fic: but I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more (epilogue)
And with this, we're done. Emma's epilogue, and plans in process.
Thank you, everyone, for reading and encouraging and commenting! I am rather in awe of all the love for this--and I love you all for it. *hugs everyone*
Title: But I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles, And I Would Walk Five Hundred More (Epilogue: Emma Gets The Last Word)
Rating: NC-17 overall; PG for this chapter
Warnings: none really for this chapter
Word Count: 1,253
Disclaimers: characters belong to Marvel, not me; only doing this for fun! title, opening, and closing lines from “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers
Summary/Notes: for a prompt on tumblr a while back that went like this: Charles goes to hire an escort himself from (who else?) Emma Frost’s service, sees a photo of artist!Erik and tries to book him, only to find Erik’s photo was misplaced and Erik is himself a client looking for an escort for a gallery opening… so Charles gets Emma to let him show up as Erik’s escort. Erik mistakes him for a rich donor and they spend the evening talking and probably bickering in a very UST way because Erik probably hates people like that. And Erik’s seething because he paid good money for his date and he never showed up. And later Charles follows Erik to his limo and quips, “oh, I think I’m supposed to be your date tonight?” with a cheeky little smile. Except my brain decided that there would be plot and secrets and Sebastian Shaw and Charles having an actual mission and Erik worrying and hurt/comfort and D/s themes and I don't even know.
TL;DR: In which Charles isn't really an escort, Erik thinks he only wants a one-night stand, everybody's got a past, and there's quite a lot of sex on the way to the happy ending.
Link to Chapter Twenty-One part two here, part one here, Twenty here, Nineteen here, Eighteen here, Seventeen here, Sixteen here, Fifteen here, Fourteen here, Thirteen here, Twelve here, Eleven here, Ten here, Nine here, Eight here, Seven here, Six part two here, part one here, Five part two here, part one here, Four here, Three here, Two here, One here, Prologue here
Also up at AO3 here
Emma leans back in her luxurious white-leather chair, tries to recall the last time she’s been at a loss for words, and finally says, “You want me to what?”
“Marry us.” Charles sounds slightly smug; not in the arrogant careless way he might’ve once, but more genuinely amused at her reaction. The amusement invites the world in, this time, instead of keeping it out. “It’s legal in New York. And you can get ordained online. I’ve checked.”
“Charles…” She stares at him. And therefore also at Erik Lehnsherr, because they’re standing there together, in her office, smiling. They can’t even hold hands like normal people; no, Erik’s got a long arm draped over Charles’s shoulders and Charles has his around Erik’s waist, and they look disgustingly happy that way. “Charles, you know what you’re asking?”
“I’m asking my friend-without whom I’d’ve never met Erik-to officiate at our wedding, yes.” Unruffled, unflappable, and, interestingly, doing all the talking; this is like the Charles she’s used to, but different, too. If she had to pick a word, she might even say comfortable.
Because he’s thrown her off-balance with the friend comment, she says, “You know society will laugh at you. Charles Xavier, getting married to a disreputable artist, ceremony presided over by a woman who’s seen detailed reports about most of them naked.”
“If I minded that, I wouldn’t ask you. Most of my parents’ friends couldn’t care less about me these days anyway. No more corporate politics or trade secrets to give away.” At that, Erik leans down to kiss him, a touch of lips to the nearest temple. It’s an intimate gesture, offered without care for whoever might be watching. Emma has the oddest impulse to glance away, to give them their privacy.
It’s her bloody office. She sits up straighter. “What makes you think I’d want to, in any case?”
There’re lots of reasons-starting with the plans they’ve described to her, a kind of shelter or halfway house or art studio-educational institute hybrid, a place she can send her employees and their families for safety or support or even for fun; continuing with the argument that said employees might revolt if she says no; ending with the way Charles is practically radiating happiness from blue eyes-but she’s Emma Frost, and she can’t be expected to do something for nothing.
Even if Charles has called her his friend.
“Because,” Erik says, the first time he’s spoken since the hellos, “it’ll make Charles happy.”
She examines him, too. Not the angry thin-lipped man she’d seen gazing back from his prospective client file; no, the man in front of her carries his adoration for Charles like a banner, proud and unashamed. And smiles as if he means it.
