It takes a heap o' livin 4/4 [Erik/Charles, NC-17]
It takes a heap o' livin'
chapter 4: gone a little wild
He’s warm. He’s warm and comfortable and there’s a familiar shape tucked into his side. He can tell that Charles is looking at him, even without opening his eyes. Neat, nimble fingers stroke random patterns over his chest.
I know you’re awake. Charles’ thoughts taste of sleep, slipping in like warm limbs filling a space long contoured to their shape.
Erik huffs, turns his head towards Charles, though he keeps his eyes closed. I know I was wearing clothes when I fell asleep.
Yes, and getting dirt all over the bed.
You seem to like that kind of thing, slips out, along with his earlier imaginings of Logan and Charles. Newly-wakened Erik is not the best at keeping a handle on his brain.
Charles snorts right into his shoulder. “Really, Erik, you are jealous? Logan saved my life. I admit, I might have gone a little… wild, when I saw you collapse.” The words are followed by memory, from Charles’ view. Erik sees himself: standing, one moment, Charles looking away to telepathically knock a gunman unconscious, then looking back to see Erik on the ground, a couple of men darting out of the warehouse with rope. Charles had been about to seize the minds of those men, everything else forgotten, when the hard bulk of Logan slammed into him, because all the guns had still been firing.
Erik gets the other things, too, that don’t necessarily translate into concrete thought or memory - the flare of panic when something seemingly straightforward met an unexpected factor, how Charles’ confidence had been thoroughly rattled, the mixed relief and worry when he saw the kids running in. The overwhelming terror when Charles realized he couldn’t sense Erik or Raven.
And you’re fine, neither of you are hurt, Charles murmurs. Erik brings his hand up to cover Charles’ where it’s pressing down on Erik’s chest. But at the time... there is a danger, it seems, to being so reliant on any one of our abilities.
They’ve gone into missions before where they’d known they would to take casualties, had braced for difficult obstacles. It’s different, jarring, when they’d been expecting a relatively seamless victory. And what if Logan hadn’t been there? Erik tightens his grip on Charles. Clearly, we have been taught a lesson in overconfidence.
Charles sends out a mental pulse of agreement. Erik takes a long breath, lets it settle his focus on the stretch of his lungs, his ribcage. This is his favorite way of conversing with Charles. With his eyes closed, surrounded by familiar objects and the rest of the world at an acceptable distance, it feels like the most intimate of whispers, just the two of them in a private space where thoughts flow easier than breathing.
Right now, Erik can’t quite achieve the completely relaxed state he needs, where the world shrinks down to just him-and-Charles. He blames it on the lingering tiredness in his body. Should drugs be taking this long to wear off?
“You’re unhappy,” whispers Charles, distracting Erik. His voice is unexpectedly rough. “I mean, you tend to be frustrated and annoyed a lot of the time, but this is something deeper.”
Erik sighs. “It’s not... anything specific.” He twists his head further, dipping his nose into the tangle of Charles’ hair. I guess I’m wondering what it is I’m doing here.
It’s an advantage of telepathy, that Erik doesn’t need to elaborate, because Charles gets all the different layers of meaning: what purpose does Erik serve, why has Charles chosen Erik instead of someone better suited, why do they do what they do when bad things will never stop happening and they won’t be able to save everyone anyway.
Oh, Erik, and he’s suddenly being flooded by feeling, drowning in it, all Charles’. He’s never known what to make of all that Charles thinks of him, can’t even hope to sort it out. And how, anyway, does this answer anything? But it does, Erik, you ridiculous man.
Then Charles is kissing him, wet and full of intent, like his tongue is trying to write his reasons straight into Erik’s mouth. The slow, deep licks leave Erik breathless, Charles’ soft moans blurring what coherency he’d gained since waking. He pulls Charles on top of him. Turns out Charles had stripped them both naked, which Erik decides is a laudable act of foresight when Charles twists and thrusts against him, bringing their erections into heated contact.
