Well, he'd wanted a change from the staggering silence of the Mountain West, and he's certainly got it. Maybe it's worse and maybe it's better, the surging tides of excitement and agony in a baseball crowd keyed up for a possible playoff run, shot through with undercurrents of suspicion their neighbors bring to bear on the allegedly beatnik Erik and his scruffy student companion. Unfriendly thoughts, tinged with snatches of suspicion about UC Berkley, treason – what on earth is that about – and, well, that, hard eyes watching as Erik leans companionably close and steals Cracker Jacks from the box in Charles' lap. He keeps trying to gently redirect their attention, plant some warmer feelings in place of suspicion, but it's cursedly difficult to manage on top of all of the other demands on his attention.
The air around him surges with indignation and he shouts "Come on," without really meaning to. Erik smirks at him and Charles shifts in his seat, tries to firm up the shields in his mind without checking his search for the mutant that he's hoping against hope comes here regularly and wasn't just out for a game on a lark when Charles happened to be plugged into Cerebro. "That was clearly a strike."
The unfriendly thoughts recede a little before returning double-strength when Erik mutters, "I thought you barely knew the rules." Charles doesn't even try to check his aggrieved sigh.
Oh, thank god. There it is, a twinge that's becoming wonderfully familiar. But where… Ah. Two rows down, slinging bags of peanuts with an unerring accuracy no matter what theatrical touches he brings to the throw.
"May I?" He hopes their neighbors assume he's re-staking his rightful claim on the Cracker Jacks – Erik's eaten well over half the box, honestly, he should have just got one for himself – but Erik knows better and inclines his head in smirking acquiescence. That's him. Or that's somebody, at least. Erik subtly surveys the crowd. The gentleman flinging peanuts, Charles nudges. A very minor telekinesis, I fear.
Let's try to catch him at the top of the row, Erik thinks, far too loudly, frowning when Chares doesn't quite contain his wince, but shifts his knees anyway, jostling the portly gentleman crammed into the too-small wooden seat in front of his. "I don't know about you, but I could do with a walk."
"All right," Charles agrees, heartily returning the general aura of good riddance rising from their seat-neighbors.
They wait – well, lurk, really, and Charles feels the dubious glances of passerby pressing on him with an almost physical weight – in the alcove at the top of the stairs, marking the boundary between stadium seating and superstructure, while their target – target, honestly, Erik really is rubbing off on him – slowly ascends the stairs.
The man startles as Erik melts out of the shadows at him, smile a bit too predatory. "I'll take a bag."
"Sure thing," the man says, and tosses the peanuts with a grin. Erik's smile sharpens as he sends a quarter skidding in a neat little loop around the airborne peanuts before it lands, unerring, in the man's hand.
Charles figures that's his cue. "I'm Charles Xavier, and this gentleman," Erik dips his head, still grinning his stark grin, "is Erik Lehnsherr. We're like you."
"Like me," the man says slowly, testing it out.
"Mutants," Erik supplies, raising an eyebrow at the man's blank look. "Surely you didn't think your little talent was all in the wrist."
Charles can feel the tendrils of defensiveness – little talent, who is this guy- and hastily steps in to the silence. "People with special abilities. There are many of us – more than you'd expect."
"Ok." The man exhales shakily. "So what do you want?"
"Right now we're.. Well, we're recruiting. There's a group of us up in Virginia learning how to use our… talents, how to control them. All expenses paid, of course, and a bit on top of that. If you like, you'd be welcome to join us." There's hesitation, yes, but curiosity, hope too. "You obviously don't have to decide now. We're staying – Erik, where are we staying?"
"The Jack Tar."
The man lets out a low whistle. "Pretty swank digs."
"You're not kidding," Erik grins, fishing a pen out of the pocket of his impossibly narrow slacks. "Charles, do you have one of those cards?"
"Right," he says, patting the pockets of his jacket. Ah, there we go. "Here."
Erik scribbles the hotel name on the card. "We'll be in town for a couple of days if you'd like to talk. Ask for Charles Xavier."
The man reaches for the card. It hasn't escaped Charles' attention that he hasn't offered his name. It seems… wrong, somehow, to fish for it. "The other number – that will reach us in Virginia if it takes you a bit longer to decide."
