and I do crave your pleasant company. I desire your consideration and wit; I want your attention; I require your obedience. Give them to me, because you already possess mine."
Charles barked a laugh. "In what way are you obedient to me?"
There was a growl over his shoulder. "Try me, and find out."
"Well—you've been very careful not to show too much of yourself to me. You'd rather sweat through all your layers of clothing than show me a glimpse of your bare forearm, even while you have me nude and writhing beneath you," Charles explained. "So tell me; would you object if I wanted to fuck you?"
Charles immediately regretted asking, because when Erik's voice slid low and languid into his ear, it was to ask: "Do you want to?"
"Uh," Charles grunted, and had to pull his mind away from an astonishingly vivid, tactile image of himself, fitted between Erik's legs, hands wrapped around Erik's narrow waist and rutting enthusiastically into him while Erik's head rolled back onto the pillow in helpless ecstasy. After all, the present situation couldn't be more different—Erik was pressed up against his arse, instead. Fuck, he thought, and then added, for his own clarification, Figuratively speaking.
"Not especially," Charles muttered, without enthusiasm. "Let's abandon that hypothetical, shall we?"
"If you like." Erik had the grace not to sound too smug, but he shattered that illusion by scraping his teeth over the skin beneath Charles' ear, then setting his lips to it.
Charles drove his fingernails into his own palms and drew a long, deep breath. Calm, he told himself, and said aloud, "No, you're not after sex, I'll grant you that. You could have had me a dozen different ways by now if that were the case."
Erik made a low noise of agreement, moving his hands up to scratch at Charles' ribs through his clothing, and the telepath shivered, pressing back against Erik.
"I'm trying to—talk—" Charles protested, grabbing for Erik's hands.
Erik caught one of Charles' wrists and lifted it to his mouth, reaching out his tongue to play over where the blue veins snaked over tendon. "So talk," he offered, lips brushing against the creases that separated the pink swell of Charles' hand from the pale skin of his arm.
Charles swallowed thickly—at least if Erik was mouthing at his hand, then he wasn't groping Charles. Not that it was much less distracting, but… "You're after control. You already control my body, or do enough that you feel it's… Well, already within your… Hands. You already control my life. Now you want to control me, too."
Erik abandoned Charles' hand in favor of grasping his jaw, and he angled Charles' head to face him, meeting the geneticist's stare with half-lidded eyes. "Yes," he breathed, touching his nose to Charles' face; tracing it over the bruise on his cheek. "The mighty Charles Xavier—mine, in every way. I would like that."
Erik hissed in air and pulled Charles around further, darting down to halt a scant millimeter away from devouring Charles' mouth. "Give that to me," he demanded. "Give yourself to me so that I can give you want you want. Submit yourself to me, and I'll give you the world."
"I don't want to be yours," Charles protested, pushing his hand into Erik's chest. His legs pressed in, against Erik's. "I don't want the world—I just want to be a scientist."
"You will," Erik insisted. "And—you said it yourself. The only differences between this and what you offered to me are the words. So show me your obedience; grant me permission to take your control away from you, and then think whatever you want."
Words, Charles reflected. Mere words—did they matter, if they weren't sincere? If a tree falls in a forest… If I make a promise I don't intend to fulfill… Because he wouldn't give himself over to Erik; he would never be Erik's. And, even if he pretended to… Well, it wouldn't be forever, would it? Charles, after all, had no intention of remaining under Erik's control.
Charles thought of Raven—briefly, because he didn't want to associate her with whatever came next—and wished he could apologize. Now that he was presented with the opportunity, almost gift-wrapped and given to him, he knew that he could not accept it; he could not sit idly by and allow Erik to continue. It was not in his nature to give in; Charles knew it, he was fairly certain that Erik knew it, and if Raven didn't as well—then she invited her own disappointment.
Erik's eyes were close, and they looked astonishingly real; as if up until that point they had been no more than an indication of Erik's attention, a mere idea of sight. Now Charles could see the ribbons of muscle weaving through his irises; the brush of pink capillaries through iridescent sclera; the three-dimensional black bulge of his pupils—they were the eyes of an animal, and entirely human.
"You would have asked me to do this anyway," Charles accused him. "And you'll keep asking, until I agree."
Erik swayed forward and touched his lips to Charles'; lightly, only just tracing their curve. Then he pulled back again. "I might," he conceded. His eyelashes dipped as he looked down Charles' face, and the geneticist felt a flick of his tongue as Erik moistened his own lips. "Mm… The things I could do to you, Charles."