Erik gasps out, “Charles,” voice low, and finally opens his eyes. Desire surges through him, heady, at the sight of Charles straddling his thighs. There’s a telling flush on Charles’ skin as his heated gaze roves, in turn, over Erik’s bared body. It’s fairly dark in the room; what light there is, is coming from the tall balcony windows, where the heavy drapes have been pulled back and the thin curtains are lending the light a pale bluish cast. It makes Charles’ skin almost appear to be glowing, except where Erik can see lingering shadows left by his hands, his mouth.
With the way Erik’s been thinking lately, this seems like yet another impossible thing: Charles, beautiful and beyond possessing, moving through the world with Erik’s marks on his skin. Charles makes a small sound and leans back down to kiss Erik again, hard.
You think you don’t deserve me, murmurs Charles. Ludicrous, when it is I - but fine. I would like to keep you anyway, if you don’t mind. Teeth bite down on Erik’s lower lip. I was quite vexed at those men, you know. They got their hands on you. They took you from me. Charles’ hands are all over Erik’s body, groping, blatantly possessive. He shifts off and pushes Erik’s knees apart. I’m dreadful at sharing, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Lips and teeth close over one nipple, working the flesh hard enough to sting. Erik swears and bucks up, causing Charles to wiggle and slide on top of him deliciously. You are mine, Erik Lehnsherr. No one else may have you.
It’s rare for Charles to get so demonstratively possessive. Which is a pity, because Erik is so hard he’s aching, and he wants more, wants to see if Charles will take him all the way-
A long finger slips between Erik’s legs, lube-slick even though he hadn’t heard the tube being opened, and it spreads wetness all down the valley of his ass, before circling teasingly around his entrance. The tip pushes through the ring of muscle, pauses. Withdraws, and Erik gasps out a strained, “Charles,” and then Charles is sliding the whole finger in, smooth and practiced, just shy of being too fast.
So hot, Erik, the finger pulls back, pushes in, I hated not being able to hear you. Want to be inside you, all the time. Charles punctuates the thought by rubbing over Erik’s prostate, making Erik buck up again, moaning. I can make you come like this. A second finger. Erik whimpers. But then, I can still feel your cock from the other night, and I’d like you to have a similar reminder tomorrow.
A third finger, and Charles pulls one of Erik’s legs up, resting it on his shoulder. You are a man of intense passions, Erik. And you are mine.
“Yes, yours,” gasps Erik. It’s maddening, how Charles can have three fingers inside Erik while his thoughts still sound so prim. Charles’ other hand wraps around his cock, stroking roughly, and Erik thrusts up into his grip, at the same time spreading his legs further, inviting. “Come on, Charles. Please. Want you inside me.”
Charles groans and surges up, licks into Erik’s mouth. Erik feels his heartbeat rise up to his throat as he watches Charles fumble on the condom, pour out more lube. The link between their minds is so open now; Erik’s blood is already surging with anticipation.
I want you so much, then Charles is pushing into him, immediate and inexorable, hot hard flesh and sweet steel mind, I wonder if you know just how much, Erik gasping as he’s taken, so tight so much oh God, moans at Charles moving inside him. His body feels split apart, filled, and yet he wants “more, please Charles,” greedy for it, for all of Charles, to see Charles come undone as well.
A lesser man would have run away; their minds this close, this tangled, Charles’ recurring disbelief delivers the taste of a musical minor chord. Erik isn’t sure how Charles can penetrate him so deeply and still not get that Erik loves this, loves it,the chaos of their bodies and minds uniting, thoughts and senses and physical realities losing definition and casting him into a limitless beyond.
“Charles,” he stutters out. His mouth and his voice feel very far away. The tumult in their joined minds translates to a wayward mess of limbs, erratic thrusts. “Harder, Charles, please, fucking fuck me.”
Erik is dimly aware of Charles’s hips snapping harder; even more distantly, the elaborate creaking of the bed. But his focus, what remains of it, is on how Charles is inside him in every way. This is the only time he can know a taste of Charles’ power. The sense of another mind, the motionless reach, then Charles’ thoughts are streaming through him, so beautiful can never believe this he’s not afraid at all don’t want to lose him.
It is the best kind of high, consummate and without compare.
