fic: Ten liter troubles
title: Ten liter troubles
fandom: X-Men: First Class
pairing: Charles/Erik
words: 3k
summary: Little do you know, people have been wasted throughout all history. (road trip fic)
a/n: Dat. Fass. crazykookie's brainchild, and written for pidgeoned the magnificent who wrote my favorite X-M: 1C fic ever, right here.
master fic post
In the long run, they used all the money on alcohol.
"But it's the CIA's funding to help us find mutants," Charles argued that first night in a low voice. Between them sat a bottle of the house best, gleaming and half empty in the low lights of the CIA bar.
Erik looked reasonable in his slim-fitting trousers and tasteful jacket. "It's just one drink for the road," he said, and trusting him didn't seem foolish, per se, Charles just wasn't yet clear on Erik's moral compass.
They spent fifty dollars that night. Together they'd find they could burn through anything, money was no different.
The next morning they took the car provided them and drove out of DC through lush June weather with a sheaf of coordinates taped to the dash and Beatles songs playing relentlessly on the scratchy radio. Humidity hung low and the road was long and forever, a clean gray which swept off before them and scrolled out behind like the long path of the American dream.
They picked up their first recruit in North Carolina, a kid named Alex who could fling red frisbees out of his arms.
It didn't feel like kidnapping; Charles had looked into Alex's mind, after all. He'd heard Alex's thoughts and sensed his abilities clear as day when he'd stood in the white room wearing the amplifying helmet, and he was content with the assurance of doing the right thing.
Alex was kind of a dick, and so Erik and he got along famously. After a wild night in a dive bar off the main drag, bills like promises passed over the bar in exchange for shots of whiskey, imported beer and peanuts, Alex completely understood when they gave him third-class bus fare instead of taking him along for the ride. They sent him off with one bag to wait for them at headquarters in DC and then got back in the car.
Erik drove, because Charles would probably crash them into head-on traffic, and they were learning a lot about one another. They exchanged brief snippets of their lives in the calm space between cities; Charles spoke about his research and the daunting task of editing a thesis, Erik about his past even though Charles could very well flip through his life like a book.
For instance, it wasn't the fifties any longer, but even so, Erik's disdain for wearing hats made him less respectable, more daredevil. Charles secretly enjoyed every marker of the rough edge to Erik's character, wanted to run the fingers of his consciousness over it until he got papercuts.
It was the 1960's. They may not have been completely 'normative' by societal standards, but then again, neither were hippies. Erik needed an open sky and unfettered finances, not the trappings of civilized society.
He said, "we're not gentlemen, Charles. We're not old money."
"Speak for yourself," said Charles, but tipped the doorman on their way in to make up for their shirking the dress code.
Before this, Erik had always been in captivity, where his alcohol consumption had been limited to rough drinks brewed in his titanium bath tub, or on a mission of vengeance trying to track down Shaw, so he'd never had much time for drinking in excess. Charles, on the other hand, frequented the bar in Oxford, using his doctoral funding, and here it was no different; Americans could get the tab this time.
Rain was bucketing down from the sky in some of the middle states. One week of zig-zagging from each coordinate to the next.
They met with two college students who turned down their offer because they liked their lives just fine. They had to sign a non-disclosure agreement that Charles then mailed back to DC at the post office once they reached Oklahoma. That day, the air smelled of wet corn fields and the clouds felt ominous. It was a three o'clock of fat raindrops and warm, claustrophobic atmosphere that held heavy together despite how the thunder had broken that afternoon and should have cracked open the sky to let the cool air in.
Every morning was a blurry recollection of the night before. They decided to hightail it out of a diner in Kansas later that week when they were pegged as Communists by the wait staff due to Erik's fine table manners and Charles' accent. Windshield wipers pushing across the glass and the flapping of tires on the road a constant, they sped along.
They tracked down a shy boy at an aquarium, but then the next four people they spoke with were too old, had learned to pass their entire lives, one woman's spouse didn't even know of her abilities, so Charles and Erik moved on.
The capitol was like a memory, but they were one month out and it was nearly time to hop a plane to follow up on the faint traces of mutants in Europe that Charles had been able to untangle in his mind. He and Erik were in the terminal and a bag was slung over each of their shoulders. Charles would always remember this moment, watching Erik in his soft-fitting slacks and a muted button-down, his face serious. They were the both of them still inebriated from the night before, Charles suspected, enough that Charles found it a bit trying to lay on the charm at the ticket counter.
