There, another long chapter! :D There will be more plot after this, but for now have a bunch of Erik and Charles hangin' out.
As usual, beta'd by LJ user idioticonion, who only makes me cry a little.
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"Sometimes allowing the world to rip itself apart seems like an appealing idea," Erik grumbled, pinning down a loaf of unyielding sourdough with one hand as the other sawed through it with a long knife. He was referring to the Brotherhood meeting the night before, where tempers all around had frayed nearly to the point of violence and no amount of threatening seemed able to defuse that potential. As a result, there was to be no meeting this day, leaving Erik and Charles time for a leisurely late breakfast.
They'd returned to the expansive, window-walled room Erik had brought him to the first time the two mutants dined together. Back then Charles had welcomed the openness of the place; had not truly been at ease until he could see the mountains stretching out into the atmospheric haze. Now… Now it was almost too much, and the telepath felt exposed and insignificant in the face of all that naked wilderness, translucent in the thin white light of the sun through the clouds.
"You don't need me to convince yourself to do the right thing," Charles told him, sipping at tea that, for all it strove for lavishness, had gone stale at least a year ago. There were no eggs this time, but the bread and butter looked rich and there was a jar of creamed honey claiming to be raspberry jam. "There are still beekeepers?"
"Of course there are," Erik said, and laid the fresh slice of sourdough onto a crumbling pile of its fellows. He brushed his finger over the slice's soft, fibrous innards in a contemplative sort of way. "Maybe I do need you to tell me what's right."
"You don't," Charles corrected. "You're perfectly capable of doing that yourself."
Erik's lips pressed together into a thin line as he spread butter onto the bread. "How can you say that after everything I've done?"
"Because it's true," Charles insisted; he hoped it was true, at least. "You still know right from wrong."
The other man was silent and seemed no less agitated—in fact might have even been more brooding than he had been before—as he wiped the excess butter back onto the dish and twisted open the jar of honey. Erik did not do all of these things by hand, but rather worked seamlessly between using his mind and physically handling the objects.
Charles tore his attention away from the smooth back-and-forth dance of Erik's power and would have met the man's gaze had Erik not been very intensely focused on making an even coat of honey. Charles hesitated, aware that he was probably pushing his luck, before offering, "You can still do the right thing. You could let me—"
Erik snatched out and dragged Charles up from the chair by his lapel, partly across the table as Erik in turn leaned forward, bread forgotten and anger in his eyes as he hissed, "You gave yourself to me, Charles. You're mine. I can do whatever I want to you." He gave Charles a sharp shake to emphasize his words.
Fighting down panic, Charles projected an image of calm assurance—cockiness, even—as he responded, "Then do it. If you can do anything you want to me, if everything I have is already yours, then take it."
Erik's gaze was dark and fathomless and for a moment Charles was sure that he would do just that, that it would happen right there on the table with all the bread and butter and tea, and he focused on breathing, in and out, until finally Erik released him and Charles slumped back down into his chair.
Erik wasn't finished with him, however; Charles understood that he couldn't be allowed to win this argument, so he wasn't surprised when a slow, sickly smile spread over Erik's face; when Erik scraped the side of the previously abandoned knife over his index finger, creamed honey gathering thick and crumb-speckled around his knuckle. Charles' gut twisted with realization.
Still wearing that triumphant smirk, Erik reached across the small table and held his hand under Charles' nose, his honeyed finger curled out meaningfully. Charles glanced down at it and then back at Erik, incredulous, but Erik gave no indication that he was joking.
Charles felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and helpless fury, but the worst part was that the smug bastard was right, damn him, because Charles had given himself up to Erik, and no matter whether he backed down or accepted the challenge, Charles would be admitting defeat.
Well, this was his life now, apparently, but he was, after all, Charles Xavier, and if he was going to do this then it'd be while staring Erik defiantly in the eye so that the he couldn't forget exactly what he was doing to whom.
Charles looked around the room to confirm that they were alone—they were—then dipped forward a little and closed his mouth over Erik's finger, his chin brushing Erik's hand. The telepath swept his tongue experimentally over honey and skin and the grit of the cream softened into a sweetness Charles had almost forgotten, tinged with the salt taste of Erik. An expression of blank shock set into the other man's face.
So Erik hadn't expected him to actually do it. This was perhaps evident in the way Erik had used a little too much honey; it was too thick and too much for Charles to simply lick off and be done, but instead of backing away Charles swallowed against Erik's skin, tongue rasping over callus, and continued. This is what you're doing to me, Charles projected, despite the helmet. This is what you're doing to your friend.
