When he Rolls Up His Sleeves He Ain't Just Puttin' On the Ritz (X-Men fic)
title: When He Rolls Up His Sleeves He Ain’t Just Puttin’ On the Ritz
fandom: X-Men: First Class
rating: PG-13
word count: 2,645
warning: violence, mild gore
disclaimer: I own nothing. Title from lyrics by Rich Mullins. Beta’d by levitatethis
summary: World War II has not yet begun. In New York City men like Sebastian Shaw are making money off the gambling of a Depressed society and the labor of a hidden mutant population. Erik and Charles are not inclined to let this happen. || Inspired by this fanart, by Tumblr user shriekingshacks.
Charles sits in the middle of the suite with his shoulders hunched and back bared. The red velvet ceiling dulls any light from the room’s small chandelier, ensuring that the bulbs do not so much shine on his skin as illuminate it. It’s the kind of lighting reserved for fresh brides - the last glimpse from heaven before their debauchery under the bed’s twisted iron frame.
When told where he would be staying, Charles had laughed, the sound wild and angry. “We are heading out of a nationwide…no, a world-wide Depression and Shaw puts me in the honeymoon suite?” he had asked, shaking his head as he took a drag from his Camel.
There was no need for Charles to worry about extra expenses in the end. When the fight was over, he had been dragged back to his room and left without medical attention or water, sitting on a stool that’s worn around the top and scratched to hell along each leg. His bare feet rest on the floor beside it, the well maintained toenails and calloused heels telling his story.
He moves for a living.
Though Charles has not been laboring in the lower class for as long as the lines of his face suggest, his personal history is a hazy mix of gritty stories and dark glances. Most reporters have stopped asking, and the women around him are looking for a brief mention of his home state at best. Sitting in the center of the hotel room, he looks rough and urban, nothing like the wealthy bastards he grew up racing and hating. His bruises are obscene beside the silk and lace, and the swell of muscle in his slumped shoulders suggests a well-contained violence. Erik has seen him in a hundred different fights in the past month; even he occasionally forgets where Charles came from.
Pacing around the spectacle, Erik keeps one eye on Charles and another on the thugs that accompanied him, stopping a few feet from Charles’ left side. Across Charles’ back one of the thugs scowls, watching Erik finger a sweating bottle of champagne that has doubtless cost more than their combined lives.
Erik won’t offer Charles any.
Charles’s eyes dart up to watch both lackeys under hooded eyes. Though his jaw is tense, he does not spit out the blood filling his mouth. It’s a deliberately stubborn act that brings a slight smile to Eric’s lips.
The calmer thug has taken to leaning by the door. When Erik bothers to glance at him he casts a meaningful look in Charles’ direction, urging Erik to begin the confrontation.
Erik looks back in time to see Charles swallow the blood with a wince, looking as though he has something to say. As his lips open and shut they stretch, looking impossibly white. If he continues, they’ll crack and bleed. The blood will dry and darken into a strange sort of mustache like the University professors supposedly wear.
That’s what they call Charles: ‘The Professor.’
First-timers in the ring are told he teaches his opponents new things to fear. For the past few nights, however, the nickname has been more of a mockery (a reminder of the days when he was only a strong-minded man with a weak right hook looking for fast cash).
It still sets Erik’s teeth on edge to think of Charles’ sacrifice for the luck of the draw - the victory of gambling men. It does not matter that those same misunderstandings are imperative to their own plans.
Erik keeps his hands in his pockets and lifts his chin high.
“You lost,” he comments, idly.
“You didn’t expect me to win,” Charles mutters. The words are so clear that Erik briefly wonders if the blood in his mouth has stopped oozing. Then he clenches his fists, remembering Charles is used to speaking around it by now.
Charles cannot be younger than Erik by more than two years, but he makes Erik feel endlessly old.