"Home sweet home," Erik reflected dryly, with a grimace. "I can't wait to set foot on familiar soil, let me tell you." He didn't sound pleased in the slightest. With his past, Charles wouldn't have either.
The woman at the desk ran the card and then said, face carefully blank, "I'm sorry sir, but this card has been declined."
Charles turned. "Why isn't there enough money?” He looked over his dark glasses, gave his friend a professorly look of censure. “Erik?"
Erik shrugged, "Last night alone...."
Last night? Charles was drawing a blank.
But then it all came back to him, flickering in his mind's eye like a staticy, color film. They'd had about fifty cocktails in a strip club, exotic dancers in their underwear, heavy curtains and glitter everywhere. Leaning at the bar together, they'd tied cherry stems with their tongues while the glitter dumped from the ceiling and fans blew it all around. It felt rather cheap, but they spent a reasonable sum, and an hour later they were lounging on a red velvet bed while they made their next recruit, a woman with iridescent dragonfly wings. Charles'd pressed his shoulder up against Erik's as he talked to her about mutations, explaining they were something beautiful, a gift, and Erik hadn't pulled away.
Now, Charles said, "Oh," and took back his card. Finances endangered, they stayed in the United States.
They used some of their remaining cash at Cirque de Soleil in Las Vegas. The days had been hot and fruitless, and four prospective recruits had laughed in their faces or walked quickly away, not looking back, so Charles thought it was necessary to relax a bit. It seemed just the thing. They were in town and besides, there was a distinct longing for the circus that ran like a golden thread through Erik's life; Charles knew because he had seen it in his memories.
Erik seemed to know that he knew. He said, "You're just angling for a date."
Charles returned the look, mildly. "Not everyone is guilty, Erik."
"You'd like to think so," said Erik.
Once it was out there, it was out there. They sat in the darkness of the audience aware of their proximity, only a static energy between them. Charles held a flimsy red and white bag of popcorn on one knee and didn't move away from the occasional brush of Erik's shoulder. He crinkled the paper as pin-striped clowns urged lions through hoops and he got grease all over his hands, which wasn't like him. He lived Erik's self-conscious enjoyment of the show on instinct, skimming the surface of his thoughts.
Somewhere in his mind, Erik thought the acrobats looked like freedom as they flipped in the air in stiff formation, grabbing ahold of rings and loose-limbed swinging on to the next. The animals were let out of cages that could never have held Erik, and the trapeze and netting existed between heaven and earth, a fly zone only trapeze artists and mutants would every fully dare to tread.
"See, the difference is that trapeze artists actually have training," Charles said. "If only there was a way to train mutants from an early age...."
"That's frankly very voyeuristic," Erik said. "Delving into my thoughts without asking. But we've all learned to take joy where we can, I suppose."
Charles felt sheepish, caught out. "Mind reading comes as second-nature. I can make an effort to stop if it bothers you."
"It's no problem. So, would you say that that's a superhuman strength?"
Charles craned his neck to see. "Who, the fire eater?" He touched a finger to his temple, and heard the woman's thoughts like they were coming through a distant radio. She was focused on the technicalities of not swallowing the mouthful of gasoline and also a niggling worry that she might singe her hair, nothing out of the ordinary. He said to Erik, "No, I'd say that was a learned skill."
Erik shrugged. "My mistake."
Charles nudged him with a shoulder. "Your first then?"
"Possibly not my last," Erik told him, and Charles saw him smile in the shadows next to him, felt him push their shoulders together again, chiding. "But mistakes are subjective."
The crowd cheered as tiny acrobats did impossible flips through fire. Charles and Erik both felt like they'd won the lottery, and not just genetically.
It seemed impossible that one man could color his life the way it had, but the future looked promising to Erik when he followed Charles out of the elevator the next day and into the sunlight on the terrace of the casino. It was the site of the weekly pool party, the it crowd was in attendance, they weren't here on a lead. A hundred fine people moved about in various stages of undress with sweating drinks held delicately. They all murmured their conversations which were then lost in the slap and splash of the pool water.
Erik stood with his hands in his pockets, feeling fine and taking it all in, when Charles started speaking to a man in white slacks.
"Are you aware that increased musculature in the forearm and bicep is a genetic mutation?"
