The Bell's Toll (10/?)
Title: The Bell's Toll (10/?)
Author: monstrousreg
Word count:
Warnings: Violence, fast pacing, eventual NC-17. So, uh, the usual for me, I suppose.
Pairing: Erik/Charles.
Summary: Nikkita AU inspired by this prompt. A sort of fusion between the two series, with a healthy (or not) dose of my own imagination. Charles Xavier goes to prison, and is recruited by a spy/assassin division of the government. Dismal a beginning as this might look, it unbelievably goes downhill. Erik, the necessary stoic ex-military man, gets sidled with him. Not a single person is amused.
Prologue
Charles knew his hastily put-together cover hadn’t worked when Emma Frost showed up at his room early the next morning. She had clearly meant to catch him asleep and off-balance, but Baskerville caught her approach in the hallway. Charles was sitting calmly on the bed, back against the headboard and legs stretched out under the covers, when she made her dramatic entrance.
“And good morn to you as well,” he said meekly, hands folded primly in his lap.
Frost slowed down, eyes narrowed, and closed the door carefully behind herself. Baskerville prowled to Charles’ bed and sat at his feet, eyes ablaze. Somehow, somehow, Frost had not sensed him. Why? She had to be powerful. Was she merely incompetent? She certainly didn’t look it.
“Well,” Frost said, easing herself down to the edge of Charles’ bed and crossing her legs. Charles really hoped she wasn’t aiming to seduce him, because that was going to be very awkward. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful and sensual; it was that Charles didn’t have sex with people he didn’t find intellectually stimulating, and Frost was just about anything but that.
“Indeed,” Charles drawled.
“You’re certainly no level five telepath,” she settled on, mild. “Seven at least.”
Charles laughed.
“If you wish.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Let’s put the cards on the table, Xavier. Why do you want Erik?”
Charles arched his brows.
“I don’t. Kindly remember you paired him with me.”
“Then why protect him?”
“Why lobotomize him?” he asked in turn, tilting his head.
“I’m not,” she hissed.
“Oh but you are,” Charles sat up, eyes intent. “It strikes me as rather unbelievable that you argue you cannot see you are killing him, slowly and painfully. Entire patches of memory are missing; you may wish to play incompetent, but know now that I will not.”
“The only reason Erik is alive is thanks to me,” Frost dropped her smile, and frowned. “He owes me everything. I won him.”
Charles laughed.
“How stupid you must be,” he said softly. “If you think you can bend such a man until he will lick your shoes. I have known him for a little while and I can see he will not bend the knee.”
“He’s been with us for a long time,” she said quietly, eyes like chips of ice. “And he’s never tried to escape me.”
“Or if he tried, he was unsuccessful enough you could convince yourself he hadn’t tried at all,” Charles offered, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. “Is that what this is? You want him for yourself, like a little girl with a precious toy? Will you break him and put him back together the wrong way, over and over, because that’s what arouses you? Broken little sexual toys, is it, dear Miss Frost?”
The slap wasn’t a surprise, though she did it with more force that he had expected. Slowly turning his face towards her, he smiled, sharp like a knife.
“Hit a never, darling?”
“What manner of creature are you?” she asked, eyes narrowed. Ah, but there was something else there beneath the anger, beneath the outrage-a little seed quickly growing.
Fear.
“I’m not a level seven telepath, I’ll tell you that much,” he answered, quietly. He leaned forward a little closer so he could stare into her eyes. “So if you won’t fuck him, why do you keep him around, subdued like a pup?”
“That’s none of your business,” Emma smiled again. “Besides, what concern is it of yours? You don’t want him, after all.”
Charles smiled. “Keep your secrets, Miss Frost,” he murmured. “You won’t be keeping them for long.”
Her lips pursed in distaste, but her eyes had narrowed. She was angry, sure, but uncertain, now, as well. She didn’t know how powerful Charles was or what he was willing to do to get what he wanted-nor did she know, for that matter, what he wanted. Or did she? Had she been listening when he had spoken before in the conference room?
“But what’s the point?” she asked softly, blue eyes dropping to Charles’ mouth as if she thought she could tempt him to take her to bed and thus control him. Charles smirked. “We could get along.” She glanced at him again, noted his flat boredom, and arched a brow.
“Unless you want Erik.”
“This is very boorish,” he scolded, unimpressed. “I’m sure you can do better than that.”
Emma’s eyes flittered. “There’s no reason for us to be at war, Charles. We can simply help each other. You know what I need from you; do it and then-then we can part ways amicably enough.”
Ah. So she had been listening.
“My freedom. And all I have to do is step back and let you twist dear little Erik until he’s a senseless zombie.”
Emma shrugged. “He’s nothing to you.”
Baskerville, until then quiet and still, let his ears drop against his skull, eyes wide. The truth was Charles owed Erik nothing, had no responsibility or duty towards him. The only duty Charles had was to himself, to ensure his own safety and freedom. The hound whined. He could go-do this little task and go, it would cost him little to cooperate for a very short while.
And look away when Erik’s nose bled, or when he held still too long, or when he was asked a simple question and the void of stolen memory rushed up to crush him.
Charles smiled.
“No,” he said thoughtfully, and watched Emma’s eyes widen. “My freedom for Erik’s life. It’s not enough. No, thank you. I think I’ll stay.”
Emma stared at him for a long while. Baskerville shifted, jaws opening, eyes aglow.
“Why?” she asked, almost a breath.
“Because I want to,” Charles answered simply. “And because you can’t stop me.”
“I can. I-“
“No. No, I don’t think you understand. You lost your chance to bargain with me when you came to hat conference room to bully me. Up until that point I would have negotiated. But you shot that horse in the face, didn’t you?”
Charles moved the covers away and stood, went to the desk and sat in the chair instead, crossing his legs, as if he weren’t in plain white cotton pajamas and barefoot. This game he knew well enough.
“I don’t think you understand at all. You should have let me go when you had the chance. Because now you’ve turned this from what I needed into what I want.”
Emma got up slowly, eyes like diamonds, now once again composed and cold.
