fic: but I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more (eleven)
I am super-behind on answering comments! I will get to them! I've been basking in the McFassy glory of Comic-Con, and also writing some fic.
For now, though: have the chapter in which Charles talks to Emma, and then meets Sebastian...
Title: But I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles, And I Would Walk Five Hundred More (Eleven: Charles Meets Sebastian)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: at the end of this chapter, abduction and Shaw being creepy. Apologies for the cliffhanger...
Word Count: 2,291 for this chapter
Disclaimers: characters belong to Marvel, not me; only doing this for fun! title, opening, and closing lines from “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers
Summary/Notes: for a prompt on tumblr a while back that went like this: Charles goes to hire an escort himself from (who else?) Emma Frost’s service, sees a photo of artist!Erik and tries to book him, only to find Erik’s photo was misplaced and Erik is himself a client looking for an escort for a gallery opening… so Charles gets Emma to let him show up as Erik’s escort. Erik mistakes him for a rich donor and they spend the evening talking and probably bickering in a very UST way because Erik probably hates people like that. And Erik’s seething because he paid good money for his date and he never showed up. And later Charles follows Erik to his limo and quips, “oh, I think I’m supposed to be your date tonight?” with a cheeky little smile. Except my brain decided that there would be plot and secrets and Sebastian Shaw and Charles having an actual mission and Erik worrying and hurt/comfort and D/s themes and I don't even know.
TL;DR: In which Charles isn't really an escort, Erik thinks he only wants a one-night stand, everybody's got a past, and there's quite a lot of sex on the way to the happy ending.
Link to Chapter Ten here, Nine here, Eight here, Seven here, Six part two here, part one here, Five part two here, part one here, Four here, Three here, Two here, One here, Prologue here
Erik does leave, eventually, hair thoroughly mussed and a seemingly permanent happy smile in those eyes. Charles walks him to the car for the second time-quite aware that he’s walking a bit gingerly, but then that many sessions with that certain wonderfully blessed attribute inside him will do that, and Erik looks even more satisfied about this-and kisses him, and sends him off to get a bit of work done before that evening.
He does swear out loud, mostly to himself, when he realizes that he’s been distracted enough, yet again, to leave all that paperwork sitting on his desk, unsigned.
He wants to finish it with Erik there; wants it to be a moment that’s about them, himself turning over all his family’s company stock to various members of the board of directors, himself doing this with Erik’s hand at his shoulder, not exactly for support but in case he turns around and sets down the pen and doesn’t know how to inhale again.
But it can wait. The papers aren’t going anywhere, and Erik’ll be back, and grumbling at his own forgetfulness only makes the grass and the sun and the breeze feel sorry for him. The little eddies pat him on the shoulder, sympathetically.
“Fine,” he concedes, “tonight,” and dashes back to the house to grab his coat and his car keys, because he does have something else that he needs to do, and it’s almost certainly better done without Erik, not because Erik won’t approve but because he suspects that Emma Frost won’t.
He wants to do this in person. He owes her that.
Emma’s petite dark-haired secretary doesn’t look startled to see him, because she’s perfected the art of unflappability, but she gives him a raised eyebrow and informs him that Emma’s on the phone. Charles nods, and settles into one of the lavish white leather chairs, and waits.
It doesn’t take long.
“Charles,” she announces, even as he walks through the door. “Strip.”
“What-oh, for god’s sake, Emma. I’m fine.”
“You,” she snaps, glaring at him from several inches of height advantage, “gave him your real address after one appointment, and you vanished for a week, and one of our other clients came in and told me that you had retired, and I know you, Charles, and what the fuck did he do to you?”
That last he is Erik, of course. Charles sighs. “He didn’t-”
“Strip, Charles. And if he’s hurt you, if I see one damned scar that wasn’t there before, I won’t bother with the police.”
“Emma.” For a second, they simply look at each other, in the cool white office with the metal accents and thick carpet and closed doors. “I’m all right,” Charles tells her. “I can show you, if you want me to prove it, but I am.”
“I do want you to prove it.” She sighs, too. “This isn’t like you, Charles. And you look…different.”
“I feel different.” True. He doesn’t have any secrets from Emma, not physically at least, and she won’t back down; he unbuttons his shirt and lets it hang over his arms. Turns around. “See?”
“Pants, as well.”
“Honestly. Have I ever lied to you?” But he steps out of those, too. Looks at her evenly. “Also the last time you’re going to see me naked, by the way.”