"Thanks," he says, tucking the card in his pants pocket. "Gotta get going before the inning break."
Charles can sense the trace of discomfort that says further conversation won't be welcome. "Go Giants," he offers, and the man tips his cap.
Charles lets out a long breath. "Well, that wasn't an outright no, in any case."
"Progress," Erik says, smiling with too many teeth. "Shall we?"
"Oh, let's." It will be a great relief to get out of this swamp of excitement, even if his full shields have tamped it down to a dull roar.
Erik is silent as they make their way down the stairs and out of the stadium. Charles can't say he isn't grateful. The strange uses he's been putting his brain to over the past few days have left him a bit off-balance, to put it mildly.
Erik speeds up a bit as they approach the car, and Charles summons up just enough energy to be annoyed that he's claimed the driver's seat yet again. "What now?" he asks as he settles a hand on the clutch, mouth turning up the corners.
Charles almost forgets to be annoyed. "It's our first failure to fail. I'd say that calls for a drink."
"All right, but let's mix business with pleasure. How about a drink in…" Erik reaches across to the glove box, warm elbow jostling Charles' middle as he fishes for the notes. "Haight-Ashbury," he reads, places a neat check-mark next to the stadium's address.
"Why not?" Charles fusses with the map and Erik snatches it with an impatient huff, fingers dancing over side streets.
"You're the pilot and the navigator, then?" he teases, and Erik favors him with an amused grin. "I'm starting to worry that I'm entirely superfluous."
"I'd think you'd be used to being chauffeured around." That raises a frown and Erik chuckles. "Now, now, don't sulk. We've things to discuss. Such as our new friend's," Erik purrs the word with mocking emphasis, "name and address."
"I didn't look." Charles shrugs. A missed opportunity, certainly, but, well, the man obviously hadn't wanted them to know.
"Your discretion is admirable, if entirely inconsistent. Or perhaps I should say consistently inconvenient. What am I going to do with you?"
"Chauffeur me to Haight-Ashbury, I suppose," and Erik's outright laugh settles over him, warm and pleasant.
San Francisco is a beautiful city, funny little houses held up by sheer stubbornness against the slump of steep hills. Even the horrible smell of the horrible engine in their horrible car as it labors to navigate the inclines can't take the charm out of it. Erik could do something about that, Charles supposes, but isn't, probably out of sheer spite. Damned if he's going to mention it. He's had quite enough teasing about his "unwillingness to tolerate the base realities of physical existence" for one day, thanks awfully, and Erik's pleased little hums as he watches the scenery (or, more likely, spots the street signs he's looking for) are far more pleasant.
Those charming little houses are taking a turn for the seedy the farther they go and Charles suspects he'll have to abandon his hopes for a decent scotch. Perhaps better to start with beer anyhow, especially since they are still on the clock, as it were.
Of course, Erik pulls to a stop across from the seediest bar imaginable. Perhaps it's for the best that only a masochist would steal their whale of a car. At least they'll blend in here, for once, or Erik will – the people drifting in and out share Erik's penchant for black-on-black-on-turtleneck, if not his precise carriage. Well. Dignity is hardly the first concern for the beret-wearing classes, he supposes.
"Your destination, sir," Erik proffers with a thin-lipped smile.
"Shall I wait for you to come hand me out of the car?" he laughs, and Erik's grin widens.
"You'll be waiting for a long time."
"In that case," he pops the door and spills out into the street. Erik catches him up, speeding up just enough to hold the bar door for him with a mocking flourish. "Thank you, my good man," he says as loftily as he can, spoiling the effect with a snort.
They're confronted with a sea of girls with plain faces and long, lank hair, airily blowing smoke into the faces of their severely-dressed suitors. The close air of the bar is clogged with the stuff, not all of it smelling like cigarette. "Best not stay too long," he murmurs.