Fingers grip his hips tightly, bruising. Charles’ mouth is open over his, the two of them a mess of licking and breathing and moaning, and they’re pressed skin-to-skin at every possible point, clutching desperately, Charles’ thrusts collapsing into a shallow rocking motion with Erik’s legs twisted tight around him. Pleasure like mercury syrup spills up his spine with every push and drag of Charles’ cock.
But the physical is nothing compared to the dance of his mind with Charles’. Barriers disintegrating alongside Charles’ control, distinctions inconsequential, leaving only an endless tumble of Erik-Charles-Erik-Charles-Erik-Charles. Joining like this carries a danger, each and every time, oblivion waiting just a careless step away.
He comes with a high gasp, words lost to him, shattering hard into nothingness.
Returning to himself, his body reclaiming those parts that are his, always comes with a deep note of loss. Their panting breaths, synced, seem almost alien at first, all sensory input a hot mess.
It’s the most intense sex they’ve had in a while. Erik wonders what inspired it. For future reference.
“Erik,” rasps Charles, an indefinite length of time later, “if you are unhappy here… I won’t force you to stay, if you wanted to leave.”
Erik stills. Forces his eyes open to stare at Charles.
“You’re restless. You’re wondering what’s out there,” Charles continues, not meeting his eyes. “I recognize the symptoms. Most mutants who come through here eventually move on, after all. You had intended to, I remember.”
Erik wants to laugh at that - staying in this house as a stranger, bruised and limping and informing Charles that he would only be here for one week, at the most - but he can’t quite feel his face yet. Or the rest of his body. Charles shifts, pulls his spent cock out of Erik; he barely feels the twinge.
He can sense Charles withdrawing his mind as well - not separating, like before, but giving him space.
Erik lets out a breath. You’re a bit of an idiot, he thinks, as clearly as he can. Stop trying to be noble, it’s annoying.
But you can’t deny that you’ve been unhappy. The familiar lines of a pout are starting to appear on Charles’ face. Good - Erik prefers irritation to his earlier stoic acceptance.
“It’s normal, Charles,” he says. Gives in and cards his fingers through Charles’ hair, now a totally hopeless case. “It’s natural to feel restless after being in a routine for a while. Probably an evolutionary imperative, to use your language. Doesn’t mean I want to leave, mein Gott.” He almost asks, haven’t you been in a long-term relationship before?
Thankfully, his brain has regained enough functionality to stop the words from leaving his throat.
The sky on the other side of the curtains is definitely dawn-colored. Erik lets the silence settle around them. He nudges Charles to the side, tries to pull the covers over them both. Charles huffs, looking pointedly at Erik’s stomach. Oh, he hadn’t even registered the mess of ejaculate, though once Charles has made him aware of it, he feels the stickiness and pleasant soreness all over. Charles just wipes him off using a far corner of the sheets, and they settle back down again.
Erik keeps thinking through all of this, and eventually comes to two conclusions. First: he does want to do more, to be something different, because as much fun as it is to run around playing superhero after dark, his days are occupied with him resisting the urge to commit mass murder for eight hours, and he’s not sure how much longer he’ll last on that front.
Charles is still watching him, his head level with Erik’s on the pillow. Has he even gotten any sleep? Erik leans in and kisses those lips, tasting the absurdity of them.
Second: as frustrating and helpless as it can be, to be a mutant in a human world, there are many ways the situation can be far worse, and one of these possibilities is forefront in Erik’s mind.
Charles’ eyes are a little tired around the edges, but still a deep, steady blue. It seems like a lifetime since Erik’s first sight of them, clear skies of kindness after the warrens of pain.
“I don’t know - anything, not if I’m ready, or... but whatever I do, whatever comes next,” Erik drops his voice low, as one confessing a truth, “I want you by my side.”
+ + +
Hours later, Erik makes a tactical retreat from the glorious Saturday sunshine and accompanying scenes of riotous teenage vitality outside, and finds Mandisa standing alone in the main foyer. She’s gazing at a vase that’s taller than her, likely a priceless antique. After the sweaty t-shirts and grass stains of the other kids, she looks neat and regal in a clean blue dress that must have belonged to Raven at her age.
“This is a big house,” she tells him somberly.