“Because you’re retiring. Yes.” She looks him over, up and down. He doesn’t blush; it’s professional. And he knows exactly what she’s seeing: bruises, yes, a few bite marks, the rough scrape of Erik’s beard-stubble over skin. Nothing worse.
Erik had ended up spanking him once, two days ago, lovely follow-through on that promise from their first date; but those handprints’ve long faded, nothing to see there. He suspects that, while Erik’s happy to use toys if necessary, the intimacy of hands is preferred.
He’s fine with that. More than. He likes Erik’s hands on his skin. Artist’s hands, he thinks again, and smiles.
Emma touches his inner thigh. “All consensual? Even this one?”
That’s the darkest of them, where the skin shows echoes of desire, deep and aching and sweet. He’d asked Erik to leave mementoes, to make him feel it, after. Reminders of them together. “Yes.”
She looks at his eyes, not the marks. “You do look different. You seem…”
“Happier?” He pulls clothing back on. Rebuttons the shirt. Then pauses, and smiles at her. A real smile, not the dazzling one he’d once used to bestow on clients who liked that look. “I am.”
“Erik Lehnsherr,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m losing you to a bad-tempered artist with the charm of a great white shark. Of all people, Charles.” But she’s smiling back, as much as Emma ever smiles. “Drink, then? In celebration?”
“In celebration,” he agrees. “But you’re not losing me. I mean. Not entirely.” When her eyebrows fly up, he hastily clarifies. “I’m not taking any clients. I’m Erik’s. Completely. But if you would…if you’d still like my opinion…on some of the prospectives…I’m not going to walk out on you. Not if we can avoid another Victor Creed encounter.”
Emma hands him an expensive tumbler containing even more expensive brandy. Picks up her own. Smiles anew. “I do trust your instincts. And I trust you with my files. We could come to an arrangement, I believe.”
“I’d like that.”
“Then we’ll talk.” She clinks their glasses together. “Later. Now we can…be happy for you.”
“Thank you?”
“Charles…” When he tries to read her eyes, they’re honest. She means the words, at least when she says them. “I am happy for you. I want you to know that. I also want to never have to ask you to show me your bruises in this office again. So I need you to be sure. Do you trust him?”
“With everything.”
“Does he care about you?”
“I think so,” Charles says, “Yes.”
Emma raises her eyebrows.
“He makes me want to smile,” Charles tells her, very softly, sincere. And she nods, and they drink to that, in silence, in her calm colorless office refuge.
She does ask him to look at one or two prospective client applications before he goes. He suspects it’s some sort of test, as they all seem relatively harmless, judging from the photos and the phrasing of their requests. One has a mildly out-of-the-ordinary desire involving birthday-party paper hats; well, it’s not his place to judge, only to note that it’s innocuous, which he does. None of them look potentially cruel.
Emma nods and accepts his judgment, and then shoos him away to be, in her words, “pathetically besotted” in someplace that isn’t her office. Fair enough, Charles decides, and leaves.
It’s true. Inarguable. He is.
On the drive home, he’s thinking about Erik. About the upcoming evening, and what he might wear, and the cheerful little tingle that scampers along his spine at the thought of being introduced to someone as Erik’s partner. The two of them being a couple. Meeting gallery owners and business associates together. Going out for drinks. Having a life.
Plus, of course, all the glorious sex.
Erik’s offered to make him a wrist cuff, a collar: tangible reminders, crafted with love. He’ll be honored by the gift, if Erik does; he breathes in, alone in the car, imagining the sensation. He’d never have to be alone, with Erik’s metal brushing a wrist under a shirt-sleeve in public, or looped delicately around his throat at home, as he kneels at Erik’s feet and looks up and their eyes meet.
He catches himself humming along with the radio, absently echoing the tunes of oldies rock, The Beatles and Buddy Holly and The Zodiacs: won’t you stay, just a little bit longer…if we have another dance, oh, just one more time…
He parks and hops out and nearly fumbles the keys and catches them, laughing at himself; turns and sees the man he’s never seen before on his front step, and stops.
The man’s not very tall, and not precisely prepossessing, and dressed in a way that suggests he has no care for current fashion, but deliberately so: a statement, at odds with the world.
And all of those alarm bells, the ones in his head that hadn’t gone off in Emma’s office, are clanging now.
He walks up to the door, because he might as well, he’s obviously here. The man turns and smiles, and it’s not at all a pleasant smile.
