Hello all! Nice to see you again. :) I wanted to warn you that updates will probably be shorter here, but just so that they can be more frequent, as scene length allows. This one is a bit longer than usual, perhaps.
This was fun to write—it has ALL THE FEELINGS and of course, Charles and Erik's conversations are always an enjoyable challenge.
Credit for this chapter making sense goes to my LJ beta idioticonion, and credit for all watch-related nerdery goes to my friend Doormouse, who expressed a deep disappointment that, in an earlier chapter, I mentioned Charles' watch and then did not describe it.
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lxxi.
"…These chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force—" here Erik paused in his reading, and cleared his throat quickly— "nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others…"
Charles leaned his head back onto the man's shoulder and peered up into his face, searching for a clue; for some sign that Erik suspected him. Perhaps there was anger in the way he read, or maybe the hand he held against the telepath's stomach was heavy with regret as well as bone and blood.
Erik paused, looking away from his book and down at Charles; they were very close. From that angle, Charles could see up beneath the beak of the helmet, and so he knew when the frown lines between Erik's eyebrows eased into something softer. Those were not the eyebrows of a paranoid man. But…
"Is something wrong?" Erik murmured, and Charles blinked, slow and thoughtful. Against his stomach, the other man's hand flexed absently, drawing dunes through his shirt.
Charles shook his head wordlessly and lowered his chin, looking away, but Erik folded the book over a few of his fingers and brought his hand up to touch the hair on Charles' forehead; the cover of Heart of Darkness brushed over his nose and momentarily narrowed the geneticist's world down to the fussing of Erik's fingers, now twining some of those brown strands between their tips.
"You let them cut too much off," Erik stated, and Charles turned his face out from beneath the book to stutter his lips into a smile.
"Do you think I had any control? I'm lucky to have escaped with my head, let alone my hair." Charles raised his hand to rub against his scalp, still surprised by how easy that had become. It was not so terribly short after all, except in comparison to the lengths he'd allowed it in the past weeks, but the extra few centimeters had made their impression.
Erik's fingertips brushed his for the briefest of instants, and then he set the book back down, open over his knee. He brought his other hand up from the Charles' body to set beneath the telepath's chin, tipping it up even as Erik ducked his head down and pressed his nose into Charles' temple, inhaling deeply.
Charles closed his eyes and held very still in Erik's grip, breathing slowly, lightly—as if there were someone else in the room whom he feared disturbing. Then, finally, Erik drew back slightly and, with a low humor in his voice, remarked, "You smell very… flowery."
Pulling back to protest against having had anything to do with that, Charles met Erik's gaze and—stopped, his mouth still parted to speak, trapped by the deep creases around the other man's eyes, the steep wry curve of his lips, the lazy droop of his eyelids as he looked down at the geneticist. Charles thought back to Raven's words, to Beast's words; remembered the fatigue and stress that normally etched into Erik's features, subsumed now by the topography of affection.
He stared into Erik's eyes, green-gray and shifting, always shifting to refresh their view of the world, and Charles' breathing slowed, the whirling of his thoughts slowed, and for a moment he was falling, tipping, tumbling—no. Charles stopped himself, ruthlessly; thrust into memory and tore out images to press again the window of his mind: a map of the world and the parts of it that had been burned, subsumed by volcanism, drowned, irradiated; his own long years in what he was only beginning to realize had been an almost frozen isolation; Erik, restricting the blood to his brain until he lost consciousness; Erik, stealing his life, his world, his lips, his body—but not, so long as Charles could help it, his heart.
It hurt, as stepping into the path of any rolling boulder would, but it worked; Charles inhaled shakily, and was proud to find that he could still take Erik's scent calmly, analytically; it crept through his nose not as an invader, but as a specimen to be examined, cataloged, and then, finally, dismissed. He could manage it.
Erik's hand moved, brushed down from his chin to Charles' neck; there was none of the threat from the previous day, only a soft caress along the muscle that stretched from the back of Charles' skull to his sternum. It would have been soothing, if Charles hadn't felt so much like he was merely something warm and soft for Erik to stroke; someone for Erik to dote on.
