X-Men: First Class Fic: Baby, It's Just a State of Mind (3b/4)
Title: Baby, It's Just a State of Mind (3b/4)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: This chapter: PG-13, edging toward R for raciness and language
Word Count: This part: 6056. So far, 14163.
Summary (WARNING: contains slight SPOILERS) There's an awful lot of downtime on a recruiting trip across the country - more than enough time for Charles and Erik to learn a great deal about themselves, their powers, each other, and the place they can forge for themselves in society.
A/N: I am so sorry about the delay! It feels like there's been a conspiracy; I had some truly wild RL occurences, and my LJ has been kicking up even after the server attack subsided. Add the extra-long nature of this chapter in to the mix, plus the many, many re-writes I kept giving it, and you've got a recipe for delay I don't intend to repeat for the last bits. Thanks for bearing with me!
Well, at least it’s a polite sort of chaos. He’s tossed and turned the night away, apparently, but only, ridiculously, on his half of the bed. Even the bottom sheet is pulled free of the frankly sinful mattress, and somehow or other he’s rolled himself the top cover around himself twice, tight enough that his arms are pinned and it will be difficult to extricate himself without waking Erik who has not, apparently, moved an inch since he settled in, the remaining covers flat and undisturbed over his tranquil form. He’ll just shift a bit, wriggle gently until his arms are free and then he’s sure he can extricate himself. Just a bit more…
And so of course he’s gone and dumped himself on the floor. “Oh, hell,” he creaks, and Erik is suddenly upright, edge of violence melting straight into a hearty laugh as he takes in the situation.
“Good morning,” Erik says, still laughing, and Charles can’t help but dissolve into chuckles himself.
“In a manner of speaking,” he manages, but at least he’s free to roll his way out of the coverlet now. He can’t bring himself to mind his own ridiculousness when Erik is smirking like that, warm and open. “I hope I didn’t, err…” he gestures at the wreck he’s made of the right side of the bed.
“I didn’t notice.” Erik has every right to sound surprised.
Charles brushes a sheepish hand through his hair. “I’ll just… Right.” And then he’s up and a long shower will be just the ticket, rinse away the last prickles of whatever it was he’d gotten himself into.
The hot water is shamefully delightful, spraying from an enormous showerhead in hard pulses that are almost loud enough to drown out the din of a bustling hotel. He’s almost sorry to get out, but by the time he brushes his teeth and scrapes a razor over his chin - can Erik feel that? Can he ask if Erik feels that? - he feels quite human again.
Erik is presiding over an enormous tray of danishes when Charles emerges, a large “with our complements” card dangling from his long fingers. “You’ve made quite an impression on the desk staff,” he grins, all teeth, raising an amused eyebrow at Charles and he’s suddenly aware that the fluffy hotel robe is much, much too large for him.
“I could certainly use the fortification,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster, appropriating the crustiest of the apple danishes.
Erik gives him a sidelong glance. “Cracker Jacks do not a dinner make.”
“I wasn’t in much of a state for soufflé.” Curse his damned complexion - he knows he’s coloring. Well, in for a penny. “Thank you, by the way.”
“Can’t have the designated detective burning out on me,” Erik says, suddenly intent on the tray. Charles watches with horrified fascination as he selects one cream cheese and one raspberry, smooshing the two together into a makeshift sandwich. “What?”
Charles grins, pointedly not looking at the greasy monstrosity Erik is calling his breakfast. “I’ll have you know that Cracker Jacks are an American institution, and I’m proud to call them my dinner.”
“Ach,” Erik huffs, somehow managing to take an elegant bite of his decidedly inelegant sandwich.
Charles makes short work of his own pastry, and Erik turns a gimlet eye on him. “Eat up. It’s not as though there’s a shortage.”
“Tyrant,” he mutters, but doesn’t mean it; he’s ravenous, truth be told, and his stomach, miraculously enough, shows no signs of rebelling against the sugar he’s packing into it.
“Can’t have you collapsing.” Erik’s fond tone takes the sting out of the reminder that Charles has recently spent quite a bit of time doing just that. He smirks, stealing the last cherry danish and folding it neatly in half. Charles raises an eyebrow. “It’s efficient. And not half so sticky.”
“If you say so, my friend.” Erik’s eyebrow raises in turn as though Charles’ nibbling is terribly dainty, as though the entire Western world doesn’t treat danishes as a dish to be nibbled instead of folded into great fat sandwiches that would only fit in Erik’s wide gash of a mouth.
“I do.” Erik is frowning at his sandwich. “And to that end…”
“I’ll be fine,” Charles says, a touch too swiftly. “We’ll just stay away from places like…”
Erik’s face is set, stubborn. “We’ll stay away from places, full stop.” He cuts off the protests Charles was planning to make with a sharp gesture. “I mean it. I need you at full strength,” and that doesn’t sound like the end of the sentence.
Charles could fill in the blanks without his gifts - I need you at full strength in Las Vegas. There’s the slimmest of chances that Shaw would revisit a hideout he knows to be compromised, that he hadn’t eradicated every last trace and defense, but small chance does not mean no chance and this, this means everything to Erik - even more, and Charles hates it but he knows, he knows- even more than the quest to discover and help more of their own kind. “All right,” Charles hears himself saying, hating the slightly sick sound of his own voice and the way it makes the corners of Erik’s mouth turn down.
“Come now, it won’t be as bad as all that.” Erik folds himself out from under the too-short table. “You can catch up on your reading. Give that remarkable brain a different kind of workout.”
Charles lets himself smile, something in his belly unknotting when Erik returns it. “And what will you do?”
“I’m going out,” and Charles squawks at the injustice of that and Erik raises both hands, placating. “Just for a bit. I’ve got an errand to run.”
“What kind of errand?”
“Ah,” he says, and his smile takes on a giddy conspirator’s edge. “That would be telling.” He flashes extra teeth. “You’ll like it, I promise you.” Charles grumbles, but Erik’s grin doesn’t waver. “You scoff now, Charles…”
He is tired, and Erik is seldom so enthusiastic, and, well… “Fine, fine.”
“That’s the spirit.” Erik claps him on the shoulder, curls his hand around it in an echo of the steady comfort he’d provided last night.
Comfort and concern and excitement crackle across Charles’ mind, overwhelming the last of his irritation. “At least promise me you’ll visit the Golden Gate Bridge while you’re out? One of us ought to enjoy the city, at least.”
“Yes,” Erik says, his expression terribly, wonderfully warm, “I believe I will.”
XXXXXXXX
It seems like an awful lot of trouble to open his eyes, even if he can’t quite remember closing them. It’s warm, and aside from the crick in his neck he’s perfectly comfortable. Well, the crick in his neck and the increasingly forceful prodding in his side. “Really, Charles. I’m beginning to regret encouraging your shameful sloth.”
“Resting was your idea,” Charles says, or tries to, several words lost to a yawn.
“Yes, well.” Erik prods his side again and Charles lurches closer to upright. “I’ve tired of waiting for my rematch.”
“Rematch?” Charles is properly awake now, hauling himself the rest of the way upright on the hotel sofa to find that Erik’s shoved - floated, more likely - the white metal table over to Charles. There’s a funny little scrap of leather rolled out on top of it. Charles blinks the last sleep from his eyes and discovers that it’s covered in cunning little round scraps of hide emblazoned with chessmen. “Where on earth…” Erik shrugs one elegant shoulder; Charles regards him with a touch of alarm. If this mysterious errand took Erik to a safari supply store, Charles shudders to think about what the road’s got in store for them these next few days.
“If you’re not feeling up to it…” Even if he weren’t being presented with his favorite pastime, Erik’s diffident disappointment would have sold him in seconds.