Closer to Charles and himself, the foreign grunt crosses his arms. Though he has not yet stepped forward, he is shifting aggressively in place, waiting for an opportunity to show Charles who is closer to Shaw’s good graces.
Erik keeps an eye on his feet and pulls a cigarette out of its worn pack. He lights it with a lighter that used to bear the logo of the hotel, though the etching has been defaced for a little over a year now. The day Shaw let him through the doors of their basement operation and placed it in his hands, Erik’s anger slid each metal molecule into its brother and ended the design. Shaw had smiled and whispered “Welcome back,” as if the twisted factories of Erik’s childhood had ever been home; as if Erik was back for the money, like everyone else.
If Erik’s gaze is not already unreadable, he ensures that the brim of his hat hides it well as he tilts his head toward the flame.
“Shaw would like to speak with you,” he finally declares.
Keeping his eyes on the carpet, Charles turns his head in Erik’s direction and tenses his shoulders. “When Mr. Shaw speaks with men, they don’t come back in one piece.”
Maybe it’s Charles’ refreshingly brutal honesty, or the barely charming smile he manages to give, but the foreign man preparing to slug Charles in the head hesitates. He gives the young man before him a considering look for the second time and raises one eyebrow at Erik. This is one of the reasons Erik begs Shaw - often and earnestly - for his old crew. He knows he’ll never see them again, knows his boss won’t risk the damage they were capable of. But Erik hopes all the same, tired of Charles surprising the fresh meat. He is tired of explaining that Charles is indeed a special young man, but he is also a young man in debt.
To put it simply, Erik is tired. It’s not obvious in the relaxed set of his shoulders or the right angle of his bowtie. The ache rests in the tips of his fingers at the card tables and in his forearms as he smokes a cigarette more than he intends.
As he briefly wonders why he hasn’t strangled himself with the silk of a tie, Charles’ eyes slide his way. His lips purse in a deep frown and Erik retaliates for the invasion he cannot feel by picturing the boxing ring. Through his minds’ eye Charles receives the beating of the night in stunning detail.
Charles looks away in tandem to Erik’s imagination, both heads moving in slow motion. One turns towards the other side of the room, the other swings away from the end of a very thorough hit - rippling with the impact of his opponent’s fist.
“How you come out is not our problem.” He pulls his shoulders back and waves a hand toward the thugs. They each take a small step back. “Although I wouldn’t recommend any of your tricks.”
Erik takes a few drags from the Lucky Strike between his fingers. It feels good to reinforce his authority at this moment and protect himself from potentially brutal instincts. If nothing else, his attitude reassures his trigger men.
In response Charles bows his head.
“No tricks, Mr. Lensherr.” Charles’ eyes are bright on the floor. “I don’t suppose I have it in me. Or is that Mr. Shaw’s intention?”
As Erik gives Charles a small rap the thug to their left smiles, even if he doesn’t entirely understand what Charles had implied.
Erik will owe Charles for that. It will only be a beer, but the thought still nags at him.
“Mr. Lenssherr.” The thug beside the door pulls out a watch, making a show of checking the time. “Mr. Shaw gave you ten minutes.” The words “three minutes ago” hang in the air like Erik’s cigarette smoke.
Ten minutes. Ten minutes he is not permitted to waste.
“So your leash isn’t only economical.” Charles’ hand is on the back of his head, rubbing, buffering the spot if Erik chooses to hit him there again.
Charles is always more mindful than Erik can fathom. It takes his breath away when he doesn’t watch himself.
Snarling, he saunters back toward the champagne bucket. The cigarette in his hands makes a small arc as he flicks it carelessly into ice.
“Give us two shakes boys. I’ll bring the Professor out myself.” He pulls a pair of brass knuckles out from the recesses of his suit jacket and casts a meaningful look towards the foreign thug near Charles.
Charles licks at his lips when the door shuts, speaking quietly into Erik’s mind << They’re not entirely convinced. You had better leave a mark. >>
Both of Erik’s eyebrows raise, the corner of his mouth following a moment later. << I don’t like the idea of owing you a beer and a right hook in one night >> he projects.
