[fic] xm: fc - leave all worries behind you - pg - charles/erik
Title: leave all worries behind you
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG
Length: ~2k
Summary: After a fraught day, Erik falls into a calming dream. The problem is, it's not his.
Notes: For the "Dreams" square on my cottoncandy_bingo card. Thanks to pearl_o and littledust for looking it over. Title from "Dream a Little Dream of Me."
The walls of the room are painted a very pale blue. It's just a few shades from white and it leaves everything looking bright. Not cheerful, necessarily, but peaceful. Calm. Sunlight pours in through the windows, open just enough to let in the sea breeze and the smell of salt. He hears birds and the sound of the waves out on the beach. Inside the room, there are paintings on the wall--one of them is of a sailboat on the sea. The other is a house on the seashore. Erik knows, somehow, that it's the house he's currently standing in. A shelf holds a collection of shells and bottles, all covered by dust, but almost charmingly so. The sofa is dark blue and looks comfortable, but sturdy.
"Huh," he says out loud.
He has no idea where he is.
Further investigation of the room reveals a bookshelf stuffed with old nautical themed texts and newer science ones, as if the shelf had been put in to fit the seaside theme of the room and only reluctantly drafted into practical use. The driftwood coffee table is covered by more open science books. Underneath the anchor shaped lamp on the end table are several half-full mugs of something too light to be coffee. Tea, Erik suspects.
"Oh."
Erik looks up from his inspection of a pale green mug. Charles is standing in the doorway to what appears to be the kitchen. He's wearing a navy pullover sweater and brown corduroys. He looks surprised. Erik is less surprised--if the books hadn't been a giveaway, the tea solidified his suspicions.
"I'm sorry," Charles says. "This was...a mistake."
"It's fine," Erik says. He's remarkably calm. Maybe it's the color of the paint.
"We're dreaming," Charles explains. He shoves his hands into his pockets. It makes him seem smaller, somehow. "Well. I'm dreaming. You've been pulled along for the ride, I'm afraid. I'm terribly sorry--I haven't done this in a very long time."
"I see," Erik says. That might explain the relaxation, at least. This is quite a respite from his normal dreams. "Is this your home?"
Charles looks around almost wistfully. His smile isn't precisely happy.
"Not exactly," he says. "It's a house my father owned on Cape Cod. We visited a few times when I was a very small boy, and when I was a teenager and my mother and her husband were--ah--indisposed, Raven and I would come out here. I liked it much better than the house, honestly. It was comforting, somehow."
Erik notices the switch from "my father" to "her husband," but he doesn't comment. Charles has absolutely no compunctions about talking Erik's ear off about any topic that he wants to share. If he doesn't want to share this one, that's his prerogative. He thinks Charles expects him to be surprised or taken aback by the mention of multiple houses, of a summer home obviously unimportant enough for his parents to dismiss it for years. He's seen the way Charles spends money, though, and this revelation is hardly surprising.
"So this is your dream?" Erik asks, looking around. Through the gauzy white curtains, he can almost see the ocean in the distance.
"It is," Charles says. He comes fully into the room and Erik watches as he looks around as well. "It's... a side effect of my ability. It doesn't happen often, though I suppose that's partially because I don't normally sleep in such close quarters with anyone besides Raven, and I trained my mind to stay out of hers years ago." He shrugs.
Erik thinks of the lines Charles uses on girls in bars and the easy way he wanders off when he gets bored, more invested in a game of chess or telling Erik stories about Raven. This, upon reflection, is also hardly surprising.
"Why tonight?" Erik asks. He turns from Charles and walks slowly around the room, taking in the objects he's already examined, the staircase near the door, and Charles--wrapped up in warm clothing, curled in on himself, and standing in a house he clearly thinks of with fondness. He thinks he's figured it out already.
"It's been a long day," Charles says. "I was cold and tired and upset. I think my mind tried to compensate by pulling together things I find comforting." He seems to think twice about what he's said. He blushes, which is interesting--Erik would think that he could control such simple reactions in his own head. "Meaning, of course, that we're surrounded by strangers and your mind is familiar to me. You helped me today. I'm sure there's some sort of unconscious connection that my mind has made in order to extend the safety that you offered."
