You ask me if I love you and I choke on my reply.
After re-watching the first three “X-Men” movies (as well as the first few episodes of the “Evolution” cartoon from the ‘90s, which is just unbelievably silly - oh Charles, why do you send your mutant children to a public school run by Superintendent Magneto and think that is okay, seriously) with patientalien, it absolutely kills me that Erik and Charles just kind of run circles around each other for their entire lives when they are obviously ridiculously in love, even as old dudes. I can’t help but think that, if circumstances were just slightly different, they would be together; hence, this story.
Summary: Erik and Charles become domestic partners, circa 1982. For the sake of continuity and timelines, I fudged history a bit; according to the ultimate authority, Wikipedia, San Francisco first tried to get domestic partner benefits legalized in the early 80s, but it didn’t happen until 1989, and it didn’t eek around to New York until the late 1990s. Warning: Enough fluff to fashion an army of stuffed toys from. I swiped the title from Dan Hill’s amazingly horrible ballad, “Sometimes When We Touch,” if only because it is on Michael Fassbender’s Charles/Erik playlist. Rated PG.
While Love Commands You
*
It was Charles’ voice floating out of the dining room that drew Erik there. It sounded as though he was having a one-sided conversation. Sure enough, when Erik entered the room, Charles was crouched over a corner of the large oak table, his back to Erik, the white phone receiver pressed to his right ear.
“Yes, it’s ‘Erik,’ with a ‘k,’ not a ‘c’,” Charles was telling the person on the other end. Immediately, Erik perked up, stopping in the doorway to listen. “Right,” Charles said, “and the last name is ‘Lehnsherr.’ That’s L-E-H … yes, ‘h’ …” Erik could sense the vaguest hint of frustration emanating from the other man. Smiling, he strode slowly across the room, and placed large hands on each of Charles’ thin shoulders, and then began rubbing them. Charles tensed initially, and then peered up at Erik, beaming happily, even as he offered a polite critique to the phone: “No, that’s two ‘r’s.”
Erik continued massaging Charles’ shoulders as he listened to the other man painstakingly rattle off his own personal particulars, many of which Erik knew he had gleaned entirely from his mind: Date and place of birth; whether or not Charles’ Westchester mansion was his home (“yes, he resides here with me”). As the conversation dragged on, Erik grew bored and sauntered into the kitchen area. Pulling open cupboards and then the refrigerator door, he surveyed the contents - there never seemed to be much food when they were raising a veritable hoard of teenagers - and finally decided simply to make tea.
He set the water to boil, and then made his way around the kitchen a second time to gather supplies. “Yes, I will have those forms faxed to you this afternoon,” Charles told the receiver; he ended the conversation shortly after that. “That smells good,” he complimented Erik by way of greeting.
Erik used a wisp of magnetism to float a serving tray to him. As he floated it again onto the table, now loaded with tea-related accoutrement, Charles watched contentedly.
Taking a seat to Charles’ right, Erik peered at the topmost piece of paper in the stack in front of Charles. “’Domestic partnership,’” he read coyly, glancing sidelong at Charles. “Such a big, fancy word.”
Charles regarded him fondly. “Now that we can, I thought it might be a good idea. Don’t you?”
Erik took a long sip of his tea. “It sounds an awful lot like marriage to me,” he finally offered. Charles was tempted to delve into his mind for clarification, but resisted. Instead, he folded his hands thoughtfully.
“It’s not precisely a marriage, of course,” he offered. “I mean, there are similar legal benefits, certainly; it would also make taxes somewhat simpler.” He paused to sip his own tea, hissing softly at the temperature. “Mmph, delicious. In all seriousness, though, Erik, you’ve lived here an awfully long time. It just seems responsible to take this step.”
Erik’s expression was unreadable as he stared into his mug. “It has been a while,” he agreed off-handedly. “Just over twenty years, I would say.”
“Yes,” Charles nodded, and he thought briefly of all that those two decades had encompassed: Twenty years spent helping mutant-kind realize its potential; twenty years with this gigantic house being filled with their children - who, incidentally, were off roughing it with Logan and Scott and Jean in the wilderness for a weekend, leaving the mansion unnervingly quiet - and Erik, making up for the previous twenty years that Charles had spent there alone, desperately lonely and wondering what the point of being a telepath was if it didn’t help you to get closer to people. It meant twenty years with Erik, whose mere presence never failed to make Charles’ heart do a little dance.
Two decades had not necessarily been easy on them - in fact, there were times when Charles was sure that he would lose Erik to radical ambition and pride (on both their parts) - but he knew unwaveringly that a life alongside Erik Lehnsherr, including every trial and tribulation, had made him the man he was that day.