He knows that the arrangements for her safe return home have already been made. She’d even spoken to her sister, right after waking; evidently, Charles’ contacts in South Africa can move fast when they need to. They’re just waiting for the paperwork to go through, and giving her time to recover.
“It’s the Professor’s house,” he says. The big, empty house that the young Charles had grown up in, all alone until Raven had allowed herself to become his first mission, his first rescue.
How many must have passed through here? It’s a haven, a refuge, a safe-house. At some point, Charles had made the decision to open its oversized doors, to welcome the waifs and tend the wounded. Erik has always thought only about that part, never on what happens after. Not about Charles, always staying behind and watching others leave.
There’d been something in Charles’ thoughts, slipping through inadvertently - Charles had pictured Erik already at the door, bag packed and boots donned.
Erik traces his fingers over the carved patterns on the vase, careful but with a smile at Mandisa. Here, he wants to say, this is something precious and exquisite - but that does not mean it cannot be touched, handled, felt.
Antiques, at least, present no danger of running off or spouting divergent ideologies.
Charles, he calls out, I think I’ll go back to school. Finish my Masters in engineering.
Excellent! cries Charles. A burst of happiness, flavored by sun-dappled grass. Then Charles’ thought-presence turns distracted. Erik hears, distantly, Hank’s voice profusely apologizing. Ah, could you unlock the storage shed? We’re going to need more baseball bats.
Erik chuckles and shakes his head. Reaches out with his power to the small structure at the edge of the trees. Mandisa watches him peacefully, seemingly acclimatized to people randomly converting to telepathic communication.
Storage shed unlocked and the bin for the sports equipment helpfully pulled out, Erik returns his attention to their young guest. “Mandisa, has someone shown you around the house?” She shakes her head. “Would you like a tour?”
She nods. “Yes, please.”
“All right.” He straightens up. She looks a little old to be holding his hand, so he just leads the way, shoes clicking crisply on the smooth marble floors. “This, as you’ve noticed, is a very big house. It has belonged to the Xavier family for many generations, gradually expanding the grounds and adding rooms over time. Over here is the small drawing room…”
+ + + end + + +
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home
- Home by Edgar A. Guest (1881-1959)
{CHAPTER INDEX: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4}
chapter 4: gone a little wild
He’s warm. He’s warm and comfortable and there’s a familiar shape tucked into his side. He can tell that Charles is looking at him, even without opening his eyes. Neat, nimble fingers stroke random patterns over his chest.
I know you’re awake. Charles’ thoughts taste of sleep, slipping in like warm limbs filling a space long contoured to their shape.
Erik huffs, turns his head towards Charles, though he keeps his eyes closed. I know I was wearing clothes when I fell asleep.
Yes, and getting dirt all over the bed.
You seem to like that kind of thing, slips out, along with his earlier imaginings of Logan and Charles. Newly-wakened Erik is not the best at keeping a handle on his brain.
Charles snorts right into his shoulder. “Really, Erik, you are jealous? Logan saved my life. I admit, I might have gone a little… wild, when I saw you collapse.” The words are followed by memory, from Charles’ view. Erik sees himself: standing, one moment, Charles looking away to telepathically knock a gunman unconscious, then looking back to see Erik on the ground, a couple of men darting out of the warehouse with rope. Charles had been about to seize the minds of those men, everything else forgotten, when the hard bulk of Logan slammed into him, because all the guns had still been firing.
Erik gets the other things, too, that don’t necessarily translate into concrete thought or memory - the flare of panic when something seemingly straightforward met an unexpected factor, how Charles’ confidence had been thoroughly rattled, the mixed relief and worry when he saw the kids running in. The overwhelming terror when Charles realized he couldn’t sense Erik or Raven.
And you’re fine, neither of you are hurt, Charles murmurs. Erik brings his hand up to cover Charles’ where it’s pressing down on Erik’s chest. But at the time... there is a danger, it seems, to being so reliant on any one of our abilities.
They’ve gone into missions before where they’d known they would to take casualties, had braced for difficult obstacles. It’s different, jarring, when they’d been expecting a relatively seamless victory. And what if Logan hadn’t been there? Erik tightens his grip on Charles. Clearly, we have been taught a lesson in overconfidence.