“And what do you want?”
Charles smiled. “Wait and find out.”
A long pause.
“In case you cared, I will still do this little mission for you,” he continued. “I’m curious, and I have nothing better to do around here in any case.”
Emma made a vague gesture of exasperation with her hand and turned to the door, but before she touched the doorknob Charles spoke up again.
“For future reference,” he added, quiet. “There will be no more tempering with Erik’s brain. I was going to be subtle about it, but since you’ve chosen to be open with me, I’ll repay the kindness.”
Emma turned around and gave him a playful smirk.
“So this is going to be a war between us after all.”
“It was always going to be a war between us,” Charles replied. “It was only a matter of when. Have a good day, Miss Frost.”
Emma withdrew, because there could possibly be nothing left to say between them. Charles stayed in the chair, thoughtful, reviewing his decision and deciding that yes, it was the one he wanted. The only one he could do at this point, because Charles Xavier was all about escalating.
Baskerville slid off the bed and came to rest his snout on Charles’ thigh, eyes like fire. Charles laid a hand softly on the top of his strong head, smoothing down the silk-soft fur. He felt the heat of the hound along his thighs and calves, pressed his bare foot against his belly to warm up his toes. The hound pressed closer, lashes fluttering.
“Go to Erik,” Charles said absently, curling his fingers to fist his hands on Baskerville’s fur. “Stay with him, and watch. Frost will go to him. She must; already Erik trusts me more than he does her. Corrections to his behavior are necessary. If she tries to manipulate him, shield him; and be very aggressive about it, if you please.”
Baskerville dissolved.
Charles sat there for a moment longer, contemplative, before he got up and went to have a shower. He was rinsing conditioner off his hair when Baskerville’s powers flared up. He paused momentarily to order the hound’s senses and align them with Erik’s well-structured mind, reinforcing shields and repelling outside influences. Then he withdrew.
He was dressed and shaving in the bathroom when Erik knocked in the door. He called him in, rising the razor, and Erik joined him, leaning against the doorjamb. He looked well enough; well rested, which was a novelty, and no signs of blood in his nostrils.
What low standards I have, Charles mused.
“Good morning,” Erik greeted, watching Charles methodically shave his cheekbone.
“Mhm,” Charles hummed, squinting at the mirror. He huffed and looked at the razor, feeling pricklish. “I think my teeth have more edge than this thing.”
“Here, hand it over,” Erik offered his hand. Charles surrendered the razor, leaning his hip against the sink. Erik came closer to rinse it; the bathroom was really very small, and the space offer was limited. Erik was forced to get in Charles’ space, and his hand fell comfortably to Charles’s arm. It stayed there as Erik brought the razor up again and stared at it, eyes half-lidded.
Charles took the chance to give him a closer, critical look. Erik had sharp masculine features; thin well-shaped lips, a strong nose, high cheekbones, expressive straight eyebrows and long-lashed blue eyes. Charles would have understood Emma wanting to take him to bed; understood, but not approved. Certainly not allowed.
He wondered what would happen if he let Erik inside, let him permeate his shields, let him slip inside the borders of his mind to nestle there like a warm cat. Erik craved closeness like a starved man. It cost Charles little to give it to him; a kindness, a gesture. He closed his eyes and dispelled the outermost shields.
He could feel the flow of Erik’s power against his telepathy, like electricity, static energy raising up the fine hairs on his arms. If he focused he could feel it happening; the metal sharpening, thinning, bending to Erik’s will, doing as he commanded. Erik’s hand was warm through the fabric of his shirt; he had a clean scent, no cologne, something vague but penetrating, like the taste of ozone on Charles’ tongue, that made his teeth ache and his skin crawl with repressed energy.
Erik’s power, rising and falling against his own like the tides of the ocean. Oh, he was a powerful creature. The feel of it was-heady.
Charles opened his eyes. Behind Erik, Baskerville was standing, fur soft like silk and eyes bright like the mouths of living volcanoes.
Erik’s hand moved up from Charles’ arm to his jaw, and he tilted Charles’ face up.
“May I?” he asked, quietly, eyes bright.
The only logical answer to that was no. But Charles’ shields were down, and he was dizzy in the wake of Erik’s gift, swayed by Erik’s own thrill at the proximity-the man needed the contact so bad, he was so starved for it. Charles didn’t owe Erik anything. But for all the whims it bent to and all the tantrums it pursued, Baskerville was not a stupid creature. Let him have it.
Charles nodded, and closed his eyes. Very carefully, Erik pressed the razor, scalpel-sharp, to his cheekbone, and started it dragging it meticulously down. The telepath relaxed and let the man handle the movements of his head. Erik wouldn’t hurt him, he couldn’t if he wanted to, and he very clearly didn’t want to.
“Frost came to see me this morning,” Erik said, hushed in the quiet of the bathroom, as if the proximity between them made him reluctant to speak and shatter whatever intimacy had been suddenly born.
Charles smiled slightly. “Did she. How fascinating. Tell me more.”
Erik made a vague sound. “She suggested we go out of the facility today,” he said.
Charles opened his eyes. Erik was staring down at a spot on his chin, paying attention as he scraped the sharp metal against Charles’ pale skin.
“I have a small mission to take care of,” Erik continued, rinsing the razor. Charles kept his eye on his downturned eyes, the stretch of the flesh of his lids, his strangely straight and masculine eyebrows. “I thought you could come with me. You seem to be suffering from some cabin fever.”
“And this idea came from out illustrious leader?”
Erik’s brows twitched closer. “Frost is not the leader of Division,” he said.
Charles arches his brows. “Isn’t she?”
“She’s the second-in-command, if you will. The Colonel is the chief of Division. Sebastian Shaw.”
Ah.
“So what do you say?” Erik reached behind Charles to grasp the towel and wet it. He wiped the rest of Charles’ shaving foam carefully, almost tenderly. “Join me for a stroll?”