Erik’s continuingly curious gaze gave him pause. “Domestic partnerships are convenient,” Erik commented idly. “They seem to be lacking some of the pomp and circumstance of marriage, though. How utterly human.”
Charles let out the barest of sighs. They would never, apparently, be able to bury this particular topic of debate once and for all. “On the contrary, I think this is a magnanimous step forward for human- and mutant-kind,” he protested. “They’re further realizing the consequences of alienation. This may seem like a small victory, but I believe it is a greatly significant piece of legislature, Erik.”
Erik seemed to consider this, or at least, to be humoring him. “I suppose,” he said slowly. “In that case, the only thing left is to put a ring on your finger.” He closed his eyes, ignoring Charles’ hushed “Erik …” as he concentrated hard for several moments. At last, however, a small bit of metal pinged from its place in a small, wooden jewelry case in their bedroom into Erik’s waiting palm. “Erik,” Charles said again when he recognized what it was. “I didn’t know … you never got rid of it,” he frowned, and suddenly, he felt like there was something caught in his throat.
“I never did,” Erik said quietly, and then he began to funnel his energy anew into the tiny, silver bullet in his hand. When he was finished, it was no longer the miniscule piece of shrapnel that had shattered Charles’ spine those twenty years ago.
Charles’ breath hitched as Erik delicately turned his wheelchair outwards with a wave of the same hand. As Erik crouched in front of him, he caught the reflection of his own startled face in Erik’s unwavering gaze; he was bald now, rather cleanly at that, due to an accident with Cerebro, more so than he would have been had nature been allowed to take its course. Erik looked different, too. The years had added streaks of gray to his hair (Charles was, he could admit, a bit jealous of that), had put lines on his face that hadn’t been there as a young man. Still, he was robust, passionate, beautiful; still, he was Erik.
Erik held up the silver piece, now fashioned into a plain, smooth ring that Charles knew would somehow fit him perfectly. He placed bracing hands on the arms of Charles’ chair, and when their eyes met, they shared lopsided grins. “Charles Francis” - Erik paused to let the gentle goading in his voice sink in; for whatever reason, he had always found Charles’ middle name hilarious - “Xavier,” he said gruffly, and then he slid the ring into place. “Will you be my domestic partner?”
Charles’ voice was husky. “I suppose,” he said softly, “for tax purposes.” The breathy groan he exuded when Erik tugged him out of the chair and into his arms belied his joy, however. “The tea will get cold,” he murmured; but as Erik fastened onto a particularly sensitive juncture between his jaw and neck, he found that, actually, he had very few qualms about abandoning the paperwork and their drinks and the chair - in retrospect, he and Erik would joke that it looked as though he had been abducted - for more of this, of them.
*
Summary: Erik and Charles become domestic partners, circa 1982. For the sake of continuity and timelines, I fudged history a bit; according to the ultimate authority, Wikipedia, San Francisco first tried to get domestic partner benefits legalized in the early 80s, but it didn’t happen until 1989, and it didn’t eek around to New York until the late 1990s. Warning: Enough fluff to fashion an army of stuffed toys from. I swiped the title from Dan Hill’s amazingly horrible ballad, “Sometimes When We Touch,” if only because it is on Michael Fassbender’s Charles/Erik playlist. Rated PG.
While Love Commands You
*
It was Charles’ voice floating out of the dining room that drew Erik there. It sounded as though he was having a one-sided conversation. Sure enough, when Erik entered the room, Charles was crouched over a corner of the large oak table, his back to Erik, the white phone receiver pressed to his right ear.
“Yes, it’s ‘Erik,’ with a ‘k,’ not a ‘c’,” Charles was telling the person on the other end. Immediately, Erik perked up, stopping in the doorway to listen. “Right,” Charles said, “and the last name is ‘Lehnsherr.’ That’s L-E-H … yes, ‘h’ …” Erik could sense the vaguest hint of frustration emanating from the other man. Smiling, he strode slowly across the room, and placed large hands on each of Charles’ thin shoulders, and then began rubbing them. Charles tensed initially, and then peered up at Erik, beaming happily, even as he offered a polite critique to the phone: “No, that’s two ‘r’s.”
Erik continued massaging Charles’ shoulders as he listened to the other man painstakingly rattle off his own personal particulars, many of which Erik knew he had gleaned entirely from his mind: Date and place of birth; whether or not Charles’ Westchester mansion was his home (“yes, he resides here with me”). As the conversation dragged on, Erik grew bored and sauntered into the kitchen area. Pulling open cupboards and then the refrigerator door, he surveyed the contents - there never seemed to be much food when they were raising a veritable hoard of teenagers - and finally decided simply to make tea.
He set the water to boil, and then made his way around the kitchen a second time to gather supplies. “Yes, I will have those forms faxed to you this afternoon,” Charles told the receiver; he ended the conversation shortly after that. “That smells good,” he complimented Erik by way of greeting.