Charles attempts to muffle his laughter with one bruised hand over his mouth, thinking << This one is entirely on me, my friend. >> He meets Erik’s gaze. << I’m afraid it’s necessary. >>
When the knuckles make contact a bruise begins to form on Charles’ cheek.
“You little shit,” Erik growls. And Charles carefully controls his breathing, groaning believably as Erik hits him again.
When he can open his eyes, Charles brings two swollen fingers to his temple.
“They’re about a hundred paces down the hall. Keep your voice low.”
Erik nods, pulling the knuckles from his skin with a wince. The brass sings for another pound of flesh - relieved to have acted on its purpose.
“It was worth it,” Charles assures him, wiping at his mouth. He is oblivious to the fresh blood that smears along one cheek as he continues, “Are you bringing anything with you?”
Erik smirks “I’m always prepared.” And the iron handle from an old building moans in his pocket so loud he swears Charles can hear it. It is old and rusted, still as angry as the day Erik pulled it from the windows that barred his mother from escaping the fire with her co-workers.
“It will all have to be done tonight. Shaw’s surprisingly impatient with you.”
“You aren’t too keen my new crew then.”
“To be honest, I was impressed it took him this long to give you such an incompetent pair.” Charles tenderly rubs his face and knuckles, watching Erik light another cigarette.
“Which means?” Erik prompts. The ice bucket behind him is beginning to sweat.
Charles looks at the wrappings on his hands. “You have many gifts, Erik. Subtlety for language was never one of them.”
“You want another grifter between us and Shaw?”
“Of course not.” Charles looks at the blood under his nails and frowns. “I’m afraid that I’m...quite afraid, actually.” Sighing, he rubs his hands on his thighs, “We’re very close my friend. We are very, very close.”
“I know.” Erik’s assurance is clipped. His fingers pinch the cigarette a little too tightly.
Charles makes a face at the tone of his voice. It strikes a more personal chord than he cares to admit. But he wouldn’t be Charles Xavier if he betrayed the extent of his disappointment, and he would not have made it this far if he could not handle disappointment in Erik - in the world they have immersed themselves in for the sake of revenge. Or, in Charles’ case, for the sake of knowing that someone like Shaw is no longer destroying lives without a thought.
“Perhaps we should have stuck with the cards.”
“You trust yourself too much, Xavier.” He has seen Charles at the tables. God help them if Shaw ever catches the spectacle.
Charles sighs, “And one of your great gifts is suspicion,” He is eyeing Erik’s cigarette. “We are minutes away from the most important moment in your life. A hint of conviction would be nice.”
“Shall I calm my mind?” Erik feels his cheeks strain, forming an honest smile. He has taken a few steps back, and one of them (it is impossible to tell who) projects memories of the night they met. The waters of the pier were dark, but Erik’s mind was darker as the party on the ferry floated peacefully away and Erik’s impoverished family lay in their graves without vengeance.
“What will you do after Shaw is dead?” Erik pulls at the collar of his shirt and adjusts his tie, forgetting how similarly Charles had resembled hope that night.
“First of all, you will not kill Shaw. We’ve already made a deal with the police.” With narrowed eyes, Charles continues without pressing the change in their discussion. “Second...I don’t know. I have plans for that school I suppose. The children out there with abilities may have more to do for this economy and this nation that they could ever imagine.”
Erik shudders and compels himself to let this statement pass, because he knows Charles, knows that Charles is nothing like the man that took him from his home with empty promises and tried to see what he could make Erik do for the sake of a few dollars.
“You want to save the world with children?” He keeps his tone light and his thoughts partially vague. “You think they can overrun the politicians, the bureaucrats?”
Charles grins, “Who else am I to trust?”
Erik looks down at his cigarette. He cannot feel Charles’ expression change, but he knows it happens nonetheless.