The man looked pleasantly surprised. "You don't say!" He flexed his arm muscle and Charles felt it professionally.
Charles hmmmed. "And might I say, it's a very compelling mutation."
Erik had experienced a lifetime of betrayal. As such, he should have been able to identify this disappointment in his chest, but instead he only felt confused and angry. He moved from Charles' elbow. He secured a pineapple martini and went to speak with a flock of West Coasters. There was a slight breeze whipping at nicely styled hair dos, the music playing low. Women wore white bathing suits with large earrings, and heels. Men had sweaters thrown over one shoulder and drinks balanced between splayed fingers.
They discussed all things groovy. No one spoke more than one language, while Erik felt incoherent in eight. Twenty minutes later, he drained his fifth pineapple drink and set the glass down on the flat, manicured top of a potted bush. He noted that Charles, a silly umbrella in his glass, was still laying a clinical hand on the man's bicep and was rattling out facts on asymmetrical muscle augmentation due to more perfect chromosomal matching. The sun seemed rather bright and outrageous, and Erik shielded his eyes and listed against the bush which was only at the level of his elbow.
The lapping at the edges of the pool where he stood seemed alienating. Guests milled about, only one or two of them swimming. The metal lawn furniture screeched three inches across the concrete before Erik was aware that he was to blame.
Charles cast a quick glance at the chairs and then looked around for him. Erik turned his back, and looked at the water, noticing a blow-up shark that bobbed in the sparkling ripples. Its mouth was perpetually grinning, baring fake teeth. Erik hoped that's what Charles saw, had he chosen to look into Erik's mind at that moment. He heard him resume his conversation and this floating creature seemed like the only one who understood him.
It was for this reason, that when the shark popped, Erik found himself diving into the deep, submerging in seconds to swoop down into the depths after the withering form. He swam with his eyes open, unaware of the buzz of chlorine. He was fully clothed, wearing his shoes, but he'd swum in worse conditions. The only thing that seemed to matter was that he grasp the wet plastic in his fingers.
There was a plunging behind him and a body slammed into his in a belated under-water sort of way, cold, sub-surface waves billowing between them and the breath he was holding going out of him in a woosh of surprise.
Of course it was Charles. He had his arms would tight around Erik's chest like the heaviest, most comfortable life vest, and Erik let loose the shark in favor of scrabbling with dull fingers at Charles' hands. He kicked his legs but made no headway. Nowhere did one's emotions change faster than underwater, when breath was dwindling. We'll both drown, Erik thought, and was instantly sure of it.
Charles, suddenly aware perhaps that he was doing more harm than good by holding them both underwater in a dramatic gesture of saving Erik's life that was more symbolic than literal, let him mostly go, and struggled up to the surface, one hand wound in the wet fabric of Erik's shirt. Erik floundered up beside him and took half-gasps of air. He choked on the pool water and made it to the side of the pool, felt the hot concrete under his quickly drying hands and waved off people asking if he needed help. He slung elbows onto the concrete and he lay there gasping while his legs tread water, his trousers dead weight and his shirt sticking to his shoulder blades.
He was aware of Charles treading water like it was no big to-do.
“Can't keep you out of the water,” Charles said, conversationally.
Erik rubbed a hand over his face, and then said, "Weren't you in the middle of a conversation? Using that horrid pick-up about mutations. Exploiting those of us, yourself included, who might-"
"Actual mutation," Charles said. He frowned. "Erik, he was an actual mutant. I was giving him our talk when you just disappeared with those attractive people with the trays of drinks."
"Oh," Erik said. He felt, for the first time in years, rather foolish. "I thought you were-I-" He had never been good at explaining himself, had never had occasion to. "I'm not a mind reader, Charles."
"Yes, sometimes I forget." Charles came up to the edge next to him. "He said no, by the way. He likes his life."
Erik nodded. Most of them did. He pushed wet hair straight back away from his face and switched gears. "Anyhow, I'm sorry you were forced to dive into treacherous waters for the second time. You might want to think more of your health."
Charles laughed, and then pulled himself out of the water, rolling into sitting at the edge in the sun. He smiled genuinely and said, "If you'd stop jumping in I wouldn't have to."
