exhibiting excellent judgement
It was a catastrophic error in judgement to watch X-Men First Class while also having a lot of important Real Life type obligations to meet over the next few weeks.
I mean, not as catastrophic as deciding to dump someone on his ass while emotions are running high/you have a bullet in your spine and are maybe not exhibiting the most awesome and even-handed judgement and maaaaaybe he has a point about killing psychotic Nazis who want to blow up the world, JUST SAYIN’.
Similarly, not quite as catastrophic as getting your feelings hurt about being rejected by someone who is obviously not thinking very clearly and saying WELL FINE and stomping off in a huff to branch out from a perfectly reasonable agenda of killing Nazis what need killing into killing a bunch of people who are...you know, NOT Nazis, just because your boyfriend said you shouldn’t and you hate his dumb FACE now, instead of just saying, okay, honey, maybe we can talk about it after we get you to a hospital because oh my god you’re bleeding out in my arms, all I’m saying is no important relationship decisions should be made under these circumstances.
On the one hand, maybe Erik Lenscherr should take a weekend off and re-evaluate his priorities, BUT WAIT, THAT WOULD BE TOTALLY STUPID, BECAUSE HIS PRIORITIES ARE PERFECTION:
1. Killing Nazis
2. Smiling rakishly
3. Wearing linen, leather, and a succession of turtlenecks delicately shaded ever closer towards purple.
4. Being kind of a sucker for a pretty face.
BUT ANYHOW, could that movie have twisted the knife of SERIOUSLY AWFUL OOOOPS-OH-FUUUUCK TRAGEDY a little harder? I mean, only if there had been a scene after the credits where a doctor had said,
"Yes, if someone hadn’t pulled the bullet out of you, but had instead just left it there, you would be walking out of here. But since SOMEONE DID: paralyzed for life. Is there maybe someone I should send a telegram to let him know it’s all his fault and everything he touches turns to dust and shame?"
In conclusion, please remove these paragraphs from my hands so they aren’t sitting in my mind distracting me from all the things I need to get done.
FOR SOME IMPORTANT REASON, Charles and Erik, post-movie, must meet. In order to do. something. or plan. while still appearing to be TERRIBLE ENEMIES (also for a good reason.) Whatever, you make it up, I can’t figure out why:
"They know I’m here--your associates," Charles says. "I thought--there has to be a better way to do this, I can’t just--"
"Don’t worry about that," Erik says. There had been a glass of water on the table next to him when he’d woken up from the drugs. Erik had come in shortly after with a bowl of soup and a sandwich.
"It’s not what you’re--used to," he’d said, swallowing down the end of the sentence as though he regretted saying it. It wasn’t, in fact, what Charles had grown used to, the sprawling vegetable garden they’d dug up a few of the tennis courts to plant, the hot dinner rolls they baked in the kitchen, the goats and chickens the children took care of, fresh eggs, soft cheese. The soup was thin and too salty--from a can, then. The sandwich was dry and tasted of nothing; too-soft bread and limp ham. Charles ate; the drugs had made him very hungry. Erik had always been narrow, sharp, but he looked a little gaunt around the edges now, cheeks almost hollow beneath the helmet.
"You can’t suppose your--friends will like that we meet like this," Charles says, watching Erik’s face tighten in annoyance. It’s done; he knows he should drop it before he breaks the fragile accord they’ve managed, but it’s so unlike Erik to be careless that he circles back around to it anyway.
"It won’t be a problem," Erik says.
"I fail to see how that can be the case," Charles says and Erik’s mouth contracts in a mirthless grin.
"They think we’re up here fucking," he says.
"I--what?" Charles says faintly. "They think we--that I would--"
Erik’s mouth goes flat. "They think," he amends, "that I’m up here raping you."
"But," Charles says. He’s not any good at reading people from just their facial expressions, without the gentle, superficial press of their emotions sliding against him; Erik’s eyes are dull, his hands loose on his knees where he’s sitting on the bed, the only other furniture in the room except for the bedside table. "I’m in a wheelchair," Charles finally says, almost automatically, and Erik’s eyes flash up to his, startled.
"What does that have to do with anything?" he says.
"Nothing, I--nothing," Charles says. There was a blanket across his knees when he woke up, rough, heavy wool, but warm. He puts his hands on it now, looks at them so he doesn’t have to look at Erik’s face. He’d planned for this, for all the things he was going to say, and now he’s tongue-tied, blank, stumbling.
"You think I couldn’t figure it out?" Erik mutters.
"It--I, um, I’m sure you could," Charles says, awkwardly, thinking that when his mother ground etiquette rules into him through a series of tutors and stilted dinnertable conversations that she probably hadn’t quite had this in mind. He hasn’t--with anyone, not since. There was a cheerful pamphlet about sexual function tucked into the back of the materials they sent home with him from the hospital; his physical therapist gave him a book, smiling encouragingly, saying he knew Charles might prefer a more research-based text, that he’d heard Charles was quite a ladies’ man. Charles smiled and thanked him and took it, tucked it into the bottom of his desk drawer where he wouldn’t have to look at the binding. He doesn’t think about it; he’s been very busy.
"Let’s just get it over with," Erik says, finally, and drags his helmet off over his head. Charles feels himself go still with shock for a minute before he catches up.