Mostly just to get the first word in, and letting all of his irritation show, he says, “Can I help you?”
“Oh,” says the man, glancing him up and down, while Charles’s skin shudders at the touch of that gaze, “I think you can. Charles Xavier, correct?”
“Yes…do I know you?”
“Sebastian Shaw.” A hand, offered. Charles takes it automatically. Even though his brain is shouting: no, you know this name, this bastard hurt Erik, run now, or kick him hard, even if Erik won’t thank you, hurt him back…
“What do you want?” he asks instead. They’ll need to know. Him, and Erik. So that they can handle whatever this is-blackmail, threats, demands-together.
“Perhaps we should talk.” Shaw inclines his head. It’s not a friendly gesture. Nothing about him, from his hair to his clothing to his cold reptile eyes, is. “Inside?”
Charles raises an eyebrow. Summons all his family legacy, wealth’s disdain for those beneath contempt, into his voice. Every bit as arrogant as he’d once pretended to be. “Why should I invite you into my home?”
“Erik’s told you a few things, hasn’t he.” Not a question. They size each other up for a moment. Opening salvos exchanged; no blood drawn yet, but weapons at hand. “Did he also tell you I paid for his mother’s hospital bills? For his first exhibition? Everything that gave him the life he has now. That’s mine.”
“Yes,” Charles murmurs, “so generous of you, helping a fellow artist that way; what was the name of that piece you sold as yours again, that wasn’t? Or were there too many to count?”
Shaw laughs, though it’s unamused. “He did tell you a few things. Surprising. Erik’s never been talkative in bed.”
Charles lifts an eyebrow. Leans a shoulder negligently against the door. Making a point: he’s not going to open it. “If you’re trying to shock me, it won’t work. I know you abused him.”
Those flat ophidian eyes narrow, reconsidering strategy. “No. Not much shocks you, does it, Charles Xavier? Emma Frost’s prize whore; is that what Erik likes about you? Having the best, so that he can flaunt it in my face?”
“It’s not about you.” Inwardly, he’s furious-how dare Shaw talk about Erik that way, Erik who’s held him and bandaged him and kissed his temples when his head aches-but any reaction will mean giving ground, and he can’t afford that.
“And you can’t astound me with your crudity, either. I know what I am. And Erik doesn’t care. So if you’re through attempting to insult me, you can get off my property before I phone the police.”
“Do you actually believe he loves you? Don’t be stupid, Charles. He only ever wanted an escort. A one-night stand, regardless of how you’ve managed to convince him otherwise. He’ll wake up eventually. And he doesn’t like entanglements, my Erik. He won’t ever love you.”
“Of course not.” That one hurts to say. Knives to the stomach, the chest, the throat, trying to stab the words before they can emerge. He and Erik never have said those words. Not those. He has no idea whether Erik ever thinks them, thinks about them, in the depths of night.
“Do you believe you love him?” Shaw watches his expression; laughs again, avidly. “You do, don’t you? You, of all people…how can you be so naïve?”
“I-” He stops.
He does love Erik.
It’s as simple as that. As clear as chess matches in the park, cupcakes in bed, warm arms in the night. Low-voiced purposeful commands and complete unshakeable security. Yes like the realignment of once-dislocated joints. Yes.
He’s in love with Erik. He always will be.
That moment’s one of unparalleled shining happiness.
And then the comprehension: Sebastian Shaw knows it. Knows that he’s in love with Erik. He’s not been able to hide it, that understanding.
No. Oh no, no, no.
“I expected many things from you,” Shaw muses, glacial as the lowering black overhead, clouds choking out the sunset, “but not that. No matter, though; Erik doesn’t know. And wouldn’t believe you if you told him, frankly. So it’ll make this much sweeter.”
“This what,” Charles snaps, abruptly fed up with all this, the stupid intrigue and the lack of a point and Shaw being here on his doorstep, and maybe that is arrogant after all, shades of his mother, but he wants this horrible person gone now, “did you have a reason for being here, sorry, I’m a bit busy,” and Shaw says, “yes, Charles, but you’ve not sold off everything yet, I know you’ve not signed your paperwork, I’ve been keeping an ear open,” and Charles says “what?” because when were they talking about the company of all things, and Shaw steps closer, under the ominous slate-shade of the sky.
“I want everything you can give me,” Shaw says, and that body’s crowding his and Charles is already backed up against the door and he tries to kick out but then a hand out of nowhere lands over his mouth and nose, and there’s a cloth and a sickly sweet odor and he tries to fight back but only manages a single weak blow before the world goes swirling into darkness.