Erik shifted uncomfortably, as if he wanted to turn away from Charles' stare but couldn't; there was arousal in his eyes as Charles flicked his tongue over Erik's fingertip and wound it between his knuckles, but there was something else there, too, that he searched for as he traced the contours of Erik's nail. Charles saw it as he sucked the last of the honey from Erik's skin, stark and clear in the tilt of Erik's eyebrows and the wideness of his eyes: guilt.
Pulling away—the telepath couldn't help but notice how rough Erik's wet knuckles were against his lips—Erik cleared his throat a little and looked down at his plate, seemingly at a loss for what to do about his damp finger. Eventually he wiped it off on his napkin while making an excellent show of not being self-conscious about it at all, and when Erik turned his attention back to Charles he was all business.
"I'm going to announce development plans for that city you proposed tomorrow, on television," Erik stated, as if nothing had happened. "I'd like you to be there. You won't be filmed, but since it was your idea, you shouldn't have to watch from the other side of a screen."
Charles dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve, relishing the frown that drew from Erik; he felt remarkably pleased with himself for someone who had just been sucking on another man's finger. Giddy, almost, from the lingering panic of what did I just do combined with the high of his success in provoking guilt from Erik. He'd won, more or less. "To be entirely honest with you, I only suggested it because I had nothing else to say."
"Your intuition is better than most men's deliberation," Erik countered. "In any event, none of the many arguments against your idea convinced me that it would fail."
Hesitating, because Charles wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go out of his way to help Erik but then again also didn't want to be the one not to point out something that could have saved lives, Charles began, "I'm fairly sure that the anti-extinctionists will see this as a step in the right direction; if they have any doubts it will be for your honesty, and that can only be solved with time." He took a deep breath and continued, "It's your people who worry me. They're the ones who might see this as a betrayal, and who might take the first steps to violence."
Erik nodded slowly, his expression stern as steel. "As you said, they're my people. I will take care of them."
"Fair enough," Charles agreed reluctantly. "Do you have a name for it?"
"Hmm?" Erik queried, his eyebrows arched innocently.
"For the city. I presume that if you're going to appear to the public, you're going to give them a name they can latch onto," Charles explained. "Names build ideas."
Erik's voice was rich with amusement. "You'd know that, wouldn't you?"
"Certainly," the telepath confirmed. "You should too, Magneto."
Making a small gesture with his hand to signal that he understood, Erik dropped his gaze to the slice of bread he held and stated, "It has a name. Consider it a surprise."
"It was my idea," Charles protested, frowning. "I should get to hear it before everyone else."
Erik's only response was to glance up at Charles, showing the telepath his annoyance.
Charles huffed a laugh, and leaned back into his chair. "It's one of those humiliatingly optimistic names, isn't it? It's funny that you're embarrassed to tell me, considering what you just made me—"
The plate carrying the honeyed bread nearly upended into Charles' cardigan as Erik slid it across the table. "Eat," he commanded tersely, and then tore into the crust of his own slice.
Sighing, Charles picked up a piece and transferred it absently to his other hand. He considered trying again, mocking Erik further, but Charles decided to accept the success he'd already had. He'd made Erik feel bad about what he'd done—or at least, he'd goaded the man into showing his discomfort. That had to be a step forward.
Charles felt stickiness between his fingers. Without really thinking about it he licked along his empty hand, then froze; he felt Erik's eyes on him from across the table but didn't acknowledge him, choosing instead to continue blithely and systematically cleaning the traces of honey from his hand.
He was disturbed to notice that it tasted different on his skin than on Erik's, but it bothered Charles more to realize that he preferred the sweet with a hint of salt.
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…Guyal therefore drew himself apart and roamed the grassy hills of Sfere in solitude. But ever was his mind acquisitive, ever did he seek to exhaust the lore of all around him, until at last his father in vexation refused to hear further inquiries, declaring that all knowledge had been known, that the trivial and useless had been discarded, leaving a residue which was all…
Charles blinked in dazed confusion as the sound of someone at the door interrupted his reading, and it took a few seconds for him to remember to invite that person in. He was not, however, surprised to see that it was Erik.
"Oh," Charles remarked. "I wasn't sure you'd be visiting."
"I always do when I have time," Erik replied. He removed his cape and paused. "Enjoying your new mobility?"
Charles glanced down at his legs, which lay stretched out along the length of the couch, and spread his toes beneath his socks; they ached sharply in response. "I'm sure I didn't know I even had all these muscles until they started hurting."