Charles is curling his fingers into the sleeves of his sweater. It's the action of a much younger man, a man less sure of himself. A man, perhaps, nearly overcome by hypothermia in the middle of the desert in July, thanks to a confrontational mutant with the power to slowly freeze liquid on contact. Charles was sure that Erik's particular manner of recruitment would scare their potential ally off, was sure that he could handle it himself. It was lucky, really, that Erik was less confident in Charles' charms, that he'd stayed close enough to sprint to Charles' aid after his stricken mental call for help.
It was a frightening moment. Erik has seen men freeze to death. It's a terrible way to die, a terrible thing to watch, but it's never broken his heart before, not like it nearly did this afternoon. Charles tried to brush it off once he'd warmed up, wrapped in sweaters and blankets and sipping a mug of tea, but Erik thinks the way Charles didn't even stop Erik from breaking the man's fingers speaks more to the fear he felt as his blood was slowly turning to ice.
He stops his circuit of the room in front of Charles. He studies him, the slope of his nose, his freckles, the way he holds himself. It's different, here. It's softer, more hesitant. Erik is used to confidence that bleeds over into arrogance, into enthusiasm and bullheadedness. This Charles looks almost fragile.
He wonders if this is how Charles sees himself. Too breakable. Too young. He wonders if that bolster is always hiding this, or if it's just on days when he comes this close to death.
He reaches out and touches Charles' shoulder, both to reassure himself that he did save Charles and to see how real this all feels. Charles is solid under his hand, and warm. His cheeks go rosy again.
"You're okay," Erik says.
"I am," Charles agrees. "Just...off center, I suppose. I truly am sorry. I didn't mean to pull you into this."
"It's fine," Erik says. He looks down at himself for the first time. He's wearing the black polo shirt and linen slacks he was wearing this morning. The scars on the back of his hands and arms are still in place. His tattoo is still there. The detailing is exact. He wonders if its his mind or Charles' providing it.
"You pay more attention than I give you credit for," he says. He looks back up at Charles, who shrugs again.
"It can't be helped," Charles says. "A perk of my mutation--I have an excellent memory." The smile he gives is self-deprecating. It has none of the charm or luster of his usual smiles.
Erik is uncomfortable, and for none of the reasons he should be. Charles' careless arrogance irritates him regularly. He shouldn't miss it. He slides his hand down to Charles' elbow.
"You're better than this," he says.
"I'm afraid I don't follow," Charles says.
"You're--you're more than this. You're--" He squeezes Charles' elbow. He hasn't taken these feelings out and examined them. He hasn't allowed himself to think of this at all. He knows where he stands when it comes to Charles--he doesn't lie to himself. He knows he's attracted to Charles. He recognizes, even, that there's affection there as well, though he hasn't studied it too closely. He hasn't studied any of it, because it's a distraction from his goal. It's not important, or maybe it's too important. It's not something he can understand and it's easier to just avoid it.
At least it was, before Charles pulled him into a dream, before Charles peered up at him with those huge, clear eyes, his mouth curved into a frown, and all the swagger drained out of his personality. He wants to find the man with the cooling touch and break the rest of his fingers, to do more than that, to make sure he can never do this again. No one should be able to make Charles look like this.
"You shouldn't let anyone change you," Erik finally says. It's not what he wants to say, but it's the closest he can come.
"What if I want them to?" Charles asks. His voice is quiet. He's still staring at Erik, but something in his eyes has changed. He still looks frightened, but it's a different kind of fear. Erik can feel an answering trepidation building in his chest. There's a reason he never took those emotions out and looked at them. He's not sure what to do. He steps closer and raises his other hand, brushing his fingertips over Charles' hair. It's soft. It's always looked soft. They're still staring at each other, even as the air between them twists into something else. Erik touches Charles' cheek.
"You--you shouldn't," Erik says, but he doesn't back away. "I'm not--you shouldn't." The words get lost in his throat.
"Too late," Charles murmurs. "You're already here." He lays his hand over Erik's, pressing Erik's palm against his cheek. He tips his face further up and Erik can't stop himself.
It's just a dream, he tells himself. It doesn't count. You can do it. You can do it this once.
Charles' lips are gentle against his, just the barest brush of sensation at first. Erik almost misses it, but before he can protest, Charles' mouth is back. It's a firmer push, and Erik kisses him back. His lips taste like salt. Erik can hear the ocean outside the house as he kisses him again and again, as he licks against Charles' teeth and pulls Charles closer towards him.
Everything quiets in his head. The rage is little more than a dull roar, drowned out by the cloud of feelings he can't identify forming in his chest.