“I suppose we are on a safari of sorts,” Charles muses without thinking, and of course Erik stiffens - that was a remarkably stupid thing to say. “A game would be lovely,” he adds hastily. “Black or white? Er, brown?”
“Black,” Erik says shortly, jaw set as he lays out the pieces.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you always make me open in a nefarious attempt to make me reveal my strategy,” Charles says, trying for teasing.
He’s rewarded with a marginal give in the hard line of Erik’s shoulders, an amused snort as Erik gestures at his rather monochromatic outfit. “As though I need the help. Heaven help us if you ever decide to try your hand at poker.”
“I’ll have you know it’s a dab hand,” and there’s that snort again. “Keep that up and I’ll demand to defend my honor at the tables.”
“That’s all we need,” Erik grumbles, but his tone is good natured. “I think they’d take exception to a man of your… talents,” he taps his head, “at the casinos.”
“I would never,” Charles says, laying on the righteousness. Erik huffs at him, and the awkwardness is well and truly dispersed. “Even if I needed to. Which I don’t.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Erik says, glancing meaningfully at the rather standard opening Charles has been setting up. “And probably not even then.”
“You wound me,” Charles says, grinning as he captures a pawn.
His grin fades as Erik mops up one of his knights. “I’ll take that as an assurance that you’re not cheating now.”
“Of course not. That would spoil the fun.” And it is fun, even if Erik is making mincemeat of his front line. All to good purpose, of course, but…
A few more moves, and then it’s Erik’s turn to grumble when a rook joins the little pile of discards at the side of the board. “And I’m meant to believe you’re not eavesdropping.”
“And I repeat, I would never.”
“I distinctly remember giving permission,” Erik says, dryly.
“And I distinctly remember promising not to pluck specifics from you.” Erik’s turned that curious, intense glance on him again. “I can’t hear what you’re planning. Just that you think you’re terribly clever.”
Erik laughs at that, a curiously open sound. “I am terribly clever. That’s check.”
“So it is.” He’d like to blame the hash he’s made of this game on fatigue, but he’s been rushing his moves and Erik is ruthlessly good at this. Perhaps…
“And that’s mate.” Erik is just short of smug, but he’s earned it - Charles hasn’t lost so fast in a decade and change.
He’s almost alarmed to find that he’s smiling too as he flicks the little disk with his king on it over it Erik’s side of the board. “Enjoy it while you can. I invoke the sacred rite of rematch.”
Erik looks at him through slitted eyes. “I had something else in mind. Although,” he frowns at the board, “if that was any indication of your mental state…”
“See how well you play five minutes after you’ve woken up unexpectedly.” That appraising look is still there. “I assure you, my mental state is absolutely fine.”
Erik raises a placating hand. “It’s just… I was thinking…” He turns a hard stare on Charles. “Tell me, how much would it take out of you to ride along?” He taps a temple.
Curse his penchant for honestly. “Hardly anything, if I’m not trying to be subtle about it.” And of course Erik’s shoulders twitch back at that, but he looks… relieved, as well. Ah, yes. Of course he’s always alert for any sign of Charles’ tells.
“No need for subtlety,” Erik mutters, fingers clenching around one of the leather disks. “All right,” he says suddenly, decisively, reaching for the shopping bag he’d shoved under his chair, spills a Newton’s cradle out on the desk. “Come on in,” and he’s tapping at his temple again. “But if I find out that this is draining for you…”
“It’s simple,” Charles says, too quick, and Erik pulses with mild alarm. “It won’t tire me out. And I’ll… I’ll stay where I’m welcome, of course.”
“So it’s not all or nothing,” Erik says, and there’s that edge of excitement, of wonder, rippling over him again.
“You were going to, even if it were?” And he really shouldn’t have vocalized that, he’s lost Erik’s eyes, but that’s answer enough isn’t it, and… and… Hello, he says, before Erik can think the better of this.
Erik starts, then draws himself into a braced, ready stance. All right, he says, and Charles finds himself at the center of a whirlwind, rage and grief and excitement and tingling power swirling, buffeting, and oh, oh, that terrible face, cold smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, the sick thud of fists wrapped in metal pummeling thin ribs, come on Erik, stop me Erik, white hot emotions rising, cresting and the room’s alight around him, dizzying lines of force he can feel, he can almost see, he can - Erik can - touch, push, clutch and strum, send the Newton cradle to clacking, send the second ball from the side floating above its mates, send the balls to weaving in a dizzying dance and the whole set swirling as quick as the invisible lines that were always pressing around it, thin and cutting like gripping guitar strings.
Oh,, he says and Erik startles, drops the lines he’s been clutching and the set clatters to a stop. They’re both panting, Charles’ lungs taking on a borrowed rhythm, and he starts to extricate himself without being asked. He’d reached out at some point, hands clenched tight on the table’s edge, tight enough that they’re stiff and painful to release. Somewhere along the line he’d started crying, just a little, but enough to make his face damp and Erik’s staring at him, something unfamiliar in his face, something zinging through the mess of power, wonder, deep grief, deeper anger. “Oh, Erik,” he manages, out loud this time, and there’s a thumb on his cheek, brushing at the tears. What you can do is amazing, he wants to say. The way you can feel the world is so beautiful. I am so sorry, my friend, so, so sorry, but he can’t say any of that, not without sending Erik reeling back from him faster than light. He settles for, “you’re amazing;” it has the virtue of being perfectly true.
Erik’s thumb stills, expression flashing from wary to wonder to determined and before Charles can really get a handle on what’s happening there’s a powerful, distinct welling up of something and Erik shoves himself forward, presses that thumb into Charles’ cheekbone, fingers cupping around his jaw, too hard, a little a painful, brain filling up with wantgoodscaredsogood and it’s almost too much, it is too much and somehow Charles is tilting his head harder into those fingers, hot points of pain and emotion and he thinks he knows where this is going and oh yes…
And then just like that, it’s over. Erik shoves himself back, hard enough to send his chair skittering a bit against the floor. “I need to go for a walk,” he says and Charles knows that to be true, if the thunderstorm of emotions raging around him is perturbing to Charles, oh, what it must be firsthand… And oh, Charles wants to lay him down and pet him and chase the clouds away but it’s quite obvious that he’d only be making it worse.
“You’ll come back?” he says, and hates that his voice is so plaintive.
“You could make me.” At least Erik’s voice is… well, not shaking, but breathless, almost, even around that challenge.
“I won’t.”
Erik nods, his smile almost genuine. “I know,” he says, and that hits Charles harder than anything else somehow but then, of course, he’s gone.
XXXXXXXX
“Let’s go,” Erik says, leaning on the half-open door casual as anything, as though Charles hasn’t been stewing in his itchy skin with the hot press of fingertips driving a confusion deeper than he knows what to do with for almost two hours.
“All right,” he says, and Erik is determinedly not noticing his less than steady voice.
Their silent walk to the elevator is trapped in the same dizzying zone of casual discomfort, the ding of the bell too loud. Charles wants desperately to say something, anything, but now’s not the time for a strategy meeting and god knows he can’t say what he’d really like to. “How was the Golden Gate?” There. Neutral. Sort of. And he does want to know. Does it sing like a Newton’s cradle? Or is there something special in all of the magnetization of that little contraption, missing from the big bulk of a bridge? Are the lines around it ropes, or still guitar strings? Does Erik think of them like that, or does he simply feel, and it’s Charles who’s layered on metaphor quite different from Erik’s own perceptions?
“Large. And red.” Erik smiles, lips thin.
“Honestly,” Charles huffs, and Erik raises his hands, roiling with desire to calm and to defend in equal measure.
“I can tell you’re just buzzing with questions. I should probably be grateful that the CIA’s sprung for another plane ride, or I’d have no peace in the car, I can tell.”