Erik smirks. "I'll say. I've seen you drunk." He's already feeling too mellow to be properly indignant and allows Erik to steer him to an ill-lit little excuse for a table near the bar, tatty folding chairs creaking under even his slight weight. "Save our spot," Erik commands, setting out toward the bar, and Charles turns his attention back toward the room, lets the burble of surprisingly erudite conversation wash over him. The beat poets, of course, but that is a fascinating interpretation of Kerouac…
The shock of a cold glass against his hand brings him back to himself. "Thanks." He raises the glass to be clinked and Erik obliges him with an amused huff, folding his long legs awkwardly to accommodate the low-slung table. He takes a long swallow and… Something's not right, gritty against the roof of his mouth. He raises the glass and peers at the bottom and, sure enough, there's a little red pill, gathering bubbles as it melts into his rather watery beer. "Oh dear."
Erik raises an eyebrow at the bartender, who mouths "You're welcome" and winks – actually winks. Who does that? Erik, apparently, if his eyes are to be believed.
"Perhaps we'd better conclude our business," Erik says, once the barman's attention has wandered. "I don't know if you'll want to be drinking all of that, though I'm sure it would be delightful."
"Quite right." It's going to be fine, he's sure – whatever-it-is hardly had time to melt, let alone migrate all the way through his drink. It will be just fine. Still – something's curling in the pit of his stomach, and he can't be absolutely sure… Best not to dawdle. He puts fingers to his temple, casual, and throws his mind wide in what's becoming a practiced gesture.
Bad idea. Very bad idea. The minds around him are in various degrees of disintegration, pulling at him, seductive and strange, filling him up. Shocking snatches of sensation – who is that in the restroom, sucking a stranger's sleeve with total abandon, why – oh, oh… Two men, two men, leaning across their table and underneath it, oh… He wrenches away but the rest of the milieu is almost worse - altered minds too friendly by half, questing outwards and he could hurt – they'll surely feel, at the very least, if he slams his shields up, pulls back into himself too quickly…
Erik's concerned hand lights on his wrist and it's too warm, zinging over his skin with an unfamiliar and unnatural clarity. Easier, though, to focus on that point, that warm, warm pressure and reel himself back in ever so slowly.
"Oh dear," Charles gasps, unable to prevent an unfamiliar giggle from bubbling out of him. Everything feels so strange. "Oh, dear."
"I think we'd better go," and the crinkles around Erik's compressed lips are fascinating. Charles obediently gets his legs underneath him – is this always so hard and Erik's giving him a hand up, letting that hand slip to the small of Charles' back. "This way."
He can feel the warmth from Erik's hand rippling up his back like rings on a pond, just this side of scorching. "You've got to walk, Charles," and the ripples intensify, surging warm waves as that hand presses harder.
Suddenly they're out of doors, outside of a car, their car. Charles stares numbly as Erik murmurs something about handing him in after all and that hand is gone and he can't bear it, he can't and clutches for it clumsily with a cry.
"Honestly, Charles, I'll need that to drive," Erik says and gently shakes him off, but then both hands are on him, pressing him into the car and arranging his legs for him. He's distantly embarrassed by his loose limbs but it doesn't matter because Erik is gone, warm hand is gone and…
And then he's back, but still too far from Charles. Erik chuckles helplessly as Charles scrambles over on the seat until he's pressed up against the warm safety Erik offers. "All right," he whispers, and runs that divine hand over Charles' head. "You're all right."
Then the engine is rattling to life and Erik's mind is rattling right along with it, the car is shaking around him and it's all a little too much – scratch that, far too much, he still feels like he's floating. He's got to focus, focus, right, focus on the warmth, focus…
There. And now his embarrassment is not so distant; he's sprawled ungracefully across the bulk of the seat, shoulder digging into Erik's middle and both hands clutched in the poor man's shirt. Charles loosens his death grip and rights himself, sheepish and slow. "Right. Sorry about that."
"I rather suspect you couldn't help it," and Erik's smile has a secret edge to it that Charles is not at all up to investigating right now. "Are you all right? You look a little…" He gestures vaguely at Charles' stomach, which lurches as if summoned.
"I'll manage," he gasps, voice still unfamiliar outside of his head.
The secret smile is replaced by a more familiar worry. "I'll pull over…"
"I'll manage," Charles repeats, a little more firmly.
"We're nearly there," Erik says, soothing. Something flickers over his face, there and gone again, and he runs a ginger hand over Charles' hair. Charles is still shaky enough to let his eyes slip closed at the grounding sensation.