“You would make a fearful dictator my friend. Though I don’t believe you have the heart to enslave humanity.” Pausing, Charles studies Erik’s face, “I have heard rumors of slogans and rallies in Germany. If you desire war, you may soon get your wish.”
“My wish is for freedom. No more excuses for these bastards.” Erik takes a final drag from his cigarette and crushes it in his palm. “You see their eyes at fairs and freak shows. You’ve seen the money they exchange in the halls. They must be stopped. We could end the violence before it begins.”
“You speak of violence as if it is foreign to you.”
“Charles, you know we are both qualified to speak of violence in any way we choose.”
Charles slowly nods, understanding not trumping wishes to the contrary.
“I’m leaving this city when the dust clears. Come with me.”
Charles eyes move towards the doors. “They’re restless. We can expect them in a moment.”
<< Consider it my friend. Consider the possibilities. >> He grabs Charles’ face with a violence that negates the soothing tone within his mind. << Consider our potential. >>
In his mind’s eye they are sauntering through fields like kings. Behind them, the steel structures of the city crumble and the cards that enslave his nightly hours flutter like dying birds into the cinders of what might have been a boxing ring.
Charles has already looked down. Erik’s thumb is pressing into his cheeks with a force that makes him wince but he still manages to murmur “I will consider it, my friend.”
Grimly, Erik trails his fingers along Charles’ skin as he slowly releases the other man.
Then he must work once again.
Taking off his jacket, Erik rolls up his sleeves and undoes his tie. When Charles has stopped massaging his chin Erik reaches forward and slides one finger along his cheek and mouth. The collected blood stains his skin easily when he wipes it on his forearms.
As he finishes, he gestures toward his face.
Charles, looking mildly disgusted, spits. The spray leaves a satisfying pattern on Erik’s chin.
“Perfection.” He says, pushing his hat back and checking the sweat along his hair line.
“Ten paces.” Charles whispers. His eyes follow Erik’s hands as the brass knuckles slide back on, and Erik raises his fist.
fandom: X-Men: First Class
rating: PG-13
word count: 2,645
warning: violence, mild gore
disclaimer: I own nothing. Title from lyrics by Rich Mullins. Beta’d by levitatethis
summary: World War II has not yet begun. In New York City men like Sebastian Shaw are making money off the gambling of a Depressed society and the labor of a hidden mutant population. Erik and Charles are not inclined to let this happen. || Inspired by this fanart, by Tumblr user shriekingshacks.
Charles sits in the middle of the suite with his shoulders hunched and back bared. The red velvet ceiling dulls any light from the room’s small chandelier, ensuring that the bulbs do not so much shine on his skin as illuminate it. It’s the kind of lighting reserved for fresh brides - the last glimpse from heaven before their debauchery under the bed’s twisted iron frame.
When told where he would be staying, Charles had laughed, the sound wild and angry. “We are heading out of a nationwide…no, a world-wide Depression and Shaw puts me in the honeymoon suite?” he had asked, shaking his head as he took a drag from his Camel.
There was no need for Charles to worry about extra expenses in the end. When the fight was over, he had been dragged back to his room and left without medical attention or water, sitting on a stool that’s worn around the top and scratched to hell along each leg. His bare feet rest on the floor beside it, the well maintained toenails and calloused heels telling his story.
He moves for a living.
Though Charles has not been laboring in the lower class for as long as the lines of his face suggest, his personal history is a hazy mix of gritty stories and dark glances. Most reporters have stopped asking, and the women around him are looking for a brief mention of his home state at best. Sitting in the center of the hotel room, he looks rough and urban, nothing like the wealthy bastards he grew up racing and hating. His bruises are obscene beside the silk and lace, and the swell of muscle in his slumped shoulders suggests a well-contained violence. Erik has seen him in a hundred different fights in the past month; even he occasionally forgets where Charles came from.