For a moment, Charles' mind flashed to exactly what Erik could do to him—and where he could do those things; there was the desk in the study, for instance, or the table by the window, or even, more conventionally, the bed or couch—then he cleared his throat, lifted his chin over Erik's hand, and turned his head to the side. He shifted his hips in a way that almost certainly wasn't discreet at all, since any slight movement was made obvious when preformed on someone's lap, but his own trousers were starting to become rather… Uncomfortable.
"I'm sure," Charles agreed, still looking away. Thoughts and words were often different; he'd known that almost for as long as he could remember. People said one thing and felt another all the time; in fact, it was almost the rule, rather than the exception. Society was based on that discordance, and Charles was no different. He could play the game, and because he knew what to guard against, he would not lose himself. He could bide his time.
Charles turned back to Erik, studying the tilt of his chin and the wry curve of his mouth. "What would you like me to do?" Charles asked, and felt his heart stutter into a frenzy as one part of his mind, surely the more rational, realized oh, god, you're agreeing to this, you idiot—even while another part of him gleefully siphoned that blood away in preparation for the consequences. He blinked to clear his head enough to sound sure of himself when he inquired, "I suppose I could start by sucking you off?"
Erik chuckled softly, baring teeth in a grin. "This is the third time you've made a pass at me, Charles—if I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were eager for it." He rolled his hips up against Charles, and for a moment the geneticist's mind fizzed blank except for penis, that's his penis, I can feel it; then he blushed because it had left his body aching for more and he would sooner pass out from holding his own breath than grind back down onto Erik—except it appeared that he already had, hm. Charles wondered idly how many layers separated them; it would depend on whether Erik wore anything under his trousers. He seemed like the sort of person who might go without.
"I…" Charles struggled to divide his attention between trying to deny being "eager for it" and evaluating whether he might, in fact, like touching Erik. After all, he'd enjoyed the few times that he'd been with women who could put aside their bewildered embarrassment at being pleasured without giving pleasure in return—strange and sad, how half the human race was instructed that their desires were unnatural—and he'd been good at it, using his telepathy to guide fingers and tongue. Fellatio couldn't be more difficult than that, even without telepathy, but—but this was Erik, who had, less than an hour ago, chewed on him—
—And Erik had cupped his right hand between Charles' legs, flattening the book against Charles' belly with the left to pull the telepath back against him. Pinned in place by the book, Charles could do no more than flex his thighs around Erik's and whine low in his throat when that didn't push him up into Erik's hand.
Erik's mouth touched the shell of his ear; his voice was rough as mountain gravel. "No, I think I prefer seeing you come apart under my hands. I'd make you beg… But you already do that well enough on your own."
"Go to hell," Charles panted, going still in Erik's grasp. It was tortuous, to lay motionless against those large, warm hands, but it was one thing to admit to liking them there and quite another to let Erik gloat about it was well.
Erik hummed in consideration, and then pronounced, "Well then, if you have nothing nice to say…" He brought the book up again, turning it around in his long fingers until the spine faced out from his palm. Charles had already been still, but now he froze as Erik touched the spine of the book to his lower lip, and he peered down the cover at Erik's winter-chafed fingers. Surely he couldn't mean…?
Erik nudged the book against Charles' lips. "Go on," he purred. "Open." Erik pulled his free hand over the bulge of Charles' cock and the geneticist shuddered with the effort to remain silent and closed-mouthed.
"Charles," Erik growled into his ear, "You promised me." And—so he had, Charles realized. With a quiet whimper—almost a sob—he opened his mouth and let Erik slide Fahrenheit 451 between his teeth until its binding pushed against his cheeks.
Charles felt Erik's lips on his neck, just above where he'd bitten down earlier. "I won't hurt you again," Erik assured him, moving his free hand up to smooth Charles' cardigan down over his stomach. His left hand remained in place, holding the book in Charles' mouth. "And because you resisted me—this stays where it is until we're done."
Because he couldn't speak, Charles narrowed his eyes at the opposite wall and hissed out over the cover of the book. In reply, Erik laughed low by his ear and dipped his hand down along Charles' stomach, burying his fingers beneath belt and trousers. Then Erik curled his fingers and scratched up, pulling out Charles' shirt as the geneticist arched up off of his lap.
Charles twisted his head into Erik's chest and the book followed. "Now," Erik murmured, seizing Charles' belt in his hand and angling the buckle out from his waist. "Undo this for me, please."
Charles fumbled to find his belt—he couldn't look down past the book—and tugged at the buckle with more violence than skill. His hand pressed against Erik's, and the clasp came undone as if on its own.
Erik's mouth pressed against his temple. "Now your trousers," he ordered. Charles hesitated, then did as he said; the pull of the zipper shuddered along his half-hard penis.
Erik's hand slipped in beneath his, against the soft cotton of Charles' briefs. "Mm. I like the way you feel. You're…" He stroked down, outlining the shaft between fingers and thumb. When he traced around the head, Charles melted into Erik with a tiny, muffled groan.