Erik used a wisp of magnetism to float a serving tray to him. As he floated it again onto the table, now loaded with tea-related accoutrement, Charles watched contentedly.
Taking a seat to Charles’ right, Erik peered at the topmost piece of paper in the stack in front of Charles. “’Domestic partnership,’” he read coyly, glancing sidelong at Charles. “Such a big, fancy word.”
Charles regarded him fondly. “Now that we can, I thought it might be a good idea. Don’t you?”
Erik took a long sip of his tea. “It sounds an awful lot like marriage to me,” he finally offered. Charles was tempted to delve into his mind for clarification, but resisted. Instead, he folded his hands thoughtfully.
“It’s not precisely a marriage, of course,” he offered. “I mean, there are similar legal benefits, certainly; it would also make taxes somewhat simpler.” He paused to sip his own tea, hissing softly at the temperature. “Mmph, delicious. In all seriousness, though, Erik, you’ve lived here an awfully long time. It just seems responsible to take this step.”
Erik’s expression was unreadable as he stared into his mug. “It has been a while,” he agreed off-handedly. “Just over twenty years, I would say.”
“Yes,” Charles nodded, and he thought briefly of all that those two decades had encompassed: Twenty years spent helping mutant-kind realize its potential; twenty years with this gigantic house being filled with their children - who, incidentally, were off roughing it with Logan and Scott and Jean in the wilderness for a weekend, leaving the mansion unnervingly quiet - and Erik, making up for the previous twenty years that Charles had spent there alone, desperately lonely and wondering what the point of being a telepath was if it didn’t help you to get closer to people. It meant twenty years with Erik, whose mere presence never failed to make Charles’ heart do a little dance.
Two decades had not necessarily been easy on them - in fact, there were times when Charles was sure that he would lose Erik to radical ambition and pride (on both their parts) - but he knew unwaveringly that a life alongside Erik Lehnsherr, including every trial and tribulation, had made him the man he was that day.
Erik’s continuingly curious gaze gave him pause. “Domestic partnerships are convenient,” Erik commented idly. “They seem to be lacking some of the pomp and circumstance of marriage, though. How utterly human.”
Charles let out the barest of sighs. They would never, apparently, be able to bury this particular topic of debate once and for all. “On the contrary, I think this is a magnanimous step forward for human- and mutant-kind,” he protested. “They’re further realizing the consequences of alienation. This may seem like a small victory, but I believe it is a greatly significant piece of legislature, Erik.”
Erik seemed to consider this, or at least, to be humoring him. “I suppose,” he said slowly. “In that case, the only thing left is to put a ring on your finger.” He closed his eyes, ignoring Charles’ hushed “Erik …” as he concentrated hard for several moments. At last, however, a small bit of metal pinged from its place in a small, wooden jewelry case in their bedroom into Erik’s waiting palm. “Erik,” Charles said again when he recognized what it was. “I didn’t know … you never got rid of it,” he frowned, and suddenly, he felt like there was something caught in his throat.
“I never did,” Erik said quietly, and then he began to funnel his energy anew into the tiny, silver bullet in his hand. When he was finished, it was no longer the miniscule piece of shrapnel that had shattered Charles’ spine those twenty years ago.
Charles’ breath hitched as Erik delicately turned his wheelchair outwards with a wave of the same hand. As Erik crouched in front of him, he caught the reflection of his own startled face in Erik’s unwavering gaze; he was bald now, rather cleanly at that, due to an accident with Cerebro, more so than he would have been had nature been allowed to take its course. Erik looked different, too. The years had added streaks of gray to his hair (Charles was, he could admit, a bit jealous of that), had put lines on his face that hadn’t been there as a young man. Still, he was robust, passionate, beautiful; still, he was Erik.
Erik held up the silver piece, now fashioned into a plain, smooth ring that Charles knew would somehow fit him perfectly. He placed bracing hands on the arms of Charles’ chair, and when their eyes met, they shared lopsided grins. “Charles Francis” - Erik paused to let the gentle goading in his voice sink in; for whatever reason, he had always found Charles’ middle name hilarious - “Xavier,” he said gruffly, and then he slid the ring into place. “Will you be my domestic partner?”
Charles’ voice was husky. “I suppose,” he said softly, “for tax purposes.” The breathy groan he exuded when Erik tugged him out of the chair and into his arms belied his joy, however. “The tea will get cold,” he murmured; but as Erik fastened onto a particularly sensitive juncture between his jaw and neck, he found that, actually, he had very few qualms about abandoning the paperwork and their drinks and the chair - in retrospect, he and Erik would joke that it looked as though he had been abducted - for more of this, of them.
*