"Right," he says. Erik frowns at him, suspicious, but says nothing. His hair is cut short, mashed flat from the helmet. The tips of his ears are very red.
I mean, not as catastrophic as deciding to dump someone on his ass while emotions are running high/you have a bullet in your spine and are maybe not exhibiting the most awesome and even-handed judgement and maaaaaybe he has a point about killing psychotic Nazis who want to blow up the world, JUST SAYIN’.
Similarly, not quite as catastrophic as getting your feelings hurt about being rejected by someone who is obviously not thinking very clearly and saying WELL FINE and stomping off in a huff to branch out from a perfectly reasonable agenda of killing Nazis what need killing into killing a bunch of people who are...you know, NOT Nazis, just because your boyfriend said you shouldn’t and you hate his dumb FACE now, instead of just saying, okay, honey, maybe we can talk about it after we get you to a hospital because oh my god you’re bleeding out in my arms, all I’m saying is no important relationship decisions should be made under these circumstances.
On the one hand, maybe Erik Lenscherr should take a weekend off and re-evaluate his priorities, BUT WAIT, THAT WOULD BE TOTALLY STUPID, BECAUSE HIS PRIORITIES ARE PERFECTION:
1. Killing Nazis
2. Smiling rakishly
3. Wearing linen, leather, and a succession of turtlenecks delicately shaded ever closer towards purple.
4. Being kind of a sucker for a pretty face.
BUT ANYHOW, could that movie have twisted the knife of SERIOUSLY AWFUL OOOOPS-OH-FUUUUCK TRAGEDY a little harder? I mean, only if there had been a scene after the credits where a doctor had said,
"Yes, if someone hadn’t pulled the bullet out of you, but had instead just left it there, you would be walking out of here. But since SOMEONE DID: paralyzed for life. Is there maybe someone I should send a telegram to let him know it’s all his fault and everything he touches turns to dust and shame?"
In conclusion, please remove these paragraphs from my hands so they aren’t sitting in my mind distracting me from all the things I need to get done.
FOR SOME IMPORTANT REASON, Charles and Erik, post-movie, must meet. In order to do. something. or plan. while still appearing to be TERRIBLE ENEMIES (also for a good reason.) Whatever, you make it up, I can’t figure out why:
"They know I’m here--your associates," Charles says. "I thought--there has to be a better way to do this, I can’t just--"
"Don’t worry about that," Erik says. There had been a glass of water on the table next to him when he’d woken up from the drugs. Erik had come in shortly after with a bowl of soup and a sandwich.
"It’s not what you’re--used to," he’d said, swallowing down the end of the sentence as though he regretted saying it. It wasn’t, in fact, what Charles had grown used to, the sprawling vegetable garden they’d dug up a few of the tennis courts to plant, the hot dinner rolls they baked in the kitchen, the goats and chickens the children took care of, fresh eggs, soft cheese. The soup was thin and too salty--from a can, then. The sandwich was dry and tasted of nothing; too-soft bread and limp ham. Charles ate; the drugs had made him very hungry. Erik had always been narrow, sharp, but he looked a little gaunt around the edges now, cheeks almost hollow beneath the helmet.
"You can’t suppose your--friends will like that we meet like this," Charles says, watching Erik’s face tighten in annoyance. It’s done; he knows he should drop it before he breaks the fragile accord they’ve managed, but it’s so unlike Erik to be careless that he circles back around to it anyway.
"It won’t be a problem," Erik says.
"I fail to see how that can be the case," Charles says and Erik’s mouth contracts in a mirthless grin.
"They think we’re up here fucking," he says.
"I--what?" Charles says faintly. "They think we--that I would--"
Erik’s mouth goes flat. "They think," he amends, "that I’m up here raping you."
"But," Charles says. He’s not any good at reading people from just their facial expressions, without the gentle, superficial press of their emotions sliding against him; Erik’s eyes are dull, his hands loose on his knees where he’s sitting on the bed, the only other furniture in the room except for the bedside table. "I’m in a wheelchair," Charles finally says, almost automatically, and Erik’s eyes flash up to his, startled.
"What does that have to do with anything?" he says.
"Nothing, I--nothing," Charles says. There was a blanket across his knees when he woke up, rough, heavy wool, but warm. He puts his hands on it now, looks at them so he doesn’t have to look at Erik’s face. He’d planned for this, for all the things he was going to say, and now he’s tongue-tied, blank, stumbling.
"You think I couldn’t figure it out?" Erik mutters.
"It--I, um, I’m sure you could," Charles says, awkwardly, thinking that when his mother ground etiquette rules into him through a series of tutors and stilted dinnertable conversations that she probably hadn’t quite had this in mind. He hasn’t--with anyone, not since. There was a cheerful pamphlet about sexual function tucked into the back of the materials they sent home with him from the hospital; his physical therapist gave him a book, smiling encouragingly, saying he knew Charles might prefer a more research-based text, that he’d heard Charles was quite a ladies’ man. Charles smiled and thanked him and took it, tucked it into the bottom of his desk drawer where he wouldn’t have to look at the binding. He doesn’t think about it; he’s been very busy.
"Let’s just get it over with," Erik says, finally, and drags his helmet off over his head. Charles feels himself go still with shock for a minute before he catches up.
"Right," he says. Erik frowns at him, suspicious, but says nothing. His hair is cut short, mashed flat from the helmet. The tips of his ears are very red.