XMen First Class fic: The Bright and Darkened Lands (1/1)
Title: The Bright and Darkened Lands
Pairing: Erik/Charles (M/M)
Chapter: 1/1
Warnings: Male/male sex. Nazis. Murder without remorse. Spanking.
Rating: R (or NC-17, if male frontal nudity is offensive to you).
Summary: X-Men: First Class, AU / movie revision. Erik Lehnsherr tracks down Nazis to find Dr. Schmidt, whose assassination is his life's goal. Charles Xavier hunts Nazis because he can.
Author's Notes: Title is from September 1, 1939, by W. H. Auden: http://www.poemdujour.com/Sept1.1939.html
This story happened because I got too overwhelmed and upset about not being able to finish the sequel to Inevitable Things in time for Christmas -- the battle scene is hard, it's going to take actual thought -- and on the eve of Christmas Eve my damn muse got up and said "I'm sick of goody-two-shoes Charles! I'm sick of passive past-tense! I'm tired of angst without fucking! WRITE ME SOMETHING BETTER, BITCH!"
So, here is a little Christmas present for the kinks out there. Present-tense. No goody-two-shoes. Fan fiction style prose. Not quite PWP, but the closest I've come yet. It mollified my muse, so I'm happy, and I hope you like it, too.
Erik watches, silent and still, a secret, as the too-thin man with the nervous tic and the watery blue eyes collapses to the floor in a shaking mess, clutching at his chest. The younger man looks down dispassionately, waiting calmly for the shudders to subside. When it is over, when the death rattle has escaped and the room grown silent, the young man looks up straight at Erik in his hiding place. His lip curls up at the corner, but it's a bitter expression at best.
"Enjoy the show?" he asks, his accent singing of Britain and prestigious public schools.
Erik doesn't get the chance to speak. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, he is lying in his bed in a hotel in the village by the sea, and the hotel manager's youngest son is rifling through his duffel bag. The child doesn't have a speck of metal on him, of course; metal is for the rich people of the world, or the powerful people of the world, or the violent desperate masses, and emphatically not for poor children in run-down Italian ports.
He leaps out of bed and has the child pressed against the wall in a heartbeat; skinny arms and knobby knees and all, dark eyes too wide, and Erik is back in the camps again, only this time the looming threat of violence is him and it makes him sick. He snarls and the child is gone, needing no more provocation. The child's hands were empty, but the duffel bag is not full enough; a quick search of the room reveals the Nazi bar of gold, his tainted treasure and best clue so far, tucked underneath the mattress along with a note in a fine cursive script:
"The children in this establishment are accomplished footpads; best to keep your valuables close."
There is no signature.
Erik is left standing in his boxers and white undershirt, wondering if his luck has turned for the better or the worse.
It is a glorious sunny day in Geneva, and everything in Erik is shouting for joy as he enters the beer garden. One step closer, finally -- the bar of gold is in his briefcase, and now he has the name of a town that Klaus Schmidt claims as a current residence. Erik will go there and wait however long he needs to; but first, he wants several pints of beer to help him unwind the tightly coiled spring he has become. He has already checked out of his hotel, and will head to the airport soon with a pleasant buzz.
The entire beer garden is shouting too, it seems. Chanting "Trink! Trink! Trink!" (although there are some "Bois! Bois! Bois!" to be heard in the crowd as well), and all eyes are on a dark-haired man whose face is hidden by the tankard he holds to his mouth, his chin up and adam's apple bobbing, impossibly pale against the open collar of his white dress-shirt. Erik is stopped by a sudden sense of deja vu.
Cheers erupt all around as the man -- bright blue eyes and rose-colored lips spread in a wide grin -- stumbles proudly off the platform where the musicians are smiling and cheering him on. He slams the empty tankard down on the nearest table and lifts two pilsners off a passing waitress's tray with an easy "Ah, thank you, love" and saunters directly over to Erik. "You haven't left yet!" he shouts merrily over the din, and hands Erik a glass.
Erik takes it automatically, almost unaware of doing so. "The name's Xavier. Charles Xavier," the man introduces himself, looking slyly up at Erik. "And I feel I must apologize to you; a year ago, I inadvertently interfered with your most noble quest to avenge your mother's death, and I nearly did so again today, but fortunately, I got to him after you did. So," he nods to himself, satisfied. "it would seem a toast is in order." He raises his glass and cries "Bruderschaft!" then adds "Tchin-tchin," tapping his glass against Erik's. The beer is light and smooth, and Erik has already finished half of it when he lowers the glass. Charles' hands are on the sides of his face in the next moment, pulling him down slightly, and Charles' lips are pressed against his and Erik feels his tongue pressing insistently so he opens his mouth to Charles and even though his eyebrows are climbing higher than he has ever felt them climb before -- this must be shock that he feels -- he is filled with an overwhelming sense of rightness, as though something that had been out of order his entire life has been knocked into place.
"Hotel," he says thickly.
"I thought you'd never ask," Charles says, and adds, "Mine is very respectable, so you'll have to pretend you don't want to strip me naked and shag me in the lobby. Although, if you do, I can make sure no one notices." He purses his (rose-red, curved just so) lips for a moment. "Although I'm better at it when I'm sober. We should save that for another day."
They leave without paying, and no one stops them.
~ * ~
The hotel lobby is almost as grand as the bank's, and a far cry better than the place Erik had been staying. Charles strides in as if he owns the place (maybe he does) and smirks at Erik as he shoves him into the elevator and has his hands down his trousers moments after the door closes. "Top floor" he hears Charles' voice in his head, impossible otherwise, for Charles' mouth is already quite busy on Erik's cock, and Erik guides the elevator swiftly to the penthouse floor, locking the brakes and keeping the door closed while his hands tangle in Charles' hair. He comes with a ragged cry -- Erik does not have time for partners, he does not have time for other people, he has not come by anything save his own hands for over a year -- and Charles swallows and licks his (luscious) lips indecently and tips his head towards the suite at the end of the hall.
Erik reaches out with his power to open the door and swing it open, and the pretty young woman on the other side starts for a moment, then goes glassy-eyed and still. "Sorry, love, not tonight, not ever again," Charles tells her as he guides Erik past her, towards the giant bed in the room beyond. "Just look at him, my God, who could say no?" he breathes. The woman picks up her tiny purse and walks out. Erik bolts the door behind her, and then Charles is wrestling with him on the bed, tugging his trousers down (again) past his knees, and saying nonsense things all the while. Erik has never been ridden before, not like this, face down on the bed, and he is shocked to discover that it makes him feel boneless in the best of ways.
"Shit," Charles says when, spent, he collapses on Erik's back. "I drew blood." He waves his right hand in front of Erik's face, palm up, curling his fingers so Erik can see the bits of skin underneath his nails, the smears of red on the pads of his fingers. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Fuck," Erik answers, and twists underneath Charles, grabbing the smaller man's wrists without thinking and flipping them over, pinning him against the duvet and the down pillows and the fine French sheets. Charles' eyes go wide with awe.