He does meet her eyes meaningfully, inches above that wavy-haired head. That look announces: Charles can have anything he wants, and I’m damned well going to make that happen. Emma, who does understand, can’t resist one last needle.
“Aren’t you Jewish, Mr Lehnsherr? Wouldn’t a nontraditional ceremony be frowned upon?”
“Oh-” Charles twists to look up at Erik, eyes wide. “I didn’t think-I’m so sorry, Erik, would you want-”
“Hush, kätzchen. No.” For some reason this makes Charles blush a lovely pink under all the freckles, and then try to argue. “But, Erik-”
“I don’t care. My mother would-” Erik pauses, glances at Emma, resumes as if reassuring Charles is more important. Emma resists the impulse to sniff in annoyance.
“My mother would want us to be happy,” Erik says, and runs his hand through Charles’s hair. “It’s not as if I practice…religiously…”
Good god. Erik Lehnsherr’s in her office, and has made a joke. Not a terribly good one, but nevertheless. A joke.
“…and if this will make you happy, then yes. To everything. Pineapple martinis. Bacon-chocolate cupcakes. Raiding your ancestral wine cellar.”
“I didn’t mention that last one, and it’s our wine cellar, but I like your idea.”
“I like you.”
“I-”
“Charles!” Emma says, loudly. They jump apart, looking guilty, though not as guilty as they should. “How large an event were you planning?”
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Perhaps. How large?”
“Not very, really.” Charles glances up at Erik again; the expression’s not one she’s used to seeing in those sapphire eyes, but it’s defined instantly when Erik lunges for the closest chair and tucks him into it. Charles smiles a little; Erik puts a hand on his shoulder, and Charles’s hand finds it without looking.
“You. My sister, and Erik’s friend Azazel-the one who sent him to you in the first place, he’s a performance artist, escapes and illusions, you might like him-”
Emma sighs.
“-and Moira and Hank and, well, anyone from here. Who wants to come.”
“Are you mad? They’ll all want to come!”
“Our lawn is big enough for that,” Charles says cheerfully, and Erik stands at his side like a knight beside a throne, straight and fierce and devoted. Charles is wearing a ring, she notices, on the lifted hand. It shimmers in infinite shades of metal in the light.
“You’re sure about this. Both of you.”
It’s Erik who says, simply, “Yes,” but Charles meets her gaze and nods. Yes.
Emma sighs again. “If you’re going to steal all my employees in any case…and if you’re promising me my pick from the legendary Xavier wine cellars…”
Charles’s smile lights up the room. Outshines even the flawless white décor of her office. “So you will?”
“I’m going to regret this,” Emma says, “but yes.”
“Thank you,” Charles says, looking at her.
“Charles,” Erik says, looking at him.
“I’m fine, the knee’s only tired, it doesn’t even hurt-”
“Tired?”
Charles raises an eyebrow. Erik scowls. Charles smiles; Erik visibly gives in. “Fine. Chess in the park. One game, and only because I promised. Then home. I’ll buy you pizza on the way if you don’t argue.”
“Can that also involve pineapple?”
Erik sighs, then looks thoughtful, then bends down to whisper into an ear. Charles says, sounding delighted, “Really? I’d’ve thought we’d have enough evidence for that by now, but if you’re suggesting another taste-test for scientific accuracy-”
“Get out of my office, you two.”
“Oh, sorry-”
Erik whispers something else which makes Charles blush again, but keeps a firm grip on his arm as he gets up from the chair, and falls into step with one hand hovering protectively at the small of Charles’s back as they head for the door.
“You cannot possibly beat that record,” Charles retorts, and then, hastily, “Really very sorry, Emma, we’re going-” and the door swings shut on Erik murmuring what sounds like the words “I do enjoy a challenge…” and Emma very slowly leans forward and puts her elbows on her desk and hides her face in her hands until they’ve thoroughly gone.
And then she sits up. And grabs a sheet of paper, and a pen. She has some appointment reports to look over, but that can wait. She’s got a wedding ceremony to compose.
She taps her pen against the paper, and wonders whether she’s allowed to mention how they met. It’d be an awfully good story to tell.
when I come home, oh I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you
and if I grow old, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you...