Charles sends out a mental pulse of agreement. Erik takes a long breath, lets it settle his focus on the stretch of his lungs, his ribcage. This is his favorite way of conversing with Charles. With his eyes closed, surrounded by familiar objects and the rest of the world at an acceptable distance, it feels like the most intimate of whispers, just the two of them in a private space where thoughts flow easier than breathing.
Right now, Erik can’t quite achieve the completely relaxed state he needs, where the world shrinks down to just him-and-Charles. He blames it on the lingering tiredness in his body. Should drugs be taking this long to wear off?
“You’re unhappy,” whispers Charles, distracting Erik. His voice is unexpectedly rough. “I mean, you tend to be frustrated and annoyed a lot of the time, but this is something deeper.”
Erik sighs. “It’s not... anything specific.” He twists his head further, dipping his nose into the tangle of Charles’ hair. I guess I’m wondering what it is I’m doing here.
It’s an advantage of telepathy, that Erik doesn’t need to elaborate, because Charles gets all the different layers of meaning: what purpose does Erik serve, why has Charles chosen Erik instead of someone better suited, why do they do what they do when bad things will never stop happening and they won’t be able to save everyone anyway.
Oh, Erik, and he’s suddenly being flooded by feeling, drowning in it, all Charles’. He’s never known what to make of all that Charles thinks of him, can’t even hope to sort it out. And how, anyway, does this answer anything? But it does, Erik, you ridiculous man.
Then Charles is kissing him, wet and full of intent, like his tongue is trying to write his reasons straight into Erik’s mouth. The slow, deep licks leave Erik breathless, Charles’ soft moans blurring what coherency he’d gained since waking. He pulls Charles on top of him. Turns out Charles had stripped them both naked, which Erik decides is a laudable act of foresight when Charles twists and thrusts against him, bringing their erections into heated contact.
Erik gasps out, “Charles,” voice low, and finally opens his eyes. Desire surges through him, heady, at the sight of Charles straddling his thighs. There’s a telling flush on Charles’ skin as his heated gaze roves, in turn, over Erik’s bared body. It’s fairly dark in the room; what light there is, is coming from the tall balcony windows, where the heavy drapes have been pulled back and the thin curtains are lending the light a pale bluish cast. It makes Charles’ skin almost appear to be glowing, except where Erik can see lingering shadows left by his hands, his mouth.
With the way Erik’s been thinking lately, this seems like yet another impossible thing: Charles, beautiful and beyond possessing, moving through the world with Erik’s marks on his skin. Charles makes a small sound and leans back down to kiss Erik again, hard.
You think you don’t deserve me, murmurs Charles. Ludicrous, when it is I - but fine. I would like to keep you anyway, if you don’t mind. Teeth bite down on Erik’s lower lip. I was quite vexed at those men, you know. They got their hands on you. They took you from me. Charles’ hands are all over Erik’s body, groping, blatantly possessive. He shifts off and pushes Erik’s knees apart. I’m dreadful at sharing, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Lips and teeth close over one nipple, working the flesh hard enough to sting. Erik swears and bucks up, causing Charles to wiggle and slide on top of him deliciously. You are mine, Erik Lehnsherr. No one else may have you.
It’s rare for Charles to get so demonstratively possessive. Which is a pity, because Erik is so hard he’s aching, and he wants more, wants to see if Charles will take him all the way-
A long finger slips between Erik’s legs, lube-slick even though he hadn’t heard the tube being opened, and it spreads wetness all down the valley of his ass, before circling teasingly around his entrance. The tip pushes through the ring of muscle, pauses. Withdraws, and Erik gasps out a strained, “Charles,” and then Charles is sliding the whole finger in, smooth and practiced, just shy of being too fast.
So hot, Erik, the finger pulls back, pushes in, I hated not being able to hear you. Want to be inside you, all the time. Charles punctuates the thought by rubbing over Erik’s prostate, making Erik buck up again, moaning. I can make you come like this. A second finger. Erik whimpers. But then, I can still feel your cock from the other night, and I’d like you to have a similar reminder tomorrow.
A third finger, and Charles pulls one of Erik’s legs up, resting it on his shoulder. You are a man of intense passions, Erik. And you are mine.