They made it back to their hotel on the strip and lounged like millionaires in the gilt elevator, looked up at their scruffy reflections in the ceiling mirror. When they reached their room they took hot showers and dried off with fluffy towels. Charles switched on the television and began to arrange their papers but he spent most of the time glancing at Erik who was lounging out with a leg crooked over the arm of a chair. Charles laughed to himself as Erik dialed for room service with a lazy toe.
They ate olives and drank fine beers that reminded Erik of home and reminded Charles of home, and they watched the news together in bathrobes, the black and white president and the foreshadowing of a third world war.
Back in the Federal Buildings in DC, Charles sat with a leg casually crossed at the knee. He could sense Erik lurking around in the periphery, hands clasped behind his back and gazing out the window, surveying the government lawns. Both waited while the secret head of their CIA branch looked over the list of mutants they'd prepared for him.
He stubbed out a cigarette and said, "Four?"
"That's correct."
"And you left the car...?"
Charles nodded. "In Nevada."
"Because?"
"Financial constraints."
"Constraints? Pardon my French, but we allotted you boys an ass-load of money for this assignment. We were told it would be enough."
"For a plane trip," Erik said, finally whirling around. Charles arched an eyebrow his way, as if to say Nice of you to join the conversation.
"And the car...?"
Erik strode over, and slammed both palms decisively on the table top. "Do you know how much petrol costs in your country? Eight cents. Eight cents per litre. That's absurd."
Charles placed a hand on Erik's arm in a pacifying gesture. "But we did pick you up a young man named Darwin on the taxi back to DC."
The man dropped the file onto the desk with a quiet slap. "And all of them are American?"
Erik clenched his jaw and said, "The sacrifice was worth it."
"We don't want Reds sneaking in, so I'd say you fellas used your best judgment. But that begs the question, where's the money?"
Erik leveled him with the sort of look that made people want to hit him. He said, "Forty bottles of Grey Goose and twenty-seven bottles of Patrón. Roughly."
The director looked considering. He leaned back in his chair and put steepled fingers to his lips. Finally he said, "Good God. You really are superhuman."
Charles looked up to Erik, who was for all intents and purposes now a functional alcoholic. His jaw was firm, and Charles didn't even need to read his mind to relive the past two months which seemed Cristal clear and soaked in Goldschläger.
Charles smiled when Erik finally looked at him, and said, "I'd prefer more evolved."
fandom: X-Men: First Class
pairing: Charles/Erik
words: 3k
summary: Little do you know, people have been wasted throughout all history. (road trip fic)
a/n: Dat. Fass. crazykookie's brainchild, and written for pidgeoned the magnificent who wrote my favorite X-M: 1C fic ever, right here.
master fic post
In the long run, they used all the money on alcohol.
"But it's the CIA's funding to help us find mutants," Charles argued that first night in a low voice. Between them sat a bottle of the house best, gleaming and half empty in the low lights of the CIA bar.
Erik looked reasonable in his slim-fitting trousers and tasteful jacket. "It's just one drink for the road," he said, and trusting him didn't seem foolish, per se, Charles just wasn't yet clear on Erik's moral compass.
They spent fifty dollars that night. Together they'd find they could burn through anything, money was no different.
The next morning they took the car provided them and drove out of DC through lush June weather with a sheaf of coordinates taped to the dash and Beatles songs playing relentlessly on the scratchy radio. Humidity hung low and the road was long and forever, a clean gray which swept off before them and scrolled out behind like the long path of the American dream.
They picked up their first recruit in North Carolina, a kid named Alex who could fling red frisbees out of his arms.
It didn't feel like kidnapping; Charles had looked into Alex's mind, after all. He'd heard Alex's thoughts and sensed his abilities clear as day when he'd stood in the white room wearing the amplifying helmet, and he was content with the assurance of doing the right thing.
Alex was kind of a dick, and so Erik and he got along famously. After a wild night in a dive bar off the main drag, bills like promises passed over the bar in exchange for shots of whiskey, imported beer and peanuts, Alex completely understood when they gave him third-class bus fare instead of taking him along for the ride. They sent him off with one bag to wait for them at headquarters in DC and then got back in the car.
Erik drove, because Charles would probably crash them into head-on traffic, and they were learning a lot about one another. They exchanged brief snippets of their lives in the calm space between cities; Charles spoke about his research and the daunting task of editing a thesis, Erik about his past even though Charles could very well flip through his life like a book.