For now, though: have the chapter in which Charles talks to Emma, and then meets Sebastian...
Title: But I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles, And I Would Walk Five Hundred More (Eleven: Charles Meets Sebastian)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: at the end of this chapter, abduction and Shaw being creepy. Apologies for the cliffhanger...
Word Count: 2,291 for this chapter
Disclaimers: characters belong to Marvel, not me; only doing this for fun! title, opening, and closing lines from “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers
Summary/Notes: for a prompt on tumblr a while back that went like this: Charles goes to hire an escort himself from (who else?) Emma Frost’s service, sees a photo of artist!Erik and tries to book him, only to find Erik’s photo was misplaced and Erik is himself a client looking for an escort for a gallery opening… so Charles gets Emma to let him show up as Erik’s escort. Erik mistakes him for a rich donor and they spend the evening talking and probably bickering in a very UST way because Erik probably hates people like that. And Erik’s seething because he paid good money for his date and he never showed up. And later Charles follows Erik to his limo and quips, “oh, I think I’m supposed to be your date tonight?” with a cheeky little smile. Except my brain decided that there would be plot and secrets and Sebastian Shaw and Charles having an actual mission and Erik worrying and hurt/comfort and D/s themes and I don't even know.
TL;DR: In which Charles isn't really an escort, Erik thinks he only wants a one-night stand, everybody's got a past, and there's quite a lot of sex on the way to the happy ending.
Link to Chapter Ten here, Nine here, Eight here, Seven here, Six part two here, part one here, Five part two here, part one here, Four here, Three here, Two here, One here, Prologue here
Erik does leave, eventually, hair thoroughly mussed and a seemingly permanent happy smile in those eyes. Charles walks him to the car for the second time-quite aware that he’s walking a bit gingerly, but then that many sessions with that certain wonderfully blessed attribute inside him will do that, and Erik looks even more satisfied about this-and kisses him, and sends him off to get a bit of work done before that evening.
He does swear out loud, mostly to himself, when he realizes that he’s been distracted enough, yet again, to leave all that paperwork sitting on his desk, unsigned.
He wants to finish it with Erik there; wants it to be a moment that’s about them, himself turning over all his family’s company stock to various members of the board of directors, himself doing this with Erik’s hand at his shoulder, not exactly for support but in case he turns around and sets down the pen and doesn’t know how to inhale again.
But it can wait. The papers aren’t going anywhere, and Erik’ll be back, and grumbling at his own forgetfulness only makes the grass and the sun and the breeze feel sorry for him. The little eddies pat him on the shoulder, sympathetically.
“Fine,” he concedes, “tonight,” and dashes back to the house to grab his coat and his car keys, because he does have something else that he needs to do, and it’s almost certainly better done without Erik, not because Erik won’t approve but because he suspects that Emma Frost won’t.
He wants to do this in person. He owes her that.
Emma’s petite dark-haired secretary doesn’t look startled to see him, because she’s perfected the art of unflappability, but she gives him a raised eyebrow and informs him that Emma’s on the phone. Charles nods, and settles into one of the lavish white leather chairs, and waits.
It doesn’t take long.
“Charles,” she announces, even as he walks through the door. “Strip.”
“What-oh, for god’s sake, Emma. I’m fine.”
“You,” she snaps, glaring at him from several inches of height advantage, “gave him your real address after one appointment, and you vanished for a week, and one of our other clients came in and told me that you had retired, and I know you, Charles, and what the fuck did he do to you?”
That last he is Erik, of course. Charles sighs. “He didn’t-”
“Strip, Charles. And if he’s hurt you, if I see one damned scar that wasn’t there before, I won’t bother with the police.”
“Emma.” For a second, they simply look at each other, in the cool white office with the metal accents and thick carpet and closed doors. “I’m all right,” Charles tells her. “I can show you, if you want me to prove it, but I am.”
“I do want you to prove it.” She sighs, too. “This isn’t like you, Charles. And you look…different.”
“I feel different.” True. He doesn’t have any secrets from Emma, not physically at least, and she won’t back down; he unbuttons his shirt and lets it hang over his arms. Turns around. “See?”
“Pants, as well.”
“Honestly. Have I ever lied to you?” But he steps out of those, too. Looks at her evenly. “Also the last time you’re going to see me naked, by the way.”