He sounds a little resentful and Charles has to keep himself from bristling. It’s Erik who started this, Erik who let him in but it’s not all or nothing, is it, Charles said so himself. “I see how it is,” he says, trying for easy and joking. “Going to keep me in public places until I run off on another track.”
Erik gives him a startled look. Oh dear. Too close, and now they’re pouring out of the elevator into the lobby and this is not the time nor the place. “Tell me there’s food at the bar,” he tries. “I could use a little bolstering up.”
The taut storm that is Erik subsides, marginally, and he looks almost grateful. “I’m sure we could scare something up. Do you think our expense budget stretches to steak?”
“Never know till we try,” he says, and Erik returns his grin.
Another interminable elevator but the awkwardness is mostly gone now, replaced with Erik’s quiet snicker at Charles’ growling stomach. “You are the noisiest creature,” he purrs, and Charles’ mind wants to take that and run right in the direction of fingertips and warmth and, and.
He wrestles himself back to respectability. “I was never much for stealth.”
“Aren’t you?” Erik’s smile is sharp now, knowing. “Harmless little Charles, with his tweeds and his voice and his happy little smiles. He’d never, even if he could.”
“Oh, I’m the danger?” Charles crowds out of the elevator a mite too fast. “I have several close encounters with the car door that would say otherwise.”
“Psssh,” Erik hisses but thankfully drops it, goes about arranging their table in this absurd modern bar. Everything’s white and baby blue and glass and it’s beautiful and hilarious in equal measure, like drinking in a spaceship.
Erik’s amused glace as he surveys the place says he agrees. “The hostess was kind enough to call down to the dining room. I took the liberty of ordering.”
“Thank you, I hope.”
“Medium rare should suit you, I hope.”
“You know I don’t…” Charles grumbles.
“I know you don’t,” Erik repeats, voice all obnoxious needles. “I’m afraid a salad and a jacket potato are all they can scare up for you from the steakhouse. They said there was bacon in the green beans.”
“Thank you,” Charles says, chilly, as though that could stop Erik laughing at him.
“At least you can wash it down with some celestial scotch.” At least Erik has it in him to tease something other than Charles. Still, this is likely to be a very tiring evening.
It’s times like this that he’s tempted to cheat - more than tempted, actually, to give the hostess a little nudge. No need to be a brute about it; he amps up the wattage of his smile and turns it flush on her. “Thank you for taking the trouble, love,” he says, and she returns a warm smile. “I don’t suppose we could sit by the window? It’s my first time in San Francisco and I’d like to take in the view.”
“Sure,” she says, giggling a bit. “You’re lucky - got in before the evening rush.”
“You could just,” Erik mutters, wiggling his fingers.
“I thought about it,” he admits with a soft grin, and the hostess’ smile cools several degrees, “but I just can’t face another long walk just to see it, you know? Even if it is famous,” he adds, entirely for her benefit, careful to be wide-eyed and not lascivious in the least and there’s that good cheer back again, now that they aren’t promising to be trouble.
Erik gives him a bemused look but the stellar little enclave right by the window that they’re given shuts him up, as does the veritable library of liquors cascading down the print menu. They’re still perusing in itchy silence when a pretty brunette in an absurd little uniform saunters up. “So, gentlemen, what’ll it be?”
Erik is clearly on the verge of saying something smarmy and Charles kicks him under the table; he knows all too well from Raven’s waitressing stories that it won’t do to upset the servers so early in the evening. “I’m a bit floored by your selection, to be honest. I’ll take the barman’s recommendation for a scotch.” She’s about to ask his price range. “Expensive will be fine, but not alarming.”
“Understood,” she says, giggle too near a snort to be entirely charming.
Erik evidently agrees. “I’ll have three fingers of the Glenlivet, neat,” he says without waiting to be asked.
Charles rolls his eyes in a what-can-you-do sort of way and she smiles a conspirator’s smile at him and whisks away their menus.
“You’re an incorrigible flirt,” Erik says with something that might be amusement, or might be something else entirely. He’s still a bit jumbled up, damnably hard to read.
“Yes, well, will flirt for service,” Charles tries and there’s that edged grin again.
I’ll have to remember that, in his head, clear as day.
Charles’ mouth drops open. “Is that… Are you… Are you doing that deliberately?”
“What do you think?” Erik says oh, oh, he looks positively dangerous. “Should I stop?”
“No need,” Charles says, and Erik chuckles at his haste.
“So eager,” Erik teases and Charles knows he’s flushing because that must, must be deliberate.
“Yes, well,” he says, purposefully obtuse, “I don’t get the chance to have this kind of conversation too often,” he says, wriggling his fingers near his head.
“That’s a pity,” Erik says in his dangerous purr, and Charles isn’t the only one “misunderstanding.”
“I’d be happy to get in the practice,” he says, more boldly than he feels, just in case.
Would you, now, and it’s exciting even though Erik can’t quite control his tone, more exclamatory than sly.
“I think so,” and perhaps he sounds a little breathless, but perhaps he deserves to. Erik is smiling his shark’s smile and Charles has wondered, of course he’s wondered, he’d taken in enough in the water to know that Erik has more in common with him than even the grooviest of mutations, but it was so mixed up with anger and fear that he’d thought… But that’s still there, isn’t it. Oh, how he wants to plunge right in and rummage around, find out what Erik’s playing at, if he’s playing at all, if he’s serious. It’s so much harder this way, halfway.
“More excitement than you’re used to?” Erik asks, like he’s the one who can read minds.
“A bit,” he admits, and Erik seems a bit disarmed by that.
“A bit of mystery is good for you.” Well then. A bit disarmed, more than a bit smug.
“Honing my detective skills,” and that summons up another dangerous smile.
Erik’s reply is deferred by the arrival of their scotch. “Give it a try,” and the waitress smiles, a hint of sauce in her tone.
He swirls the scotch - nice body, more than a hint of peat to it as it warms against his hand. He tastes with a little more tongue than is strictly necessary and is gratified that Erik’s eyes flick to it as well as the waitress’. “Mmmm.”
“I won’t need to switch it out, then,” she half-purrs, and Erik watches his satisfied smile.
“Definitely not, love. It’s delightful, thank you.” She smiles, saunters away, more switch in her hips than there had been, and Erik is watching, too, watching him watch her unless he misses his wager.
“That was quite a display,” Erik says, damnably neutral.
“Yes, well, it’s quite the scotch,” and perhaps his voice is a shade deeper than usual. “Care to try some?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” and Erik appropriates the glass. It doesn’t escape Charles’ notice that he sips from the same side Charles had, that he finishes with a slow swipe of his tongue across his lower lip as though to catch a stray drop.
He’s already tired of this bizarre dance they’re doing. It’s too much, this, now, with the specter of Vegas hanging over their heads, the half-leashed violence of earlier. He’s more than a little afraid that this is a wrongheaded tactic, unconscious or otherwise, to assert some kind of control on him and wouldn’t that be a pretty disaster for the both of them. Erik is wrong - he’s not one for subtlety, not when he’s flying half-blind and directness has a better chance of settling the question or at least startling his opponent - partner? - into yielding up new clues. “This is new,” he tries.
“I’m not entirely sure that it is,” Erik says, hands him the glass. Their fingers don’t brush, much as he’s tempted to grip the glass sloppily.
“I’m not entirely sure that I mind,” he allows. But, but. “I do wonder at the timing.”
Erik’s expression goes guarded. “So direct, Charles,” he chides. “What did I say about mystery?”
“Yes, well.” Charles shrugs, tries on an open smile. “Those never seem to end well, do they? I’d prefer to be on the same page.”