Erik still feels boneless, somewhere, parts of him; but other parts are hard again, already, and yearning, and Charles is muscular and taut in all the right places, but just giving enough in others, and Erik nudges his legs apart. Charles says "Let me," and Erik says "No."
He can feel something pressing against his mind -- there is no other way to describe it -- and he presses his hand against Charles' pretty throat. It is meant as a warning, but Charles draws in a shaky breath and breathes out "yes, yes -- keep me distracted," and he keens and hitches one knee up to make it easier for Erik, as if Erik needed any guidance for this.
But he lets go of Charles' throat at some point, because he needs to keep his balance, and Charles is in his mind for the last of it, guiding him to the perfect angle, the perfect rhythm. He lets go at the last moment, and Erik has just enough awareness to pull out -- not too quickly -- and finishes off with rubbing their cocks together, hot and sweaty and filthy with pre-come and then come, and the milky white mess is all over Charles' belly, and he couldn't look happier.
"You surprise me," he says, holding Erik's face once again in his hands. "I knew you would."
Charles sits the next one out, literally. When Erik leaves the bar in Villa Gesell with his straw fedora on his head, two beers in his hands and the framed photograph of Schmidt on his boat tucked under his arm, he finds Charles waiting on the bench by the door outside, squinting up at him in the bright afternoon sun.
"You're rather vicious," he says, accepting the glass of Bitburger and taking a thoughtful drink. "But you have a flair for the dramatic that I quite envy."
"I can't just pick at their minds," Erik points out, standing. He's still too keyed up to sit again. "So I have to use blunter methods to get them to tell me what I want to know."
"Blunt" Charles pronounces the word distastefully, "is hardly the right word for it. You are sharp, my friend, and so is that dagger you have in your pocket. Or are you glad to see me?" He smiles, but Erik can tell something is wrong.
"They were Nazis, Charles. Up until the very end, they were Nazis, complete with free Persil coupons wrapped around their beloved tokens of the fatherland." He doesn't know why he has to defend his actions, and he's feeling cross about it, but maybe that's just because he'd rather Charles smile and lick his lips and suggest a quick roll in the hay.
"Oh, I know," Charles says darkly, and if it's possible on such a clear day, a cloud has crossed over the sun. "I couldn't help listening in, and--" he sighs, looks up at Erik tiredly, "they deserved so much worse. It was all I could do to stay out here, but I still feel bad about interfering before. And I wanted to watch you work." He smiles wryly. "And you are a wonder to behold."
The tension between Erik's shoulders starts to melt away when Charles reaches for his pocket and tugs on it insistently. He looks down fondly, and finally recognizes the expression -- "You're smug!" he says with a laugh, "What are you smug about?"
"I've been a very naughty boy, Mr. Lehnsherr; I've done all sorts of terrible things." Charles knocks back the rest of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand, then stands up so he is nearly touching Erik down the entire length of his body. Nearly, but not quite, so Erik can feel the fields building between them. When they do touch, there will be a spark of static electricity; Erik knows it, can feel where it wants to go, and can guide it according to his will. Charles trembles in anticipation; it's one of his favorite games. He will try to manipulate Erik into sending the spark where he wants, typically someplace sensitive, possibly humiliating; Erik will try to direct it elsewhere, and will have to wonder if his final choice is, in fact, exactly what Charles wants.
"Tell me what you've done, Charles." Erik keeps his voice level, grave. Charles gets whatever he wants from anyone; his favorite fantasy is therefore being at another's mercy. Erik has just killed three men, and is one step closer to finding Schmidt; he may not be in the mood to mete out discipline, but if that leads to a good solid fuck in the open air, he's more than willing to play along.
"I found their worst memories, and held them there as you killed them. I made their deaths as slow and painful as possible; I couldn't help myself, really. They were such bad men, the things they did, and they didn't have any remorse at all." Charles smiles, the schoolboy who knows his infraction will secretly please the headmaster. "I'm sorry, Erik. I know you didn't want me to help."
But the headmaster must uphold discipline, so Erik sighs and shakes his head. "You need to learn, liebling, that when you agree to wait outside, it means you do not torture the people inside just because your mutant powers allow you to. Unless you're asked. Did I ask you?"
"No," Charles says shyly. He is relishing this, of course. Erik lifts one finger, moves it as though to rest it against Charles' lower lip. Charles' eyes go wide, expecting the shock, thinking he's ready for it. Quicker than thought, Erik lets the fields snap into place; the spark follows a long, sinuous path, curving around Charles' body like a lover to his tailbone, and Charles' pelvis jerks forward with a yelp, pressing against Erik, who only smirks down at him.
"Awfully forward for someone who just apologized. You still haven't learned your place?" Erik's cock is roused, and he tilts his hips to give Charles a nudge. Charles misinterprets the gesture, licks his lips, places his hands on Erik's hips, slipping his fingers under the waistband pulled tight by Erik's belt.
"Nicht," Erik hisses. "Nicht anfassen." He takes hold of Charles' wrists and holds them together, at chest height, while he undoes Charles' belt buckle and fly with his own mutant power. Charles has taken to wearing belts with metal finishes at both ends, so Erik can literally tie them with his hands behind his back, if necessary. Now, he just delights Charles with his flair for the dramatic, guiding Charles' belt to glide around his forearms like a snake, biting its own tail after so many twists. Then, still holding Charles' wrists with one hand, he extends his other arm parallel to the ground, and his own belt snaps up into his hand, folded over to make a nice impromptu crop.
"If you will not refrain from acting like a spoilt child, I will have to give you the spanking your parents obviously failed to." Erik finds it hard to keep the excitement from his voice; this may not be his favorite role, but fair is fair, and Charles bent over his knees, naked and trembling, is hard to resist. The belt makes sharp lovely sounds each time it lands, nothing at all like the sound of the dagger sinking to the Nazi's hand, or the crack of the little German pistol; Charles' ass grows more pink with each strike, and his voice dips from conversational "ow" and "how many of these little spanks do you intend to give me, hmmn?" to deeper growls and gasps pulled from the back of his throat, and a higher timbre of actual pain mixing in with the lower notes of lust.
Fifteen lashes in, and Erik has to hold Charles down firmly at the base of the neck, his thumb under the back of the pressed collar, pinching to keep from gliding on the sweaty skin. He can feel the pressure building in the back of his head, and places the belt aside. "Now, now," he says huskily, and licks one finger, then two. He rests them against Charles' asshole, the anus, the rim, teasing. "Are you so anxious to be done with your punishment that you would force me to stop? Or are you purposefully arousing me?" He wants to laugh, but he can't, because he's so hard now, painfully hard, and Charles is right here at his hand, on his lap.
In his white shirt and gray slacks pushed down to his knees, his lips bright red from where he's been biting them, his sky-blue eyes shining and impossibly large. Erik gets lost in those eyes, wide dark pupils rimmed with sapphire, far too often. He dare not risk it now, so he abruptly pushes Charles off his lap, onto the dirt path at his feet. "Stay there," he orders, as he pulls his own clothes off in a hurry, leaving them lying loosely on the bench.
