Let Me Hear You Say
Title: Let Me Hear You Say
Rating: PG-13
Words: 614
Warnings: period-appropriate homophobia and slurs. Excessive hyphenation.
Summary: Written for this prompt at the kink meme. Charles slips up and calls Erik 'darling' in front of a room full of CIA agents. Charles is horrified; Erik finds the whole thing rather amusing. It was nice to do something cheerful, after all the angsty Charles/Erik stuff I've been writing recently. Also, since the Man in Black doesn't get an official name, I took the easy route and decided that he looked kind of like an Oliver Platt. Title from the Decemberists' Rise to Me.
'We've found some more, yes. One of them's in Virginia, quite close, I thought we could go there next - I don't remember the coordinates exactly, could you pass the printouts, darling - ?'
He stops, the word catching in his throat, only realising what he's said when the ripples of what? and Jesus and really? spreading around the table wash over him, when he feels the prickle of everyone's eyes fixed on him, when Platt coughs pointedly and someone at the other end of the table murmurs to his neighbour, not quite quietly enough to be inaudible, 'The guy just say that?'
Charles blinks a few times, bites his lip and has absolutely no idea what to say.
Erik folds his arms, fuck them radiating out from him like a harsh buzzing in the air, and meets their eyes, one by one, what are you staring at? He picks up the Cerebro printouts and hands them to Platt. 'You take a look at these,' he says, softly. 'Charles, a word.'
Yeah, I'd want a word too -
- can't believe he -
- what a faggot -
- disgustdisapprovaldisappointment -
Charles drags himself, sickened, out of ther minds on the way to the door.
***
The second the boardroom door closes and they're out in the corridor, the cold defiance on Erik's face splinters. 'Charles, that may have been a little ill-advised,' he says, grinning.
'I am so, so sorry - ' Charles begins.
'If you remember, they're already not particularly keen on us for other reasons. You may want to avoid adding more fuel to the fire.'
'I really am sorry, Erik, it was just a slip. Meaningless, really - '
'So perhaps we could cut down on the public terms of endearment in future,' Erik concludes, grinning even wider, if possible. 'Darling.'
'I'm sorry, Erik,' Charles snaps. 'It's just a - I mean, it's what I call - what I mean to say is, you needn't take it as indicative of any - you know,' he finishes lamely.
'Tendencies?' Erik says. 'To be honest, I had my suspicions already.'
Charles can feel his face burning under Erik's smirk, but he drags his eyes up to the other man's and says, steadily, 'Well, they weren't unfounded. And I'm not ashamed of what I am.'
'Good,' Erik says.
'Nevertheless, I did just humiliate myself in front of a roomful of CIA agents - ' and you ' - and it's really not funny, Erik.'
'I'm not particularly interested in their opinions,' Erik says cheerfully. 'You shouldn't pay attention to other people's prejudices, Charles.'
'Erik, this is serious, why are you smiling so much.'
Erik - clearly restraining himself from laughing, the bastard - raises two fingers, brushes them to his temple in a clear invitation.
Charles gives in and allows himself to tumble into Erik's mind; he's expecting the knifeblade sharpness and cold steel of last time, but instead there's -
- his own eyes, reflected and magnified a thousand times, impossibly blue -
- the sound of his voice, blurred and distorted as other people hear it, as Erik hears it -
- a warm rush of emotion, deep and unexpected and God -
Erik reaches out, in what seems like slow motion, and brushes a thumb over Charles' lips, tracing the shape of them. Charles feels himself smile, involuntarily, curving into the touch.
Erik makes a small curling gesture with his other hand, and the door clicks open. There's a boardroom full of CIA agents waiting for them, thinking nothing good.
Erik's still smiling. 'Why do you think,' he murmurs, and stands back to let Charles go first. 'Darling.'