Fill: Late Bloomer 4/? (High School AU. Warning: minor themes of real life situational trauma)
anonymous
September 14 2011, 21:40:40 UTC
When the bell goes, Erik heads to his last class feeling a little better. He’s got over the worst, getting the guys in line, but unfortunately Riptide’s final comment is depressingly true. Emma is going to be her normal bitchy self, unless by some miracle Erik happens to have something she wants.
As it turns out, he does. He has entertainment value.
When he corners her after class to explain the situation she sits and listens sweetly, then pats him on the arm.
‘Oh Erik!’ She gives an infuriating tinkling little laugh. ‘That’s priceless, you big sap.’
‘What?’ he snaps. ‘Look, just leave him alone, that’s all I’m asking.’
She blinks limpidly up at him. ‘I think it’s just adorable. Your blue-eyed boy blinks and all your self-righteous convictions crumble by the wayside. I’ll leave him alone, sugar, if you promise to invite me to the wedding.’
‘It’s a bet, Emma,’ Erik grinds out. ‘He’s a token human. It could have been anyone.’
‘Is someone repressing his feelings?’ she coos. ‘You poor boy, you can talk to Auntie Emma.’
Erik fixes his mind on a picture of something extremely violent and bloody, involving Emma, three metal javelins, several lengths of cheese wire and multiple amputations. It’s something he’s had numerous occasions to perfect.
She doesn’t even flinch, just laughs again. ‘Lurid imagery. I’ve always said you had an artist’s soul under that ruggedly handsome exterior.’ She pats him again. ‘I’ll make sure the girls don’t ruin your date. Now, must dash. Oh, and wear the black turtleneck. It makes you look gorgeous and just as gay as can be.’
She flits.
Erik moans, torn between relief (at least she won’t fuck up Charles) and black despair (no, she’ll fuck Erik royally instead). Despair wins out. Nothing, nothing is more terrifying than Emma Frost when she finds something funny.
And now he’s got an appointment at the test centre. It’s really not his day.
***
The Mutant Health Clinic, as it’s implausibly called, is halfway across town. Erik calms down a bit on the drive, but he’s still buzzing when he gets there. He signs in under the glower of the starched-up receptionist and kicks his heels in the waiting room until he’s called.
The doctor, standing silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights, is Stryker. Of course it is.
The guy makes his skin crawl, with his weirdly intense breathing, his clammy hands and his coldly calculating eyes. He ushers Erik into the testing room with mindless pleasantries and a smile that splits his face like a crack in a plate. Ugh.
‘And how are we doing today? Ready to show us what you’ve got? Such a rare gift you have, it’s a privilege to watch it develop. Come on in now, you know what to do. Start with the pure iron, please.’
The metal blocks are lined up on the table. They’re indefinably soothing, with their different weights and concentrations making rippling and overlapping dimples in his awareness. Erik dutifully moulds, folds, separates and melds, his mouth still twitching with distaste at Stryker’s presence. Finally they get to the bit he enjoys, which is going outside onto the training field and flinging shit up into the air. He sends the heaviest of the blocks spinning in a wild scything arc and closes his eyes, feeling its motion and letting himself sink for just a moment into the warmth of the Earth’s own magnetic field. Then he sends another block into the air and just concentrates on slamming things upwards as hard as he can, relishing the juddering shock as he catches them inches from the ground. It’s cathartic, and right now he’s got an awful lot to get out of his system.
As it turns out, he does. He has entertainment value.
When he corners her after class to explain the situation she sits and listens sweetly, then pats him on the arm.
‘Oh Erik!’ She gives an infuriating tinkling little laugh. ‘That’s priceless, you big sap.’
‘What?’ he snaps. ‘Look, just leave him alone, that’s all I’m asking.’
She blinks limpidly up at him. ‘I think it’s just adorable. Your blue-eyed boy blinks and all your self-righteous convictions crumble by the wayside. I’ll leave him alone, sugar, if you promise to invite me to the wedding.’
‘It’s a bet, Emma,’ Erik grinds out. ‘He’s a token human. It could have been anyone.’
‘Is someone repressing his feelings?’ she coos. ‘You poor boy, you can talk to Auntie Emma.’
Erik fixes his mind on a picture of something extremely violent and bloody, involving Emma, three metal javelins, several lengths of cheese wire and multiple amputations. It’s something he’s had numerous occasions to perfect.
She doesn’t even flinch, just laughs again. ‘Lurid imagery. I’ve always said you had an artist’s soul under that ruggedly handsome exterior.’ She pats him again. ‘I’ll make sure the girls don’t ruin your date. Now, must dash. Oh, and wear the black turtleneck. It makes you look gorgeous and just as gay as can be.’
She flits.
Erik moans, torn between relief (at least she won’t fuck up Charles) and black despair (no, she’ll fuck Erik royally instead). Despair wins out. Nothing, nothing is more terrifying than Emma Frost when she finds something funny.
And now he’s got an appointment at the test centre. It’s really not his day.
***
The Mutant Health Clinic, as it’s implausibly called, is halfway across town. Erik calms down a bit on the drive, but he’s still buzzing when he gets there. He signs in under the glower of the starched-up receptionist and kicks his heels in the waiting room until he’s called.
The doctor, standing silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights, is Stryker. Of course it is.
The guy makes his skin crawl, with his weirdly intense breathing, his clammy hands and his coldly calculating eyes. He ushers Erik into the testing room with mindless pleasantries and a smile that splits his face like a crack in a plate. Ugh.
‘And how are we doing today? Ready to show us what you’ve got? Such a rare gift you have, it’s a privilege to watch it develop. Come on in now, you know what to do. Start with the pure iron, please.’
The metal blocks are lined up on the table. They’re indefinably soothing, with their different weights and concentrations making rippling and overlapping dimples in his awareness. Erik dutifully moulds, folds, separates and melds, his mouth still twitching with distaste at Stryker’s presence. Finally they get to the bit he enjoys, which is going outside onto the training field and flinging shit up into the air. He sends the heaviest of the blocks spinning in a wild scything arc and closes his eyes, feeling its motion and letting himself sink for just a moment into the warmth of the Earth’s own magnetic field. Then he sends another block into the air and just concentrates on slamming things upwards as hard as he can, relishing the juddering shock as he catches them inches from the ground. It’s cathartic, and right now he’s got an awful lot to get out of his system.
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