"I know what you're going to do," Charles says in a slow sing-song, and Erik places a foot on the small of his back, and pushes him (gently, carefully) to lie on the ground.
"Then you know you're going to like it," Erik answers. He lets Charles kick one pant leg off and wiggle one foot out from the confines of his boxers, but stops him before he can free the other. And then he's on him, pressing against him, sliding a slick finger into him, then two, nudging forward and down toward the belly button and Charles sighs happily. "Slut," Erik accuses, only it's not really an accusation; it's a statement of fact.
He's pounding into him rather hard when Charles starts laughing.
"What?" he gasps between thrusts.
"There's a car coming, a nice young couple, Argentinians of German descent. They don't see us, and they won't see us unless you distract me with your -- ngggh -- Oh please, that again," and Erik does. He's learned about Charles, he knows what he can do, so he's not too worried about it. Charles comes in a torrent of "Erik, Erik, God, Erik, Fuck!" tugging against the belt that still holds his wrists together, and Erik is pleased, because he knows Charles wasn't expecting him to use the other belt to reach where his hands couldn't, and apply pressure at the base of his cock in time with his thrusts. (Admittedly, Erik wasn't consciously timing anything; when things reach a certain point, everything just contracts and stretches with his movements.)
Feeling Charles come beneath him -- and the pressure in Erik's head pops as Charles slips in to share the incredible release, as holding back at that point is just as difficult for him, if not impossible -- sends him over the edge. The dagger on the bench and all the metal in the bar, even the dead mens' watches, shudder with him. They lie together for a moment, resting in the after-effects, smelling of sweat and German beer, summer grass and fine Argentinian dirt. Charles' cheek and chin are caked with it, and there's a fine layer of dust settling over the two of them when the car pulls up and the kids -- barely out of high school -- get out.
"Oh, look at that," Charles thinks out loud to Erik, who has rolled onto his side and is stroking the back of Charles' head, tucking an unruly damp lock behind his ear. "What an adorable couple. She's pregnant and hasn't told him yet, and he's been flirting with her sister. What should we do?"
The couple walk past the two men completely unaware, and disappear into the bar's dark interior. Erik props his chin up on one hand and waits for the screams. When they don't come, he raises an eyebrow questioningly at Charles, who just grins.
"Why give them a shock?" The couple come back out, holding hands and shaking their heads, obviously confused, but not speaking.
"We could use their car," Erik thinks back. "Let them walk."
The couple freeze in place. "Oh, what a capital idea," Charles says out loud. "You two, go walk to that nice meadow over there and do whatever you like, we'll put the car back where you left it when it ran out of gas." He shrugs at Erik. "I can't help it," he apologizes. "I like to give people a little motivation. It keeps the narrative tidy."
Erik gives Charles the look he knows means "You exasperate me with your anal-retentive habits, but I appreciate the side-effects," and Charles smiles, holding up his wrists, the forearms still bound together. "Please?" he asks politely. He is a complete mess, dirt rubbed into the front of his white shirt with no hope of ever getting cleaned again, fresh semen stains on the shirt tails where he'd rutted against the ground and, before that, Erik's lap. Erik raises one hand and makes a swirling gesture, a maestro bidding his chorus to dance, and Charles grins in appreciation as the belt buckle and tip do his bidding.
After the Caspartina escapes, Erik doesn't know what to do. He's furious at himself for having failed; Charles is angry, too, but that doesn't stop him from leaping into the water and keeping Erik from drowning himself.
They leave a trail of saltwater down the stairs to their stateroom belowdecks, tucked near the engine room. They could have taken one of the ship's scientist rooms on the upper deck, near the officer's rooms, but Charles had taken one look at Erik and said "No, something closer to the waterline would be better." The thrumming of the engines is already working its magic; so is Charles' cock in his mouth.
"Mmmm," Erik hums appreciatively, one hand gripping the side of Charles' hip, fingers tucked between the curve of his ass and the thin mattress with the scratchy wool blanket, the other pressing against his balls. His knees are bent on the steel floor, his arms pressed along Charles' thighs as much as possible, to hold him steady amid the ship's pitch and roll. He hasn't even taken his wetsuit off. He flattens his tongue and relaxes his throat, taking in the length of Charles. When he looks up, leaning back again, he sees Charles in a three-quarter profile, looking away to the middle distance, pensive.
He lets his teeth graze the lower edge of the penis glans; Charles looks down sharply with a hiss. "Alright, fine, fuck you," he growls, but Erik can see the smile creeping into the corners of his eyes and he's not fooled. True to his word, Charles places his hands on Erik, one at the base of his neck, the other at the back of his head, and proceeds to fuck his mouth. Erik takes it because he can; he wraps his arms around Charles' hips and lifts him up just a little, his core muscles taut and strong, never mind the new aches and pains he bears as souvenirs from their ill-planned assault on Schmidt's pleasure-boat-cum-nuclear-submarine. "You're mine and I'm not letting go," his body says, and his mind echoes, and Charles comes like an afterthought, hot and salty down the back of Erik's throat.
When next he opens his eyes, Erik is leaning against the wall (the bulkhead), his bare back pressed to the steel, his wetsuit rolled down to his knees. It's like this sometimes when they fuck. Erik has gotten used to the way time stutters forward, when Charles forgets himself and takes over, when he gets blindsided by a passion. Charles is trailing the edge of a fingernail along the bright red outline of a handprint on Erik's chest, worrying his lower lip as he does.
"She caught me by surprise," he muses. Too-bright eyes meet Erik's, and a wave of sorry-remorse-exhilaration washes forward, catching Erik up in it. "I didn't expect your Nazi-sympathizer to have lackeys, and certainly not such strong ones. I'm stronger," he adds, partly to himself. "I am stronger than she is by quite a fair margin, she just has some tricks I've never thought about before."
There's something in Charles' tone of voice that makes the pit of Erik's stomach clench and twist, but he doesn't know what it is. "We'll just need to get her alone, away from Schmidt," Erik says, grabbing Charles' biceps, squeezing to pull his attention back to here and now and him. "We can take her."
"Oh, I know we can," Charles says, smiling, and places the palm of one hand against Erik's cheek. The other rests over his heart, over the tell-tale handprint. "But we need lackeys of our own to get to Schmidt."
"The CIA--" Erik starts, thinking of all the men in their dark suits with their little guns and little minds.
"They're good for some things, certainly, but Schmidt's mutants can cut through them like butter. No, we need an army of our own kind." The look that Erik loves to see in Charles is back again, that mixture of delight at seeing the solution to a puzzle and arrogance from knowing he can make it happen. "When it was just the two of us--" Charles leans in, running his hands down Erik's sides, trails of warmth and friction in stark relief to the chill air, "the humans couldn't possibly stand in our way, because they had no idea that they ought to. But now the cat's out of the bag, and when the war comes--"
"Which it will," Erik says quietly, running his thumb along Charles' jaw, feeling the new stubble there, and tucking his fingers under his chin to angle his face up.