So Emma wanted desperately out of the facility. Charles wondered what she was planning. He had declared war this morning, and now the move was hers. Clearly, she didn’t think Charles’ range was wide enough to reach the facility all the way from the city or, perhaps, she hoped the thousands of minds he’d be surrounded by would be some sort of buffer. White noise.
Foolish. But Charles resolved to let her have her time. This was a game he knew how to play.
“If it’ll get me out of here,” Charles nodded. He put his hands on Erik’s waist and pushed him to the side to brush by him out into the room. Erik liked being touched; Charles didn’t particularly mind.
“But I’m warning you, I’m not going anywhere dressed like this,” he added, arching a brow.
Erik gave him a dry look. “You’re such a princess. We’ll get clothes for you when we’re out-but for the record, they won’t be Versace or whatever it is you wear.”
Charles scoffed. “Versace? I’m offended. I wore Tom Ford, I’ll have you know.”
“What did I do to deserve you?”
I wonder, Charles thought, and sent a wry look at Baskerville, who was tilting his head in similar puzzlement. That the blasted thing could manage to look cute, considering it was shaped after a hell-hound, was worthy of admiration.
Erik led Chares through the facility as if he though Charles didn’t know where the garages were. Charles hadn’t shared his little trick of reading psychic imprints in walls, mostly because he was too lazy to explain it and Erik was a cynical man. Charles had the habit of keeping secrets; if Erik asked, maybe he’d tell him, but he wasn’t about to volunteer anything.
The car was unremarkable; a sleek black Mercedes with normal, forgettable plates, and dark-smoked windows. Inside it was meticulously clean. Charles wondered if they used it to transport bodies. Baskerville materialized on the back seat and stretched out comfortably, even going as far as theatrically yawning. Charles twisted around to shoot him a look, but the hound smacked his lips and rolled out his long blood-red tongue, and then worked its jaw as if trying for the right position to accommodate his myriad of deadly fangs.
“Everything alright?” Erik asked, buckling his seatbelt.
“Hm,” was all Charles gave as reply, turning back around to buckle his own seatbelt. “Oh, do tell me you’ll take me for a drink, yes? I shall be indebted to your forever.”
Erik started the car and backed out of the spot, smiling crookedly. “That is tempting.”
Charles, a little rattled by-whatever that had been back in his bathroom, chose not to answer. Baskerville snorted.
They finally emerged from the underground garage out into the road.
“Reminds you of home a bit?” Erik asked, amused.
If it kept raining like this for very long, anytime now they’d have to hope Noah showed up with his big boat.
“Do you miss England?” Erik continued, absently, paying attention to the road. Charles could feel the currents of his powers buffeting against his shields; he was keeping the car under his command to avoid the possibility of accidents.
“It was a place to live,” Charles answered quietly, focusing on the shifts and raises of Erik’s gift, following his minute adjustments to the car’s course. He paused. “Do you miss Poland?”
Erik’s mind immediately replied: no. Erik’s mouth twisted slightly, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s a little blurry.”
Blurry wasn’t the word Charles would have chosen. Even worse, Erik’s subconscious knew something that it wasn’t communicating to the rest of Erik’s brain, like certain areas of memory had been deliberately walled off.
“Would you put the car on the shoulder for a moment?” Charles requested, shifting in his seat. Erik shot him a curious look, but complied easily enough, letting the car slow to a halt by the road. Charles held up a hand for a moment, throwing his telepathy out in a dome. As he had thought, Emma’s telepathy was there, a small diamond-like snake. Baskerville sat up.
Charles didn’t even say anything; simply and abruptly, he severed the snake and shattered its body. Frost would be having a nasty migraine all day.
Now certain Erik was free of her direct interference, Charles unbuckled his belt and turned so he was facing the man.
“Give me your left arm.” He said, stretching out his right hand palm-up.
Erik gritted his jaw. “I know what you’re after.”
“I doubt you do,” Charles replied, leaning forward. He could reach out and grab the man’s wrist-Erik wouldn’t stop him, he knew. But it was better if Erik volunteered it. Baskerville sat up, ears prickling forward and tongue lolling out.
A long pause. The only sound in the car was the rain hitting the windows and the metal, and the rhythmic asthmatic sound of the windshield-wipers working frantically. Erik worked his jaw, the muscles ticking, eyes fixed in the windshield. Finally he tilted his head in reluctance, but twisted around and presented Charles with his right forearm, covered by the sleeve of his turtle-neck sweater. Charles smiled slightly, grasped his wrist and carefully pulled the sleeve up to Erik’s elbow.
Sure enough, there sat the numbers. 240006.
Charles stroked a finger carefully over the skin; the tattoo was raised a little, rough and dark. A crude, painful job. Erik’s hand fisted. The play of the muscles and tendons as he did was truly lovely. Charles pressed his palm against the tattoo.
“Do you know what it is?”
Erik swallowed. “I do.”
Charles waited. Baskerville shifted to press his paws to the floor of the car and reach his head between the two seats, gazing at Erik’s face with interest.
“But do you know what it means?” Charles insisted.
Erik wrenched his arm away and curled it over his stomach as if he felt sick, yanking the sleeve back down. He looked pale as a sheet suddenly, eyes wild. Baskerville’s jaw snapped shut. He could taste it; fear.
“I know what it means,” Erik said, forcing his voice to be even. “I’m circumcised. I can read Hebrew, even though I don’t remember studying it. But I don’t know why I have it. I was born in nineteen-eighty. I don’t know why I would have this on me.”
Charles thought about that for a moment.
“Have you researched the number itself?”
Erik nodded. “It was branded into a boy named Max Eisenhardt. He died in Auschwitz in nineteen-forty-five at the edge of fifteen. He was Polish, as well. But that’s all I could find about him.”
“Maybe a distant relative of yours? A link in the bloodline?”
Erik’s eyebrows drew close to each other. “Not according to my family records. I can’t be his descendant if he died at fifteen.”
“No, I suppose not,” Charles said pensively. He rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes and shrugged, settling back on his seat.
“Are you done with your questions now?” Erik glared at him.