Erik breaks eyes contact, takes a long swig of his scotch. Charles can’t help but watch the line of his throat as he swallows. He’s worryingly silent. Perhaps he’s pushed too hard, pushed the wrong way. Perhaps he shouldn’t be staring. He refocuses on the view, which at is quite spectacular. The bar is starting to fill up around them, a soothing swirl of cheery leisure thoughts. This girl is worrying that the set of her hair will slip in the damp, that man is weighing his chances with the blonde on the third stool from the end - poor fellow, they aren’t good, he’d be much better off to try the lady two seats down, and that older fellow needn’t worry that he’d taken in too much sun and there will be a too-white patch where his wedding ring is wont to be, not with the way his date is eyeing up his Rolex. He lets himself sink into it, the slow burn of his scotch. It’s pleasant. Distracting. Normal.
He’s pretty far gone, so much so that the brush of fingers against his wrist catches him by surprise. “And if I told you we were on the same page?” Erik smirks at Charles’ delighted smile. “I’m warning you, if your answer contains the word ‘groovy,’ I’ll be forced to reconsider.”
Charles lays his spare hand over his heart. “You wound me, Erik, you really do,” and oh, that slow grin sets things to swirling in his belly. “I was going to say, in that case I like a bit of mystery very much.” It’s not even a lie; this little development tips them over from uncertainty into surprise and Erik, saturnine creature that he is… Well, it’s much harder to repent of a slow course than a rushed conclusion, isn’t it.
“Good,” Erik purrs, soft enough that it’s an invitation to lean closer.
An invitation that he can’t take, what with the busboy approaching with Erik’s steak and Charles’ rather pathetic little salad. Erik’s eyes stay on him, slow and heavy, enough that Charles has to nudge the poor server into incuriosity. Not that Charles minds, precisely, not with the way that confident smirk is scrambling up his spine.
But even Erik, it seems, has his limits. It’s hard to cut up a steak seductively, but damned if he doesn’t seem to be trying. The pooling grease and blood is stomach-churning, though, and the way it clings to Erik’s teeth is the wrong side of predatory.
His distaste must show on his face, prompting Erik to laugh at him. “What’s the matter, Charles? Afraid of a little blood?”
“I don’t know how you do it,” he admits, and Erik’s smile persists around another savage bite.
“I don’t now how you run on something like that,” he returns, and Charles has to admit he has a point. His alleged salad is really a great wedge of lettuce, smothered in a sticky pool of ranch with a few haphazard pieces of cabbage and tomato sprinkled where the bacon ought to be.
“It beats the Cracker Jack.” Erik raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Charles shrugs, grinning helplessly. “Not by much, I’ll grant.”
At least the jacket potato is good, smothered in salty butter and sharpened with a bit of chive. He’s hyperconscious of Erik’s eyes on him as he savors and swallows, even if he’s willing to wager that “munching on a potato” is down near the bottom of the list of potentially sexy actions. At least it’s got to rank higher than “swirling fries through the bloody mess on your steak plate,” although, god help him, that doesn’t damp his interest as much as it ought. He’s further gone than he’d thought. Then again, it would take a strong man to resist the lure of that steady gaze, the press of intent strong enough to crowd out most of the ambient emotion in the bar, or maybe that’s the scotch helping things along.
Mystery indeed, this curious staring match as they both make quick work of their dinners. Erik’s foot is nudging his under the table, just slightly, little shocks of want zinging through him when their calves brush. “Another?” Erik asks, gesturing at his empty tumbler and bugger, now it’s time to be responsible when all he wants to do is bump along on this river of interest and intent and hang slowness and sobriety both.
“I think I’ve had enough,” he admits and Erik’s smile goes sharp again.
I beg to differ, and Charles half-gasps.
“Can’t afford to be hungover tomorrow,” he says, voice is blessedly steady and oh, there’s a cold bath of reality again, a wash of nerves and violence and calculation swirling around with the more pleasant types of intent.
“Such a good soldier,” but there’s sharpness grating in Erik’s purr and that’s good, isn’t it, it will make it easier to stick to his hastily constructed vow of restraint. And the images that word conjures up are not helpful. At all.
Erik grins, snaps for the check and their little waitress is either busy or has given up on them as a bad job - there she is, flirting with a gentleman in the corner, how nice - because it’s the hostess that brings the bill. “Do make some time to go out and actually see the sights,” and it’s easy to smile at her frank friendliness as he signs it all to their room, the better to hide this extravagance in their expense report. “The harbor is lovely at night.”
“I’ll make a point of it,” he promises, taking their leave with a cheery wave.
Erik doesn’t spare a glance for her, of course, but the way those remarkable hands are hovering, longing to light somewhere on Charles, sends him speeding out of the bar before he’s got to deflect public attention from a scandal. How he longs to let his shields drop, to feel the want zinging off of Erik fully instead of the muffled tastes he’s getting when their arms brush in the now-crowded hallway, but oh what a bad idea that would be. His resolve is in shreds as it is, every atom in him singing for more and soon in the crowded elevator, the noisy lobby. He wants to clutch at the hands brushing his “accidentally” as they finally, finally get to the hall outside of their room but of course there’s a middle-aged battleaxe thinking loudly about temperance and unruly youths rushing the country to damnation and then finally, finally they’re inside. Erik shoves the door shut behind them the old-fashioned way and crowds Charles up against it quick as blinking, clutching too hard at his biceps and pressing him into the protruding lock, hip hard against the doorknob, can he feel the metal digging into Charles, does he like it and then oh, finally, finally, that harsh mouth on his, demanding, plundering and Charles’ lips move like they belong to someone else, rushing from slow and soft to greedy nips without his permission and he shouldn’t like the tang of blood left over from Erik’s dinner half as much as he does, the near-bruising force of it all, the pushpushpush of warmyeswantWANT pinning him in place as surely as Erik’s implacable weight.
And then they’re gasping for air as though by accord and he’s got to stop this now if he’s going to. Charles has never wanted anything less but it is very much for the best. Erik yields to his light shove, greedy fingers tugging on Charles’ elbow, clear motion toward the beds and would it be so bad to just follow… “Tomorrow,” he gasps, and oh, that’s why, a startling rush of stealth and plans and white-hot anger wound round the rushrushrush of want isn’t quite the bucket of ice water he’d anticipated. “Much as I’d enjoy,” and he can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, Erik’s fierce grin, “it will be… exhausting.”
“I’m flattered,” and how is he meant to resist that purr.
“I mean it,” and he’s almost whimpering, damn it, but he makes himself tap at his temple. “I can’t… If we… I won’t be fighting fit.”
Erik drops his elbow at that, and that makes it easier to stumble around him, into the bathroom, into his damnable pajamas and maybe just this once he won’t brush his teeth, slip off to sleep with the taste of Erik lingering on his tongue and on second thought that isn’t likely to lead to much rest, now, is it.
Erik is prowling around outside the bathroom, drags those long, long fingers hard across Charles’ stomach as he makes his way to sink, splashes his face with cold water. The shock of it doesn’t clear the sharp press of want from his mind at all, or so little that Charles can’t feel it and would it really be so bad…
Yes. Yes it would. He can’t march into that city, that club, all burnt out and zinged up and it’s apparent that if this happens - when, when, let this not be a whim or a ploy, please god - when this happens it’s going to be something extraordinary and certainly tiring as all hell if he expects to keep his mind under any semblance of control.
He makes himself seal his mind tight as cellophane over leftovers, makes himself cross the room, lay out his clothes for the morning, ignore Erik’s hot eyes as he shambles out of the bathroom and slips silently into the bed nearer the door. But he doesn’t stop himself from darting over to that bed, leaning down to brush his lips over Erik’s, quick as blinking, almost - not quite - chaste. “Tomorrow,” he whispers, and the roiling clouds around Erik calm the tiniest bit.