“Yes, yours,” gasps Erik. It’s maddening, how Charles can have three fingers inside Erik while his thoughts still sound so prim. Charles’ other hand wraps around his cock, stroking roughly, and Erik thrusts up into his grip, at the same time spreading his legs further, inviting. “Come on, Charles. Please. Want you inside me.”
Charles groans and surges up, licks into Erik’s mouth. Erik feels his heartbeat rise up to his throat as he watches Charles fumble on the condom, pour out more lube. The link between their minds is so open now; Erik’s blood is already surging with anticipation.
I want you so much, then Charles is pushing into him, immediate and inexorable, hot hard flesh and sweet steel mind, I wonder if you know just how much, Erik gasping as he’s taken, so tight so much oh God, moans at Charles moving inside him. His body feels split apart, filled, and yet he wants “more, please Charles,” greedy for it, for all of Charles, to see Charles come undone as well.
A lesser man would have run away; their minds this close, this tangled, Charles’ recurring disbelief delivers the taste of a musical minor chord. Erik isn’t sure how Charles can penetrate him so deeply and still not get that Erik loves this, loves it,the chaos of their bodies and minds uniting, thoughts and senses and physical realities losing definition and casting him into a limitless beyond.
“Charles,” he stutters out. His mouth and his voice feel very far away. The tumult in their joined minds translates to a wayward mess of limbs, erratic thrusts. “Harder, Charles, please, fucking fuck me.”
Erik is dimly aware of Charles’s hips snapping harder; even more distantly, the elaborate creaking of the bed. But his focus, what remains of it, is on how Charles is inside him in every way. This is the only time he can know a taste of Charles’ power. The sense of another mind, the motionless reach, then Charles’ thoughts are streaming through him, so beautiful can never believe this he’s not afraid at all don’t want to lose him.
It is the best kind of high, consummate and without compare.
Fingers grip his hips tightly, bruising. Charles’ mouth is open over his, the two of them a mess of licking and breathing and moaning, and they’re pressed skin-to-skin at every possible point, clutching desperately, Charles’ thrusts collapsing into a shallow rocking motion with Erik’s legs twisted tight around him. Pleasure like mercury syrup spills up his spine with every push and drag of Charles’ cock.
But the physical is nothing compared to the dance of his mind with Charles’. Barriers disintegrating alongside Charles’ control, distinctions inconsequential, leaving only an endless tumble of Erik-Charles-Erik-Charles-Erik-Charles. Joining like this carries a danger, each and every time, oblivion waiting just a careless step away.
He comes with a high gasp, words lost to him, shattering hard into nothingness.
Returning to himself, his body reclaiming those parts that are his, always comes with a deep note of loss. Their panting breaths, synced, seem almost alien at first, all sensory input a hot mess.
It’s the most intense sex they’ve had in a while. Erik wonders what inspired it. For future reference.
“Erik,” rasps Charles, an indefinite length of time later, “if you are unhappy here… I won’t force you to stay, if you wanted to leave.”
Erik stills. Forces his eyes open to stare at Charles.
“You’re restless. You’re wondering what’s out there,” Charles continues, not meeting his eyes. “I recognize the symptoms. Most mutants who come through here eventually move on, after all. You had intended to, I remember.”
Erik wants to laugh at that - staying in this house as a stranger, bruised and limping and informing Charles that he would only be here for one week, at the most - but he can’t quite feel his face yet. Or the rest of his body. Charles shifts, pulls his spent cock out of Erik; he barely feels the twinge.
He can sense Charles withdrawing his mind as well - not separating, like before, but giving him space.
Erik lets out a breath. You’re a bit of an idiot, he thinks, as clearly as he can. Stop trying to be noble, it’s annoying.
But you can’t deny that you’ve been unhappy. The familiar lines of a pout are starting to appear on Charles’ face. Good - Erik prefers irritation to his earlier stoic acceptance.
“It’s normal, Charles,” he says. Gives in and cards his fingers through Charles’ hair, now a totally hopeless case. “It’s natural to feel restless after being in a routine for a while. Probably an evolutionary imperative, to use your language. Doesn’t mean I want to leave, mein Gott.” He almost asks, haven’t you been in a long-term relationship before?