“Not nearly,” Charles replied, waving a hand dismissively to the wheel to indicate Erik should be driving again. “But it looks like you don’t have any worthwhile answers.”
Erik pulled the car back into the road and twisted his long mouth in a grimace.
“If I can’t give you the answers, who else?”
Charles answered: “I want a suit. I know a good place to buy good-quality ones, and I know they’ll have trench-coats as well. One of those would suit you, I’ll wager. Why do you always wear turtle-necks anyway?”
Erik’s eyebrows migrated to his hairline.
“I don’t concern myself much with what I wear,” he said finally, warily.
“You ought to. You tend to intimidate people with your body language. A sharp suit would only increase that effect.”
“Are you my sassy gay friend now?”
“I’m straight. Mostly. And I don’t sass; I advice.”
Erik rolled his eyes, but he didn’t vehemently oppose when Charles directed him to a hidden little clothing store. Just as they were getting off the car Erik reached over and grasped his arm, stopping him.
“Will they know you in this store?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’ll wipe their minds later,” Charles shrugged off his hand. “Don’t be fussy.”
“And pray tell how do you intend to pay for this?” Erik insisted as Charles rounded the car to join him.
“You’re getting paid for your services,” Charles pointed out. “And I know this,” he gave Erik’s long body a swift look. “isn’t taking up much maintenance money. So you’re going to pay for it.”
Erik huffed a short, disbelieving laugh. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m joking,” Charles said flatly, and pushed the door open to enter the store. The clerk turned around, and upon spotting Charles grinned widely.
“Mister Xavier! I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been otherwise occupied,” Charles offered a winning smile. “As you can see, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he added, gesturing down at himself. The clerk wrinkled his nose comically at the cotton shirt and pants.
“Quite unlike you, sir. And your friend?”
“He’ll be having a suit too,” Charles bulldozed over Erik’s quiet reply. “I’m thinking, understated, grey, sober.”
“Oh yes,” the clerk nodded approvingly, squinting at Erik’s face. “Very good for his eyes. And for yourself?”
“Casual, light blue perhaps? I’m taking suggestions.”
“It’ll be good for my eyes?” Erik hissed.
“That and carrots,” Charles retorted.
“This is insane. What are we even doing here? I have a mission, Charles.”
“Erik, good Lord. Live a little. Do you ever do anything for fun at all? Don’t say dismembering people, that’s just callous.”
Erik stared at him, speechless. “I don’t-Jesus Christ. What did I do to deserve you?”
The clerk returned, studying Erik with a critical eye. “Hat, sir?”
“Yes, he’ll take a hat,” Charles replied, eyes fixed on Erik.
“No,” Erik growled, but the clerk was leaving already. He glared furiously at Charles. “Fuck your hat.”
“Erik,” Charles caught the man’s eyes. “Listen to me. I know how people think, and I know how they see other people. You’re not an inconspicuous man, Erik; you’re very tall and very fit, and you have a handsome face. People notice you. If you wear these sorts of unremarkable clothes,” he gestured at Erik’s turtleneck and dark jeans. “People have nothing to focus on but your face. They’ll remember your eyes, the slope of your eyebrows, your nose, the shape of your mouth. That makes you recognizable.”
Erik seemed to have calmed down, and now was really listening to what Charles was saying, attentive.
“Our first line of defense is always anonymity, Erik. Put on a suit, wear a hat, choose the right sunglasses, and when someone asks people to identify you, your facial features will be a blur.”
“Is that how you’ve blended in, all these years?”
“Part of it,” Charles admitted.
Erik nodded, waving a hand and seemingly putting himself at the clerk’s mercy. Charles left them to themselves, wandering the store, looking at the hangers that caught his attention. He chose for himself a casual, unassuming two-piece suit and a fine starched white shirt. When he returned to the back of the store, he found Baskerville sitting on the ground, looking absolutely delighted.
Charles arched a brow and took a seat in an armchair, crossing his legs. Baskerville came to leaned against his thighs, eyes bright.
When he finally emerged from the booth, Erik was wearing a very dark grey suit, a black shirt and a rather bright thin tie. He looked absolutely beautiful. Charles was stunned.
“Well,” he said, blinking. “This was a good idea. I’m rather proud of myself.”
Erik straightened his tie a little self-consciously. “I haven’t worn a suit in-“ memory missing. “a while.”
Baskerville’s eyes fell down, hackles rising. The reminder of Erik’s broken mind made Charles’ moot take a turn towards the dark; but he smiled winning rose and batted Eriks’ hands away to fix the knot himself.
“You look fine, darling. Now let’s get you a coat and a hat, hm?”
“I feel like your toy,” Erik muttered, but he was undeniably leaning closer to Charles. His traitorous, needy body. Well, nothing for it. Charles patted his shoulder and stepped away.
“But what a well-dressed toy you are.”
Erik rolled his eyes. They picked up coats and, in the end, Erik did give in a buy a hat. It looked perfectly fine on him. Charles always looked like a hipster when he wore hats, it was irritating.
When the time to pay came, Charles made the clerks believe Erik and he had been two anonymous men that had randomly wandered in, and made up false names to be written down on the store’s book.
The mission Erik had to take care of was meeting a source and getting information from them. He drove them to a small café in a perfectly forgettable part of the city, and then told Charles to wait in the bar while he sat at a table with his contact, a slim pretty-looking lady that gave Erik a very definite once-over as soon as he crossed the door.
Charles entitled to ordering himself a scotch, but then it was nearly noon, and it felt just a tad too decadent even for him. Instead he ordered tea, and settled to wait, with Erik in his line of sight.
And he cast his mind out. Out, far and wide, skimming, skimming, reading random minds for amusement, but always flying, shifting, moving. When he found her he opened his eyes, and smiled.
She gasped.
Hello, Miss Frost, he sent out, calm and warm, and politely settled her dizziness with a gentle sweep of his mind. How kind of you to invite me out today. The city really is lovely, and Erik makes for charming company. I hope you have used your time alone wisely; I didn’t peek in, if you were worried. I just thought I’d drop in to let you know we’re having a nice time. Ta.