For instance, it wasn't the fifties any longer, but even so, Erik's disdain for wearing hats made him less respectable, more daredevil. Charles secretly enjoyed every marker of the rough edge to Erik's character, wanted to run the fingers of his consciousness over it until he got papercuts.
It was the 1960's. They may not have been completely 'normative' by societal standards, but then again, neither were hippies. Erik needed an open sky and unfettered finances, not the trappings of civilized society.
He said, "we're not gentlemen, Charles. We're not old money."
"Speak for yourself," said Charles, but tipped the doorman on their way in to make up for their shirking the dress code.
Before this, Erik had always been in captivity, where his alcohol consumption had been limited to rough drinks brewed in his titanium bath tub, or on a mission of vengeance trying to track down Shaw, so he'd never had much time for drinking in excess. Charles, on the other hand, frequented the bar in Oxford, using his doctoral funding, and here it was no different; Americans could get the tab this time.
Rain was bucketing down from the sky in some of the middle states. One week of zig-zagging from each coordinate to the next.
They met with two college students who turned down their offer because they liked their lives just fine. They had to sign a non-disclosure agreement that Charles then mailed back to DC at the post office once they reached Oklahoma. That day, the air smelled of wet corn fields and the clouds felt ominous. It was a three o'clock of fat raindrops and warm, claustrophobic atmosphere that held heavy together despite how the thunder had broken that afternoon and should have cracked open the sky to let the cool air in.
Every morning was a blurry recollection of the night before. They decided to hightail it out of a diner in Kansas later that week when they were pegged as Communists by the wait staff due to Erik's fine table manners and Charles' accent. Windshield wipers pushing across the glass and the flapping of tires on the road a constant, they sped along.
They tracked down a shy boy at an aquarium, but then the next four people they spoke with were too old, had learned to pass their entire lives, one woman's spouse didn't even know of her abilities, so Charles and Erik moved on.
The capitol was like a memory, but they were one month out and it was nearly time to hop a plane to follow up on the faint traces of mutants in Europe that Charles had been able to untangle in his mind. He and Erik were in the terminal and a bag was slung over each of their shoulders. Charles would always remember this moment, watching Erik in his soft-fitting slacks and a muted button-down, his face serious. They were the both of them still inebriated from the night before, Charles suspected, enough that Charles found it a bit trying to lay on the charm at the ticket counter.
"Home sweet home," Erik reflected dryly, with a grimace. "I can't wait to set foot on familiar soil, let me tell you." He didn't sound pleased in the slightest. With his past, Charles wouldn't have either.
The woman at the desk ran the card and then said, face carefully blank, "I'm sorry sir, but this card has been declined."
Charles turned. "Why isn't there enough money?” He looked over his dark glasses, gave his friend a professorly look of censure. “Erik?"
Erik shrugged, "Last night alone...."
Last night? Charles was drawing a blank.
But then it all came back to him, flickering in his mind's eye like a staticy, color film. They'd had about fifty cocktails in a strip club, exotic dancers in their underwear, heavy curtains and glitter everywhere. Leaning at the bar together, they'd tied cherry stems with their tongues while the glitter dumped from the ceiling and fans blew it all around. It felt rather cheap, but they spent a reasonable sum, and an hour later they were lounging on a red velvet bed while they made their next recruit, a woman with iridescent dragonfly wings. Charles'd pressed his shoulder up against Erik's as he talked to her about mutations, explaining they were something beautiful, a gift, and Erik hadn't pulled away.
Now, Charles said, "Oh," and took back his card. Finances endangered, they stayed in the United States.
They used some of their remaining cash at Cirque de Soleil in Las Vegas. The days had been hot and fruitless, and four prospective recruits had laughed in their faces or walked quickly away, not looking back, so Charles thought it was necessary to relax a bit. It seemed just the thing. They were in town and besides, there was a distinct longing for the circus that ran like a golden thread through Erik's life; Charles knew because he had seen it in his memories.
Erik seemed to know that he knew. He said, "You're just angling for a date."
Charles returned the look, mildly. "Not everyone is guilty, Erik."
"You'd like to think so," said Erik.
Once it was out there, it was out there. They sat in the darkness of the audience aware of their proximity, only a static energy between them. Charles held a flimsy red and white bag of popcorn on one knee and didn't move away from the occasional brush of Erik's shoulder. He crinkled the paper as pin-striped clowns urged lions through hoops and he got grease all over his hands, which wasn't like him. He lived Erik's self-conscious enjoyment of the show on instinct, skimming the surface of his thoughts.