“Tomorrow,” Erik repeats, voice rough, and oh, it sounds like a promise.
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: This chapter: PG-13, edging toward R for raciness and language
Word Count: This part: 6056. So far, 14163.
Summary (WARNING: contains slight SPOILERS) There's an awful lot of downtime on a recruiting trip across the country - more than enough time for Charles and Erik to learn a great deal about themselves, their powers, each other, and the place they can forge for themselves in society.
A/N: I am so sorry about the delay! It feels like there's been a conspiracy; I had some truly wild RL occurences, and my LJ has been kicking up even after the server attack subsided. Add the extra-long nature of this chapter in to the mix, plus the many, many re-writes I kept giving it, and you've got a recipe for delay I don't intend to repeat for the last bits. Thanks for bearing with me!
Well, at least it’s a polite sort of chaos. He’s tossed and turned the night away, apparently, but only, ridiculously, on his half of the bed. Even the bottom sheet is pulled free of the frankly sinful mattress, and somehow or other he’s rolled himself the top cover around himself twice, tight enough that his arms are pinned and it will be difficult to extricate himself without waking Erik who has not, apparently, moved an inch since he settled in, the remaining covers flat and undisturbed over his tranquil form. He’ll just shift a bit, wriggle gently until his arms are free and then he’s sure he can extricate himself. Just a bit more…
And so of course he’s gone and dumped himself on the floor. “Oh, hell,” he creaks, and Erik is suddenly upright, edge of violence melting straight into a hearty laugh as he takes in the situation.
“Good morning,” Erik says, still laughing, and Charles can’t help but dissolve into chuckles himself.
“In a manner of speaking,” he manages, but at least he’s free to roll his way out of the coverlet now. He can’t bring himself to mind his own ridiculousness when Erik is smirking like that, warm and open. “I hope I didn’t, err…” he gestures at the wreck he’s made of the right side of the bed.
“I didn’t notice.” Erik has every right to sound surprised.
Charles brushes a sheepish hand through his hair. “I’ll just… Right.” And then he’s up and a long shower will be just the ticket, rinse away the last prickles of whatever it was he’d gotten himself into.
The hot water is shamefully delightful, spraying from an enormous showerhead in hard pulses that are almost loud enough to drown out the din of a bustling hotel. He’s almost sorry to get out, but by the time he brushes his teeth and scrapes a razor over his chin - can Erik feel that? Can he ask if Erik feels that? - he feels quite human again.
Erik is presiding over an enormous tray of danishes when Charles emerges, a large “with our complements” card dangling from his long fingers. “You’ve made quite an impression on the desk staff,” he grins, all teeth, raising an amused eyebrow at Charles and he’s suddenly aware that the fluffy hotel robe is much, much too large for him.
“I could certainly use the fortification,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster, appropriating the crustiest of the apple danishes.
Erik gives him a sidelong glance. “Cracker Jacks do not a dinner make.”
“I wasn’t in much of a state for soufflé.” Curse his damned complexion - he knows he’s coloring. Well, in for a penny. “Thank you, by the way.”
“Can’t have the designated detective burning out on me,” Erik says, suddenly intent on the tray. Charles watches with horrified fascination as he selects one cream cheese and one raspberry, smooshing the two together into a makeshift sandwich. “What?”
Charles grins, pointedly not looking at the greasy monstrosity Erik is calling his breakfast. “I’ll have you know that Cracker Jacks are an American institution, and I’m proud to call them my dinner.”
“Ach,” Erik huffs, somehow managing to take an elegant bite of his decidedly inelegant sandwich.
Charles makes short work of his own pastry, and Erik turns a gimlet eye on him. “Eat up. It’s not as though there’s a shortage.”
“Tyrant,” he mutters, but doesn’t mean it; he’s ravenous, truth be told, and his stomach, miraculously enough, shows no signs of rebelling against the sugar he’s packing into it.
“Can’t have you collapsing.” Erik’s fond tone takes the sting out of the reminder that Charles has recently spent quite a bit of time doing just that. He smirks, stealing the last cherry danish and folding it neatly in half. Charles raises an eyebrow. “It’s efficient. And not half so sticky.”
“If you say so, my friend.” Erik’s eyebrow raises in turn as though Charles’ nibbling is terribly dainty, as though the entire Western world doesn’t treat danishes as a dish to be nibbled instead of folded into great fat sandwiches that would only fit in Erik’s wide gash of a mouth.
“I do.” Erik is frowning at his sandwich. “And to that end…”
“I’ll be fine,” Charles says, a touch too swiftly. “We’ll just stay away from places like…”
Erik’s face is set, stubborn. “We’ll stay away from places, full stop.” He cuts off the protests Charles was planning to make with a sharp gesture. “I mean it. I need you at full strength,” and that doesn’t sound like the end of the sentence.
Charles could fill in the blanks without his gifts - I need you at full strength in Las Vegas. There’s the slimmest of chances that Shaw would revisit a hideout he knows to be compromised, that he hadn’t eradicated every last trace and defense, but small chance does not mean no chance and this, this means everything to Erik - even more, and Charles hates it but he knows, he knows- even more than the quest to discover and help more of their own kind. “All right,” Charles hears himself saying, hating the slightly sick sound of his own voice and the way it makes the corners of Erik’s mouth turn down.
“Come now, it won’t be as bad as all that.” Erik folds himself out from under the too-short table. “You can catch up on your reading. Give that remarkable brain a different kind of workout.”
Charles lets himself smile, something in his belly unknotting when Erik returns it. “And what will you do?”
“I’m going out,” and Charles squawks at the injustice of that and Erik raises both hands, placating. “Just for a bit. I’ve got an errand to run.”
“What kind of errand?”
“Ah,” he says, and his smile takes on a giddy conspirator’s edge. “That would be telling.” He flashes extra teeth. “You’ll like it, I promise you.” Charles grumbles, but Erik’s grin doesn’t waver. “You scoff now, Charles…”
He is tired, and Erik is seldom so enthusiastic, and, well… “Fine, fine.”
“That’s the spirit.” Erik claps him on the shoulder, curls his hand around it in an echo of the steady comfort he’d provided last night.
Comfort and concern and excitement crackle across Charles’ mind, overwhelming the last of his irritation. “At least promise me you’ll visit the Golden Gate Bridge while you’re out? One of us ought to enjoy the city, at least.”
“Yes,” Erik says, his expression terribly, wonderfully warm, “I believe I will.”
XXXXXXXX
It seems like an awful lot of trouble to open his eyes, even if he can’t quite remember closing them. It’s warm, and aside from the crick in his neck he’s perfectly comfortable. Well, the crick in his neck and the increasingly forceful prodding in his side. “Really, Charles. I’m beginning to regret encouraging your shameful sloth.”
“Resting was your idea,” Charles says, or tries to, several words lost to a yawn.
“Yes, well.” Erik prods his side again and Charles lurches closer to upright. “I’ve tired of waiting for my rematch.”
“Rematch?” Charles is properly awake now, hauling himself the rest of the way upright on the hotel sofa to find that Erik’s shoved - floated, more likely - the white metal table over to Charles. There’s a funny little scrap of leather rolled out on top of it. Charles blinks the last sleep from his eyes and discovers that it’s covered in cunning little round scraps of hide emblazoned with chessmen. “Where on earth…” Erik shrugs one elegant shoulder; Charles regards him with a touch of alarm. If this mysterious errand took Erik to a safari supply store, Charles shudders to think about what the road’s got in store for them these next few days.
“If you’re not feeling up to it…” Even if he weren’t being presented with his favorite pastime, Erik’s diffident disappointment would have sold him in seconds.
“I suppose we are on a safari of sorts,” Charles muses without thinking, and of course Erik stiffens - that was a remarkably stupid thing to say. “A game would be lovely,” he adds hastily. “Black or white? Er, brown?”