And let her stew in her terror.
Chapter 11
Author: monstrousreg
Word count:
Warnings: Violence, fast pacing, eventual NC-17. So, uh, the usual for me, I suppose.
Pairing: Erik/Charles.
Summary: Nikkita AU inspired by this prompt. A sort of fusion between the two series, with a healthy (or not) dose of my own imagination. Charles Xavier goes to prison, and is recruited by a spy/assassin division of the government. Dismal a beginning as this might look, it unbelievably goes downhill. Erik, the necessary stoic ex-military man, gets sidled with him. Not a single person is amused.
Prologue
Charles knew his hastily put-together cover hadn’t worked when Emma Frost showed up at his room early the next morning. She had clearly meant to catch him asleep and off-balance, but Baskerville caught her approach in the hallway. Charles was sitting calmly on the bed, back against the headboard and legs stretched out under the covers, when she made her dramatic entrance.
“And good morn to you as well,” he said meekly, hands folded primly in his lap.
Frost slowed down, eyes narrowed, and closed the door carefully behind herself. Baskerville prowled to Charles’ bed and sat at his feet, eyes ablaze. Somehow, somehow, Frost had not sensed him. Why? She had to be powerful. Was she merely incompetent? She certainly didn’t look it.
“Well,” Frost said, easing herself down to the edge of Charles’ bed and crossing her legs. Charles really hoped she wasn’t aiming to seduce him, because that was going to be very awkward. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful and sensual; it was that Charles didn’t have sex with people he didn’t find intellectually stimulating, and Frost was just about anything but that.
“Indeed,” Charles drawled.
“You’re certainly no level five telepath,” she settled on, mild. “Seven at least.”
Charles laughed.
“If you wish.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Let’s put the cards on the table, Xavier. Why do you want Erik?”
Charles arched his brows.
“I don’t. Kindly remember you paired him with me.”
“Then why protect him?”
“Why lobotomize him?” he asked in turn, tilting his head.
“I’m not,” she hissed.
“Oh but you are,” Charles sat up, eyes intent. “It strikes me as rather unbelievable that you argue you cannot see you are killing him, slowly and painfully. Entire patches of memory are missing; you may wish to play incompetent, but know now that I will not.”
“The only reason Erik is alive is thanks to me,” Frost dropped her smile, and frowned. “He owes me everything. I won him.”
Charles laughed.
“How stupid you must be,” he said softly. “If you think you can bend such a man until he will lick your shoes. I have known him for a little while and I can see he will not bend the knee.”
“He’s been with us for a long time,” she said quietly, eyes like chips of ice. “And he’s never tried to escape me.”
“Or if he tried, he was unsuccessful enough you could convince yourself he hadn’t tried at all,” Charles offered, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. “Is that what this is? You want him for yourself, like a little girl with a precious toy? Will you break him and put him back together the wrong way, over and over, because that’s what arouses you? Broken little sexual toys, is it, dear Miss Frost?”
The slap wasn’t a surprise, though she did it with more force that he had expected. Slowly turning his face towards her, he smiled, sharp like a knife.
“Hit a never, darling?”
“What manner of creature are you?” she asked, eyes narrowed. Ah, but there was something else there beneath the anger, beneath the outrage-a little seed quickly growing.
Fear.
“I’m not a level seven telepath, I’ll tell you that much,” he answered, quietly. He leaned forward a little closer so he could stare into her eyes. “So if you won’t fuck him, why do you keep him around, subdued like a pup?”
“That’s none of your business,” Emma smiled again. “Besides, what concern is it of yours? You don’t want him, after all.”
Charles smiled. “Keep your secrets, Miss Frost,” he murmured. “You won’t be keeping them for long.”
Her lips pursed in distaste, but her eyes had narrowed. She was angry, sure, but uncertain, now, as well. She didn’t know how powerful Charles was or what he was willing to do to get what he wanted-nor did she know, for that matter, what he wanted. Or did she? Had she been listening when he had spoken before in the conference room?
“But what’s the point?” she asked softly, blue eyes dropping to Charles’ mouth as if she thought she could tempt him to take her to bed and thus control him. Charles smirked. “We could get along.” She glanced at him again, noted his flat boredom, and arched a brow.
“Unless you want Erik.”
“This is very boorish,” he scolded, unimpressed. “I’m sure you can do better than that.”
Emma’s eyes flittered. “There’s no reason for us to be at war, Charles. We can simply help each other. You know what I need from you; do it and then-then we can part ways amicably enough.”
Ah. So she had been listening.
“My freedom. And all I have to do is step back and let you twist dear little Erik until he’s a senseless zombie.”
Emma shrugged. “He’s nothing to you.”
Baskerville, until then quiet and still, let his ears drop against his skull, eyes wide. The truth was Charles owed Erik nothing, had no responsibility or duty towards him. The only duty Charles had was to himself, to ensure his own safety and freedom. The hound whined. He could go-do this little task and go, it would cost him little to cooperate for a very short while.
And look away when Erik’s nose bled, or when he held still too long, or when he was asked a simple question and the void of stolen memory rushed up to crush him.
Charles smiled.
“No,” he said thoughtfully, and watched Emma’s eyes widen. “My freedom for Erik’s life. It’s not enough. No, thank you. I think I’ll stay.”
Emma stared at him for a long while. Baskerville shifted, jaws opening, eyes aglow.
“Why?” she asked, almost a breath.
“Because I want to,” Charles answered simply. “And because you can’t stop me.”
“I can. I-“
“No. No, I don’t think you understand. You lost your chance to bargain with me when you came to hat conference room to bully me. Up until that point I would have negotiated. But you shot that horse in the face, didn’t you?”
Charles moved the covers away and stood, went to the desk and sat in the chair instead, crossing his legs, as if he weren’t in plain white cotton pajamas and barefoot. This game he knew well enough.
“I don’t think you understand at all. You should have let me go when you had the chance. Because now you’ve turned this from what I needed into what I want.”
Emma got up slowly, eyes like diamonds, now once again composed and cold.
“And what do you want?”