“Because you’re retiring. Yes.” She looks him over, up and down. He doesn’t blush; it’s professional. And he knows exactly what she’s seeing: bruises, yes, a few bite marks, the rough scrape of Erik’s beard-stubble over skin. Nothing worse.
Erik had ended up spanking him once, two days ago, lovely follow-through on that promise from their first date; but those handprints’ve long faded, nothing to see there. He suspects that, while Erik’s happy to use toys if necessary, the intimacy of hands is preferred.
He’s fine with that. More than. He likes Erik’s hands on his skin. Artist’s hands, he thinks again, and smiles.
Emma touches his inner thigh. “All consensual? Even this one?”
That’s the darkest of them, where the skin shows echoes of desire, deep and aching and sweet. He’d asked Erik to leave mementoes, to make him feel it, after. Reminders of them together. “Yes.”
She looks at his eyes, not the marks. “You do look different. You seem…”
“Happier?” He pulls clothing back on. Rebuttons the shirt. Then pauses, and smiles at her. A real smile, not the dazzling one he’d once used to bestow on clients who liked that look. “I am.”
“Erik Lehnsherr,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m losing you to a bad-tempered artist with the charm of a great white shark. Of all people, Charles.” But she’s smiling back, as much as Emma ever smiles. “Drink, then? In celebration?”
“In celebration,” he agrees. “But you’re not losing me. I mean. Not entirely.” When her eyebrows fly up, he hastily clarifies. “I’m not taking any clients. I’m Erik’s. Completely. But if you would…if you’d still like my opinion…on some of the prospectives…I’m not going to walk out on you. Not if we can avoid another Victor Creed encounter.”
Emma hands him an expensive tumbler containing even more expensive brandy. Picks up her own. Smiles anew. “I do trust your instincts. And I trust you with my files. We could come to an arrangement, I believe.”
“I’d like that.”
“Then we’ll talk.” She clinks their glasses together. “Later. Now we can…be happy for you.”
“Thank you?”
“Charles…” When he tries to read her eyes, they’re honest. She means the words, at least when she says them. “I am happy for you. I want you to know that. I also want to never have to ask you to show me your bruises in this office again. So I need you to be sure. Do you trust him?”
“With everything.”
“Does he care about you?”
“I think so,” Charles says, “Yes.”
Emma raises her eyebrows.
“He makes me want to smile,” Charles tells her, very softly, sincere. And she nods, and they drink to that, in silence, in her calm colorless office refuge.
She does ask him to look at one or two prospective client applications before he goes. He suspects it’s some sort of test, as they all seem relatively harmless, judging from the photos and the phrasing of their requests. One has a mildly out-of-the-ordinary desire involving birthday-party paper hats; well, it’s not his place to judge, only to note that it’s innocuous, which he does. None of them look potentially cruel.
Emma nods and accepts his judgment, and then shoos him away to be, in her words, “pathetically besotted” in someplace that isn’t her office. Fair enough, Charles decides, and leaves.
It’s true. Inarguable. He is.
On the drive home, he’s thinking about Erik. About the upcoming evening, and what he might wear, and the cheerful little tingle that scampers along his spine at the thought of being introduced to someone as Erik’s partner. The two of them being a couple. Meeting gallery owners and business associates together. Going out for drinks. Having a life.
Plus, of course, all the glorious sex.
Erik’s offered to make him a wrist cuff, a collar: tangible reminders, crafted with love. He’ll be honored by the gift, if Erik does; he breathes in, alone in the car, imagining the sensation. He’d never have to be alone, with Erik’s metal brushing a wrist under a shirt-sleeve in public, or looped delicately around his throat at home, as he kneels at Erik’s feet and looks up and their eyes meet.
He catches himself humming along with the radio, absently echoing the tunes of oldies rock, The Beatles and Buddy Holly and The Zodiacs: won’t you stay, just a little bit longer…if we have another dance, oh, just one more time…
He parks and hops out and nearly fumbles the keys and catches them, laughing at himself; turns and sees the man he’s never seen before on his front step, and stops.
The man’s not very tall, and not precisely prepossessing, and dressed in a way that suggests he has no care for current fashion, but deliberately so: a statement, at odds with the world.
And all of those alarm bells, the ones in his head that hadn’t gone off in Emma’s office, are clanging now.
He walks up to the door, because he might as well, he’s obviously here. The man turns and smiles, and it’s not at all a pleasant smile.
Mostly just to get the first word in, and letting all of his irritation show, he says, “Can I help you?”
