One: Beta read byHoodoo. You're frickin' awesome.
Two: Moira MacTaggert is heavily featured throughout the story. If you don't like her, tough.
Three: I'm sorry for the shortness of these chapters. And for posting an update weekly. It's deliberate, trust me. I'm not doing it to tease. I'm doing it to buy myself some time.
Four: It will be (eventually) cross-posted at the Archive under CharlieBravoWhiskey.
Five: It's Moira/Erik, Moira/Charles, Erik/Charles.
Six: Angst, ahoy!
Seven: I play with time. And point of view. Hopefully, I have done a good enough job of when you know whose point of view it is and the timing of the section. If not, I haven't done my job.
Eight: I own nothing. I make nothing out of writing this story. The only thing I get out of writing this story is the chance towrite.
Erik remembered seeing the soft human for the very first time. It was right after his disastrous attempt of pulling Shaw's submarine out of the Floridian waters where Charles had pulled him out - saved him really. She had come running down the ship stairs concern and worry etched over her face, her dark straight hair falling over her eyes as she rushed to Charles's side with a blanket.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" she demanded throwing the blanket over him.
Charles had laughed at that and gestured at Erik. "Please, get my new friend a blanket," was all he said. Moira glanced at him and blinked dumbfounded - Where the hell had he come from? Erik stared hard back at her glancing at her hands on Charles' shoulders and narrowed his eyes further at the agent. Something deep inside him stirred and for the briefest of moments he was jealous of Moira's hands being on Charles. Already Erik knew, even if he did not understand or acknowledged it outright, that Charles belonged to him, which made Moira (besides Shaw) enemy number one.
However, under this animosity, was another emotion - one that he would recognize later on - pure and simple lust. Like Charles, a few previous weeks before, Erik felt lust for this woman standing there with her hands on Charles' shoulders. He did not understand this feeling and probably never could - his constant thoughts were focused on revenge.
"What will you do, if you ever get your revenge," Charles asked him one night, limbs and sheets were tangled. Erik's hand rested gently on Charles' chest, enjoying the rise and fall of his lover's breathe. The only light in the room came from the moon outside.
Erik turned towards him and propped his head on his hand. He gazed at Charles in the moonlight and loved the way he looked. In front of him wasn't the usual crisp Charles Xavier but one rumpled looking and decidedly delicious man. Charles knowing Erik's avoidance tactic only met his gaze and waited patiently for an answer.
Erik, hoping to avoid the answer, pressed his nose against Charles' temple and inhaled smelling sweat, shampoo and something else...honey? Chamomile? Cinnamon? Mint? His hand slid further up Charles' chest hoping to distract the telepath.
Charles only raised his eyebrow at the German and asked him again, this time in a firmer, if still gentle, tone.
Erik sighed and plopped back down on the pillow under him clearly peeved. "I haven't thought that far ahead," he finally admitted not looking at the telepath. The fact was this, Erik did not know who he was without his constant search for Sebastian Shaw and the other people who had tortured and experimented on him. Who was he without this clearly defined definition of killer?
"Do you think killing will bring you peace?" This question had been the constant in their tentative fresh relationship - or whatever it was. It made Erik's head ache and knew it irked Charles as well, but his answer was always the same.
"Peace was never an option."
Erik had never known anything but revenge.
Moira, for all her strength (stupidity)narrowed her eyes in return and nodded stiffly at him. She stood up and went to get a blanket for the sopping wet man. "Do you always solicit such expressions of admiration, my friend?" Charles asked him offhandedly. He was peeling off his shoes and socks, rubbing his feet to get the warmth flowing again. The question threw Erik for a loop. Charles had noticed, of course, he always noticed.
Erik trained his glare onto the man. "Is this some kind of joke?" He spit out lowly, not knowing what to make of his current situation or how to get out.
The other man looked up in surprise. "No," he said softly. He placed two fingers to the side of his head and Erik heard him clearly. This is not a joke, my friend. What I said to you in the water, was true. You are not alone. Erik stared at him, almost uncomprehending what the other man had just said.
"Stay out of my head," was all Erik could say, eyes wide. Inside, Erik was shaking from the almost unacknowledged amount of power this man held. Erik stared at him, committing the shorter man to memory. He suddenly felt more in danger than he had been in the water. The man across from him, (Was it Charles?), only stared back at him blandly and unflinching. Erik noticed the intense blueness of his eyes and the ridiculous clothing he wore. What is he, a professor? Did I hit my head?
The human woman came back and tossed a blanket at Erik's head, obscuring his vision of the man across from him. When he pulled the rough wool blanket from his head, Charles and the woman were walking towards the end of the hall and into a narrow room. Without turning around, Charles tossed back a thought at Erik. You are welcome to join us, my friend. I'm sure you will want something warmer to wear. Erik could hear the warmth and humor in his telepathic voice. Grumbling he stood up unsteadily and followed the telepath and the woman into the warmer room. That underlying feeling - jealously - roiled in his belly again. Erik frowned deeper.
Already the woman was handing dry clothes to Charles. She stopped and sized him up thoughtfully. Erik's narrowed gaze fell back on her again. Truth be known, Erik would never admit how much he (grudgingly) admired her for standing up to him. It was a rare person who would not falter under his gaze and already that night, he had met two people who would not give him the satisfaction of quailing under his gaze.
His opinion only changed when she started shooting bullets at him on that god forsaken beach in Cuba. Somewhere, deep, deep down, somewhere even Charles hadn't touched upon, he silently came to an agreement with himself. In another lifetime, in another unblemished life, Erik Lehnsherr would have found Moira MacTaggert beautiful. This thought shook him to the core. He only saw other human as being less than and never ever equals.
This realization came as a complete and utter shock to Erik. He had only found physical companionship in seedy bars and smoky nightclubs, with the occasional strip club. The women (and sometimes men) he chose were nothing like the woman standing in front of him. For all his acidic distain of homo-sapiens, he knew intelligence when he saw it…which only made his reaction to her, all the more baffling to him.
They were now staring at him. Charles again wore that bland look on his face and Moira wore a look that stated her ever growing amount of distrust in her dark, dark eyes.
She curtly said, "I'll get you some clothes to put on," and left the two of them alone again. Erik stared at the space where she was, feeling a little overwhelmed and slack-jawed. He heard a low chuckling to his right and Erik turned his gaze back to the other man. Erik stared into the bright blue, amusedeyes of the shorter man, confused as ever. Truly, Erik should have been infuriated with the man in front of him; he had pulled Erik away from his ultimate goal.
"Professor Charles Xavier, at your service," the younger man said smiling and extended his hand.
Sorry for the short chapter.
Gentle reviews and criticisms are always lovely…and the stuff writers live for.