He pulls back, but he doesn't let go. Charles opens his eyes very slowly.
"Don't tell me this is a bad idea," Charles says quietly. "This is a dream. I'm allowed to have this in a dream. I'm allowed to not think about what it means, just for a moment."
"I won't say anything," Erik assures him. He lets go of Charles' elbow and puts that hand at his waist instead. His sweater is thick and Erik suddenly needs to know what's underneath it. He needs to know what Charles' skin feels like. He needs to fit his hand around Charles' hip and hold him still so Erik can--
***
Erik opens his eyes with a start. It only takes him a moment to orient himself in the dark hotel room, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He hears the lingering echo of a truck's horn, which explains his sudden wakefulness. He glances at the other bed, but Charles is still asleep, hunched under the covers.
It's the same room that he went to bed in. It's perfectly serviceable, but something about it seems... less.
He's angry. When he fell asleep, everything was fine. He was content with what he had, it was adequate enough to get the job done. He didn't need anything more. He doesn't want to need it now--he hates this feeling under his skin, this need to stare at Charles, this desire to be close. Before, he could mute it easily enough, bury it deep under the knowledge that Charles didn't return those desires, that it was little more than a distraction, a daydream, something he didn't have time for. Now it's burning through him, flashing through his veins, glowing so bright as to almost outshine his mission. He should have known better. He shouldn't have given in. He should have known that having it in a dream wouldn't be enough.
It shouldn't be what he wants. It will be his ruin. He doesn't need this complication.
In the other bed, Charles makes a quiet noise.
Erik looks at him, watches as he sniffs and mumbles and opens his eyes.
"Erik?" he asks, still half asleep.
Erik thinks about Charles' mouth and how soft his hair was in the dream. He wonders if it's the same in reality.
He can hate himself tomorrow.
"Ssssh," he says, climbing out of his bed. He crosses the space between them and crawls under the covers of Charles' bed, curling his body around Charles. He brushes Charles' hair off of his forehead. It's just as soft as he remembers. "Go back to sleep, Charles," he says.
Charles hums sleepily and closes his eyes again, dropping off like he was never awake in the first place. Erik holds onto him and pushes his rage and his doubt out of his mind, at least for the night.
In the distance, he thinks he can hear the ocean.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG
Length: ~2k
Summary: After a fraught day, Erik falls into a calming dream. The problem is, it's not his.
Notes: For the "Dreams" square on my cottoncandy_bingo card. Thanks to pearl_o and littledust for looking it over. Title from "Dream a Little Dream of Me."
The walls of the room are painted a very pale blue. It's just a few shades from white and it leaves everything looking bright. Not cheerful, necessarily, but peaceful. Calm. Sunlight pours in through the windows, open just enough to let in the sea breeze and the smell of salt. He hears birds and the sound of the waves out on the beach. Inside the room, there are paintings on the wall--one of them is of a sailboat on the sea. The other is a house on the seashore. Erik knows, somehow, that it's the house he's currently standing in. A shelf holds a collection of shells and bottles, all covered by dust, but almost charmingly so. The sofa is dark blue and looks comfortable, but sturdy.
"Huh," he says out loud.
He has no idea where he is.
Further investigation of the room reveals a bookshelf stuffed with old nautical themed texts and newer science ones, as if the shelf had been put in to fit the seaside theme of the room and only reluctantly drafted into practical use. The driftwood coffee table is covered by more open science books. Underneath the anchor shaped lamp on the end table are several half-full mugs of something too light to be coffee. Tea, Erik suspects.
"Oh."
Erik looks up from his inspection of a pale green mug. Charles is standing in the doorway to what appears to be the kitchen. He's wearing a navy pullover sweater and brown corduroys. He looks surprised. Erik is less surprised--if the books hadn't been a giveaway, the tea solidified his suspicions.
"I'm sorry," Charles says. "This was...a mistake."
"It's fine," Erik says. He's remarkably calm. Maybe it's the color of the paint.
"We're dreaming," Charles explains. He shoves his hands into his pockets. It makes him seem smaller, somehow. "Well. I'm dreaming. You've been pulled along for the ride, I'm afraid. I'm terribly sorry--I haven't done this in a very long time."
"I see," Erik says. That might explain the relaxation, at least. This is quite a respite from his normal dreams. "Is this your home?"
Charles looks around almost wistfully. His smile isn't precisely happy.