“Oh,” says the man, glancing him up and down, while Charles’s skin shudders at the touch of that gaze, “I think you can. Charles Xavier, correct?”
“Yes…do I know you?”
“Sebastian Shaw.” A hand, offered. Charles takes it automatically. Even though his brain is shouting: no, you know this name, this bastard hurt Erik, run now, or kick him hard, even if Erik won’t thank you, hurt him back…
“What do you want?” he asks instead. They’ll need to know. Him, and Erik. So that they can handle whatever this is-blackmail, threats, demands-together.
“Perhaps we should talk.” Shaw inclines his head. It’s not a friendly gesture. Nothing about him, from his hair to his clothing to his cold reptile eyes, is. “Inside?”
Charles raises an eyebrow. Summons all his family legacy, wealth’s disdain for those beneath contempt, into his voice. Every bit as arrogant as he’d once pretended to be. “Why should I invite you into my home?”
“Erik’s told you a few things, hasn’t he.” Not a question. They size each other up for a moment. Opening salvos exchanged; no blood drawn yet, but weapons at hand. “Did he also tell you I paid for his mother’s hospital bills? For his first exhibition? Everything that gave him the life he has now. That’s mine.”
“Yes,” Charles murmurs, “so generous of you, helping a fellow artist that way; what was the name of that piece you sold as yours again, that wasn’t? Or were there too many to count?”
Shaw laughs, though it’s unamused. “He did tell you a few things. Surprising. Erik’s never been talkative in bed.”
Charles lifts an eyebrow. Leans a shoulder negligently against the door. Making a point: he’s not going to open it. “If you’re trying to shock me, it won’t work. I know you abused him.”
Those flat ophidian eyes narrow, reconsidering strategy. “No. Not much shocks you, does it, Charles Xavier? Emma Frost’s prize whore; is that what Erik likes about you? Having the best, so that he can flaunt it in my face?”
“It’s not about you.” Inwardly, he’s furious-how dare Shaw talk about Erik that way, Erik who’s held him and bandaged him and kissed his temples when his head aches-but any reaction will mean giving ground, and he can’t afford that.
“And you can’t astound me with your crudity, either. I know what I am. And Erik doesn’t care. So if you’re through attempting to insult me, you can get off my property before I phone the police.”
“Do you actually believe he loves you? Don’t be stupid, Charles. He only ever wanted an escort. A one-night stand, regardless of how you’ve managed to convince him otherwise. He’ll wake up eventually. And he doesn’t like entanglements, my Erik. He won’t ever love you.”
“Of course not.” That one hurts to say. Knives to the stomach, the chest, the throat, trying to stab the words before they can emerge. He and Erik never have said those words. Not those. He has no idea whether Erik ever thinks them, thinks about them, in the depths of night.
“Do you believe you love him?” Shaw watches his expression; laughs again, avidly. “You do, don’t you? You, of all people…how can you be so naïve?”
“I-” He stops.
He does love Erik.
It’s as simple as that. As clear as chess matches in the park, cupcakes in bed, warm arms in the night. Low-voiced purposeful commands and complete unshakeable security. Yes like the realignment of once-dislocated joints. Yes.
He’s in love with Erik. He always will be.
That moment’s one of unparalleled shining happiness.
And then the comprehension: Sebastian Shaw knows it. Knows that he’s in love with Erik. He’s not been able to hide it, that understanding.
No. Oh no, no, no.
“I expected many things from you,” Shaw muses, glacial as the lowering black overhead, clouds choking out the sunset, “but not that. No matter, though; Erik doesn’t know. And wouldn’t believe you if you told him, frankly. So it’ll make this much sweeter.”
“This what,” Charles snaps, abruptly fed up with all this, the stupid intrigue and the lack of a point and Shaw being here on his doorstep, and maybe that is arrogant after all, shades of his mother, but he wants this horrible person gone now, “did you have a reason for being here, sorry, I’m a bit busy,” and Shaw says, “yes, Charles, but you’ve not sold off everything yet, I know you’ve not signed your paperwork, I’ve been keeping an ear open,” and Charles says “what?” because when were they talking about the company of all things, and Shaw steps closer, under the ominous slate-shade of the sky.
“I want everything you can give me,” Shaw says, and that body’s crowding his and Charles is already backed up against the door and he tries to kick out but then a hand out of nowhere lands over his mouth and nose, and there’s a cloth and a sickly sweet odor and he tries to fight back but only manages a single weak blow before the world goes swirling into darkness.