Somewhere in his mind, Erik thought the acrobats looked like freedom as they flipped in the air in stiff formation, grabbing ahold of rings and loose-limbed swinging on to the next. The animals were let out of cages that could never have held Erik, and the trapeze and netting existed between heaven and earth, a fly zone only trapeze artists and mutants would every fully dare to tread.
"See, the difference is that trapeze artists actually have training," Charles said. "If only there was a way to train mutants from an early age...."
"That's frankly very voyeuristic," Erik said. "Delving into my thoughts without asking. But we've all learned to take joy where we can, I suppose."
Charles felt sheepish, caught out. "Mind reading comes as second-nature. I can make an effort to stop if it bothers you."
"It's no problem. So, would you say that that's a superhuman strength?"
Charles craned his neck to see. "Who, the fire eater?" He touched a finger to his temple, and heard the woman's thoughts like they were coming through a distant radio. She was focused on the technicalities of not swallowing the mouthful of gasoline and also a niggling worry that she might singe her hair, nothing out of the ordinary. He said to Erik, "No, I'd say that was a learned skill."
Erik shrugged. "My mistake."
Charles nudged him with a shoulder. "Your first then?"
"Possibly not my last," Erik told him, and Charles saw him smile in the shadows next to him, felt him push their shoulders together again, chiding. "But mistakes are subjective."
The crowd cheered as tiny acrobats did impossible flips through fire. Charles and Erik both felt like they'd won the lottery, and not just genetically.
It seemed impossible that one man could color his life the way it had, but the future looked promising to Erik when he followed Charles out of the elevator the next day and into the sunlight on the terrace of the casino. It was the site of the weekly pool party, the it crowd was in attendance, they weren't here on a lead. A hundred fine people moved about in various stages of undress with sweating drinks held delicately. They all murmured their conversations which were then lost in the slap and splash of the pool water.
Erik stood with his hands in his pockets, feeling fine and taking it all in, when Charles started speaking to a man in white slacks.
"Are you aware that increased musculature in the forearm and bicep is a genetic mutation?"
The man looked pleasantly surprised. "You don't say!" He flexed his arm muscle and Charles felt it professionally.
Charles hmmmed. "And might I say, it's a very compelling mutation."
Erik had experienced a lifetime of betrayal. As such, he should have been able to identify this disappointment in his chest, but instead he only felt confused and angry. He moved from Charles' elbow. He secured a pineapple martini and went to speak with a flock of West Coasters. There was a slight breeze whipping at nicely styled hair dos, the music playing low. Women wore white bathing suits with large earrings, and heels. Men had sweaters thrown over one shoulder and drinks balanced between splayed fingers.
They discussed all things groovy. No one spoke more than one language, while Erik felt incoherent in eight. Twenty minutes later, he drained his fifth pineapple drink and set the glass down on the flat, manicured top of a potted bush. He noted that Charles, a silly umbrella in his glass, was still laying a clinical hand on the man's bicep and was rattling out facts on asymmetrical muscle augmentation due to more perfect chromosomal matching. The sun seemed rather bright and outrageous, and Erik shielded his eyes and listed against the bush which was only at the level of his elbow.
The lapping at the edges of the pool where he stood seemed alienating. Guests milled about, only one or two of them swimming. The metal lawn furniture screeched three inches across the concrete before Erik was aware that he was to blame.
Charles cast a quick glance at the chairs and then looked around for him. Erik turned his back, and looked at the water, noticing a blow-up shark that bobbed in the sparkling ripples. Its mouth was perpetually grinning, baring fake teeth. Erik hoped that's what Charles saw, had he chosen to look into Erik's mind at that moment. He heard him resume his conversation and this floating creature seemed like the only one who understood him.
It was for this reason, that when the shark popped, Erik found himself diving into the deep, submerging in seconds to swoop down into the depths after the withering form. He swam with his eyes open, unaware of the buzz of chlorine. He was fully clothed, wearing his shoes, but he'd swum in worse conditions. The only thing that seemed to matter was that he grasp the wet plastic in his fingers.
There was a plunging behind him and a body slammed into his in a belated under-water sort of way, cold, sub-surface waves billowing between them and the breath he was holding going out of him in a woosh of surprise.
