His Favourite Book (XMFC, Charles/Erik, PG-13)
Title: His Favourite Book
Author: irrlicht74
Rating: PG-13 at the most
Word Count: 730
Characters: Charles/Erik
Summary: Erik watches Charles reading.
Disclaimer: I’m a lying liar who lies, and all.
Author's Note: Only a (very) short one-shot about Erik watching Charles reading. Unfortunately that’s about it. Nothing to write home about, but I just couldn’t get it out of my mind.
A huge THANK YOU to my beta azewewish! She did a fast and awesome job (especially by listening patiently to my whining, without telling me to get lost). All remaining mistakes are mine. I haven’t written anything in a veeeery long time, but after having seen X-Men: First Class I couldn’t resist.
And before my introduction gets longer than my ficlet...
His favourite book
Erik loved to watch Charles reading. Anything, actually, but books most of all.
He loved to see the corners of those extraordinary red lips - such a delightful contrast to Charles’ fair skin - curl upwards when something amusing happened in the story.
He loved to see these incredibly blue eyes glide over the pages, following the string of words to their inevitable end.
So focused.
So concentrated.
So entirely committed.
So into it, that he even had to be called three or four times - mentally - before he even blinked and looked up to ask, mildly confused, where the fire was.
He loved to see Charles’ eyes lighten up with interest. Or joy. Even plain irritation at times. Though, when Charles was irritated, there was also a slight frown.
Charles did everything slightly, even anger. As if he was afraid that even a little too much emotion from him would destroy the minds of the people around him. Personally Erik thought he didn't need to worry, because usually Charles had such a tight rein over his feelings, his thoughts and - by extent - his telepathy, that only World War III could bring him to project anything.
And even then Charles would probably ask permission first. Politely.
Sometimes, though, when Charles read, he seemed to forget about that and there were... moments - just heartbeats, really - when Erik (and maybe all the others in the mansion) could feel Charles’ pure, unabashed delight about the... about everything, actually.
How well-plotted the story was, how amazingly detailed the characters were created, how incredibly ahead of their times some writers were, how much he enjoyed the relationship of Character A with Character B and how unbelievingly annoyed he was at Character C for interfering.
Sometimes it felt as if Charles was only seconds away from jumping right into the book and changing the events to be just like he wanted them, bending them to his will.
Erik was almost sure that Charles coud pull it off, too.
Sometimes Charles’ fingertips caressed the pages while he read, as if he was not only reading with his eyes, but also by touch. Sometimes Erik could feel those fingertips caressing him, too. His eyes, his lips, his neck, the taut muscles of his abdomen, right below his navel, and Charled didn’t always stop there...
That was usually when Erik demonstratively cleared his throat and excused himself, or tried to reach for his friend’s mind. At least, when they were in a public place. Erik didn’t mind when they were at the mansion.
Charles didn’t mind either way, the little minx, but - so far - he’d always respected Erik’s wish for privacy.
Suddenly Charles looks up, right through the window, but Erik doesn’t move. He knows his helmet - Shaw’s helmet, or... ex-helmet - hides him well from Charles’ telepathy. Erik is sure his friend can’t see him in the pitch black darkness, the table light in his study too weak to illuminate anything outside the windows. It had been easy enough for Erik to levitate.
He misses this. He misses sitting inside, next to or across from Charles, reading or playing chess. He misses it like a limb, and the sheer force and intensity of his feelings is both frightening and amazing. Frightening, because Erik has no doubt it could make him do things he’d never even considered doing before. Amazing, because he’d thought he could never feel so deeply for anyone - anything, even - ever again.
He loved and hated Charles in equal measures for that .
But mostly he misses Charles. That’s why he will always come back. Only to watch. To bathe a little in the light that is Charles Xavier.
With a last long look at his friend - the only man he will ever love - Erik floats back to the ground and disappears into the night.
~ * ~
Inside the mansion and well out of Erik’s earshot, Charles sighs a soft, “I miss you, too, love,“ wondering when Erik will realize that the helmet isn’t really any hindrance for Charles to get inside his mind.
Not when they had shared so much more already.
Of course, Charles could have had rectified his friend’s perception with a single thought, but he knows that Erik needs to come to that realization on his own.
For now he lets Erik believe that Charles can’t read him anymore.
His favourite book.