"I'm sure you did," Erik argued, stalking closer, "but I know what you mean." He looked down at Charles, from his eyes to his knees to his feet, but Charles occupied every inch of the couch and didn't feel willing to disturb his wayward limbs for Erik's sake. After a moment of consideration, however, Erik simply lifted Charles' heels and slid in beneath them. Then Erik arranged the telepath's ankles over his thigh and wrapped his fingers around his feet, pressing circles into them with his thumbs.
Charles winced as pain blossomed beneath Erik's grip, then… Faded, becoming instead a healthy ache as Erik coaxed the stress from all those tiny, long-unused muscles between tibia and metatarsus. Charles thought his surprised relief must be visible on his face, because Erik wore a tiny self-satisfied smile as he continued his ministrations, keeping his head turned slightly away so that, perhaps, Charles couldn't quite see his expression.
Charles held Raven's book half-open in his lap, using one finger as a bookmark as he brushed absently over the pages, entranced by the sight of Erik—destroyer of civilizations and wearer of fancy helmets—giving him a foot rub of all things and apparently quite content to do so and, well, not bad at it at all. In fact, the geneticist had to admit, past the fuzz in his mind from whence his sanity had fled, that Erik was pretty good at it. Parts of himself Charles hadn't even known were tense began easing out of their stranglehold on his nerves, and it was possible that his shoulders had just dropped by several inches.
Wordlessly, Erik moved on to Charles' ankle, acknowledging the spurs of bone with a slow wringing squeeze before pushing his fingers up along tibialis and soleus, lifting the hem of Charles' trousers before the progress of his hands down Charles' calve muscles, converging along the telepath's Achilles' tendon, brought the fabric back to its place.
"Have you ever studied anatomy, Erik?" Charles asked, because he desperately needed to say something.
Erik hummed in assent. "Of course."
"I wouldn't have thought that you'd need to," the geneticist admitted, as Erik's hands began working along his other leg.
"It's always useful," Erik murmured, sounding distracted, but Charles didn't believe more a moment that Erik was anything but entirely aware. "Even for someone of my talents. It's a part of knowing your enemy's—or potential enemy's—weaknesses."
"Oh." Charles regarded his varied and intimate knowledge of human biology gingerly; he supposed he could probably use that understanding to his advantage, if he wanted to. Still, that struck him as a particularly grim interpretation of learning. "What about me?"
Erik glanced up, eyebrows raised questioningly.
Moistening his lips a little, Charles clarified, quietly, "Do you keep track of my weaknesses?"
"You're not an enemy," Erik assured him, in a way that told Charles that yes, he did. "But to name a weakness of yours… Hm, massage, I would guess."
Charles wondered if maybe that was true; not just massage, specifically, but Erik in general. Even before he'd surrendered himself as Erik's prisoner, the telepath had never reacted to Erik in quite the way the others expected him to; the students had all been furious about what happened on the beach, of course, and they'd started calling him Magneto almost before they even learned of Erik's decision to re-name himself, but it went beyond that, didn't it?
Unlike Raven, Erik had never been especially gentle with the students on the occasions when he and Charles met on the battlefield. In fact, Charles could recall without any difficulty an instance when Alex, who had once been the only student to approach anything like an accord with the man, had attempted to blast Erik through a wall only to end up pinned with a piece of rebar through his thigh. The steel had missed severing any major arteries—Erik's knowledge of anatomy at work, perhaps?—but it had nonetheless left Alex unable to walk unassisted for quite some time.
Charles knew as well as if he'd actually had the conversation that if he asked Erik about it now, he'd only reply that he had been as efficient as he could and had done what was practical. And yet, the telepath couldn't feel the rage he ought to have—couldn't stop pitying Erik for what he'd done to himself, because for all that Erik liked to blame Shaw, it had been his own decision to continue down that path rather than make his own life.
Perhaps Erik had always resided within his blind spot; maybe Charles was here now, allowing Erik to chip away at him with small kindnesses, not because of his four years of captivity and isolation but because it would have happened in any case.
And perhaps, Charles thought to himself scornfully, that's still just an excuse. He cleared his throat softly as Erik's long fingers edged up past his knee, wrapping around the tendons framing Charles' thigh. "You're poaching," he chastened.
"I assure you, my intentions are entirely honorable," Erik said, meeting Charles' gaze as he leaned partially over him, his hands stilled against Charles' knee. His eyes were bright with fond amusement, and Charles felt his breath catch; don't look at me like that, he wanted to say, to plead; don't look at me like we're friends. Don't be nice.