"Which it must," Charles continues, holding his gaze with such intensity that it seems the whole world around them stills and goes silent. "The ones to survive will be the ones on top. And that, my friend, will be us."
They catch her in the Russian military retreat, and she glitters like a diamond amongst the leftover opulence from the Tsars. Erik has her wrapped up tight in the twists and bends of the bed frame, and he goes too far with it. Charles is yelling at him to stop, but he is not forcing him to stop, and Erik takes that as a tacit approval. He lets go only when he hears the cracks at her throat form -- if you listen carefully, each newly formed edge chimes like a tiny bell when it scrapes across its mate, and really, it's a lovely sound -- and he storms off to the couch. He can't stand the way Charles' eyes linger on her curves.
"It's worse than we imagined," Charles says out loud, but he keeps whatever he sees in Emma Frost's mind to himself. Erik hates that, too.
The recruits are shaken when Charles and Erik return to the secret CIA base they have claimed for their own. The humans are all dead, and Schmidt has taken off with one of their own and killed another. Erik feels the coin in his pocket, pressed against his thigh, nestling against him; he is shaking with the desire to go after Schmidt right now, furious that he missed his chance, but Charles says "Erik, a word," and draws him aside.
"This isn't just about revenge, Erik," he warns. "This is a war. This is about deciding how the war will go, whether we are smart about it, or whether we are merely brutal. This is about how much of the world is left when we are done."
"They're just children," Erik mutters, indicating the recruits. "Revenge is something they can understand."
Charles turns to look at them, the three boys and one girl -- big feet, high voice, unrestrained energy and dragonfly wings -- and nods. Erik watches him, and the worry and jealousy he felt in Russia recedes. Charles is sensible. Charles will see them through.
They train hard every day, and Charles is on fire, slipping into their minds and filing away the rough edges, honing the pathways that enable them to reach their power more quickly and efficiently, to guide it more assuredly. Even Erik is a beneficiary, when Charles takes him to a place balanced precariously between unbridled rage at his mother's murder and the serenity that comes from accepting of the inevitability of death, and he can hear magnetic fields humming miles and miles away, and he can make them sing for him. The mass of an object no longer matters.
"This is where you are," Erik says as comprehension settles on him, after the euphoria fades. "This is where you are, every day, every moment."
Charles nods. "The edges are the most interesting places, my friend. There is so much possibility."
"How do you keep from going mad?" Erik asks, but it's a rhetorical question.
"I have a confession to make," Charles says ruefully, too late. "I let Emma go."
She's standing there now, off to Schmidt's -- Shaw's -- right, and just a bit behind. "Hello again, sugar," she says with a smirk. Charles winces in pain, his left hand shooting up to his temple. Erik knows he only has one chance, now, while she's busy tormenting Charles and Schmidt is distracted by the show -- the coin slips out his hand and into the air before him in a heartbeat.
And then he freezes in place.
"Tsk, Erik," Charles chides him. "Must you be so dramatic?"
He can still feel the coin, hovering dutifully in place before him, just out of reach, but he cannot bend the fields to propel it forward. Charles is in his mind, filling the empty places, and holding everything still.
"Charles, please," he thinks desperately. "Please don't do this."
"Well now, Sebastian. Miss Frost had rather a lot share with me about your vision for the new world, but I'm wondering whether we can come to an agreement regarding my place in it, and Erik's." He tilts his head toward Erik, still frozen.
"Revenge will not bring you peace, my friend," Charles whispers in his mind, but he gives no indication to Herr Doktor Schmidt that his attention is anywhere but riveted on the cursed man's next words.
"My little Erik is a bit of a loose cannon, but it looks as though you've mastered him quite well." Schmidt nods towards Charles, the helmet glinting in the strange light of the reactor room, and Charles acknowledges the compliment. "He's come such a long way from bending gates. And your little army of children has succeeded in subduing my two most powerful men. But think how much further we could go, together." Schmidt's voice drips with seduction, and Charles lips are parted, lapping up the honeyed words.
"Peace was never an option, Charles!" Erik is screaming in his mind, "You know that!"
"This is our time, our age," Charles says slowly, nodding in agreement. "We are the future of the human race."
"We should not be fighting amongst ourselves, that's what they want. You and I, together, leading an army of our kind, can bring this world to its knees." Schmidt smiles, sure of his victory. "Contra mundum, Charles?" he asks, and there is something of a taunt in his words.
Charles runs his tongue over his lower lip, his perpetual nervous habit, and opens his mouth to speak. But before the words come out, Emma plucks the helmet off Schmidt's head. Schmidt stands like a statue, his features frozen in a look of half-mockery, half-fear. Erik thinks it's a good look on him. Charles chuckles.
There is a flicker of blue and Emma turns into the yellow-eyed mutant girl, the turn-coat, the recruit who had betrayed them. She beams with pride at Charles, rolling the helmet lightly between her blue-scaled hands.
"I'd like you to know that I agree with every word you've said," Charles says, tilting his head to one side and regarding Schmidt thoughtfully. "It's just that I love Erik, and you killed his mother." He turns to look at Erik and steps aside, gently slipping out of his mind with a quiet "Thank you for being patient. I couldn't resist a little drama, myself."
"Here's what we're going to do." He continued. "My sister, Erik and I are going to count to three, and Erik's going to move the coin."
"One," they say in unison, and Erik glides the coin forward through the air. Raven steps close to her brother and takes his free hand in hers, lending him her strength as he holds Sebastian in place.
"Two." Erik's eyes are locked firmly on the coin, and Schmidt's -- Shaw's -- face comes slowly into focus as the coin nears its goal. To the side, he can see Charles' face, feral and wild and fierce, the expression mirrored in the blue girl's. It must run in the family.
"Three," they say, and the coin presses into Schmidt's forehead, cracking the skull. Charles screams, but he doesn't let go; Schmidt stands and takes it, still breathing in as Erik pushes the coin through his brain and out the back. The corpse falls with a final exhale.
When it is over, Erik rushes to Charles' side, for he, too, has fallen, just barely catching himself on hands and knees. He helps Charles up, afraid of what he might find, worried that the man he loves has been broken. But Charles takes a ragged gulp of air and looks up at him, relieved. "I wanted you to hear his last words," Charles says. "But he wasn't very articulate."
Erik kisses him full on the mouth, because that's just what you do when the person you love most in the world gives you the greatest gift imaginable.
Raven clears her throat when they break away. "Here," she says, handing the helmet to Charles. "Mission accomplished."
"So much trouble," Charles muses, "over such a small thing. But when I saw this in Emma's mind, when I realized what it represented, I knew the only way we could be safe is if we were the ones to control it. And now we are." Charles holds the helmet curiously, almost reverently, and then proffers it to Erik.
"What do you want me to do with this?" Erik asks, confused.
Charles smiles impishly, the smile Erik knows is just for him. "Surprise me."
