Prompt Post: ROUND FIVE
ROUND FIVE IS CLOSED
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<< ROUND FOUR | ALL ROUNDS | ROUND SIX >>
Rules post.
Posting Guidelines.
Flat view.
Updates Post (WIPs only)
Fills Post (completed Fills only)
damalur's firstclasskink on Delicious.
Volunteers always welcome.
There is a delay on comments appearing when there is a URL in the message body. This is due to an LJ anti-spam ( Read more... )
Erik wakes up curled on a pillow beside Charles' head.
For a moment, he takes in the long, lean line of Charles' body, the softness of his features, and then he remembers. This wasn't some alcohol-soaked night where he somehow managed to snag a really hot one-night stand. He's a fucking kitten.
His anger ought to bring the steel girders holding up the apartment crashing through the walls, but the only thing that so much as twitches is a pile of discarded change on Charles' dresser. Erik reaches for his rage over his mother's death, a senseless mugging by senseless humans. She'd never carried more than ten dollars in her purse.
One of the pennies rolls to the carpet. Erik collapses in exhaustion. Damn-fucking-it, he thinks.
Beside him, Charles makes a sleepy noise and sits up. He blinks blearily at Erik and smiles. Erik feels his heart flutter a little and blames it on his recent, mostly-failed power experiment.
"Right where I left you," Charles says, running a hand over Erik's back. "You're looking a bit better this morning," he adds. "A little food and a warm bed can do wonders, yes?"
Charles drags himself slowly out of bed in a way that suggests he is not a morning person and also gives Erik a startling good view of his bare chest and the curve of his ass beneath pin-stripe flannel pajama bottoms. He then ruins the view with dark-wash jeans, a pale green oxford and yet another cardigan. It should look awful. Erik is horrified to learn that he finds it endearing.
Charles goes through his morning ablutions, drinks tea, feeds Erik half of his bagel and then says, out of the blue, "I don't have a litter box." He eyes Erik speculatively. "Let's just pop outside for a moment, shall we?" he says.
What follows, is Erik, in what is possibly the most embarrassing moment of his life as yet, quickly pissing on a group of black-eyed susans and then running back to where Charles is politely looking away. Charles picks up the morning paper off the walk and lets them back inside.
"I'll be teaching one of my genetics courses over at Columbia this afternoon," Charles tells Erik, pulling the Science section out of his New York Times.
Considering the phone message last night, the exceptionally nerdy cardigans that are apparently his normal wear, and the amount of time Charles spends talking at Erik despite getting no response, Erik isn't exactly surprised to hear that he's a professor.
"I really do find it incredibly fascinating," Charles continues, "how mutation took us from single cells organisms to being the dominant forms of reproductive life on this planet. Infinite forms of variation with each generation, all through mutation. You, for example," Charles says, tracing one of the large white spots on Erik's side, "have a very lovely expression of the piebald gene, also known as the bicolor gene."
Charles gets up to put his dishes in the sink. "I really ought to have something to call you for the time being," he muses. "How do you feel about Mendel? Or Watson? Or Crick? Although, I don't know if I could in good conscience separate Watson and Crick, they're so intertwined. And then, we mustn't forget Rosalind Franklin who collected the necessary x-ray diffraction data in the first place."
Erik drags Charles' edition of the New York Times to the center of the table, hoping against hope there will be some mention of an Erik on the front page. There isn't, but he finds inspiration in the headline, "Gas prices in America soar," putting one paw over the 'Am' and meowing embarrassingly to get Charles attention.
Charles squints down at the paper. "Erica," he says, brightly.
Oh, good God, no, Erik thinks, growling and scratching out the ending 'a.'
"Ah," Charles says, "Eric." Erik knows he should be satisfied, but he can't stop himself from clawing a delicate line in front of the 'c.'
"Erik with a 'k?'" Charles asks. Erik bobs his head, pleased.
"That was...surprisingly cognizant," Charles says, peering at Erik. Erik curls up innocently on the slightly shredded paper. "All right, you can keep the paper this morning, Erik," Charles laughs. "I'm off to lecture, but I'll check for missing posters and buy essentials on the way home. Do try not to shred everything in sight in my absence."
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This is the part where I died from laughing so hard. Poor Erik. I am enjoying his misery far far too much. Never stop writing this, author anon! Never stop!
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so loving this fic, thank you so much!
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PLEASE UPDATE SOON, ANON! <3333333333
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SO CUTE!
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