“Black,” Erik says shortly, jaw set as he lays out the pieces.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you always make me open in a nefarious attempt to make me reveal my strategy,” Charles says, trying for teasing.
He’s rewarded with a marginal give in the hard line of Erik’s shoulders, an amused snort as Erik gestures at his rather monochromatic outfit. “As though I need the help. Heaven help us if you ever decide to try your hand at poker.”
“I’ll have you know it’s a dab hand,” and there’s that snort again. “Keep that up and I’ll demand to defend my honor at the tables.”
“That’s all we need,” Erik grumbles, but his tone is good natured. “I think they’d take exception to a man of your… talents,” he taps his head, “at the casinos.”
“I would never,” Charles says, laying on the righteousness. Erik huffs at him, and the awkwardness is well and truly dispersed. “Even if I needed to. Which I don’t.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Erik says, glancing meaningfully at the rather standard opening Charles has been setting up. “And probably not even then.”
“You wound me,” Charles says, grinning as he captures a pawn.
His grin fades as Erik mops up one of his knights. “I’ll take that as an assurance that you’re not cheating now.”
“Of course not. That would spoil the fun.” And it is fun, even if Erik is making mincemeat of his front line. All to good purpose, of course, but…
A few more moves, and then it’s Erik’s turn to grumble when a rook joins the little pile of discards at the side of the board. “And I’m meant to believe you’re not eavesdropping.”
“And I repeat, I would never.”
“I distinctly remember giving permission,” Erik says, dryly.
“And I distinctly remember promising not to pluck specifics from you.” Erik’s turned that curious, intense glance on him again. “I can’t hear what you’re planning. Just that you think you’re terribly clever.”
Erik laughs at that, a curiously open sound. “I am terribly clever. That’s check.”
“So it is.” He’d like to blame the hash he’s made of this game on fatigue, but he’s been rushing his moves and Erik is ruthlessly good at this. Perhaps…
“And that’s mate.” Erik is just short of smug, but he’s earned it - Charles hasn’t lost so fast in a decade and change.
He’s almost alarmed to find that he’s smiling too as he flicks the little disk with his king on it over it Erik’s side of the board. “Enjoy it while you can. I invoke the sacred rite of rematch.”
Erik looks at him through slitted eyes. “I had something else in mind. Although,” he frowns at the board, “if that was any indication of your mental state…”
“See how well you play five minutes after you’ve woken up unexpectedly.” That appraising look is still there. “I assure you, my mental state is absolutely fine.”
Erik raises a placating hand. “It’s just… I was thinking…” He turns a hard stare on Charles. “Tell me, how much would it take out of you to ride along?” He taps a temple.
Curse his penchant for honestly. “Hardly anything, if I’m not trying to be subtle about it.” And of course Erik’s shoulders twitch back at that, but he looks… relieved, as well. Ah, yes. Of course he’s always alert for any sign of Charles’ tells.
“No need for subtlety,” Erik mutters, fingers clenching around one of the leather disks. “All right,” he says suddenly, decisively, reaching for the shopping bag he’d shoved under his chair, spills a Newton’s cradle out on the desk. “Come on in,” and he’s tapping at his temple again. “But if I find out that this is draining for you…”
“It’s simple,” Charles says, too quick, and Erik pulses with mild alarm. “It won’t tire me out. And I’ll… I’ll stay where I’m welcome, of course.”
“So it’s not all or nothing,” Erik says, and there’s that edge of excitement, of wonder, rippling over him again.
“You were going to, even if it were?” And he really shouldn’t have vocalized that, he’s lost Erik’s eyes, but that’s answer enough isn’t it, and… and… Hello, he says, before Erik can think the better of this.
Erik starts, then draws himself into a braced, ready stance. All right, he says, and Charles finds himself at the center of a whirlwind, rage and grief and excitement and tingling power swirling, buffeting, and oh, oh, that terrible face, cold smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, the sick thud of fists wrapped in metal pummeling thin ribs, come on Erik, stop me Erik, white hot emotions rising, cresting and the room’s alight around him, dizzying lines of force he can feel, he can almost see, he can - Erik can - touch, push, clutch and strum, send the Newton cradle to clacking, send the second ball from the side floating above its mates, send the balls to weaving in a dizzying dance and the whole set swirling as quick as the invisible lines that were always pressing around it, thin and cutting like gripping guitar strings.
Oh,, he says and Erik startles, drops the lines he’s been clutching and the set clatters to a stop. They’re both panting, Charles’ lungs taking on a borrowed rhythm, and he starts to extricate himself without being asked. He’d reached out at some point, hands clenched tight on the table’s edge, tight enough that they’re stiff and painful to release. Somewhere along the line he’d started crying, just a little, but enough to make his face damp and Erik’s staring at him, something unfamiliar in his face, something zinging through the mess of power, wonder, deep grief, deeper anger. “Oh, Erik,” he manages, out loud this time, and there’s a thumb on his cheek, brushing at the tears. What you can do is amazing, he wants to say. The way you can feel the world is so beautiful. I am so sorry, my friend, so, so sorry, but he can’t say any of that, not without sending Erik reeling back from him faster than light. He settles for, “you’re amazing;” it has the virtue of being perfectly true.
Erik’s thumb stills, expression flashing from wary to wonder to determined and before Charles can really get a handle on what’s happening there’s a powerful, distinct welling up of something and Erik shoves himself forward, presses that thumb into Charles’ cheekbone, fingers cupping around his jaw, too hard, a little a painful, brain filling up with wantgoodscaredsogood and it’s almost too much, it is too much and somehow Charles is tilting his head harder into those fingers, hot points of pain and emotion and he thinks he knows where this is going and oh yes…
And then just like that, it’s over. Erik shoves himself back, hard enough to send his chair skittering a bit against the floor. “I need to go for a walk,” he says and Charles knows that to be true, if the thunderstorm of emotions raging around him is perturbing to Charles, oh, what it must be firsthand… And oh, Charles wants to lay him down and pet him and chase the clouds away but it’s quite obvious that he’d only be making it worse.
“You’ll come back?” he says, and hates that his voice is so plaintive.
“You could make me.” At least Erik’s voice is… well, not shaking, but breathless, almost, even around that challenge.
“I won’t.”
Erik nods, his smile almost genuine. “I know,” he says, and that hits Charles harder than anything else somehow but then, of course, he’s gone.
XXXXXXXX
“Let’s go,” Erik says, leaning on the half-open door casual as anything, as though Charles hasn’t been stewing in his itchy skin with the hot press of fingertips driving a confusion deeper than he knows what to do with for almost two hours.
“All right,” he says, and Erik is determinedly not noticing his less than steady voice.
Their silent walk to the elevator is trapped in the same dizzying zone of casual discomfort, the ding of the bell too loud. Charles wants desperately to say something, anything, but now’s not the time for a strategy meeting and god knows he can’t say what he’d really like to. “How was the Golden Gate?” There. Neutral. Sort of. And he does want to know. Does it sing like a Newton’s cradle? Or is there something special in all of the magnetization of that little contraption, missing from the big bulk of a bridge? Are the lines around it ropes, or still guitar strings? Does Erik think of them like that, or does he simply feel, and it’s Charles who’s layered on metaphor quite different from Erik’s own perceptions?
“Large. And red.” Erik smiles, lips thin.
“Honestly,” Charles huffs, and Erik raises his hands, roiling with desire to calm and to defend in equal measure.
“I can tell you’re just buzzing with questions. I should probably be grateful that the CIA’s sprung for another plane ride, or I’d have no peace in the car, I can tell.”