Charles smiled. “Wait and find out.”
A long pause.
“In case you cared, I will still do this little mission for you,” he continued. “I’m curious, and I have nothing better to do around here in any case.”
Emma made a vague gesture of exasperation with her hand and turned to the door, but before she touched the doorknob Charles spoke up again.
“For future reference,” he added, quiet. “There will be no more tempering with Erik’s brain. I was going to be subtle about it, but since you’ve chosen to be open with me, I’ll repay the kindness.”
Emma turned around and gave him a playful smirk.
“So this is going to be a war between us after all.”
“It was always going to be a war between us,” Charles replied. “It was only a matter of when. Have a good day, Miss Frost.”
Emma withdrew, because there could possibly be nothing left to say between them. Charles stayed in the chair, thoughtful, reviewing his decision and deciding that yes, it was the one he wanted. The only one he could do at this point, because Charles Xavier was all about escalating.
Baskerville slid off the bed and came to rest his snout on Charles’ thigh, eyes like fire. Charles laid a hand softly on the top of his strong head, smoothing down the silk-soft fur. He felt the heat of the hound along his thighs and calves, pressed his bare foot against his belly to warm up his toes. The hound pressed closer, lashes fluttering.
“Go to Erik,” Charles said absently, curling his fingers to fist his hands on Baskerville’s fur. “Stay with him, and watch. Frost will go to him. She must; already Erik trusts me more than he does her. Corrections to his behavior are necessary. If she tries to manipulate him, shield him; and be very aggressive about it, if you please.”
Baskerville dissolved.
Charles sat there for a moment longer, contemplative, before he got up and went to have a shower. He was rinsing conditioner off his hair when Baskerville’s powers flared up. He paused momentarily to order the hound’s senses and align them with Erik’s well-structured mind, reinforcing shields and repelling outside influences. Then he withdrew.
He was dressed and shaving in the bathroom when Erik knocked in the door. He called him in, rising the razor, and Erik joined him, leaning against the doorjamb. He looked well enough; well rested, which was a novelty, and no signs of blood in his nostrils.
What low standards I have, Charles mused.
“Good morning,” Erik greeted, watching Charles methodically shave his cheekbone.
“Mhm,” Charles hummed, squinting at the mirror. He huffed and looked at the razor, feeling pricklish. “I think my teeth have more edge than this thing.”
“Here, hand it over,” Erik offered his hand. Charles surrendered the razor, leaning his hip against the sink. Erik came closer to rinse it; the bathroom was really very small, and the space offer was limited. Erik was forced to get in Charles’ space, and his hand fell comfortably to Charles’s arm. It stayed there as Erik brought the razor up again and stared at it, eyes half-lidded.
Charles took the chance to give him a closer, critical look. Erik had sharp masculine features; thin well-shaped lips, a strong nose, high cheekbones, expressive straight eyebrows and long-lashed blue eyes. Charles would have understood Emma wanting to take him to bed; understood, but not approved. Certainly not allowed.
He wondered what would happen if he let Erik inside, let him permeate his shields, let him slip inside the borders of his mind to nestle there like a warm cat. Erik craved closeness like a starved man. It cost Charles little to give it to him; a kindness, a gesture. He closed his eyes and dispelled the outermost shields.
He could feel the flow of Erik’s power against his telepathy, like electricity, static energy raising up the fine hairs on his arms. If he focused he could feel it happening; the metal sharpening, thinning, bending to Erik’s will, doing as he commanded. Erik’s hand was warm through the fabric of his shirt; he had a clean scent, no cologne, something vague but penetrating, like the taste of ozone on Charles’ tongue, that made his teeth ache and his skin crawl with repressed energy.
Erik’s power, rising and falling against his own like the tides of the ocean. Oh, he was a powerful creature. The feel of it was-heady.
Charles opened his eyes. Behind Erik, Baskerville was standing, fur soft like silk and eyes bright like the mouths of living volcanoes.
Erik’s hand moved up from Charles’ arm to his jaw, and he tilted Charles’ face up.
“May I?” he asked, quietly, eyes bright.
The only logical answer to that was no. But Charles’ shields were down, and he was dizzy in the wake of Erik’s gift, swayed by Erik’s own thrill at the proximity-the man needed the contact so bad, he was so starved for it. Charles didn’t owe Erik anything. But for all the whims it bent to and all the tantrums it pursued, Baskerville was not a stupid creature. Let him have it.
Charles nodded, and closed his eyes. Very carefully, Erik pressed the razor, scalpel-sharp, to his cheekbone, and started it dragging it meticulously down. The telepath relaxed and let the man handle the movements of his head. Erik wouldn’t hurt him, he couldn’t if he wanted to, and he very clearly didn’t want to.
“Frost came to see me this morning,” Erik said, hushed in the quiet of the bathroom, as if the proximity between them made him reluctant to speak and shatter whatever intimacy had been suddenly born.
Charles smiled slightly. “Did she. How fascinating. Tell me more.”
Erik made a vague sound. “She suggested we go out of the facility today,” he said.
Charles opened his eyes. Erik was staring down at a spot on his chin, paying attention as he scraped the sharp metal against Charles’ pale skin.
“I have a small mission to take care of,” Erik continued, rinsing the razor. Charles kept his eye on his downturned eyes, the stretch of the flesh of his lids, his strangely straight and masculine eyebrows. “I thought you could come with me. You seem to be suffering from some cabin fever.”
“And this idea came from out illustrious leader?”
Erik’s brows twitched closer. “Frost is not the leader of Division,” he said.
Charles arches his brows. “Isn’t she?”
“She’s the second-in-command, if you will. The Colonel is the chief of Division. Sebastian Shaw.”
Ah.
“So what do you say?” Erik reached behind Charles to grasp the towel and wet it. He wiped the rest of Charles’ shaving foam carefully, almost tenderly. “Join me for a stroll?”
So Emma wanted desperately out of the facility. Charles wondered what she was planning. He had declared war this morning, and now the move was hers. Clearly, she didn’t think Charles’ range was wide enough to reach the facility all the way from the city or, perhaps, she hoped the thousands of minds he’d be surrounded by would be some sort of buffer. White noise.
