times erik takes off his helmet
WOW since apparently there wasn't enough badfic from me here in the first place here have more.
x-men first class fic. unedited, written while loopy on cough syrup that is OTC. that should be your warning. if you want fabbo fic read this shit.
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He’s been watching too much, maybe; keeping his mind open to the possibility-- to the sudden noise in the silence that is Erik’s mind, for that moment where he takes the helmet off. It’s not perfect-- it takes time, and when it finally does happen, Charles is careful, oh so careful, like he’s dipping toes onto a pool that may or may not be filled with sharks.
Their conversation is brief-- achingly brief, and Charles wants to drag it out further, but he keeps it simple, doesn’t dig.
“How is she?”
Erik doesn’t answer right away-- to drag this out, or because he doesn’t know how to answer, Charles isn’t sure. He doesn’t care, maybe, because he’s used to this, used to the way Erik’s mind feels, knows how to settle in unobtrusively and while it’s not quite comfortable ( he’s made of too many sharp angles for it to be comfortable, but they don’t hurt, not like this ) it’s enough, for the moment.
“She misses you,” Erik answers finally. “As if it needed to be said.”
No, Charles supposes. It doesn’t. He knows Raven misses him, he’d felt it the briefest moment he’d brushed over her mind on an impulse one morning, after the choking fear of missiles raining down on the beach with her on there and no one to save her ( for all his power can do, it can stop men, not missiles ) and that was enough. It ached-- that emptiness, that want for the normalcy to return was so sharp he’d not even realized that his nails were digging into his palm before he’d drawn away. Not satisfied, not even close, but relieved, faintly.
“Tell her--” Charles starts, and stops himself when he feels Erik stirring, fingers curling over smooth, cold metal. Ah. He doesn’t need to tell him to take care of her, it goes unsaid.
“I will.”
And the connection severs.
ANNND THE 'oh baww they are old men' fic.
__
He can’t wear the helmet forever.
Both of them understand it, and Erik-- no, Magneto, it’s so rare he even hears that name anymore, usually only in his own head, Charles’ disapproval as palpable as the metal he bends in his hand whenever it starts.
Charles never digs too deep-- he can’t sleep with the helmet on every night, and yet Erik finds that he never pries.
Never digs fingers into his head to find out what he’s doing next. Never pushes too hard, too far, to find out what is going on, never abuses that power he's been blessed with, not cursed.
‘The knowledge of what is abuse of power and what is not is important. It is what makes us--’ Charles starts, in the middle of the night, and even like this, he sounds tired.
‘It is what separates us from them, old friend,’ Erik responds, cutting him off before he can start, because for all that the years have made Charles more wise, he’s still as naive as the children he fosters and teaches. The friend title has stuck, though; Erik’s not sure if it started because of Charles’ stubbornness, his need to keep calling him that, or Erik’s own almost mocking tone, all the times he said it finally becoming something normal. ‘The ability to do what is necessary is one you still lack.’
‘Would you rather I pick everything from your mind, piece by piece, Erik?’ Charles asks wryly, though they both know he won’t, not like this.
Never like this. Not between friends.
‘Empty threats, Charles,’ Erik chides, and shakes his head. ‘Now go to sleep.’
He doesn’t fight; he’s tired, even now, and for all that he’s gotten used to the idea of a wheelchair and the years his legs have been of no use, he still finds they ache every so often, forcing him to roll over, and not think about any of that. ‘Maybe,’ Erik says faintly as the connection fades, ‘you are just getting old.’
‘...only as old as you are,’ Charles returns, and lets the connection slide off as they both go to sleep, though he finds he can’t, not for a few hours of staring at the ceiling.
x-men first class fic. unedited, written while loopy on cough syrup that is OTC. that should be your warning. if you want fabbo fic read this shit.
__
He’s been watching too much, maybe; keeping his mind open to the possibility-- to the sudden noise in the silence that is Erik’s mind, for that moment where he takes the helmet off. It’s not perfect-- it takes time, and when it finally does happen, Charles is careful, oh so careful, like he’s dipping toes onto a pool that may or may not be filled with sharks.
Their conversation is brief-- achingly brief, and Charles wants to drag it out further, but he keeps it simple, doesn’t dig.
“How is she?”
Erik doesn’t answer right away-- to drag this out, or because he doesn’t know how to answer, Charles isn’t sure. He doesn’t care, maybe, because he’s used to this, used to the way Erik’s mind feels, knows how to settle in unobtrusively and while it’s not quite comfortable ( he’s made of too many sharp angles for it to be comfortable, but they don’t hurt, not like this ) it’s enough, for the moment.
“She misses you,” Erik answers finally. “As if it needed to be said.”
No, Charles supposes. It doesn’t. He knows Raven misses him, he’d felt it the briefest moment he’d brushed over her mind on an impulse one morning, after the choking fear of missiles raining down on the beach with her on there and no one to save her ( for all his power can do, it can stop men, not missiles ) and that was enough. It ached-- that emptiness, that want for the normalcy to return was so sharp he’d not even realized that his nails were digging into his palm before he’d drawn away. Not satisfied, not even close, but relieved, faintly.
“Tell her--” Charles starts, and stops himself when he feels Erik stirring, fingers curling over smooth, cold metal. Ah. He doesn’t need to tell him to take care of her, it goes unsaid.
“I will.”
And the connection severs.
ANNND THE 'oh baww they are old men' fic.
__
He can’t wear the helmet forever.
Both of them understand it, and Erik-- no, Magneto, it’s so rare he even hears that name anymore, usually only in his own head, Charles’ disapproval as palpable as the metal he bends in his hand whenever it starts.
Charles never digs too deep-- he can’t sleep with the helmet on every night, and yet Erik finds that he never pries.
Never digs fingers into his head to find out what he’s doing next. Never pushes too hard, too far, to find out what is going on, never abuses that power he's been blessed with, not cursed.
‘The knowledge of what is abuse of power and what is not is important. It is what makes us--’ Charles starts, in the middle of the night, and even like this, he sounds tired.
‘It is what separates us from them, old friend,’ Erik responds, cutting him off before he can start, because for all that the years have made Charles more wise, he’s still as naive as the children he fosters and teaches. The friend title has stuck, though; Erik’s not sure if it started because of Charles’ stubbornness, his need to keep calling him that, or Erik’s own almost mocking tone, all the times he said it finally becoming something normal. ‘The ability to do what is necessary is one you still lack.’
‘Would you rather I pick everything from your mind, piece by piece, Erik?’ Charles asks wryly, though they both know he won’t, not like this.
Never like this. Not between friends.
‘Empty threats, Charles,’ Erik chides, and shakes his head. ‘Now go to sleep.’
He doesn’t fight; he’s tired, even now, and for all that he’s gotten used to the idea of a wheelchair and the years his legs have been of no use, he still finds they ache every so often, forcing him to roll over, and not think about any of that. ‘Maybe,’ Erik says faintly as the connection fades, ‘you are just getting old.’
‘...only as old as you are,’ Charles returns, and lets the connection slide off as they both go to sleep, though he finds he can’t, not for a few hours of staring at the ceiling.