He sounds a little resentful and Charles has to keep himself from bristling. It’s Erik who started this, Erik who let him in but it’s not all or nothing, is it, Charles said so himself. “I see how it is,” he says, trying for easy and joking. “Going to keep me in public places until I run off on another track.”
Erik gives him a startled look. Oh dear. Too close, and now they’re pouring out of the elevator into the lobby and this is not the time nor the place. “Tell me there’s food at the bar,” he tries. “I could use a little bolstering up.”
The taut storm that is Erik subsides, marginally, and he looks almost grateful. “I’m sure we could scare something up. Do you think our expense budget stretches to steak?”
“Never know till we try,” he says, and Erik returns his grin.
Another interminable elevator but the awkwardness is mostly gone now, replaced with Erik’s quiet snicker at Charles’ growling stomach. “You are the noisiest creature,” he purrs, and Charles’ mind wants to take that and run right in the direction of fingertips and warmth and, and.
He wrestles himself back to respectability. “I was never much for stealth.”
“Aren’t you?” Erik’s smile is sharp now, knowing. “Harmless little Charles, with his tweeds and his voice and his happy little smiles. He’d never, even if he could.”
“Oh, I’m the danger?” Charles crowds out of the elevator a mite too fast. “I have several close encounters with the car door that would say otherwise.”
“Psssh,” Erik hisses but thankfully drops it, goes about arranging their table in this absurd modern bar. Everything’s white and baby blue and glass and it’s beautiful and hilarious in equal measure, like drinking in a spaceship.
Erik’s amused glace as he surveys the place says he agrees. “The hostess was kind enough to call down to the dining room. I took the liberty of ordering.”
“Thank you, I hope.”
“Medium rare should suit you, I hope.”
“You know I don’t…” Charles grumbles.
“I know you don’t,” Erik repeats, voice all obnoxious needles. “I’m afraid a salad and a jacket potato are all they can scare up for you from the steakhouse. They said there was bacon in the green beans.”
“Thank you,” Charles says, chilly, as though that could stop Erik laughing at him.
“At least you can wash it down with some celestial scotch.” At least Erik has it in him to tease something other than Charles. Still, this is likely to be a very tiring evening.
It’s times like this that he’s tempted to cheat - more than tempted, actually, to give the hostess a little nudge. No need to be a brute about it; he amps up the wattage of his smile and turns it flush on her. “Thank you for taking the trouble, love,” he says, and she returns a warm smile. “I don’t suppose we could sit by the window? It’s my first time in San Francisco and I’d like to take in the view.”
“Sure,” she says, giggling a bit. “You’re lucky - got in before the evening rush.”
“You could just,” Erik mutters, wiggling his fingers.
“I thought about it,” he admits with a soft grin, and the hostess’ smile cools several degrees, “but I just can’t face another long walk just to see it, you know? Even if it is famous,” he adds, entirely for her benefit, careful to be wide-eyed and not lascivious in the least and there’s that good cheer back again, now that they aren’t promising to be trouble.
Erik gives him a bemused look but the stellar little enclave right by the window that they’re given shuts him up, as does the veritable library of liquors cascading down the print menu. They’re still perusing in itchy silence when a pretty brunette in an absurd little uniform saunters up. “So, gentlemen, what’ll it be?”
Erik is clearly on the verge of saying something smarmy and Charles kicks him under the table; he knows all too well from Raven’s waitressing stories that it won’t do to upset the servers so early in the evening. “I’m a bit floored by your selection, to be honest. I’ll take the barman’s recommendation for a scotch.” She’s about to ask his price range. “Expensive will be fine, but not alarming.”
“Understood,” she says, giggle too near a snort to be entirely charming.
Erik evidently agrees. “I’ll have three fingers of the Glenlivet, neat,” he says without waiting to be asked.
Charles rolls his eyes in a what-can-you-do sort of way and she smiles a conspirator’s smile at him and whisks away their menus.
“You’re an incorrigible flirt,” Erik says with something that might be amusement, or might be something else entirely. He’s still a bit jumbled up, damnably hard to read.
“Yes, well, will flirt for service,” Charles tries and there’s that edged grin again.
I’ll have to remember that, in his head, clear as day.
Charles’ mouth drops open. “Is that… Are you… Are you doing that deliberately?”
“What do you think?” Erik says oh, oh, he looks positively dangerous. “Should I stop?”
“No need,” Charles says, and Erik chuckles at his haste.
“So eager,” Erik teases and Charles knows he’s flushing because that must, must be deliberate.
“Yes, well,” he says, purposefully obtuse, “I don’t get the chance to have this kind of conversation too often,” he says, wriggling his fingers near his head.
“That’s a pity,” Erik says in his dangerous purr, and Charles isn’t the only one “misunderstanding.”
“I’d be happy to get in the practice,” he says, more boldly than he feels, just in case.
Would you, now, and it’s exciting even though Erik can’t quite control his tone, more exclamatory than sly.
“I think so,” and perhaps he sounds a little breathless, but perhaps he deserves to. Erik is smiling his shark’s smile and Charles has wondered, of course he’s wondered, he’d taken in enough in the water to know that Erik has more in common with him than even the grooviest of mutations, but it was so mixed up with anger and fear that he’d thought… But that’s still there, isn’t it. Oh, how he wants to plunge right in and rummage around, find out what Erik’s playing at, if he’s playing at all, if he’s serious. It’s so much harder this way, halfway.
“More excitement than you’re used to?” Erik asks, like he’s the one who can read minds.
“A bit,” he admits, and Erik seems a bit disarmed by that.
“A bit of mystery is good for you.” Well then. A bit disarmed, more than a bit smug.
“Honing my detective skills,” and that summons up another dangerous smile.
Erik’s reply is deferred by the arrival of their scotch. “Give it a try,” and the waitress smiles, a hint of sauce in her tone.
He swirls the scotch - nice body, more than a hint of peat to it as it warms against his hand. He tastes with a little more tongue than is strictly necessary and is gratified that Erik’s eyes flick to it as well as the waitress’. “Mmmm.”
“I won’t need to switch it out, then,” she half-purrs, and Erik watches his satisfied smile.
“Definitely not, love. It’s delightful, thank you.” She smiles, saunters away, more switch in her hips than there had been, and Erik is watching, too, watching him watch her unless he misses his wager.
“That was quite a display,” Erik says, damnably neutral.
“Yes, well, it’s quite the scotch,” and perhaps his voice is a shade deeper than usual. “Care to try some?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” and Erik appropriates the glass. It doesn’t escape Charles’ notice that he sips from the same side Charles had, that he finishes with a slow swipe of his tongue across his lower lip as though to catch a stray drop.
He’s already tired of this bizarre dance they’re doing. It’s too much, this, now, with the specter of Vegas hanging over their heads, the half-leashed violence of earlier. He’s more than a little afraid that this is a wrongheaded tactic, unconscious or otherwise, to assert some kind of control on him and wouldn’t that be a pretty disaster for the both of them. Erik is wrong - he’s not one for subtlety, not when he’s flying half-blind and directness has a better chance of settling the question or at least startling his opponent - partner? - into yielding up new clues. “This is new,” he tries.
“I’m not entirely sure that it is,” Erik says, hands him the glass. Their fingers don’t brush, much as he’s tempted to grip the glass sloppily.
“I’m not entirely sure that I mind,” he allows. But, but. “I do wonder at the timing.”
Erik’s expression goes guarded. “So direct, Charles,” he chides. “What did I say about mystery?”
“Yes, well.” Charles shrugs, tries on an open smile. “Those never seem to end well, do they? I’d prefer to be on the same page.”