Instead, he kept his calm accountant's expression and corrected, "For now."
"For now, yes," Erik agreed, and retreated to his corner of the couch, smoothing his palms down Charles' legs as he went, until he settled them back around Charles' feet. The telepath had a sudden moment of déjà vu, recalling the tense week when Erik had tested the feeling in his feet every night. It seemed to have happened ages ago, to a man with different problems.
Erik tapped an index finger against the arch of Charles' foot. "I've heard word that Beast took the time to clear a work station for you in the labs, and that if you wish to use it you should arrive very early tomorrow while Beast still has hair to tear out."
Now Charles truly couldn't breathe; couldn't inhale or exhale without the risk of his vocal cords becoming involved at some point. He would be a scientist again; he'd be working, doing the things he had studied for years to do. The chance to conspire with Beast was almost secondary.
"Thank you," Charles said, finally; whispered, almost, and Erik gave his toes an affectionate squeeze.
"Don't," he warned. "You spent your life on science; you should be in a lab."
Charles nodded silently, wondering bitterly why, if that was the case, he'd had to bargain for it; unable, despite his brooding, to stop feeling grateful.
Erik reached out and patted Charles' knee. "Do you feel up to bending these old logs? I'm interested in finding out more about that book you're holding."
Tilting the little paperback to look at it as if he'd forgotten what it was, Charles blinked a couple times, swallowed, and replied, "I—probably, yes. It's Raven's book; I'm almost done with it, actually, you might not want to start at the end." Technically, as it was an anthology of related tales, he was in fact at the start of a short story; still, Charles firmly believed that collections such as this were meant to be read in a certain order.
"The Dying Earth," Erik read, craning his neck. "That sounds a little pessimistic. I've read enough beginnings in the past couple weeks, however; perhaps an ending will make for a refreshing change. If it's a happy ending I'll even consider reading the rest."
"It's not about the end of the world," Charles protested, warming to the subject; successfully distracted from his melancholy. "Well, it is, but mostly it's just set in the far future, near the end of the sun's life and after Earth's golden years."
"Pessimistic," Erik repeated knowingly, and Charles suspected he was being mocked. "Come here, and I'll see for myself." He offered his hand to Charles, and after a moment the geneticist slipped his own beneath Erik's thumb and clutched tightly as Erik pulled him over to his end of the couch. Charles grimaced as his legs complained, and Erik wrapped his arm around him in a comforting sort of fashion, holding Charles close as he pressed a kiss to Charles' temple through his hair.
Charles wriggled a little, torn between finding a comfortable position and freezing motionless where he sat, until Erik lift his arm in invitation for Charles to move where he liked. The telepath took the opportunity to pull his feet out from underneath him, angling his legs to the side before reclining back to settle gingerly against the other man's chest. After a moment to be sure that he would remain there, Erik draped his arm back around Charles and flicked the fingers of his other hand at the book.
"Hand it over, Charles, unless you'd prefer to read," Erik murmured just above his ear, voice languorous and low and just the right pitch to slither into Charles' head and play gleeful havoc with the more primitive parts of his hindbrain. Glad that Erik couldn't see the reddening of his skin, Charles offered the book wordlessly, and Erik plucked it from his numb grasp.
Erik's fingers slid between the pages, tutting as he found the dog-eared corner Charles had left off at. "For shame, Charles; who taught you to handle other people's books this way?"
Charles' blush intensified. "It's how Raven marks her pages; she likes when she can see where I stopped."
He felt a silent laugh shake Erik's chest. "Then who taught her, hmm?"
"Not me," Charles grumbled, and refused to defend himself further as he watched Erik fuss one-handed over the bent page, folding the corner back until it lay straight again and trying futilely to smooth over the lingering crease until finally he propped the book open against Charles' arm where they could both see.
"…Hearing his father's angry statement Guyal—" Erik paused. "Guy-al? Gu-yal?" Charles gave a tiny indifferent shrug and Erik continued, "—Guyal said, 'One more question, then I ask no more. …You have often referred me to the Curator; who is he, and where may I find him, so as to allay my ache for knowledge?"
As Erik read, his hand drifted up from Charles' ribs to his sternum, seeming surprised to encounter the buttons of the geneticist's shirt. Charles looked on as Erik fumbled blindly with a single button without ever halting in his reading; he felt very calm, even as he wondered whether Erik would stop with just one button. Charles was warm, the rumble of Erik's voice surrounded him, and he was going to be doing science again; the price seemed inconsequential, at that moment.