Again, more quietly this time, Erik asked, "What's wrong?"
Charles knew his stare was too thoughtful as he said, "You could take the book with you, you know. When you leave. So that I don't read it while you're gone. You could read the whole thing to me."
Erik looked down at the book on his knee, then up again at Charles as he cradled the telepath's neck. "I don't want you to be bored," he admitted.
A sharp line of wire snagged inside Charles' ribs, and he couldn't help the tug of his lips away from his teeth; Charles tried to disguise the grimace as a wry smile. "You treat me too well."
Mouth twitching up in preparation for a joke, Erik waited, but when none came he sobered, tilting his knuckles beneath Charles' jaw and angling the geneticist's head for a better view. Charles held still and allowed himself to be studied; studied in turn as Erik's eyebrows dipped in consideration. "What do you mean?" the other man asked, and Charles could not be sure whether his tone was coaxing or sad.
Charles tried to turn his head away, but Erik's hand was unyielding so he looked into Erik's eyes as he explained, "I'm a prisoner, Erik. It's disingenuous to pretend otherwise."
Frowning, probably unaware of the absent curling up of his fingers against Charles' neck, Erik protested, "I'm not pretending; I just don't think it's necessary to treat you badly."
"It's embarrassing," Charles corrected, "especially when so many people elsewhere are going without and here I am, eating luxuries every day, in rooms larger and better appointed than most people's houses."
Erik stared at him steadily. "What are you suggesting, Charles?" he asked. His tone was not inviting.
"I'm not suggesting anything, I'm telling you not to treat me like your honored guest when I'm so obviously not."
Charles attempted to turn away again, finished with the conversation, and this time Erik did not just stop him but actually pulled his head, almost too far, until they were nose-to-nose. "Remember who pays for your luxuries, Charles," Erik hissed. His voice dropped in pitch and he continued, tilting his head a little, "It's arrogant of you to call yourself a prisoner and then expect me to listen to your demands."
The geneticist passed his tongue over his lips and replied, "Save your money. I'm not worth steak."
Erik's fingers curled around his neck. "You are to me," he growled.
Charles tried to tug himself away, and was stopped again. "That's very sweet," he bit, his words full of acid. "Are you going to tell me you love me now?"
Erik froze; he stopped breathing entirely for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he flexed his hand as if he really wanted to clutch harder. "Don't be ridiculous, Charles," he rumbled, low and dangerous. His fingers massaged Charles' throat meaningfully.
The telepath found himself chuckling with a helpless black humor. "Do you think that's threatening? I know you don't have the resolve to actually hurt me." Charles pushed forward, and Erik swayed away; feeling giddy and irresponsible, Charles reached up and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck, until their lips just barely touched. Centimeters away, Erik's eyes met his, flaring with private anger.
Charles brushed their mouths together and said, against Erik's skin, "Or maybe you'd find another way to punish me; to make yourself feel powerful again." Charles huffed a bitter laugh over Erik's lips. "Because that's what it's about, isn't it? If you can conquer me, then maybe you can prove to yourself that you weren't such a failure at conquering the world."
Erik was almost perfectly still; perfectly, until he leaned very slightly forward and pressed the smooth curve of his lips briefly to Charles' in a gentle, chaste kiss. "This isn't meant to be a punishment," he murmured.
Charles threw himself away and gave Erik a look of confused irritation. "Then why do it? Why do this me?"
Reaching to bring Charles back, Erik assured, "I do care about you, Charles."
The geneticist pushed Erik's hand away sharply, and the words tumbled out recklessly: "I'm not your friend, Erik. I'm either not your friend or I'm not your prisoner, so trust me, don't trust me, respect my wishes or don't—but choose a side and stop trying to have it both ways."
Erik frowned and reached for Charles again, only to have his wrist slapped at once more. "Charles, come here—"
"No, Erik, Erik, let me talk—" The other man's fingers were wrapped around Charles' arms. The telepath's face twisted into a grimace as he tried to pull away.
Tugged over by Charles' struggling, Erik bared his teeth and squeezed his hands tighter around Charles. "There's no negotiation," he snarled. "You're mine."