The geneticist felt Erik smile against his temple. "But I think I'd prefer if you took matters into your own hands tonight."
Charles tried to turn his head to see Erik's face, but Fahrenheit 451 bit into his cheek. He couldn't look down either, but he could feel as Erik's hand moved out from his trousers and settled against his hip, tucking into the waistband. "Lift up a little," Erik demanded.
Oh, Charles realized. He wants me to help strip myself. Well, that was easy enough; he pushed himself up from Erik's legs—and at the same time, back into his chest—and Erik tugged down trousers and briefs together, first one side then the other. He stopped, however, with Charles' hips only just barely exposed; then Erik pressed his hand into the dark curls of Charles' pubic hair and shoved him down again.
Charles grunted as he fell back, and felt his molars dent into the cover of the book. He forced his jaws open again; bad enough to be gagged by a book—worse to ruin it in the process. Especially since Erik would then probably keep it forever as a reminder.
The starched fabric of Erik's trousers scratched against his bare skin, and the line of Erik's erection had invited itself to lie perfectly in the cleft of his arse, but Charles' attention whisked away from that when Erik reached down into the gap between his legs and pants and untucked his cock—before simply setting it back down on the elastic of Charles' briefs and retreating his fingers to the crease between hip and thigh.
Erik lifted his mouth from Charles' temple and moved to instead nuzzle into the hair behind Charles' ear. His words were lethargic with lust. "Charles. I want you to jerk yourself off."
Charles went still, tilting his head as far as he could: not far at all. His eyebrows furrowed, and he rocked up against Erik's hand questioningly. "Hn?"
A ghost of a chuckle warmed Charles' scalp, and Erik's fingers squeezed stubbornly into his thigh. "Go on, Professor. Have yourself a wank, right here in my lap."
Charles remained motionless, brows lowered. His face felt hot. He was, for once, too warm. Erik radiated heat: Erik's breath in his hair; his body at Charles' back, thudding faintly with his heartbeat and undulating with the bellows movement of his ribs; and finally, the surreal furnace of said lap in question and Erik's shameless desire.
Charles felt almost feverish; cool air teased his forehead and he knew that he was sweating. Despite the book in his mouth—despite the fact that this was business and an obviously perverse power play—he wanted nothing more than to melt down around Erik. He realized, suddenly, that he might not even have the energy to have a wank on Erik's lap. His fingers felt weak and too sensitive, thrumming with awareness.
Erik's chest rumbled with a growl—not threatening; impatient and urging Charles to get on with it—and Charles made his own low noise into the confidence of Bradbury. His arm seemed stuck to his side, but he lifted it, rearranged his elbow, and… Took himself in hand, as Erik had wanted.
Erik—to whom he had given everything. Who now had blanket permission for anything. Who… Likely had a very active imagination. Charles focused on not biting down on the book as he tugged at his cock. The only sounds were their breathing and the chafing sound of flesh on flesh. Dry, of course—he didn't need lubricant on himself, after all.
It was not so unlike fantasizing in his bed, Charles decided—if perhaps his bed was an exceptionally enthusiastic cuddler. Erik was wrapped around him, holding him close, holding the book in his mouth; rocking against him, just a little, as Charles let himself sink down around Erik's legs—because what did it matter, if Erik thought he enjoyed that pressure beneath him? What did it matter if he did?
Erik's hand touched his, and Charles faltered; the book hid his view. Erik didn't try to stop him, however; instead his hand continued down, and closed around Charles' balls. The telepath rolled his head back into Erik's shoulder as the other man experimented with a gentle, caressing squeeze of his fingers. It wasn't intense, it wasn't painful, but rather… Pleasant. Nice, even. Charles tightened his hold on himself while Erik massaged him, and let his eyes slip closed.
He could smell himself, he noticed; a musky, masculine odor unique from the cologne and strangely pine smell of Erik, and Erik's own male scent. In almost the same moment, he heard Erik inhale deeply; felt the expansion of the other man's chest as he drew Charles into his lungs.
Erik bent his head down into the crook of Charles' neck, perhaps for a better view, and Charles didn't resist as Fahrenheit 451 urged him to bend back over Erik's shoulder. There was no part of him left apart from Erik; they were fitted together, a soft stone in the embrace of its setting, cradled but exposed.
Erik's hand slid deeper; Charles felt the brush of his fingertips just below his balls, and the palm of his hand against them. Then one long finger pressed against him and Charles nearly inhaled the book as he gasped. His legs spread wider, which pulled his pants back up his thighs; the waistband caught Erik's hand and drove his fingers into the sensitive skin between Charles' legs.