"Not exactly," he says. "It's a house my father owned on Cape Cod. We visited a few times when I was a very small boy, and when I was a teenager and my mother and her husband were--ah--indisposed, Raven and I would come out here. I liked it much better than the house, honestly. It was comforting, somehow."
Erik notices the switch from "my father" to "her husband," but he doesn't comment. Charles has absolutely no compunctions about talking Erik's ear off about any topic that he wants to share. If he doesn't want to share this one, that's his prerogative. He thinks Charles expects him to be surprised or taken aback by the mention of multiple houses, of a summer home obviously unimportant enough for his parents to dismiss it for years. He's seen the way Charles spends money, though, and this revelation is hardly surprising.
"So this is your dream?" Erik asks, looking around. Through the gauzy white curtains, he can almost see the ocean in the distance.
"It is," Charles says. He comes fully into the room and Erik watches as he looks around as well. "It's... a side effect of my ability. It doesn't happen often, though I suppose that's partially because I don't normally sleep in such close quarters with anyone besides Raven, and I trained my mind to stay out of hers years ago." He shrugs.
Erik thinks of the lines Charles uses on girls in bars and the easy way he wanders off when he gets bored, more invested in a game of chess or telling Erik stories about Raven. This, upon reflection, is also hardly surprising.
"Why tonight?" Erik asks. He turns from Charles and walks slowly around the room, taking in the objects he's already examined, the staircase near the door, and Charles--wrapped up in warm clothing, curled in on himself, and standing in a house he clearly thinks of with fondness. He thinks he's figured it out already.
"It's been a long day," Charles says. "I was cold and tired and upset. I think my mind tried to compensate by pulling together things I find comforting." He seems to think twice about what he's said. He blushes, which is interesting--Erik would think that he could control such simple reactions in his own head. "Meaning, of course, that we're surrounded by strangers and your mind is familiar to me. You helped me today. I'm sure there's some sort of unconscious connection that my mind has made in order to extend the safety that you offered."
Charles is curling his fingers into the sleeves of his sweater. It's the action of a much younger man, a man less sure of himself. A man, perhaps, nearly overcome by hypothermia in the middle of the desert in July, thanks to a confrontational mutant with the power to slowly freeze liquid on contact. Charles was sure that Erik's particular manner of recruitment would scare their potential ally off, was sure that he could handle it himself. It was lucky, really, that Erik was less confident in Charles' charms, that he'd stayed close enough to sprint to Charles' aid after his stricken mental call for help.
It was a frightening moment. Erik has seen men freeze to death. It's a terrible way to die, a terrible thing to watch, but it's never broken his heart before, not like it nearly did this afternoon. Charles tried to brush it off once he'd warmed up, wrapped in sweaters and blankets and sipping a mug of tea, but Erik thinks the way Charles didn't even stop Erik from breaking the man's fingers speaks more to the fear he felt as his blood was slowly turning to ice.
He stops his circuit of the room in front of Charles. He studies him, the slope of his nose, his freckles, the way he holds himself. It's different, here. It's softer, more hesitant. Erik is used to confidence that bleeds over into arrogance, into enthusiasm and bullheadedness. This Charles looks almost fragile.
He wonders if this is how Charles sees himself. Too breakable. Too young. He wonders if that bolster is always hiding this, or if it's just on days when he comes this close to death.
He reaches out and touches Charles' shoulder, both to reassure himself that he did save Charles and to see how real this all feels. Charles is solid under his hand, and warm. His cheeks go rosy again.
"You're okay," Erik says.
"I am," Charles agrees. "Just...off center, I suppose. I truly am sorry. I didn't mean to pull you into this."
"It's fine," Erik says. He looks down at himself for the first time. He's wearing the black polo shirt and linen slacks he was wearing this morning. The scars on the back of his hands and arms are still in place. His tattoo is still there. The detailing is exact. He wonders if its his mind or Charles' providing it.
"You pay more attention than I give you credit for," he says. He looks back up at Charles, who shrugs again.
"It can't be helped," Charles says. "A perk of my mutation--I have an excellent memory." The smile he gives is self-deprecating. It has none of the charm or luster of his usual smiles.
Erik is uncomfortable, and for none of the reasons he should be. Charles' careless arrogance irritates him regularly. He shouldn't miss it. He slides his hand down to Charles' elbow.
"You're better than this," he says.
"I'm afraid I don't follow," Charles says.