Pacing around the spectacle, Erik keeps one eye on Charles and another on the thugs that accompanied him, stopping a few feet from Charles’ left side. Across Charles’ back one of the thugs scowls, watching Erik finger a sweating bottle of champagne that has doubtless cost more than their combined lives.
Erik won’t offer Charles any.
Charles’s eyes dart up to watch both lackeys under hooded eyes. Though his jaw is tense, he does not spit out the blood filling his mouth. It’s a deliberately stubborn act that brings a slight smile to Eric’s lips.
The calmer thug has taken to leaning by the door. When Erik bothers to glance at him he casts a meaningful look in Charles’ direction, urging Erik to begin the confrontation.
Erik looks back in time to see Charles swallow the blood with a wince, looking as though he has something to say. As his lips open and shut they stretch, looking impossibly white. If he continues, they’ll crack and bleed. The blood will dry and darken into a strange sort of mustache like the University professors supposedly wear.
That’s what they call Charles: ‘The Professor.’
First-timers in the ring are told he teaches his opponents new things to fear. For the past few nights, however, the nickname has been more of a mockery (a reminder of the days when he was only a strong-minded man with a weak right hook looking for fast cash).
It still sets Erik’s teeth on edge to think of Charles’ sacrifice for the luck of the draw - the victory of gambling men. It does not matter that those same misunderstandings are imperative to their own plans.
Erik keeps his hands in his pockets and lifts his chin high.
“You lost,” he comments, idly.
“You didn’t expect me to win,” Charles mutters. The words are so clear that Erik briefly wonders if the blood in his mouth has stopped oozing. Then he clenches his fists, remembering Charles is used to speaking around it by now.
Charles cannot be younger than Erik by more than two years, but he makes Erik feel endlessly old.
Closer to Charles and himself, the foreign grunt crosses his arms. Though he has not yet stepped forward, he is shifting aggressively in place, waiting for an opportunity to show Charles who is closer to Shaw’s good graces.
Erik keeps an eye on his feet and pulls a cigarette out of its worn pack. He lights it with a lighter that used to bear the logo of the hotel, though the etching has been defaced for a little over a year now. The day Shaw let him through the doors of their basement operation and placed it in his hands, Erik’s anger slid each metal molecule into its brother and ended the design. Shaw had smiled and whispered “Welcome back,” as if the twisted factories of Erik’s childhood had ever been home; as if Erik was back for the money, like everyone else.
If Erik’s gaze is not already unreadable, he ensures that the brim of his hat hides it well as he tilts his head toward the flame.
“Shaw would like to speak with you,” he finally declares.
Keeping his eyes on the carpet, Charles turns his head in Erik’s direction and tenses his shoulders. “When Mr. Shaw speaks with men, they don’t come back in one piece.”
Maybe it’s Charles’ refreshingly brutal honesty, or the barely charming smile he manages to give, but the foreign man preparing to slug Charles in the head hesitates. He gives the young man before him a considering look for the second time and raises one eyebrow at Erik. This is one of the reasons Erik begs Shaw - often and earnestly - for his old crew. He knows he’ll never see them again, knows his boss won’t risk the damage they were capable of. But Erik hopes all the same, tired of Charles surprising the fresh meat. He is tired of explaining that Charles is indeed a special young man, but he is also a young man in debt.
To put it simply, Erik is tired. It’s not obvious in the relaxed set of his shoulders or the right angle of his bowtie. The ache rests in the tips of his fingers at the card tables and in his forearms as he smokes a cigarette more than he intends.
As he briefly wonders why he hasn’t strangled himself with the silk of a tie, Charles’ eyes slide his way. His lips purse in a deep frown and Erik retaliates for the invasion he cannot feel by picturing the boxing ring. Through his minds’ eye Charles receives the beating of the night in stunning detail.