Thank you, everyone, for reading and encouraging and commenting! I am rather in awe of all the love for this--and I love you all for it. *hugs everyone*
Title: But I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles, And I Would Walk Five Hundred More (Epilogue: Emma Gets The Last Word)
Rating: NC-17 overall; PG for this chapter
Warnings: none really for this chapter
Word Count: 1,253
Disclaimers: characters belong to Marvel, not me; only doing this for fun! title, opening, and closing lines from “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers
Summary/Notes: for a prompt on tumblr a while back that went like this: Charles goes to hire an escort himself from (who else?) Emma Frost’s service, sees a photo of artist!Erik and tries to book him, only to find Erik’s photo was misplaced and Erik is himself a client looking for an escort for a gallery opening… so Charles gets Emma to let him show up as Erik’s escort. Erik mistakes him for a rich donor and they spend the evening talking and probably bickering in a very UST way because Erik probably hates people like that. And Erik’s seething because he paid good money for his date and he never showed up. And later Charles follows Erik to his limo and quips, “oh, I think I’m supposed to be your date tonight?” with a cheeky little smile. Except my brain decided that there would be plot and secrets and Sebastian Shaw and Charles having an actual mission and Erik worrying and hurt/comfort and D/s themes and I don't even know.
TL;DR: In which Charles isn't really an escort, Erik thinks he only wants a one-night stand, everybody's got a past, and there's quite a lot of sex on the way to the happy ending.
Link to Chapter Twenty-One part two here, part one here, Twenty here, Nineteen here, Eighteen here, Seventeen here, Sixteen here, Fifteen here, Fourteen here, Thirteen here, Twelve here, Eleven here, Ten here, Nine here, Eight here, Seven here, Six part two here, part one here, Five part two here, part one here, Four here, Three here, Two here, One here, Prologue here
Also up at AO3 here
Emma leans back in her luxurious white-leather chair, tries to recall the last time she’s been at a loss for words, and finally says, “You want me to what?”
“Marry us.” Charles sounds slightly smug; not in the arrogant careless way he might’ve once, but more genuinely amused at her reaction. The amusement invites the world in, this time, instead of keeping it out. “It’s legal in New York. And you can get ordained online. I’ve checked.”
“Charles…” She stares at him. And therefore also at Erik Lehnsherr, because they’re standing there together, in her office, smiling. They can’t even hold hands like normal people; no, Erik’s got a long arm draped over Charles’s shoulders and Charles has his around Erik’s waist, and they look disgustingly happy that way. “Charles, you know what you’re asking?”
“I’m asking my friend-without whom I’d’ve never met Erik-to officiate at our wedding, yes.” Unruffled, unflappable, and, interestingly, doing all the talking; this is like the Charles she’s used to, but different, too. If she had to pick a word, she might even say comfortable.
Because he’s thrown her off-balance with the friend comment, she says, “You know society will laugh at you. Charles Xavier, getting married to a disreputable artist, ceremony presided over by a woman who’s seen detailed reports about most of them naked.”
“If I minded that, I wouldn’t ask you. Most of my parents’ friends couldn’t care less about me these days anyway. No more corporate politics or trade secrets to give away.” At that, Erik leans down to kiss him, a touch of lips to the nearest temple. It’s an intimate gesture, offered without care for whoever might be watching. Emma has the oddest impulse to glance away, to give them their privacy.
It’s her bloody office. She sits up straighter. “What makes you think I’d want to, in any case?”
There’re lots of reasons-starting with the plans they’ve described to her, a kind of shelter or halfway house or art studio-educational institute hybrid, a place she can send her employees and their families for safety or support or even for fun; continuing with the argument that said employees might revolt if she says no; ending with the way Charles is practically radiating happiness from blue eyes-but she’s Emma Frost, and she can’t be expected to do something for nothing.
Even if Charles has called her his friend.
“Because,” Erik says, the first time he’s spoken since the hellos, “it’ll make Charles happy.”
She examines him, too. Not the angry thin-lipped man she’d seen gazing back from his prospective client file; no, the man in front of her carries his adoration for Charles like a banner, proud and unashamed. And smiles as if he means it.
