First Class fic, Man Maketh the Murder, 15
Rating: 15
Word Count: 1028
Notes: Another speculative!fic I posted on tumblr. Inspired by a prompt fill on one of the memes about the "you know I can deflect it!" scene, wherein I stopped in the middle of reading with an actual "oh!" moment of epiphany and started writing. I've included another gif which is also not mine. There's a credit scrawled onto the left hand corner, but I can't quite read what it says. Nonetheless, it isn't mine.
Man Maketh the Murder
by quoththewriter
-
It takes no effort at all to slip through the halls undetected, melting into shadows and moving soundlessly like a ghost, feet making no sound as he brushes over the floor.
The Xavier estate is huge; not the largest mansion Erik has seen in his life, but certainly the largest he’s lived in, and the empty halls echo with whoops and hollers from the children drifting in through open windows as they practice on the lawn. Charles is outside, he knows, with Hank running foot races. Alex is down in the underground bunker, practicing, endlessly, determined to get his control down right, perfect. Erik has no idea what Sean is doing, but from the distant sound of shattering glass he can formulate a guess. Raven is hiding away in the gym taking her frustration out on the punching bag. Erik doesn’t know where Moira is and doesn’t care, only knows that she is not where she should be, and this makes it easy for him to take what he wants.
He slips down the hall and stops at a door, twisting the knob all the way without testing it first and snorting as the lock gives way under his touch with a familiar sigh. Reaching out with his powers, it doesn’t take long to feel for the shape of the gun, hidden in the back of the bureau in the false bottom of the second drawer. He takes it and slides the wood back in place, and then he goes in search of Charles.
Charles gives him a jolted look when he sees the gun, and Erik wishes for a moment he could know what the other man is thinking. He doesn’t look suspicious though (no, he is far, far too trusting for that), nor wary or betrayed or even afraid. There’s just curiosity, plain and simple. He doesn’t have to be a telepath to read the question on his face.
“I borrowed it,” he answers easily, and holds it out for him to take. It’s a lie, as borrowing would implying asking first, but a harmless lie all the same. He nudges the gun into Charles’ palm when he hesitates and takes only the smallest of steps back. “Okay now, shoot me.”
Charles startles, eyes gone wide and almost drops the gun. “I’m sorry?”
Erik nods towards the gun in his hand and gestures vaguely at his temples. “You heard me,” he says. “I want you to shoot me.”
“I-” Charles looks down then at the gun in his hand with such blatant fear on his face, holds the gun pointing down as if he’s afraid it’ll discharge on its own. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re asking me, my friend.” He frowns, brows wrinkling, at Erik’s face.
Erik sighs and reaches out to grab Charles’ hand, ignores him when he starts and pulls until the gun is resting cool and comfortable, against his forehead. Charles tries to jerk his hand away, eyes wide with disbelief, but Erik’s grip is firm and he isn’t letting go.
“Relax, Charles,” he insists, voice quiet, calm, with a measure of authority he usually reserves for the kids. His mouth relaxes into an easy smile, and realises once it starts that he can’t stop it and it grows to consume him, nearly splitting his face in two. “You know what I’m capable of, you said so yourself. You’ve seen it. I’ll be perfectly fine.”
He realises then that his grin is a little too wide, a little too hopeful, and tempers it down, no less real, but slightly subdued. Aims for comforting and thinks trust me at Charles as loudly as he can.
Slowly, Charles relaxes. His hand slackens enough in Erik’s grip that he can trust him enough to let go, and the look in his eyes warms when Charles doesn’t immediately pull away.
“Come on,” he coaxes, still smiling. “You know I can deflect it.”
trust me trust me trust me please, he thinks, and a crease appears between Charles’ eyes, his lips drawing into a frown, but it’s more a frown of concentration than disagreement because Erik has him there, Charles does trust him. A lot. Too much.
Erik is there, open and vulnerable, and pleading for him to do it, pressing the gun to his own temple with his own hands, Charles’ fingers just a twitch away from the trigger. It has to be Charles. If Charles pulls the trigger, and he can’t deflect it - isn’t sure he can, doesn’t need to try, that’s not the point - if Charles pulls the trigger, it sets him free. He can’t end his own life, he is far too selfish and has far too much to live for (thinks Shaw Shaw Shaw), has nothing and everything to lose.
He can’t do it, but Charles can. Charles can take away this burden for him, once and for all.
If Erik pulls the trigger (and he can), he’ll be a coward. If Charles pulls the trigger (and he won’t), he’ll be a hero.
(He’ll also be a murderer, but Erik never did understand the line in the sand that told him ‘thou shalt not kill’, and when he was brought up surrounded by men who did nothing but kill and kill often, it is not hard to imagine why.)
In the end, Charles doesn’t shoot him.
In the end, Erik reflects bitterly, after Shaw and the beach, once everything is said and done and he’s alone in the dark with nothing but the static buzz of radio silence from Shaw’s helmet and he keeps seeing that gun over and over every time he closes his eyes, pressed against his temple and then in Moira’s hands, hears himself saying, “you know I can deflect it” and Charles, shattered and trying not to be, whispering “you did this” he bows his head and thinks, safe for once in his own thoughts,
“Because you wouldn’t.”