~ fin ~
Pairing: Erik/Charles (M/M)
Chapter: 1/1
Warnings: Male/male sex. Nazis. Murder without remorse. Spanking.
Rating: R (or NC-17, if male frontal nudity is offensive to you).
Summary: X-Men: First Class, AU / movie revision. Erik Lehnsherr tracks down Nazis to find Dr. Schmidt, whose assassination is his life's goal. Charles Xavier hunts Nazis because he can.
Author's Notes: Title is from September 1, 1939, by W. H. Auden: http://www.poemdujour.com/Sept1.1939.html
This story happened because I got too overwhelmed and upset about not being able to finish the sequel to Inevitable Things in time for Christmas -- the battle scene is hard, it's going to take actual thought -- and on the eve of Christmas Eve my damn muse got up and said "I'm sick of goody-two-shoes Charles! I'm sick of passive past-tense! I'm tired of angst without fucking! WRITE ME SOMETHING BETTER, BITCH!"
So, here is a little Christmas present for the kinks out there. Present-tense. No goody-two-shoes. Fan fiction style prose. Not quite PWP, but the closest I've come yet. It mollified my muse, so I'm happy, and I hope you like it, too.
Erik watches, silent and still, a secret, as the too-thin man with the nervous tic and the watery blue eyes collapses to the floor in a shaking mess, clutching at his chest. The younger man looks down dispassionately, waiting calmly for the shudders to subside. When it is over, when the death rattle has escaped and the room grown silent, the young man looks up straight at Erik in his hiding place. His lip curls up at the corner, but it's a bitter expression at best.
"Enjoy the show?" he asks, his accent singing of Britain and prestigious public schools.
Erik doesn't get the chance to speak. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, he is lying in his bed in a hotel in the village by the sea, and the hotel manager's youngest son is rifling through his duffel bag. The child doesn't have a speck of metal on him, of course; metal is for the rich people of the world, or the powerful people of the world, or the violent desperate masses, and emphatically not for poor children in run-down Italian ports.
He leaps out of bed and has the child pressed against the wall in a heartbeat; skinny arms and knobby knees and all, dark eyes too wide, and Erik is back in the camps again, only this time the looming threat of violence is him and it makes him sick. He snarls and the child is gone, needing no more provocation. The child's hands were empty, but the duffel bag is not full enough; a quick search of the room reveals the Nazi bar of gold, his tainted treasure and best clue so far, tucked underneath the mattress along with a note in a fine cursive script:
"The children in this establishment are accomplished footpads; best to keep your valuables close."
There is no signature.
Erik is left standing in his boxers and white undershirt, wondering if his luck has turned for the better or the worse.
It is a glorious sunny day in Geneva, and everything in Erik is shouting for joy as he enters the beer garden. One step closer, finally -- the bar of gold is in his briefcase, and now he has the name of a town that Klaus Schmidt claims as a current residence. Erik will go there and wait however long he needs to; but first, he wants several pints of beer to help him unwind the tightly coiled spring he has become. He has already checked out of his hotel, and will head to the airport soon with a pleasant buzz.
The entire beer garden is shouting too, it seems. Chanting "Trink! Trink! Trink!" (although there are some "Bois! Bois! Bois!" to be heard in the crowd as well), and all eyes are on a dark-haired man whose face is hidden by the tankard he holds to his mouth, his chin up and adam's apple bobbing, impossibly pale against the open collar of his white dress-shirt. Erik is stopped by a sudden sense of deja vu.
Cheers erupt all around as the man -- bright blue eyes and rose-colored lips spread in a wide grin -- stumbles proudly off the platform where the musicians are smiling and cheering him on. He slams the empty tankard down on the nearest table and lifts two pilsners off a passing waitress's tray with an easy "Ah, thank you, love" and saunters directly over to Erik. "You haven't left yet!" he shouts merrily over the din, and hands Erik a glass.
Erik takes it automatically, almost unaware of doing so. "The name's Xavier. Charles Xavier," the man introduces himself, looking slyly up at Erik. "And I feel I must apologize to you; a year ago, I inadvertently interfered with your most noble quest to avenge your mother's death, and I nearly did so again today, but fortunately, I got to him after you did. So," he nods to himself, satisfied. "it would seem a toast is in order." He raises his glass and cries "Bruderschaft!" then adds "Tchin-tchin," tapping his glass against Erik's. The beer is light and smooth, and Erik has already finished half of it when he lowers the glass. Charles' hands are on the sides of his face in the next moment, pulling him down slightly, and Charles' lips are pressed against his and Erik feels his tongue pressing insistently so he opens his mouth to Charles and even though his eyebrows are climbing higher than he has ever felt them climb before -- this must be shock that he feels -- he is filled with an overwhelming sense of rightness, as though something that had been out of order his entire life has been knocked into place.
"Hotel," he says thickly.
"I thought you'd never ask," Charles says, and adds, "Mine is very respectable, so you'll have to pretend you don't want to strip me naked and shag me in the lobby. Although, if you do, I can make sure no one notices." He purses his (rose-red, curved just so) lips for a moment. "Although I'm better at it when I'm sober. We should save that for another day."
They leave without paying, and no one stops them.
~ * ~
The hotel lobby is almost as grand as the bank's, and a far cry better than the place Erik had been staying. Charles strides in as if he owns the place (maybe he does) and smirks at Erik as he shoves him into the elevator and has his hands down his trousers moments after the door closes. "Top floor" he hears Charles' voice in his head, impossible otherwise, for Charles' mouth is already quite busy on Erik's cock, and Erik guides the elevator swiftly to the penthouse floor, locking the brakes and keeping the door closed while his hands tangle in Charles' hair. He comes with a ragged cry -- Erik does not have time for partners, he does not have time for other people, he has not come by anything save his own hands for over a year -- and Charles swallows and licks his (luscious) lips indecently and tips his head towards the suite at the end of the hall.
Erik reaches out with his power to open the door and swing it open, and the pretty young woman on the other side starts for a moment, then goes glassy-eyed and still. "Sorry, love, not tonight, not ever again," Charles tells her as he guides Erik past her, towards the giant bed in the room beyond. "Just look at him, my God, who could say no?" he breathes. The woman picks up her tiny purse and walks out. Erik bolts the door behind her, and then Charles is wrestling with him on the bed, tugging his trousers down (again) past his knees, and saying nonsense things all the while. Erik has never been ridden before, not like this, face down on the bed, and he is shocked to discover that it makes him feel boneless in the best of ways.
"Shit," Charles says when, spent, he collapses on Erik's back. "I drew blood." He waves his right hand in front of Erik's face, palm up, curling his fingers so Erik can see the bits of skin underneath his nails, the smears of red on the pads of his fingers. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Fuck," Erik answers, and twists underneath Charles, grabbing the smaller man's wrists without thinking and flipping them over, pinning him against the duvet and the down pillows and the fine French sheets. Charles' eyes go wide with awe.