Soon enough, he feels enough like himself to sit fully upright and a good thing, too, because Erik is pulling up to the hotel. He tosses the keys to a waiting valet. "I thought you hated…"
Erik's teasing chuckle is welcome, familiar. "I can't face the prospect of wrestling you through a parking lot."
"That's one wrestling match you'd win," he says, and Erik's frown smoothes as he takes in Charles' shaky smile.
"I suspect we'd both lose." His hand lands, unobtrusive, on Charles' elbow. Of all the embarrassing things… At least he's weaving like a drunk, drawing indulgent smiles from the girls at the check-in desk as Erik steers him through the lobby and into an elevator.
"Sorry," he repeats, drawing his arms in close. "I don't know what's got into me."
"I'm guessing it's something more than one mouthful of little red pill." Erik sounds different in sympathy, feels different.
Charles runs a hand through his – ugh- surprisingly sweaty hair. "I should have realized. I've never… All of those altered minds…"
"Ah," Erik says, steering him out of the elevator, ignoring Charles' attempts to shake him off. "They don't party like that at Oxford, I suppose."
That startles him into a shaky laugh. "Not in my circle, no." He leans against the wall as Erik fumbles with the lock. "I should have thought…"
"As far as I'm aware, you don't count predicting the future among your many talents. You couldn't have known." Click. There goes the door. "It's been quite a week. I'd wager that you'd have done a little better if you weren't half exhausted from all of the experimenting you've got up to."
Charles can feel his mouth taking on a mulish set, but the man's probably right. He's still steering Charles, depositing him in the brightly-lit bathroom. "Cold water," Erik suggests mildly and leaves him to it.
The shock of it splashing against his face does wonders, forcing him into the here and now. He's still a bit shaky – a cold shower would do wonders, but he's ashamed to admit that he's half-worried he'd fall halfway through it. Perhaps discretion is the better part of valor here.
The valet has helpfully hung his pajamas on the back of the bathroom door. They're soft, comforting, even if they are suffused with the lingering smell of pine and sleep-sweat. They'll have to see about laundry one of these days.
If Erik is hovering outside the bathroom door, they both choose to ignore it. "I'll be calling it an early night, I'm afraid."
"If we weren't staying another night, I'd be very angry at you for depriving me of this hotel's excellent bar."
"You could go," Charles calls over his shoulder, retreating to the nearer of the room's big beds.
Erik pokes his head out the bathroom door, toothbrush in hand. "You'll pardon me if I don't want to leave a possibly-drugged telepath on his own."
"I'm fine," Charles says rebelliously, but Erik is ignoring him if the rush of the tap is anything to go by. He clambers into the big, soft bed, nestling down in crisp linens. His brain's still buzzing, but only just, and the edges of exhaustion are creeping up around the corners of his consciousness.
He's half-asleep by the time Erik emerges and clicks off the light. There's a motion at the edge of the bed and… What? Erik is perched on the edge of the bed, prodding his shoulder. "Scoot over. I'd prefer the side by the wall, if you don't mind."
"The good people at the hotel have helpfully provided us with two beds," Charles points out.
Erik emits one of his trademark annoyed huffs. "It seemed to help," and his warm hand closes over Charles' shoulder. "Am I wrong?"
"No," Charles admits, and he'll be hideously embarrassed by this later, he's sure of it, but the edge of wariness that Erik usually projects is lost, replaced by a wonderful swirl of worry and comfort that he can't bring himself to dispel. Even if – especially if, a traitorous part of his mind whispers – he doesn't really need it anymore.
"Then scoot." Charles obliges and Erik slips under the sheets next to him, lying flat on his back with the hot lines of his arm and leg pressed loosely against Charles. "There. Is that so very terrible?"
"No," Charles says, and he's sure Erik can hear the thank you in his soft voice. Warm emotions lap gently over him and he counts Erik's steady breaths, predictable and calming, until he slips into sleep.
A/N: I am hoping nobody minds the break from my one-day-in-one-state-per-chapter formatting. My research and ideas for Our Heroes in California kind of ran away with me, and poor Charles was a bit too seasick to cram much more into this segment. I debated just putting all of California into one massive chapter, but that was ungainly and made for weird transitions. So, um, bear with me. :)