Erik breaks eyes contact, takes a long swig of his scotch. Charles can’t help but watch the line of his throat as he swallows. He’s worryingly silent. Perhaps he’s pushed too hard, pushed the wrong way. Perhaps he shouldn’t be staring. He refocuses on the view, which at is quite spectacular. The bar is starting to fill up around them, a soothing swirl of cheery leisure thoughts. This girl is worrying that the set of her hair will slip in the damp, that man is weighing his chances with the blonde on the third stool from the end - poor fellow, they aren’t good, he’d be much better off to try the lady two seats down, and that older fellow needn’t worry that he’d taken in too much sun and there will be a too-white patch where his wedding ring is wont to be, not with the way his date is eyeing up his Rolex. He lets himself sink into it, the slow burn of his scotch. It’s pleasant. Distracting. Normal.
He’s pretty far gone, so much so that the brush of fingers against his wrist catches him by surprise. “And if I told you we were on the same page?” Erik smirks at Charles’ delighted smile. “I’m warning you, if your answer contains the word ‘groovy,’ I’ll be forced to reconsider.”
Charles lays his spare hand over his heart. “You wound me, Erik, you really do,” and oh, that slow grin sets things to swirling in his belly. “I was going to say, in that case I like a bit of mystery very much.” It’s not even a lie; this little development tips them over from uncertainty into surprise and Erik, saturnine creature that he is… Well, it’s much harder to repent of a slow course than a rushed conclusion, isn’t it.
“Good,” Erik purrs, soft enough that it’s an invitation to lean closer.
An invitation that he can’t take, what with the busboy approaching with Erik’s steak and Charles’ rather pathetic little salad. Erik’s eyes stay on him, slow and heavy, enough that Charles has to nudge the poor server into incuriosity. Not that Charles minds, precisely, not with the way that confident smirk is scrambling up his spine.
But even Erik, it seems, has his limits. It’s hard to cut up a steak seductively, but damned if he doesn’t seem to be trying. The pooling grease and blood is stomach-churning, though, and the way it clings to Erik’s teeth is the wrong side of predatory.
His distaste must show on his face, prompting Erik to laugh at him. “What’s the matter, Charles? Afraid of a little blood?”
“I don’t know how you do it,” he admits, and Erik’s smile persists around another savage bite.
“I don’t now how you run on something like that,” he returns, and Charles has to admit he has a point. His alleged salad is really a great wedge of lettuce, smothered in a sticky pool of ranch with a few haphazard pieces of cabbage and tomato sprinkled where the bacon ought to be.
“It beats the Cracker Jack.” Erik raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Charles shrugs, grinning helplessly. “Not by much, I’ll grant.”
At least the jacket potato is good, smothered in salty butter and sharpened with a bit of chive. He’s hyperconscious of Erik’s eyes on him as he savors and swallows, even if he’s willing to wager that “munching on a potato” is down near the bottom of the list of potentially sexy actions. At least it’s got to rank higher than “swirling fries through the bloody mess on your steak plate,” although, god help him, that doesn’t damp his interest as much as it ought. He’s further gone than he’d thought. Then again, it would take a strong man to resist the lure of that steady gaze, the press of intent strong enough to crowd out most of the ambient emotion in the bar, or maybe that’s the scotch helping things along.
Mystery indeed, this curious staring match as they both make quick work of their dinners. Erik’s foot is nudging his under the table, just slightly, little shocks of want zinging through him when their calves brush. “Another?” Erik asks, gesturing at his empty tumbler and bugger, now it’s time to be responsible when all he wants to do is bump along on this river of interest and intent and hang slowness and sobriety both.
“I think I’ve had enough,” he admits and Erik’s smile goes sharp again.
I beg to differ, and Charles half-gasps.
“Can’t afford to be hungover tomorrow,” he says, voice is blessedly steady and oh, there’s a cold bath of reality again, a wash of nerves and violence and calculation swirling around with the more pleasant types of intent.
“Such a good soldier,” but there’s sharpness grating in Erik’s purr and that’s good, isn’t it, it will make it easier to stick to his hastily constructed vow of restraint. And the images that word conjures up are not helpful. At all.
Erik grins, snaps for the check and their little waitress is either busy or has given up on them as a bad job - there she is, flirting with a gentleman in the corner, how nice - because it’s the hostess that brings the bill. “Do make some time to go out and actually see the sights,” and it’s easy to smile at her frank friendliness as he signs it all to their room, the better to hide this extravagance in their expense report. “The harbor is lovely at night.”
“I’ll make a point of it,” he promises, taking their leave with a cheery wave.
Erik doesn’t spare a glance for her, of course, but the way those remarkable hands are hovering, longing to light somewhere on Charles, sends him speeding out of the bar before he’s got to deflect public attention from a scandal. How he longs to let his shields drop, to feel the want zinging off of Erik fully instead of the muffled tastes he’s getting when their arms brush in the now-crowded hallway, but oh what a bad idea that would be. His resolve is in shreds as it is, every atom in him singing for more and soon in the crowded elevator, the noisy lobby. He wants to clutch at the hands brushing his “accidentally” as they finally, finally get to the hall outside of their room but of course there’s a middle-aged battleaxe thinking loudly about temperance and unruly youths rushing the country to damnation and then finally, finally they’re inside. Erik shoves the door shut behind them the old-fashioned way and crowds Charles up against it quick as blinking, clutching too hard at his biceps and pressing him into the protruding lock, hip hard against the doorknob, can he feel the metal digging into Charles, does he like it and then oh, finally, finally, that harsh mouth on his, demanding, plundering and Charles’ lips move like they belong to someone else, rushing from slow and soft to greedy nips without his permission and he shouldn’t like the tang of blood left over from Erik’s dinner half as much as he does, the near-bruising force of it all, the pushpushpush of warmyeswantWANT pinning him in place as surely as Erik’s implacable weight.
And then they’re gasping for air as though by accord and he’s got to stop this now if he’s going to. Charles has never wanted anything less but it is very much for the best. Erik yields to his light shove, greedy fingers tugging on Charles’ elbow, clear motion toward the beds and would it be so bad to just follow… “Tomorrow,” he gasps, and oh, that’s why, a startling rush of stealth and plans and white-hot anger wound round the rushrushrush of want isn’t quite the bucket of ice water he’d anticipated. “Much as I’d enjoy,” and he can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, Erik’s fierce grin, “it will be… exhausting.”
“I’m flattered,” and how is he meant to resist that purr.
“I mean it,” and he’s almost whimpering, damn it, but he makes himself tap at his temple. “I can’t… If we… I won’t be fighting fit.”
Erik drops his elbow at that, and that makes it easier to stumble around him, into the bathroom, into his damnable pajamas and maybe just this once he won’t brush his teeth, slip off to sleep with the taste of Erik lingering on his tongue and on second thought that isn’t likely to lead to much rest, now, is it.
Erik is prowling around outside the bathroom, drags those long, long fingers hard across Charles’ stomach as he makes his way to sink, splashes his face with cold water. The shock of it doesn’t clear the sharp press of want from his mind at all, or so little that Charles can’t feel it and would it really be so bad…
Yes. Yes it would. He can’t march into that city, that club, all burnt out and zinged up and it’s apparent that if this happens - when, when, let this not be a whim or a ploy, please god - when this happens it’s going to be something extraordinary and certainly tiring as all hell if he expects to keep his mind under any semblance of control.
He makes himself seal his mind tight as cellophane over leftovers, makes himself cross the room, lay out his clothes for the morning, ignore Erik’s hot eyes as he shambles out of the bathroom and slips silently into the bed nearer the door. But he doesn’t stop himself from darting over to that bed, leaning down to brush his lips over Erik’s, quick as blinking, almost - not quite - chaste. “Tomorrow,” he whispers, and the roiling clouds around Erik calm the tiniest bit.
“Tomorrow,” Erik repeats, voice rough, and oh, it sounds like a promise.