Erik still feels boneless, somewhere, parts of him; but other parts are hard again, already, and yearning, and Charles is muscular and taut in all the right places, but just giving enough in others, and Erik nudges his legs apart. Charles says "Let me," and Erik says "No."
He can feel something pressing against his mind -- there is no other way to describe it -- and he presses his hand against Charles' pretty throat. It is meant as a warning, but Charles draws in a shaky breath and breathes out "yes, yes -- keep me distracted," and he keens and hitches one knee up to make it easier for Erik, as if Erik needed any guidance for this.
But he lets go of Charles' throat at some point, because he needs to keep his balance, and Charles is in his mind for the last of it, guiding him to the perfect angle, the perfect rhythm. He lets go at the last moment, and Erik has just enough awareness to pull out -- not too quickly -- and finishes off with rubbing their cocks together, hot and sweaty and filthy with pre-come and then come, and the milky white mess is all over Charles' belly, and he couldn't look happier.
"You surprise me," he says, holding Erik's face once again in his hands. "I knew you would."
Charles sits the next one out, literally. When Erik leaves the bar in Villa Gesell with his straw fedora on his head, two beers in his hands and the framed photograph of Schmidt on his boat tucked under his arm, he finds Charles waiting on the bench by the door outside, squinting up at him in the bright afternoon sun.
"You're rather vicious," he says, accepting the glass of Bitburger and taking a thoughtful drink. "But you have a flair for the dramatic that I quite envy."
"I can't just pick at their minds," Erik points out, standing. He's still too keyed up to sit again. "So I have to use blunter methods to get them to tell me what I want to know."
"Blunt" Charles pronounces the word distastefully, "is hardly the right word for it. You are sharp, my friend, and so is that dagger you have in your pocket. Or are you glad to see me?" He smiles, but Erik can tell something is wrong.
"They were Nazis, Charles. Up until the very end, they were Nazis, complete with free Persil coupons wrapped around their beloved tokens of the fatherland." He doesn't know why he has to defend his actions, and he's feeling cross about it, but maybe that's just because he'd rather Charles smile and lick his lips and suggest a quick roll in the hay.
"Oh, I know," Charles says darkly, and if it's possible on such a clear day, a cloud has crossed over the sun. "I couldn't help listening in, and--" he sighs, looks up at Erik tiredly, "they deserved so much worse. It was all I could do to stay out here, but I still feel bad about interfering before. And I wanted to watch you work." He smiles wryly. "And you are a wonder to behold."
The tension between Erik's shoulders starts to melt away when Charles reaches for his pocket and tugs on it insistently. He looks down fondly, and finally recognizes the expression -- "You're smug!" he says with a laugh, "What are you smug about?"
"I've been a very naughty boy, Mr. Lehnsherr; I've done all sorts of terrible things." Charles knocks back the rest of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand, then stands up so he is nearly touching Erik down the entire length of his body. Nearly, but not quite, so Erik can feel the fields building between them. When they do touch, there will be a spark of static electricity; Erik knows it, can feel where it wants to go, and can guide it according to his will. Charles trembles in anticipation; it's one of his favorite games. He will try to manipulate Erik into sending the spark where he wants, typically someplace sensitive, possibly humiliating; Erik will try to direct it elsewhere, and will have to wonder if his final choice is, in fact, exactly what Charles wants.
"Tell me what you've done, Charles." Erik keeps his voice level, grave. Charles gets whatever he wants from anyone; his favorite fantasy is therefore being at another's mercy. Erik has just killed three men, and is one step closer to finding Schmidt; he may not be in the mood to mete out discipline, but if that leads to a good solid fuck in the open air, he's more than willing to play along.
"I found their worst memories, and held them there as you killed them. I made their deaths as slow and painful as possible; I couldn't help myself, really. They were such bad men, the things they did, and they didn't have any remorse at all." Charles smiles, the schoolboy who knows his infraction will secretly please the headmaster. "I'm sorry, Erik. I know you didn't want me to help."
But the headmaster must uphold discipline, so Erik sighs and shakes his head. "You need to learn, liebling, that when you agree to wait outside, it means you do not torture the people inside just because your mutant powers allow you to. Unless you're asked. Did I ask you?"
"No," Charles says shyly. He is relishing this, of course. Erik lifts one finger, moves it as though to rest it against Charles' lower lip. Charles' eyes go wide, expecting the shock, thinking he's ready for it. Quicker than thought, Erik lets the fields snap into place; the spark follows a long, sinuous path, curving around Charles' body like a lover to his tailbone, and Charles' pelvis jerks forward with a yelp, pressing against Erik, who only smirks down at him.
"Awfully forward for someone who just apologized. You still haven't learned your place?" Erik's cock is roused, and he tilts his hips to give Charles a nudge. Charles misinterprets the gesture, licks his lips, places his hands on Erik's hips, slipping his fingers under the waistband pulled tight by Erik's belt.
"Nicht," Erik hisses. "Nicht anfassen." He takes hold of Charles' wrists and holds them together, at chest height, while he undoes Charles' belt buckle and fly with his own mutant power. Charles has taken to wearing belts with metal finishes at both ends, so Erik can literally tie them with his hands behind his back, if necessary. Now, he just delights Charles with his flair for the dramatic, guiding Charles' belt to glide around his forearms like a snake, biting its own tail after so many twists. Then, still holding Charles' wrists with one hand, he extends his other arm parallel to the ground, and his own belt snaps up into his hand, folded over to make a nice impromptu crop.
"If you will not refrain from acting like a spoilt child, I will have to give you the spanking your parents obviously failed to." Erik finds it hard to keep the excitement from his voice; this may not be his favorite role, but fair is fair, and Charles bent over his knees, naked and trembling, is hard to resist. The belt makes sharp lovely sounds each time it lands, nothing at all like the sound of the dagger sinking to the Nazi's hand, or the crack of the little German pistol; Charles' ass grows more pink with each strike, and his voice dips from conversational "ow" and "how many of these little spanks do you intend to give me, hmmn?" to deeper growls and gasps pulled from the back of his throat, and a higher timbre of actual pain mixing in with the lower notes of lust.
Fifteen lashes in, and Erik has to hold Charles down firmly at the base of the neck, his thumb under the back of the pressed collar, pinching to keep from gliding on the sweaty skin. He can feel the pressure building in the back of his head, and places the belt aside. "Now, now," he says huskily, and licks one finger, then two. He rests them against Charles' asshole, the anus, the rim, teasing. "Are you so anxious to be done with your punishment that you would force me to stop? Or are you purposefully arousing me?" He wants to laugh, but he can't, because he's so hard now, painfully hard, and Charles is right here at his hand, on his lap.
In his white shirt and gray slacks pushed down to his knees, his lips bright red from where he's been biting them, his sky-blue eyes shining and impossibly large. Erik gets lost in those eyes, wide dark pupils rimmed with sapphire, far too often. He dare not risk it now, so he abruptly pushes Charles off his lap, onto the dirt path at his feet. "Stay there," he orders, as he pulls his own clothes off in a hurry, leaving them lying loosely on the bench.