Charles bit into the book, moaned, and twitched his legs open further; rocked his knees to pull Erik's hand closer again until Erik took over, stroking his fingers against Charles' body to reach someplace deeper through the flesh. Charles lay atop him, eyes tightly closed, head tilted back with Erik's breath on his collar, and arched his back as if he could wind himself around Erik, back to front.
He opened his mouth so that he didn't ruin the book and, with a last inarticulate, muffled cry—came, spurting up and then back down onto his hand. Charles was vaguely conscious that some of it got onto his clothing, onto his briefs and pants and shirt, and might have been displeased except that he had gone blank, for the moment, and could only sink back down onto Erik and lie there, panting.
Erik's hand slipped out from between Charles' legs, and lifted up; Charles heard the sound of a tongue on skin. Fahrenheit 451 tugged at his lips and withdrew, allowing Charles to roll his head to the side, onto Erik's chest.
Slowly, Charles became aware of the erection straining against his bare arse, of Erik breathing heavy into his hair, and his heart—which had thought itself free to rest—stumbled back into frenzy. The gag had been removed, but Charles still couldn't speak; nor could he bring himself to move, although he could not have been spread any more invitingly around Erik.
Both of Erik's hands settled down onto Charles' hips, fingertips tucking their way under his shirt and jacket. Erik inhaled, and Charles copied the action; he smelled his own come. He looked down and saw that he had, in fact, splattered quite a bit of it onto his trousers; his cock draped stickily over his fingers because Charles wasn't sure where else he could put his hand without making more of a mess.
Erik rested his face against Charles'; the edge of the helmet dug into his cheek and there was sex on Erik's breath. "I could—have you," he murmured; Erik tightened his grasp on Charles' hips and ground up into him, long and slow.
Charles shivered, but remained where he was. He felt… Relaxed, now. He seemed to recall that it was less likely to—to hurt, if he was relaxed. And maybe it could even feel nice—although at that thought, he felt his relevant internal organs cringe; they had a much more pessimistic view of Erik's, well, size.
"You could," Charles offered, quietly. He moved his clean hand to cover one of Erik's, holding it there; the other he cupped over himself, since he still had nowhere else to put it and he was leaking, a little, as his blood returned to his body.
Erik hummed in consideration, and ground up against Charles once more—then stopped. He turned his head so that his lips and nose touched the telepath's cheek. "Do you want me to?" he asked.
"You may," Charles replied, focusing on controlling his breathing; on keeping it even. Oh god, he thought, What did I agree to?
"Charles," Erik growled, giving Charles' hips a sharp tug. "Do you want me to?"
"No," Charles whispered, pressing his legs in against Erik's. "I… Don't."
Erik lifted his hands up; wrapped one arm around Charles and stroked the other hand into his hair. Erik kissed his cheek gently, and Charles let his eyes slip shut. He could still feel Erik insistent beneath him, but when Erik spoke it was to say, "Then I won't."
Charles waited; he waited for Erik to ask something else of him, to take his turn, but Erik didn't loosen his embrace and continued to smooth down that same lock of his hair, over and over again. Charles turned a little, and opened his eyes, meeting Erik's. He moistened his lips—Erik glanced down at his tongue—and inquired, "Do you want me to, ah… Return the favor?"
Erik smiled fondly and pulled him closer, kissing Charles' forehead this time. "No," he reassured Charles. "I'm content with your satisfaction. Just… Relax, here. I'll get you something to clean up with."
He gave Charles one last, comforting squeeze—and then lifted him up off his lap and back onto the couch so that he could get up and walk to the bathroom. Charles expected him to take his time, but Erik returned quickly; visibly less hard but still, if Charles was any judge of such things, unspent.
Once Charles had wiped himself down and scrubbed a little at his trousers, Erik still did not demand anything of him; he only took the rag away to add to Charles' laundry and, upon returning the second time, sat back down on the couch and patted the space next to himself.
Charles hesitated, looping his belt back through the buckle with absent-mindedly slow fingers. Then Erik's lips quirked into a smile and Charles shifted toward him warily. It was only when Erik's arm wrapped around him once more and Erik lifted up the book again—the same book that had earlier been in Charles' mouth; which had, to his chagrin, a damp spot and several dents halfway down its spine—that the geneticist realized: Erik did not resent him.
He'd been telling the truth. Charles now sat on the opposite side of the lamp from him, so that he saw Erik outlined in golden light; the blunt tip of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes, the curl of his mouth—all soft, compared to the sharp points of the helmet. He was… Content.
And why not, Charles mused, too tired to feel more than a thorn of panic. If things go badly at work, at least he can make me happy, more or less. That was one way to relieve stress, certainly—and Charles felt ill-inclined to question it, for the moment. Another time, perhaps.
After all, he'd promised Erik forever.
.
.
.
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