Thankfully, his brain has regained enough functionality to stop the words from leaving his throat.
The sky on the other side of the curtains is definitely dawn-colored. Erik lets the silence settle around them. He nudges Charles to the side, tries to pull the covers over them both. Charles huffs, looking pointedly at Erik’s stomach. Oh, he hadn’t even registered the mess of ejaculate, though once Charles has made him aware of it, he feels the stickiness and pleasant soreness all over. Charles just wipes him off using a far corner of the sheets, and they settle back down again.
Erik keeps thinking through all of this, and eventually comes to two conclusions. First: he does want to do more, to be something different, because as much fun as it is to run around playing superhero after dark, his days are occupied with him resisting the urge to commit mass murder for eight hours, and he’s not sure how much longer he’ll last on that front.
Charles is still watching him, his head level with Erik’s on the pillow. Has he even gotten any sleep? Erik leans in and kisses those lips, tasting the absurdity of them.
Second: as frustrating and helpless as it can be, to be a mutant in a human world, there are many ways the situation can be far worse, and one of these possibilities is forefront in Erik’s mind.
Charles’ eyes are a little tired around the edges, but still a deep, steady blue. It seems like a lifetime since Erik’s first sight of them, clear skies of kindness after the warrens of pain.
“I don’t know - anything, not if I’m ready, or... but whatever I do, whatever comes next,” Erik drops his voice low, as one confessing a truth, “I want you by my side.”
+ + +
Hours later, Erik makes a tactical retreat from the glorious Saturday sunshine and accompanying scenes of riotous teenage vitality outside, and finds Mandisa standing alone in the main foyer. She’s gazing at a vase that’s taller than her, likely a priceless antique. After the sweaty t-shirts and grass stains of the other kids, she looks neat and regal in a clean blue dress that must have belonged to Raven at her age.
“This is a big house,” she tells him somberly.
He knows that the arrangements for her safe return home have already been made. She’d even spoken to her sister, right after waking; evidently, Charles’ contacts in South Africa can move fast when they need to. They’re just waiting for the paperwork to go through, and giving her time to recover.
“It’s the Professor’s house,” he says. The big, empty house that the young Charles had grown up in, all alone until Raven had allowed herself to become his first mission, his first rescue.
How many must have passed through here? It’s a haven, a refuge, a safe-house. At some point, Charles had made the decision to open its oversized doors, to welcome the waifs and tend the wounded. Erik has always thought only about that part, never on what happens after. Not about Charles, always staying behind and watching others leave.
There’d been something in Charles’ thoughts, slipping through inadvertently - Charles had pictured Erik already at the door, bag packed and boots donned.
Erik traces his fingers over the carved patterns on the vase, careful but with a smile at Mandisa. Here, he wants to say, this is something precious and exquisite - but that does not mean it cannot be touched, handled, felt.
Antiques, at least, present no danger of running off or spouting divergent ideologies.
Charles, he calls out, I think I’ll go back to school. Finish my Masters in engineering.
Excellent! cries Charles. A burst of happiness, flavored by sun-dappled grass. Then Charles’ thought-presence turns distracted. Erik hears, distantly, Hank’s voice profusely apologizing. Ah, could you unlock the storage shed? We’re going to need more baseball bats.
Erik chuckles and shakes his head. Reaches out with his power to the small structure at the edge of the trees. Mandisa watches him peacefully, seemingly acclimatized to people randomly converting to telepathic communication.
Storage shed unlocked and the bin for the sports equipment helpfully pulled out, Erik returns his attention to their young guest. “Mandisa, has someone shown you around the house?” She shakes her head. “Would you like a tour?”
She nods. “Yes, please.”
“All right.” He straightens up. She looks a little old to be holding his hand, so he just leads the way, shoes clicking crisply on the smooth marble floors. “This, as you’ve noticed, is a very big house. It has belonged to the Xavier family for many generations, gradually expanding the grounds and adding rooms over time. Over here is the small drawing room…”
+ + + end + + +
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home
- Home by Edgar A. Guest (1881-1959)
{CHAPTER INDEX: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4}