Charles stopped, collapsing against Erik's chest, and glanced up at him through his disheveled fringe; his blue eyes glinted slyly and he saw the moment Erik realized what he was about to do, when the other man tensed and furrowed his brows just the tiniest bit, and then Charles exploded into motion; he did what he'd wanted to do for a long time and he moved everywhere, thrashing and kicking.
He was strong; years of pushing himself around by his arms had left him strong and capable. The geneticist took a certain gleeful joy in the feeling of his elbow connecting with Erik's face, and as the man lifted his arms to protect himself Charles drove that same elbow into Erik's ribs, approximately where he guessed the man had been injured a few weeks earlier, and was rewarded with a pained, wheezing grunt. Erik grabbed for his wrists and his jacket scrapped between Charles' teeth as he snapped at Erik's hands.
Charles struggled and writhed and pulled at the back of the couch; he would crawl away over the floor if that's what it took to make his point, but—but Erik held grimly on, had weathered through the blows to wrap an arm around Charles' torso and Charles' fingertips scrabbled smooth and blunt over the slick curve of Erik's helmet before Erik finally managed to secure first one wrist and then the other and tuck them down beneath the telepath's chin.
All Charles could do was kick and thrash and since his feet were over there he could not reach Erik with them, couldn't twist himself around in Erik's grasp and find the man's shins, but he tried anyway, for a while, all of it in a strange silence punctuated only by the occasional hissed breath from either his or Erik's lungs.
He slowed, and then stopped altogether, lying panting in Erik's arms, struggling to breathe in his vice-like grip. Charles looked across the room, down at his feet, then up, out the corner of his eye, to see that Erik did not appear to have been particularly fazed by the display; he was breathing heavily, and a bit gingerly, but he nonetheless seemed almost bored.
Erik let out a long, slow sigh, and cautiously let go of Charles' wrists, leaving them tangled together where they lay on his sternum. Then, wearing the same no-expression, he brought that hand up to Charles' face, where he lined the tips of his fingers up against Charles' lips and applied a gentle but insistent pressure.
Charles tried to turn his head, and Erik's hand followed with him; the man's nails, though short, dug into the soft skin of his lips, but it was not unbearable. He could grit his teeth against it. He could take Erik's fingers into his mouth and then bite down; he was not so exhausted that he could no longer do either of those things. He could, he could, he could…
Charles relaxed his jaw and Erik's fingers slid into his mouth, their tips settling in the hollow behind his teeth; strange and awkward guests his tongue did not quite know how to greet, but felt obligated to lie atop of.
He peered over at Erik uncertainly, to find that the other mutant was merely watching him, no humor or desire in his eyes at all; only patient appraisal.
Erik leaned down a little bit to be nearer to Charles' ear. "Is this mean enough for you, Charles?" he asked, voice low and menacing. Inside Charles' mouth, he stroked a slow finger along the Charles' molars. Then he shook Charles' head by his jaw. "This is what it means to be a prisoner. It's not the walls or the food or the company—it's this; it's that you gave me your rights before I could take them, because you already assumed they were gone."
He pulled his fingers out from between Charles' lips and drew them in a wet line down the cleft of his chin; then Erik blinked and shifted and brought his hand up to the telepath's hair, to smooth it out where it lay tousled. Charles looked on, blankly.
"Every injustice you claim is one you've allowed me," Erik continued, feeling out his own nose appraisingly and finding it sore but undamaged. His eyes snapped up to meet Charles'. "Everything, from the moment you surrendered yourself to me, to the moment you—" Erik swayed close, his lips on Charles' brow— "let me kiss you, has been yours to refuse. But you haven't; in all this time, you haven't, and who's to blame for that?"
Charles peered over at him sullenly. The meanness was good, actually; it helped clear his head. He didn't feel so turbid and stupid anymore; the corners of his mind felt sharp and new, holding strong against the crash of his pulse. "Are you trying to lay all the responsibility for this on me? What next, are you going to say that it's my fault I let you destroy the world and kill a third of its people?"