He does meet her eyes meaningfully, inches above that wavy-haired head. That look announces: Charles can have anything he wants, and I’m damned well going to make that happen. Emma, who does understand, can’t resist one last needle.
“Aren’t you Jewish, Mr Lehnsherr? Wouldn’t a nontraditional ceremony be frowned upon?”
“Oh-” Charles twists to look up at Erik, eyes wide. “I didn’t think-I’m so sorry, Erik, would you want-”
“Hush, kätzchen. No.” For some reason this makes Charles blush a lovely pink under all the freckles, and then try to argue. “But, Erik-”
“I don’t care. My mother would-” Erik pauses, glances at Emma, resumes as if reassuring Charles is more important. Emma resists the impulse to sniff in annoyance.
“My mother would want us to be happy,” Erik says, and runs his hand through Charles’s hair. “It’s not as if I practice…religiously…”
Good god. Erik Lehnsherr’s in her office, and has made a joke. Not a terribly good one, but nevertheless. A joke.
“…and if this will make you happy, then yes. To everything. Pineapple martinis. Bacon-chocolate cupcakes. Raiding your ancestral wine cellar.”
“I didn’t mention that last one, and it’s our wine cellar, but I like your idea.”
“I like you.”
“I-”
“Charles!” Emma says, loudly. They jump apart, looking guilty, though not as guilty as they should. “How large an event were you planning?”
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Perhaps. How large?”
“Not very, really.” Charles glances up at Erik again; the expression’s not one she’s used to seeing in those sapphire eyes, but it’s defined instantly when Erik lunges for the closest chair and tucks him into it. Charles smiles a little; Erik puts a hand on his shoulder, and Charles’s hand finds it without looking.
“You. My sister, and Erik’s friend Azazel-the one who sent him to you in the first place, he’s a performance artist, escapes and illusions, you might like him-”
Emma sighs.
“-and Moira and Hank and, well, anyone from here. Who wants to come.”
“Are you mad? They’ll all want to come!”
“Our lawn is big enough for that,” Charles says cheerfully, and Erik stands at his side like a knight beside a throne, straight and fierce and devoted. Charles is wearing a ring, she notices, on the lifted hand. It shimmers in infinite shades of metal in the light.
“You’re sure about this. Both of you.”
It’s Erik who says, simply, “Yes,” but Charles meets her gaze and nods. Yes.
Emma sighs again. “If you’re going to steal all my employees in any case…and if you’re promising me my pick from the legendary Xavier wine cellars…”
Charles’s smile lights up the room. Outshines even the flawless white décor of her office. “So you will?”
“I’m going to regret this,” Emma says, “but yes.”
“Thank you,” Charles says, looking at her.
“Charles,” Erik says, looking at him.
“I’m fine, the knee’s only tired, it doesn’t even hurt-”
“Tired?”
Charles raises an eyebrow. Erik scowls. Charles smiles; Erik visibly gives in. “Fine. Chess in the park. One game, and only because I promised. Then home. I’ll buy you pizza on the way if you don’t argue.”
“Can that also involve pineapple?”
Erik sighs, then looks thoughtful, then bends down to whisper into an ear. Charles says, sounding delighted, “Really? I’d’ve thought we’d have enough evidence for that by now, but if you’re suggesting another taste-test for scientific accuracy-”
“Get out of my office, you two.”
“Oh, sorry-”
Erik whispers something else which makes Charles blush again, but keeps a firm grip on his arm as he gets up from the chair, and falls into step with one hand hovering protectively at the small of Charles’s back as they head for the door.
“You cannot possibly beat that record,” Charles retorts, and then, hastily, “Really very sorry, Emma, we’re going-” and the door swings shut on Erik murmuring what sounds like the words “I do enjoy a challenge…” and Emma very slowly leans forward and puts her elbows on her desk and hides her face in her hands until they’ve thoroughly gone.
And then she sits up. And grabs a sheet of paper, and a pen. She has some appointment reports to look over, but that can wait. She’s got a wedding ceremony to compose.
She taps her pen against the paper, and wonders whether she’s allowed to mention how they met. It’d be an awfully good story to tell.
when I come home, oh I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you
and if I grow old, well I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you...