"I know what you're going to do," Charles says in a slow sing-song, and Erik places a foot on the small of his back, and pushes him (gently, carefully) to lie on the ground.
"Then you know you're going to like it," Erik answers. He lets Charles kick one pant leg off and wiggle one foot out from the confines of his boxers, but stops him before he can free the other. And then he's on him, pressing against him, sliding a slick finger into him, then two, nudging forward and down toward the belly button and Charles sighs happily. "Slut," Erik accuses, only it's not really an accusation; it's a statement of fact.
He's pounding into him rather hard when Charles starts laughing.
"What?" he gasps between thrusts.
"There's a car coming, a nice young couple, Argentinians of German descent. They don't see us, and they won't see us unless you distract me with your -- ngggh -- Oh please, that again," and Erik does. He's learned about Charles, he knows what he can do, so he's not too worried about it. Charles comes in a torrent of "Erik, Erik, God, Erik, Fuck!" tugging against the belt that still holds his wrists together, and Erik is pleased, because he knows Charles wasn't expecting him to use the other belt to reach where his hands couldn't, and apply pressure at the base of his cock in time with his thrusts. (Admittedly, Erik wasn't consciously timing anything; when things reach a certain point, everything just contracts and stretches with his movements.)
Feeling Charles come beneath him -- and the pressure in Erik's head pops as Charles slips in to share the incredible release, as holding back at that point is just as difficult for him, if not impossible -- sends him over the edge. The dagger on the bench and all the metal in the bar, even the dead mens' watches, shudder with him. They lie together for a moment, resting in the after-effects, smelling of sweat and German beer, summer grass and fine Argentinian dirt. Charles' cheek and chin are caked with it, and there's a fine layer of dust settling over the two of them when the car pulls up and the kids -- barely out of high school -- get out.
"Oh, look at that," Charles thinks out loud to Erik, who has rolled onto his side and is stroking the back of Charles' head, tucking an unruly damp lock behind his ear. "What an adorable couple. She's pregnant and hasn't told him yet, and he's been flirting with her sister. What should we do?"
The couple walk past the two men completely unaware, and disappear into the bar's dark interior. Erik props his chin up on one hand and waits for the screams. When they don't come, he raises an eyebrow questioningly at Charles, who just grins.
"Why give them a shock?" The couple come back out, holding hands and shaking their heads, obviously confused, but not speaking.
"We could use their car," Erik thinks back. "Let them walk."
The couple freeze in place. "Oh, what a capital idea," Charles says out loud. "You two, go walk to that nice meadow over there and do whatever you like, we'll put the car back where you left it when it ran out of gas." He shrugs at Erik. "I can't help it," he apologizes. "I like to give people a little motivation. It keeps the narrative tidy."
Erik gives Charles the look he knows means "You exasperate me with your anal-retentive habits, but I appreciate the side-effects," and Charles smiles, holding up his wrists, the forearms still bound together. "Please?" he asks politely. He is a complete mess, dirt rubbed into the front of his white shirt with no hope of ever getting cleaned again, fresh semen stains on the shirt tails where he'd rutted against the ground and, before that, Erik's lap. Erik raises one hand and makes a swirling gesture, a maestro bidding his chorus to dance, and Charles grins in appreciation as the belt buckle and tip do his bidding.
After the Caspartina escapes, Erik doesn't know what to do. He's furious at himself for having failed; Charles is angry, too, but that doesn't stop him from leaping into the water and keeping Erik from drowning himself.
They leave a trail of saltwater down the stairs to their stateroom belowdecks, tucked near the engine room. They could have taken one of the ship's scientist rooms on the upper deck, near the officer's rooms, but Charles had taken one look at Erik and said "No, something closer to the waterline would be better." The thrumming of the engines is already working its magic; so is Charles' cock in his mouth.
"Mmmm," Erik hums appreciatively, one hand gripping the side of Charles' hip, fingers tucked between the curve of his ass and the thin mattress with the scratchy wool blanket, the other pressing against his balls. His knees are bent on the steel floor, his arms pressed along Charles' thighs as much as possible, to hold him steady amid the ship's pitch and roll. He hasn't even taken his wetsuit off. He flattens his tongue and relaxes his throat, taking in the length of Charles. When he looks up, leaning back again, he sees Charles in a three-quarter profile, looking away to the middle distance, pensive.
He lets his teeth graze the lower edge of the penis glans; Charles looks down sharply with a hiss. "Alright, fine, fuck you," he growls, but Erik can see the smile creeping into the corners of his eyes and he's not fooled. True to his word, Charles places his hands on Erik, one at the base of his neck, the other at the back of his head, and proceeds to fuck his mouth. Erik takes it because he can; he wraps his arms around Charles' hips and lifts him up just a little, his core muscles taut and strong, never mind the new aches and pains he bears as souvenirs from their ill-planned assault on Schmidt's pleasure-boat-cum-nuclear-submarine. "You're mine and I'm not letting go," his body says, and his mind echoes, and Charles comes like an afterthought, hot and salty down the back of Erik's throat.
When next he opens his eyes, Erik is leaning against the wall (the bulkhead), his bare back pressed to the steel, his wetsuit rolled down to his knees. It's like this sometimes when they fuck. Erik has gotten used to the way time stutters forward, when Charles forgets himself and takes over, when he gets blindsided by a passion. Charles is trailing the edge of a fingernail along the bright red outline of a handprint on Erik's chest, worrying his lower lip as he does.
"She caught me by surprise," he muses. Too-bright eyes meet Erik's, and a wave of sorry-remorse-exhilaration washes forward, catching Erik up in it. "I didn't expect your Nazi-sympathizer to have lackeys, and certainly not such strong ones. I'm stronger," he adds, partly to himself. "I am stronger than she is by quite a fair margin, she just has some tricks I've never thought about before."
There's something in Charles' tone of voice that makes the pit of Erik's stomach clench and twist, but he doesn't know what it is. "We'll just need to get her alone, away from Schmidt," Erik says, grabbing Charles' biceps, squeezing to pull his attention back to here and now and him. "We can take her."
"Oh, I know we can," Charles says, smiling, and places the palm of one hand against Erik's cheek. The other rests over his heart, over the tell-tale handprint. "But we need lackeys of our own to get to Schmidt."
"The CIA--" Erik starts, thinking of all the men in their dark suits with their little guns and little minds.
"They're good for some things, certainly, but Schmidt's mutants can cut through them like butter. No, we need an army of our own kind." The look that Erik loves to see in Charles is back again, that mixture of delight at seeing the solution to a puzzle and arrogance from knowing he can make it happen. "When it was just the two of us--" Charles leans in, running his hands down Erik's sides, trails of warmth and friction in stark relief to the chill air, "the humans couldn't possibly stand in our way, because they had no idea that they ought to. But now the cat's out of the bag, and when the war comes--"
"Which it will," Erik says quietly, running his thumb along Charles' jaw, feeling the new stubble there, and tucking his fingers under his chin to angle his face up.