The button popped free and Erik tucked his fingers through the gap, slipping his hand in between Charles' shirts to press the palm of his hand over the left side of Charles' chest. Erik's hand was only under his shirt, but Charles felt like his fingers had plunged in beneath his skin and startled his heart somewhere altogether more deep and personal than the cotton of his tee-shirt.
Charles sat unmoving as Erik read, which took quite a while because Charles had not been as close to the end as he'd thought. Erik did not complain as time crept by, his hand a still and inordinately heavy weight pinning Charles to him, and the geneticist for his part let his eyes slide out of focus as he stared at the creeping pages, the words a half-understood music in his ears. He had an early morning, sure, but Charles doubted he'd be able to fall asleep if he tried right then.
Finally, Erik drew the story's protagonists out from the darkness of a ruined museum, full of the knowledge impressed into their brains by ancient technologies. "Guyal, leaning back on the weathered pillar, looked up to the stars. 'Knowledge is ours, Shierl—all of knowing to our call. And what shall we do?'
"Together they looked at the stars." Charles couldn't tell whether it was a good sense for storytelling or genuine wistfulness that tinged Erik's voice as he concluded, "'What shall we do…'"
They were silent for a moment before Erik hummed to himself. "Sad ending."
Charles shifted his legs, collecting his wits again. "But he got everything he wanted. He had the answers to all his questions."
Erik gave him a look that suggested he had truly expected better of the telepath. "He wasn't happy. He didn't want to know the answers, he wanted to find them."
"Mm," Charles grunted, unconvinced. "Perhaps."
Charles felt Erik's breath puff out into his hair a second before the other man's nose plunged into it. "For a telepath, you really are astoundingly clueless," he muttered against Charles' scalp.
"I think you mean that, for a scientist, I'm astoundingly practical," Charles argued, plucking the book from Erik's grip. "As much as I enjoy lab work, it would be more useful to be able to provide concrete answers to our scientific problems."
He felt Erik's grin, then the other man pulled back a little. "I'm beginning to suspect you didn't pay any attention at all; more's the pity, because this story might have been written for you."
"I wouldn't have thought you'd like it," Charles replied, instead of attempting to disprove Erik.
"It's a bit whimsical for my tastes," Erik admitted, then pulled his hand up inside the telepath's shirt and tugged Charles closer, growling low into his ear, "Although I have been known to make exceptions."
Charles could say nothing in reply, only stared straight ahead, very aware that Erik was still hovering near, inches from his face; aware of Erik's breathing against him, of the shift of his muscles behind Charles' shoulders.
Erik's voice wound around him. "I could tell you the name, if you really want to know. Of your city."
Charles darted his tongue along his lower lip before saying, "You don't have to."
The edge of the helmet caught Charles' ear, slipping behind it as Erik's nose brushed over his cheek. "It's one of those stupidly optimistic names you mentioned."
"Well then maybe you'd better not; I might laugh," Charles cautioned him, his stomach fluttering as Erik's other hand came to rest against it.
"I don't mind if you laugh," Erik murmured; Charles turned to look at him but was halted by Erik's lips on his sideburns.
The geneticist swallowed, his mouth feeling woolen as he agreed, "All right. Then tell me."
"You want to know?" Erik asked, his tone full of teasing humor and something darker.
Charles sighed in exasperation and this time when he turned his head around to see Erik he didn't let himself be stopped; Erik's eyes were crinkled with amusement and dipped down the hollow of Charles' throat before meeting his gaze.
"I'd like if you told me," Charles replied softly, and Erik smiled, withdrawing his hand from Charles' shirt to steady his jaw.
"Legacy," Erik whispered, almost as an afterthought as he leaned down to take Charles' mouth. The telepath made a small, startled noise in his throat, clutching at Erik's jacket and feeling terribly unbalanced with his body twisted strangely in Erik's grasp; he nipped at Erik's lip to exact some measure of revenge, which was perhaps not his brightest idea because when Erik bit back it hurt, until Erik turned gentle again and swept his tongue over the spot in an apologetic sort of way.
Charles broke away from the kiss, leaning his face away into Erik's hand as Erik continued without pause, scraping his teeth mockingly down Charles' throat. "You're right, that is fairly horrifying," Charles gasped; beneath his hands Erik's chest shuddered with soft laughter, but Charles didn't join in.
Morning couldn't come quickly enough; more to the point, his conversation with Beast couldn't come quickly enough.
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