Of course it was Charles. He had his arms would tight around Erik's chest like the heaviest, most comfortable life vest, and Erik let loose the shark in favor of scrabbling with dull fingers at Charles' hands. He kicked his legs but made no headway. Nowhere did one's emotions change faster than underwater, when breath was dwindling. We'll both drown, Erik thought, and was instantly sure of it.
Charles, suddenly aware perhaps that he was doing more harm than good by holding them both underwater in a dramatic gesture of saving Erik's life that was more symbolic than literal, let him mostly go, and struggled up to the surface, one hand wound in the wet fabric of Erik's shirt. Erik floundered up beside him and took half-gasps of air. He choked on the pool water and made it to the side of the pool, felt the hot concrete under his quickly drying hands and waved off people asking if he needed help. He slung elbows onto the concrete and he lay there gasping while his legs tread water, his trousers dead weight and his shirt sticking to his shoulder blades.
He was aware of Charles treading water like it was no big to-do.
“Can't keep you out of the water,” Charles said, conversationally.
Erik rubbed a hand over his face, and then said, "Weren't you in the middle of a conversation? Using that horrid pick-up about mutations. Exploiting those of us, yourself included, who might-"
"Actual mutation," Charles said. He frowned. "Erik, he was an actual mutant. I was giving him our talk when you just disappeared with those attractive people with the trays of drinks."
"Oh," Erik said. He felt, for the first time in years, rather foolish. "I thought you were-I-" He had never been good at explaining himself, had never had occasion to. "I'm not a mind reader, Charles."
"Yes, sometimes I forget." Charles came up to the edge next to him. "He said no, by the way. He likes his life."
Erik nodded. Most of them did. He pushed wet hair straight back away from his face and switched gears. "Anyhow, I'm sorry you were forced to dive into treacherous waters for the second time. You might want to think more of your health."
Charles laughed, and then pulled himself out of the water, rolling into sitting at the edge in the sun. He smiled genuinely and said, "If you'd stop jumping in I wouldn't have to."
They made it back to their hotel on the strip and lounged like millionaires in the gilt elevator, looked up at their scruffy reflections in the ceiling mirror. When they reached their room they took hot showers and dried off with fluffy towels. Charles switched on the television and began to arrange their papers but he spent most of the time glancing at Erik who was lounging out with a leg crooked over the arm of a chair. Charles laughed to himself as Erik dialed for room service with a lazy toe.
They ate olives and drank fine beers that reminded Erik of home and reminded Charles of home, and they watched the news together in bathrobes, the black and white president and the foreshadowing of a third world war.
Back in the Federal Buildings in DC, Charles sat with a leg casually crossed at the knee. He could sense Erik lurking around in the periphery, hands clasped behind his back and gazing out the window, surveying the government lawns. Both waited while the secret head of their CIA branch looked over the list of mutants they'd prepared for him.
He stubbed out a cigarette and said, "Four?"
"That's correct."
"And you left the car...?"
Charles nodded. "In Nevada."
"Because?"
"Financial constraints."
"Constraints? Pardon my French, but we allotted you boys an ass-load of money for this assignment. We were told it would be enough."
"For a plane trip," Erik said, finally whirling around. Charles arched an eyebrow his way, as if to say Nice of you to join the conversation.
"And the car...?"
Erik strode over, and slammed both palms decisively on the table top. "Do you know how much petrol costs in your country? Eight cents. Eight cents per litre. That's absurd."
Charles placed a hand on Erik's arm in a pacifying gesture. "But we did pick you up a young man named Darwin on the taxi back to DC."
The man dropped the file onto the desk with a quiet slap. "And all of them are American?"
Erik clenched his jaw and said, "The sacrifice was worth it."
"We don't want Reds sneaking in, so I'd say you fellas used your best judgment. But that begs the question, where's the money?"
Erik leveled him with the sort of look that made people want to hit him. He said, "Forty bottles of Grey Goose and twenty-seven bottles of Patrón. Roughly."
The director looked considering. He leaned back in his chair and put steepled fingers to his lips. Finally he said, "Good God. You really are superhuman."
Charles looked up to Erik, who was for all intents and purposes now a functional alcoholic. His jaw was firm, and Charles didn't even need to read his mind to relive the past two months which seemed Cristal clear and soaked in Goldschläger.
Charles smiled when Erik finally looked at him, and said, "I'd prefer more evolved."