Charles looks away in tandem to Erik’s imagination, both heads moving in slow motion. One turns towards the other side of the room, the other swings away from the end of a very thorough hit - rippling with the impact of his opponent’s fist.
“How you come out is not our problem.” He pulls his shoulders back and waves a hand toward the thugs. They each take a small step back. “Although I wouldn’t recommend any of your tricks.”
Erik takes a few drags from the Lucky Strike between his fingers. It feels good to reinforce his authority at this moment and protect himself from potentially brutal instincts. If nothing else, his attitude reassures his trigger men.
In response Charles bows his head.
“No tricks, Mr. Lensherr.” Charles’ eyes are bright on the floor. “I don’t suppose I have it in me. Or is that Mr. Shaw’s intention?”
As Erik gives Charles a small rap the thug to their left smiles, even if he doesn’t entirely understand what Charles had implied.
Erik will owe Charles for that. It will only be a beer, but the thought still nags at him.
“Mr. Lenssherr.” The thug beside the door pulls out a watch, making a show of checking the time. “Mr. Shaw gave you ten minutes.” The words “three minutes ago” hang in the air like Erik’s cigarette smoke.
Ten minutes. Ten minutes he is not permitted to waste.
“So your leash isn’t only economical.” Charles’ hand is on the back of his head, rubbing, buffering the spot if Erik chooses to hit him there again.
Charles is always more mindful than Erik can fathom. It takes his breath away when he doesn’t watch himself.
Snarling, he saunters back toward the champagne bucket. The cigarette in his hands makes a small arc as he flicks it carelessly into ice.
“Give us two shakes boys. I’ll bring the Professor out myself.” He pulls a pair of brass knuckles out from the recesses of his suit jacket and casts a meaningful look towards the foreign thug near Charles.
Charles licks at his lips when the door shuts, speaking quietly into Erik’s mind << They’re not entirely convinced. You had better leave a mark. >>
Both of Erik’s eyebrows raise, the corner of his mouth following a moment later. << I don’t like the idea of owing you a beer and a right hook in one night >> he projects.
Charles attempts to muffle his laughter with one bruised hand over his mouth, thinking << This one is entirely on me, my friend. >> He meets Erik’s gaze. << I’m afraid it’s necessary. >>
When the knuckles make contact a bruise begins to form on Charles’ cheek.
“You little shit,” Erik growls. And Charles carefully controls his breathing, groaning believably as Erik hits him again.
When he can open his eyes, Charles brings two swollen fingers to his temple.
“They’re about a hundred paces down the hall. Keep your voice low.”
Erik nods, pulling the knuckles from his skin with a wince. The brass sings for another pound of flesh - relieved to have acted on its purpose.
“It was worth it,” Charles assures him, wiping at his mouth. He is oblivious to the fresh blood that smears along one cheek as he continues, “Are you bringing anything with you?”
Erik smirks “I’m always prepared.” And the iron handle from an old building moans in his pocket so loud he swears Charles can hear it. It is old and rusted, still as angry as the day Erik pulled it from the windows that barred his mother from escaping the fire with her co-workers.
“It will all have to be done tonight. Shaw’s surprisingly impatient with you.”
“You aren’t too keen my new crew then.”
“To be honest, I was impressed it took him this long to give you such an incompetent pair.” Charles tenderly rubs his face and knuckles, watching Erik light another cigarette.
“Which means?” Erik prompts. The ice bucket behind him is beginning to sweat.
Charles looks at the wrappings on his hands. “You have many gifts, Erik. Subtlety for language was never one of them.”
“You want another grifter between us and Shaw?”
“Of course not.” Charles looks at the blood under his nails and frowns. “I’m afraid that I’m...quite afraid, actually.” Sighing, he rubs his hands on his thighs, “We’re very close my friend. We are very, very close.”
“I know.” Erik’s assurance is clipped. His fingers pinch the cigarette a little too tightly.