Foolish. But Charles resolved to let her have her time. This was a game he knew how to play.
“If it’ll get me out of here,” Charles nodded. He put his hands on Erik’s waist and pushed him to the side to brush by him out into the room. Erik liked being touched; Charles didn’t particularly mind.
“But I’m warning you, I’m not going anywhere dressed like this,” he added, arching a brow.
Erik gave him a dry look. “You’re such a princess. We’ll get clothes for you when we’re out-but for the record, they won’t be Versace or whatever it is you wear.”
Charles scoffed. “Versace? I’m offended. I wore Tom Ford, I’ll have you know.”
“What did I do to deserve you?”
I wonder, Charles thought, and sent a wry look at Baskerville, who was tilting his head in similar puzzlement. That the blasted thing could manage to look cute, considering it was shaped after a hell-hound, was worthy of admiration.
Erik led Chares through the facility as if he though Charles didn’t know where the garages were. Charles hadn’t shared his little trick of reading psychic imprints in walls, mostly because he was too lazy to explain it and Erik was a cynical man. Charles had the habit of keeping secrets; if Erik asked, maybe he’d tell him, but he wasn’t about to volunteer anything.
The car was unremarkable; a sleek black Mercedes with normal, forgettable plates, and dark-smoked windows. Inside it was meticulously clean. Charles wondered if they used it to transport bodies. Baskerville materialized on the back seat and stretched out comfortably, even going as far as theatrically yawning. Charles twisted around to shoot him a look, but the hound smacked his lips and rolled out his long blood-red tongue, and then worked its jaw as if trying for the right position to accommodate his myriad of deadly fangs.
“Everything alright?” Erik asked, buckling his seatbelt.
“Hm,” was all Charles gave as reply, turning back around to buckle his own seatbelt. “Oh, do tell me you’ll take me for a drink, yes? I shall be indebted to your forever.”
Erik started the car and backed out of the spot, smiling crookedly. “That is tempting.”
Charles, a little rattled by-whatever that had been back in his bathroom, chose not to answer. Baskerville snorted.
They finally emerged from the underground garage out into the road.
“Reminds you of home a bit?” Erik asked, amused.
If it kept raining like this for very long, anytime now they’d have to hope Noah showed up with his big boat.
“Do you miss England?” Erik continued, absently, paying attention to the road. Charles could feel the currents of his powers buffeting against his shields; he was keeping the car under his command to avoid the possibility of accidents.
“It was a place to live,” Charles answered quietly, focusing on the shifts and raises of Erik’s gift, following his minute adjustments to the car’s course. He paused. “Do you miss Poland?”
Erik’s mind immediately replied: no. Erik’s mouth twisted slightly, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s a little blurry.”
Blurry wasn’t the word Charles would have chosen. Even worse, Erik’s subconscious knew something that it wasn’t communicating to the rest of Erik’s brain, like certain areas of memory had been deliberately walled off.
“Would you put the car on the shoulder for a moment?” Charles requested, shifting in his seat. Erik shot him a curious look, but complied easily enough, letting the car slow to a halt by the road. Charles held up a hand for a moment, throwing his telepathy out in a dome. As he had thought, Emma’s telepathy was there, a small diamond-like snake. Baskerville sat up.
Charles didn’t even say anything; simply and abruptly, he severed the snake and shattered its body. Frost would be having a nasty migraine all day.
Now certain Erik was free of her direct interference, Charles unbuckled his belt and turned so he was facing the man.
“Give me your left arm.” He said, stretching out his right hand palm-up.
Erik gritted his jaw. “I know what you’re after.”
“I doubt you do,” Charles replied, leaning forward. He could reach out and grab the man’s wrist-Erik wouldn’t stop him, he knew. But it was better if Erik volunteered it. Baskerville sat up, ears prickling forward and tongue lolling out.
A long pause. The only sound in the car was the rain hitting the windows and the metal, and the rhythmic asthmatic sound of the windshield-wipers working frantically. Erik worked his jaw, the muscles ticking, eyes fixed in the windshield. Finally he tilted his head in reluctance, but twisted around and presented Charles with his right forearm, covered by the sleeve of his turtle-neck sweater. Charles smiled slightly, grasped his wrist and carefully pulled the sleeve up to Erik’s elbow.
Sure enough, there sat the numbers. 240006.
Charles stroked a finger carefully over the skin; the tattoo was raised a little, rough and dark. A crude, painful job. Erik’s hand fisted. The play of the muscles and tendons as he did was truly lovely. Charles pressed his palm against the tattoo.
“Do you know what it is?”
Erik swallowed. “I do.”
Charles waited. Baskerville shifted to press his paws to the floor of the car and reach his head between the two seats, gazing at Erik’s face with interest.
“But do you know what it means?” Charles insisted.
Erik wrenched his arm away and curled it over his stomach as if he felt sick, yanking the sleeve back down. He looked pale as a sheet suddenly, eyes wild. Baskerville’s jaw snapped shut. He could taste it; fear.
“I know what it means,” Erik said, forcing his voice to be even. “I’m circumcised. I can read Hebrew, even though I don’t remember studying it. But I don’t know why I have it. I was born in nineteen-eighty. I don’t know why I would have this on me.”
Charles thought about that for a moment.
“Have you researched the number itself?”
Erik nodded. “It was branded into a boy named Max Eisenhardt. He died in Auschwitz in nineteen-forty-five at the edge of fifteen. He was Polish, as well. But that’s all I could find about him.”
“Maybe a distant relative of yours? A link in the bloodline?”
Erik’s eyebrows drew close to each other. “Not according to my family records. I can’t be his descendant if he died at fifteen.”
“No, I suppose not,” Charles said pensively. He rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes and shrugged, settling back on his seat.
“Are you done with your questions now?” Erik glared at him.
“Not nearly,” Charles replied, waving a hand dismissively to the wheel to indicate Erik should be driving again. “But it looks like you don’t have any worthwhile answers.”