"You're--you're more than this. You're--" He squeezes Charles' elbow. He hasn't taken these feelings out and examined them. He hasn't allowed himself to think of this at all. He knows where he stands when it comes to Charles--he doesn't lie to himself. He knows he's attracted to Charles. He recognizes, even, that there's affection there as well, though he hasn't studied it too closely. He hasn't studied any of it, because it's a distraction from his goal. It's not important, or maybe it's too important. It's not something he can understand and it's easier to just avoid it.
At least it was, before Charles pulled him into a dream, before Charles peered up at him with those huge, clear eyes, his mouth curved into a frown, and all the swagger drained out of his personality. He wants to find the man with the cooling touch and break the rest of his fingers, to do more than that, to make sure he can never do this again. No one should be able to make Charles look like this.
"You shouldn't let anyone change you," Erik finally says. It's not what he wants to say, but it's the closest he can come.
"What if I want them to?" Charles asks. His voice is quiet. He's still staring at Erik, but something in his eyes has changed. He still looks frightened, but it's a different kind of fear. Erik can feel an answering trepidation building in his chest. There's a reason he never took those emotions out and looked at them. He's not sure what to do. He steps closer and raises his other hand, brushing his fingertips over Charles' hair. It's soft. It's always looked soft. They're still staring at each other, even as the air between them twists into something else. Erik touches Charles' cheek.
"You--you shouldn't," Erik says, but he doesn't back away. "I'm not--you shouldn't." The words get lost in his throat.
"Too late," Charles murmurs. "You're already here." He lays his hand over Erik's, pressing Erik's palm against his cheek. He tips his face further up and Erik can't stop himself.
It's just a dream, he tells himself. It doesn't count. You can do it. You can do it this once.
Charles' lips are gentle against his, just the barest brush of sensation at first. Erik almost misses it, but before he can protest, Charles' mouth is back. It's a firmer push, and Erik kisses him back. His lips taste like salt. Erik can hear the ocean outside the house as he kisses him again and again, as he licks against Charles' teeth and pulls Charles closer towards him.
Everything quiets in his head. The rage is little more than a dull roar, drowned out by the cloud of feelings he can't identify forming in his chest.
He pulls back, but he doesn't let go. Charles opens his eyes very slowly.
"Don't tell me this is a bad idea," Charles says quietly. "This is a dream. I'm allowed to have this in a dream. I'm allowed to not think about what it means, just for a moment."
"I won't say anything," Erik assures him. He lets go of Charles' elbow and puts that hand at his waist instead. His sweater is thick and Erik suddenly needs to know what's underneath it. He needs to know what Charles' skin feels like. He needs to fit his hand around Charles' hip and hold him still so Erik can--
***
Erik opens his eyes with a start. It only takes him a moment to orient himself in the dark hotel room, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He hears the lingering echo of a truck's horn, which explains his sudden wakefulness. He glances at the other bed, but Charles is still asleep, hunched under the covers.
It's the same room that he went to bed in. It's perfectly serviceable, but something about it seems... less.
He's angry. When he fell asleep, everything was fine. He was content with what he had, it was adequate enough to get the job done. He didn't need anything more. He doesn't want to need it now--he hates this feeling under his skin, this need to stare at Charles, this desire to be close. Before, he could mute it easily enough, bury it deep under the knowledge that Charles didn't return those desires, that it was little more than a distraction, a daydream, something he didn't have time for. Now it's burning through him, flashing through his veins, glowing so bright as to almost outshine his mission. He should have known better. He shouldn't have given in. He should have known that having it in a dream wouldn't be enough.
It shouldn't be what he wants. It will be his ruin. He doesn't need this complication.
In the other bed, Charles makes a quiet noise.
Erik looks at him, watches as he sniffs and mumbles and opens his eyes.
"Erik?" he asks, still half asleep.
Erik thinks about Charles' mouth and how soft his hair was in the dream. He wonders if it's the same in reality.
He can hate himself tomorrow.
"Ssssh," he says, climbing out of his bed. He crosses the space between them and crawls under the covers of Charles' bed, curling his body around Charles. He brushes Charles' hair off of his forehead. It's just as soft as he remembers. "Go back to sleep, Charles," he says.
Charles hums sleepily and closes his eyes again, dropping off like he was never awake in the first place. Erik holds onto him and pushes his rage and his doubt out of his mind, at least for the night.
In the distance, he thinks he can hear the ocean.