Charles makes a face at the tone of his voice. It strikes a more personal chord than he cares to admit. But he wouldn’t be Charles Xavier if he betrayed the extent of his disappointment, and he would not have made it this far if he could not handle disappointment in Erik - in the world they have immersed themselves in for the sake of revenge. Or, in Charles’ case, for the sake of knowing that someone like Shaw is no longer destroying lives without a thought.
“Perhaps we should have stuck with the cards.”
“You trust yourself too much, Xavier.” He has seen Charles at the tables. God help them if Shaw ever catches the spectacle.
Charles sighs, “And one of your great gifts is suspicion,” He is eyeing Erik’s cigarette. “We are minutes away from the most important moment in your life. A hint of conviction would be nice.”
“Shall I calm my mind?” Erik feels his cheeks strain, forming an honest smile. He has taken a few steps back, and one of them (it is impossible to tell who) projects memories of the night they met. The waters of the pier were dark, but Erik’s mind was darker as the party on the ferry floated peacefully away and Erik’s impoverished family lay in their graves without vengeance.
“What will you do after Shaw is dead?” Erik pulls at the collar of his shirt and adjusts his tie, forgetting how similarly Charles had resembled hope that night.
“First of all, you will not kill Shaw. We’ve already made a deal with the police.” With narrowed eyes, Charles continues without pressing the change in their discussion. “Second...I don’t know. I have plans for that school I suppose. The children out there with abilities may have more to do for this economy and this nation that they could ever imagine.”
Erik shudders and compels himself to let this statement pass, because he knows Charles, knows that Charles is nothing like the man that took him from his home with empty promises and tried to see what he could make Erik do for the sake of a few dollars.
“You want to save the world with children?” He keeps his tone light and his thoughts partially vague. “You think they can overrun the politicians, the bureaucrats?”
Charles grins, “Who else am I to trust?”
Erik looks down at his cigarette. He cannot feel Charles’ expression change, but he knows it happens nonetheless.
“You would make a fearful dictator my friend. Though I don’t believe you have the heart to enslave humanity.” Pausing, Charles studies Erik’s face, “I have heard rumors of slogans and rallies in Germany. If you desire war, you may soon get your wish.”
“My wish is for freedom. No more excuses for these bastards.” Erik takes a final drag from his cigarette and crushes it in his palm. “You see their eyes at fairs and freak shows. You’ve seen the money they exchange in the halls. They must be stopped. We could end the violence before it begins.”
“You speak of violence as if it is foreign to you.”
“Charles, you know we are both qualified to speak of violence in any way we choose.”
Charles slowly nods, understanding not trumping wishes to the contrary.
“I’m leaving this city when the dust clears. Come with me.”
Charles eyes move towards the doors. “They’re restless. We can expect them in a moment.”
<< Consider it my friend. Consider the possibilities. >> He grabs Charles’ face with a violence that negates the soothing tone within his mind. << Consider our potential. >>
In his mind’s eye they are sauntering through fields like kings. Behind them, the steel structures of the city crumble and the cards that enslave his nightly hours flutter like dying birds into the cinders of what might have been a boxing ring.
Charles has already looked down. Erik’s thumb is pressing into his cheeks with a force that makes him wince but he still manages to murmur “I will consider it, my friend.”
Grimly, Erik trails his fingers along Charles’ skin as he slowly releases the other man.
Then he must work once again.
Taking off his jacket, Erik rolls up his sleeves and undoes his tie. When Charles has stopped massaging his chin Erik reaches forward and slides one finger along his cheek and mouth. The collected blood stains his skin easily when he wipes it on his forearms.
As he finishes, he gestures toward his face.
Charles, looking mildly disgusted, spits. The spray leaves a satisfying pattern on Erik’s chin.
“Perfection.” He says, pushing his hat back and checking the sweat along his hair line.
“Ten paces.” Charles whispers. His eyes follow Erik’s hands as the brass knuckles slide back on, and Erik raises his fist.