Erik pulled the car back into the road and twisted his long mouth in a grimace.
“If I can’t give you the answers, who else?”
Charles answered: “I want a suit. I know a good place to buy good-quality ones, and I know they’ll have trench-coats as well. One of those would suit you, I’ll wager. Why do you always wear turtle-necks anyway?”
Erik’s eyebrows migrated to his hairline.
“I don’t concern myself much with what I wear,” he said finally, warily.
“You ought to. You tend to intimidate people with your body language. A sharp suit would only increase that effect.”
“Are you my sassy gay friend now?”
“I’m straight. Mostly. And I don’t sass; I advice.”
Erik rolled his eyes, but he didn’t vehemently oppose when Charles directed him to a hidden little clothing store. Just as they were getting off the car Erik reached over and grasped his arm, stopping him.
“Will they know you in this store?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’ll wipe their minds later,” Charles shrugged off his hand. “Don’t be fussy.”
“And pray tell how do you intend to pay for this?” Erik insisted as Charles rounded the car to join him.
“You’re getting paid for your services,” Charles pointed out. “And I know this,” he gave Erik’s long body a swift look. “isn’t taking up much maintenance money. So you’re going to pay for it.”
Erik huffed a short, disbelieving laugh. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m joking,” Charles said flatly, and pushed the door open to enter the store. The clerk turned around, and upon spotting Charles grinned widely.
“Mister Xavier! I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been otherwise occupied,” Charles offered a winning smile. “As you can see, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he added, gesturing down at himself. The clerk wrinkled his nose comically at the cotton shirt and pants.
“Quite unlike you, sir. And your friend?”
“He’ll be having a suit too,” Charles bulldozed over Erik’s quiet reply. “I’m thinking, understated, grey, sober.”
“Oh yes,” the clerk nodded approvingly, squinting at Erik’s face. “Very good for his eyes. And for yourself?”
“Casual, light blue perhaps? I’m taking suggestions.”
“It’ll be good for my eyes?” Erik hissed.
“That and carrots,” Charles retorted.
“This is insane. What are we even doing here? I have a mission, Charles.”
“Erik, good Lord. Live a little. Do you ever do anything for fun at all? Don’t say dismembering people, that’s just callous.”
Erik stared at him, speechless. “I don’t-Jesus Christ. What did I do to deserve you?”
The clerk returned, studying Erik with a critical eye. “Hat, sir?”
“Yes, he’ll take a hat,” Charles replied, eyes fixed on Erik.
“No,” Erik growled, but the clerk was leaving already. He glared furiously at Charles. “Fuck your hat.”
“Erik,” Charles caught the man’s eyes. “Listen to me. I know how people think, and I know how they see other people. You’re not an inconspicuous man, Erik; you’re very tall and very fit, and you have a handsome face. People notice you. If you wear these sorts of unremarkable clothes,” he gestured at Erik’s turtleneck and dark jeans. “People have nothing to focus on but your face. They’ll remember your eyes, the slope of your eyebrows, your nose, the shape of your mouth. That makes you recognizable.”
Erik seemed to have calmed down, and now was really listening to what Charles was saying, attentive.
“Our first line of defense is always anonymity, Erik. Put on a suit, wear a hat, choose the right sunglasses, and when someone asks people to identify you, your facial features will be a blur.”
“Is that how you’ve blended in, all these years?”
“Part of it,” Charles admitted.
Erik nodded, waving a hand and seemingly putting himself at the clerk’s mercy. Charles left them to themselves, wandering the store, looking at the hangers that caught his attention. He chose for himself a casual, unassuming two-piece suit and a fine starched white shirt. When he returned to the back of the store, he found Baskerville sitting on the ground, looking absolutely delighted.
Charles arched a brow and took a seat in an armchair, crossing his legs. Baskerville came to leaned against his thighs, eyes bright.
When he finally emerged from the booth, Erik was wearing a very dark grey suit, a black shirt and a rather bright thin tie. He looked absolutely beautiful. Charles was stunned.
“Well,” he said, blinking. “This was a good idea. I’m rather proud of myself.”
Erik straightened his tie a little self-consciously. “I haven’t worn a suit in-“ memory missing. “a while.”
Baskerville’s eyes fell down, hackles rising. The reminder of Erik’s broken mind made Charles’ moot take a turn towards the dark; but he smiled winning rose and batted Eriks’ hands away to fix the knot himself.
“You look fine, darling. Now let’s get you a coat and a hat, hm?”
“I feel like your toy,” Erik muttered, but he was undeniably leaning closer to Charles. His traitorous, needy body. Well, nothing for it. Charles patted his shoulder and stepped away.
“But what a well-dressed toy you are.”
Erik rolled his eyes. They picked up coats and, in the end, Erik did give in a buy a hat. It looked perfectly fine on him. Charles always looked like a hipster when he wore hats, it was irritating.
When the time to pay came, Charles made the clerks believe Erik and he had been two anonymous men that had randomly wandered in, and made up false names to be written down on the store’s book.
The mission Erik had to take care of was meeting a source and getting information from them. He drove them to a small café in a perfectly forgettable part of the city, and then told Charles to wait in the bar while he sat at a table with his contact, a slim pretty-looking lady that gave Erik a very definite once-over as soon as he crossed the door.
Charles entitled to ordering himself a scotch, but then it was nearly noon, and it felt just a tad too decadent even for him. Instead he ordered tea, and settled to wait, with Erik in his line of sight.
And he cast his mind out. Out, far and wide, skimming, skimming, reading random minds for amusement, but always flying, shifting, moving. When he found her he opened his eyes, and smiled.
She gasped.
Hello, Miss Frost, he sent out, calm and warm, and politely settled her dizziness with a gentle sweep of his mind. How kind of you to invite me out today. The city really is lovely, and Erik makes for charming company. I hope you have used your time alone wisely; I didn’t peek in, if you were worried. I just thought I’d drop in to let you know we’re having a nice time. Ta.
And let her stew in her terror.
Chapter 11