~ The End ~
A/N: Sorry. Not my usual fluffy stuff, but nothing too depressing, right? There's HOPE at the end, people! :)
Author: irrlicht74
Rating: PG-13 at the most
Word Count: 730
Characters: Charles/Erik
Summary: Erik watches Charles reading.
Disclaimer: I’m a lying liar who lies, and all.
Author's Note: Only a (very) short one-shot about Erik watching Charles reading. Unfortunately that’s about it. Nothing to write home about, but I just couldn’t get it out of my mind.
A huge THANK YOU to my beta azewewish! She did a fast and awesome job (especially by listening patiently to my whining, without telling me to get lost). All remaining mistakes are mine. I haven’t written anything in a veeeery long time, but after having seen X-Men: First Class I couldn’t resist.
And before my introduction gets longer than my ficlet...
His favourite book
Erik loved to watch Charles reading. Anything, actually, but books most of all.
He loved to see the corners of those extraordinary red lips - such a delightful contrast to Charles’ fair skin - curl upwards when something amusing happened in the story.
He loved to see these incredibly blue eyes glide over the pages, following the string of words to their inevitable end.
So focused.
So concentrated.
So entirely committed.
So into it, that he even had to be called three or four times - mentally - before he even blinked and looked up to ask, mildly confused, where the fire was.
He loved to see Charles’ eyes lighten up with interest. Or joy. Even plain irritation at times. Though, when Charles was irritated, there was also a slight frown.
Charles did everything slightly, even anger. As if he was afraid that even a little too much emotion from him would destroy the minds of the people around him. Personally Erik thought he didn't need to worry, because usually Charles had such a tight rein over his feelings, his thoughts and - by extent - his telepathy, that only World War III could bring him to project anything.
And even then Charles would probably ask permission first. Politely.
Sometimes, though, when Charles read, he seemed to forget about that and there were... moments - just heartbeats, really - when Erik (and maybe all the others in the mansion) could feel Charles’ pure, unabashed delight about the... about everything, actually.
How well-plotted the story was, how amazingly detailed the characters were created, how incredibly ahead of their times some writers were, how much he enjoyed the relationship of Character A with Character B and how unbelievingly annoyed he was at Character C for interfering.
Sometimes it felt as if Charles was only seconds away from jumping right into the book and changing the events to be just like he wanted them, bending them to his will.
Erik was almost sure that Charles coud pull it off, too.
Sometimes Charles’ fingertips caressed the pages while he read, as if he was not only reading with his eyes, but also by touch. Sometimes Erik could feel those fingertips caressing him, too. His eyes, his lips, his neck, the taut muscles of his abdomen, right below his navel, and Charled didn’t always stop there...
That was usually when Erik demonstratively cleared his throat and excused himself, or tried to reach for his friend’s mind. At least, when they were in a public place. Erik didn’t mind when they were at the mansion.
Charles didn’t mind either way, the little minx, but - so far - he’d always respected Erik’s wish for privacy.
Suddenly Charles looks up, right through the window, but Erik doesn’t move. He knows his helmet - Shaw’s helmet, or... ex-helmet - hides him well from Charles’ telepathy. Erik is sure his friend can’t see him in the pitch black darkness, the table light in his study too weak to illuminate anything outside the windows. It had been easy enough for Erik to levitate.
He misses this. He misses sitting inside, next to or across from Charles, reading or playing chess. He misses it like a limb, and the sheer force and intensity of his feelings is both frightening and amazing. Frightening, because Erik has no doubt it could make him do things he’d never even considered doing before. Amazing, because he’d thought he could never feel so deeply for anyone - anything, even - ever again.
He loved and hated Charles in equal measures for that .
But mostly he misses Charles. That’s why he will always come back. Only to watch. To bathe a little in the light that is Charles Xavier.
With a last long look at his friend - the only man he will ever love - Erik floats back to the ground and disappears into the night.
~ * ~
Inside the mansion and well out of Erik’s earshot, Charles sighs a soft, “I miss you, too, love,“ wondering when Erik will realize that the helmet isn’t really any hindrance for Charles to get inside his mind.
Not when they had shared so much more already.
Of course, Charles could have had rectified his friend’s perception with a single thought, but he knows that Erik needs to come to that realization on his own.
For now he lets Erik believe that Charles can’t read him anymore.
His favourite book.
~ The End ~
A/N: Sorry. Not my usual fluffy stuff, but nothing too depressing, right? There's HOPE at the end, people! :)