Word Count: 1028
Notes: Another speculative!fic I posted on tumblr. Inspired by a prompt fill on one of the memes about the "you know I can deflect it!" scene, wherein I stopped in the middle of reading with an actual "oh!" moment of epiphany and started writing. I've included another gif which is also not mine. There's a credit scrawled onto the left hand corner, but I can't quite read what it says. Nonetheless, it isn't mine.
Man Maketh the Murder
by quoththewriter
-
It takes no effort at all to slip through the halls undetected, melting into shadows and moving soundlessly like a ghost, feet making no sound as he brushes over the floor.
The Xavier estate is huge; not the largest mansion Erik has seen in his life, but certainly the largest he’s lived in, and the empty halls echo with whoops and hollers from the children drifting in through open windows as they practice on the lawn. Charles is outside, he knows, with Hank running foot races. Alex is down in the underground bunker, practicing, endlessly, determined to get his control down right, perfect. Erik has no idea what Sean is doing, but from the distant sound of shattering glass he can formulate a guess. Raven is hiding away in the gym taking her frustration out on the punching bag. Erik doesn’t know where Moira is and doesn’t care, only knows that she is not where she should be, and this makes it easy for him to take what he wants.
He slips down the hall and stops at a door, twisting the knob all the way without testing it first and snorting as the lock gives way under his touch with a familiar sigh. Reaching out with his powers, it doesn’t take long to feel for the shape of the gun, hidden in the back of the bureau in the false bottom of the second drawer. He takes it and slides the wood back in place, and then he goes in search of Charles.
Charles gives him a jolted look when he sees the gun, and Erik wishes for a moment he could know what the other man is thinking. He doesn’t look suspicious though (no, he is far, far too trusting for that), nor wary or betrayed or even afraid. There’s just curiosity, plain and simple. He doesn’t have to be a telepath to read the question on his face.
“I borrowed it,” he answers easily, and holds it out for him to take. It’s a lie, as borrowing would implying asking first, but a harmless lie all the same. He nudges the gun into Charles’ palm when he hesitates and takes only the smallest of steps back. “Okay now, shoot me.”
Charles startles, eyes gone wide and almost drops the gun. “I’m sorry?”
Erik nods towards the gun in his hand and gestures vaguely at his temples. “You heard me,” he says. “I want you to shoot me.”
“I-” Charles looks down then at the gun in his hand with such blatant fear on his face, holds the gun pointing down as if he’s afraid it’ll discharge on its own. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re asking me, my friend.” He frowns, brows wrinkling, at Erik’s face.
Erik sighs and reaches out to grab Charles’ hand, ignores him when he starts and pulls until the gun is resting cool and comfortable, against his forehead. Charles tries to jerk his hand away, eyes wide with disbelief, but Erik’s grip is firm and he isn’t letting go.
“Relax, Charles,” he insists, voice quiet, calm, with a measure of authority he usually reserves for the kids. His mouth relaxes into an easy smile, and realises once it starts that he can’t stop it and it grows to consume him, nearly splitting his face in two. “You know what I’m capable of, you said so yourself. You’ve seen it. I’ll be perfectly fine.”
He realises then that his grin is a little too wide, a little too hopeful, and tempers it down, no less real, but slightly subdued. Aims for comforting and thinks trust me at Charles as loudly as he can.
Slowly, Charles relaxes. His hand slackens enough in Erik’s grip that he can trust him enough to let go, and the look in his eyes warms when Charles doesn’t immediately pull away.
“Come on,” he coaxes, still smiling. “You know I can deflect it.”
trust me trust me trust me please, he thinks, and a crease appears between Charles’ eyes, his lips drawing into a frown, but it’s more a frown of concentration than disagreement because Erik has him there, Charles does trust him. A lot. Too much.
Erik is there, open and vulnerable, and pleading for him to do it, pressing the gun to his own temple with his own hands, Charles’ fingers just a twitch away from the trigger. It has to be Charles. If Charles pulls the trigger, and he can’t deflect it - isn’t sure he can, doesn’t need to try, that’s not the point - if Charles pulls the trigger, it sets him free. He can’t end his own life, he is far too selfish and has far too much to live for (thinks Shaw Shaw Shaw), has nothing and everything to lose.
He can’t do it, but Charles can. Charles can take away this burden for him, once and for all.
If Erik pulls the trigger (and he can), he’ll be a coward. If Charles pulls the trigger (and he won’t), he’ll be a hero.
(He’ll also be a murderer, but Erik never did understand the line in the sand that told him ‘thou shalt not kill’, and when he was brought up surrounded by men who did nothing but kill and kill often, it is not hard to imagine why.)
In the end, Charles doesn’t shoot him.
In the end, Erik reflects bitterly, after Shaw and the beach, once everything is said and done and he’s alone in the dark with nothing but the static buzz of radio silence from Shaw’s helmet and he keeps seeing that gun over and over every time he closes his eyes, pressed against his temple and then in Moira’s hands, hears himself saying, “you know I can deflect it” and Charles, shattered and trying not to be, whispering “you did this” he bows his head and thinks, safe for once in his own thoughts,
“Because you wouldn’t.”