A miniscule smirk crept onto Erik's face. "I can't say it wouldn't make an interesting discussion—after all, you might still have won that day, if you'd been willing to gamble, and it's likely I would never have had the same opportunity again. Maybe history would be markedly different, if that had been the case—but there's no point in speculation this far after the fact."
Charles glared down into his lap as Erik spoke. "No, Charles, that's not what I'm trying to imply. I do find it interesting, however, that you're demanding I give you less appetizing food. I have to wonder if it's really for the reasons you've given me."
He held his hand palm-down and open in front of Charles, and the telepath's breath caught in his throat; Erik's mind had seized his watch, his watch, which quite aside from being a very nice watch was also his last possession—the last physical thing he still owned. His chair and clothing had all been replaced bit by bit and now this was the last thing, and there it was, in the grasp of a person who could crumple it into a sad golden ball with a thought—and even if Erik could rebuild it, even if Erik re-created every little gear and screw and left the face intact, it would still be changed, irrevocably.
It would no longer be the watch Charles had worn on the plane to Canada, in the house outside Chiliwack, throughout the war—the watch no one had ever tried to take from him even though he couldn't have stopped them, even though he'd expected them to, even though it was gold and a Rolex and didn't need to be supplied with increasingly rare batteries. No one had touched it, until now, and Charles couldn't help but imagine Erik as a physical presence in the movement, sliding around inside like a python that might at any moment flex its body and shatter the delicate bones of its prey, which was ridiculous really because it wasn't as if Erik went around breaking everyone's things just because he could.
Instead, Erik settled his fingertips very delicately around the gold case and brought his other hand up to cradle Charles' wrist. One long, slender finger traced the barest edge of the translucent sapphire, casting a cool shadow over the ivory beneath.
Charles couldn't speak.
"I don't expect you to understand what it really means to be a prisoner," Erik murmured into his ear, voice hushed and languid. "You've never experienced hardship, or had to go without. I think you've latched onto the idea of poor food and bare walls because it's the most foreign thing you can imagine, and that you believe that so long as you don't see those things when you look around, you're not being treated badly."
He held a finger against Charles' watch for a long moment, as if feeling for a heartbeat, and continued, "I'm sure you know that those aren't the only ways to deprive a person, but I don't think you want to apply that reasoning to yourself; you complain that your food's too good and your rooms are too nice and I think you do that to make yourself feel better about the fact that this whole time you've been trading around your rights around like any common convict who's ever exchanged a favor for a small luxury."
Erik pushed his last two fingers beneath the black leather band, propping the watch up away from Charles' skin, and in that cramped space he pinched the watch's crown between his thumb and middle finger, delicate and precise as a surgeon. He spun it counterclockwise until it popped out, then pulled it another two notches to adjust the hands from nine back to seven. Then Erik pushed it back in, twice, and began carefully to wind, twirling the crown under the pad of his thumb. It made a soft sound like the wings of a moth beating trapped in a tin.
Charles remained silent as Erik's breath caressed the shell of his ear. "The truth is that you can't stand to be deprived. You had the option to live like a prisoner and you've already given it up in favor of having people to talk to and things to do. You're the one who's pretending; you're the one who's sold out, and the only reason you want to be treated badly now is so that you can feel like a victim instead of a whore."
Erik's fingers slowed to a stop, lingered, and then he re-set the hands, pressed the crown back in, and screwed it tight. The second hand flitted merry and gold over its ivory world, and Erik held the face tilted, for a moment, as if to check its progress or to show Charles that it was unharmed. Charles stared at it mutely.
"I won't do that for you, Charles," Erik told him. "I won't help you delude yourself, and until you stop and realize that for yourself, you'll never be free. But someday—someday you'll wake up and you'll no longer be a prisoner, and I'll be waiting for you."
He studied Charles for a long while to see whether the telepath had any reply, and eventually he set Charles' wrist down again. Erik didn't untangle their fingers, but his other hand went back to the book and after finding his spot again he began to read.
Charles looked down at their fingers and tried to think, feeling as if he were trapped in amber for any curious eye to turn over and examine in the light of his mistakes.
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