"Which it must," Charles continues, holding his gaze with such intensity that it seems the whole world around them stills and goes silent. "The ones to survive will be the ones on top. And that, my friend, will be us."
They catch her in the Russian military retreat, and she glitters like a diamond amongst the leftover opulence from the Tsars. Erik has her wrapped up tight in the twists and bends of the bed frame, and he goes too far with it. Charles is yelling at him to stop, but he is not forcing him to stop, and Erik takes that as a tacit approval. He lets go only when he hears the cracks at her throat form -- if you listen carefully, each newly formed edge chimes like a tiny bell when it scrapes across its mate, and really, it's a lovely sound -- and he storms off to the couch. He can't stand the way Charles' eyes linger on her curves.
"It's worse than we imagined," Charles says out loud, but he keeps whatever he sees in Emma Frost's mind to himself. Erik hates that, too.
The recruits are shaken when Charles and Erik return to the secret CIA base they have claimed for their own. The humans are all dead, and Schmidt has taken off with one of their own and killed another. Erik feels the coin in his pocket, pressed against his thigh, nestling against him; he is shaking with the desire to go after Schmidt right now, furious that he missed his chance, but Charles says "Erik, a word," and draws him aside.
"This isn't just about revenge, Erik," he warns. "This is a war. This is about deciding how the war will go, whether we are smart about it, or whether we are merely brutal. This is about how much of the world is left when we are done."
"They're just children," Erik mutters, indicating the recruits. "Revenge is something they can understand."
Charles turns to look at them, the three boys and one girl -- big feet, high voice, unrestrained energy and dragonfly wings -- and nods. Erik watches him, and the worry and jealousy he felt in Russia recedes. Charles is sensible. Charles will see them through.
They train hard every day, and Charles is on fire, slipping into their minds and filing away the rough edges, honing the pathways that enable them to reach their power more quickly and efficiently, to guide it more assuredly. Even Erik is a beneficiary, when Charles takes him to a place balanced precariously between unbridled rage at his mother's murder and the serenity that comes from accepting of the inevitability of death, and he can hear magnetic fields humming miles and miles away, and he can make them sing for him. The mass of an object no longer matters.
"This is where you are," Erik says as comprehension settles on him, after the euphoria fades. "This is where you are, every day, every moment."
Charles nods. "The edges are the most interesting places, my friend. There is so much possibility."
"How do you keep from going mad?" Erik asks, but it's a rhetorical question.
"I have a confession to make," Charles says ruefully, too late. "I let Emma go."
She's standing there now, off to Schmidt's -- Shaw's -- right, and just a bit behind. "Hello again, sugar," she says with a smirk. Charles winces in pain, his left hand shooting up to his temple. Erik knows he only has one chance, now, while she's busy tormenting Charles and Schmidt is distracted by the show -- the coin slips out his hand and into the air before him in a heartbeat.
And then he freezes in place.
"Tsk, Erik," Charles chides him. "Must you be so dramatic?"
He can still feel the coin, hovering dutifully in place before him, just out of reach, but he cannot bend the fields to propel it forward. Charles is in his mind, filling the empty places, and holding everything still.
"Charles, please," he thinks desperately. "Please don't do this."
"Well now, Sebastian. Miss Frost had rather a lot share with me about your vision for the new world, but I'm wondering whether we can come to an agreement regarding my place in it, and Erik's." He tilts his head toward Erik, still frozen.
"Revenge will not bring you peace, my friend," Charles whispers in his mind, but he gives no indication to Herr Doktor Schmidt that his attention is anywhere but riveted on the cursed man's next words.
"My little Erik is a bit of a loose cannon, but it looks as though you've mastered him quite well." Schmidt nods towards Charles, the helmet glinting in the strange light of the reactor room, and Charles acknowledges the compliment. "He's come such a long way from bending gates. And your little army of children has succeeded in subduing my two most powerful men. But think how much further we could go, together." Schmidt's voice drips with seduction, and Charles lips are parted, lapping up the honeyed words.
"Peace was never an option, Charles!" Erik is screaming in his mind, "You know that!"
"This is our time, our age," Charles says slowly, nodding in agreement. "We are the future of the human race."
"We should not be fighting amongst ourselves, that's what they want. You and I, together, leading an army of our kind, can bring this world to its knees." Schmidt smiles, sure of his victory. "Contra mundum, Charles?" he asks, and there is something of a taunt in his words.
Charles runs his tongue over his lower lip, his perpetual nervous habit, and opens his mouth to speak. But before the words come out, Emma plucks the helmet off Schmidt's head. Schmidt stands like a statue, his features frozen in a look of half-mockery, half-fear. Erik thinks it's a good look on him. Charles chuckles.
There is a flicker of blue and Emma turns into the yellow-eyed mutant girl, the turn-coat, the recruit who had betrayed them. She beams with pride at Charles, rolling the helmet lightly between her blue-scaled hands.
"I'd like you to know that I agree with every word you've said," Charles says, tilting his head to one side and regarding Schmidt thoughtfully. "It's just that I love Erik, and you killed his mother." He turns to look at Erik and steps aside, gently slipping out of his mind with a quiet "Thank you for being patient. I couldn't resist a little drama, myself."
"Here's what we're going to do." He continued. "My sister, Erik and I are going to count to three, and Erik's going to move the coin."
"One," they say in unison, and Erik glides the coin forward through the air. Raven steps close to her brother and takes his free hand in hers, lending him her strength as he holds Sebastian in place.
"Two." Erik's eyes are locked firmly on the coin, and Schmidt's -- Shaw's -- face comes slowly into focus as the coin nears its goal. To the side, he can see Charles' face, feral and wild and fierce, the expression mirrored in the blue girl's. It must run in the family.
"Three," they say, and the coin presses into Schmidt's forehead, cracking the skull. Charles screams, but he doesn't let go; Schmidt stands and takes it, still breathing in as Erik pushes the coin through his brain and out the back. The corpse falls with a final exhale.
When it is over, Erik rushes to Charles' side, for he, too, has fallen, just barely catching himself on hands and knees. He helps Charles up, afraid of what he might find, worried that the man he loves has been broken. But Charles takes a ragged gulp of air and looks up at him, relieved. "I wanted you to hear his last words," Charles says. "But he wasn't very articulate."
Erik kisses him full on the mouth, because that's just what you do when the person you love most in the world gives you the greatest gift imaginable.
Raven clears her throat when they break away. "Here," she says, handing the helmet to Charles. "Mission accomplished."
"So much trouble," Charles muses, "over such a small thing. But when I saw this in Emma's mind, when I realized what it represented, I knew the only way we could be safe is if we were the ones to control it. And now we are." Charles holds the helmet curiously, almost reverently, and then proffers it to Erik.
"What do you want me to do with this?" Erik asks, confused.
Charles smiles impishly, the smile Erik knows is just for him. "Surprise me."
~ fin ~