sirona's fics (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sirona_fics) wrote2011-12-28 02:50 am
sirona_fics) wrote2011-12-28 02:50 am
[Fic] I'll see your heart (and I'll raise you mine), Charles/Erik, 5/5
Title: I'll see your heart (and I'll raise you mine)
Pairing/characters: Charles/Erik, Erik/Alex BFFS, hints of Logan/Scott, Raven/Emma, Alex/Darwin, Janos/Azazel, ensemble cast.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~9,300 this part
For Warnings, Summary and Notes, please see [Part One] | [Part Two] | [Part Three] | [Part Four]
Part Five
He gets to his mother's house very late the next night, after an abysmally long flight and an even longer taxi ride back from the airport. It looks the same from the outside, ground-floor windows shuttered, lawn just a little overgrown, but otherwise there's no sign that anything untoward happened here. There aren't even any bullet holes in the walls; the assailants had at least been polite enough to only shoot the windows out.
Still, it’s quite obvious that there’s a fair amount of work needing to get done before his mother arrives in a few days. Erik welcomes it – he needs the distraction. Meanwhile, it’s gone eleven at night and he is exhausted -- and not just physically, if he’s honest with himself. He’s trying hard not to think about what he’s missing, the part of his routine he’d enjoyed the most – curling himself around Charles, feeling Charles’ breath flow easily in and out of his lungs, feeling Charles’ hand come to rest on top of his, lacing their fingers together loosely before drifting off. But his bed feels far too empty, and the sheets are cold around him in a way that even the depth of winter can’t achieve. Erik lies in his old bed, and lets the exhaustion take him. His last waking thought is to hope that he doesn’t dream.
The menial work through the next couple of days is soothing– he sorts through rubble and sweeps and vacuums and washes and tidies tirelessly, gets rid of the bullet-torn sofa and drives to the nearest IKEA for a new one, in shades of green and yellow and white that remind him of rolling hills behind a large mansion. He gets a few tins of paint, too, and paints over the shards of plaster knocked off by the flying debris, until the kitchen looks brand new. He gets the windows repaired, and gently deflects the workers’ interest about the wonderful shutters and where they could be ordered. Something to think about, perhaps, once his mother gets home.
And on one chilly afternoon he makes his way to the American embassy, and hands in a plain brown envelope that contains all his hopes and dreams of a different future, a future filled with touches and kisses and warm blue eyes welcoming him home.
---
Edie flies in the next Thursday, and Erik waits impatiently to see her face in between all the arrivals. He spots her hair first, greying and tucked up in a neat bun, and then he sees the rest of her and feels almost faint with relief that she looks fine – more than fine, rested and relaxed, even if there are a few wrinkles around her eyes that are that much deeper than he remembers.
“Hello Liebling,” she says, just like always, smiling warmly up at him, and Erik sweeps her into his arms and presses a kiss to her hair, weak with gratitude and love.
“How is Aunt Anna?” he asks, and she’s off, chattering a mile a minute, filling the aching space behind his sternum with seeping warmth.
“And how is Charles?” she asks. Erik tries not to flinch, thinks he does a pretty good job of it until she turns to him expectantly.
“I wish you’d told me sooner that you two have been corresponding,” he grumbles mildly, but it’s all for show – he can’t get the least bit angry at her. “I might have known how to handle him, then.”
“So he needed handling, did he?” Edie asks slyly, and Erik does flinch this time, sore and winded and missing Charles viscerally with every image his mother’s words evoke. He flushes under her knowing gaze.
“Oh,” Edie says, as usual needing nothing more than a look to read Erik like a book she’d learned by heart long ago. “Well. Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming. Darling, I am so happy for you! When is he coming over?”
Erik presses his lips together tightly to keep from admitting that he doesn’t know if Charles is coming at all. “I was hoping that, maybe, you and I might—think about joining them.”
Edie goes quiet at that, thoughtful. “I’d like to meet him properly, Schatz, you know that,” she says hesitantly. “But moving over there? To America? Leaving this place behind? I’m not sure, Erik.”
Erik feels apprehension lance through him, but he keeps it back, reigns it in as harshly as he knows how. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Just think about it? Please? I’ve submitted my visa authorisation application; we can get you one, too. We can just visit, to start with.”
Edie doesn’t say anything, looking out of the window with a melancholy little smile. It’s as if she’s already preparing to say goodbye to him, and Erik can barely stand it; his heart wrenches and his eyes sting, and he shoves the thought away viciously. He could never leave her behind. Never. Not even for Charles. But the thought of giving up Charles as the alternative...
He can’t do this right now. This is all hypothetical anyway, undecided, up in the air. They have time aplenty to sort the details out. He clenches his jaw and forces himself to regale Edie with the story about the handymen admiring the window shutters, and she turns back to him with a ready smile, rare maudlin mood forgotten. Erik tries not to show just how relieved he is.
He knows he's not quite out of the woods yet – Edie will extract every single scrap of information from him in due time. But with his separation from Charles still so raw in his mind, in his heart, he doesn't think he could bear talking about it, reliving it again. He can only be grateful that his mother knows him as well as she does, and leaves him be for one more night.
---
On Monday Erik goes to his precinct. To say his Captain isn’t thrilled about his absence is a gross understatement – he gets reamed to within an inch of his life, all the more because he can’t tell her where he’s been – ‘look, it was an emergency’ would not cut it this time, not just because he can’t explain what the emergency was. Still, he’s back on board, chiefly because he’s the best damn detective in the precinct and his Captain knows it. But he’s confined to desk duty until he gets a new partner; Alex’s resignation has just exacerbated the issue. Erik can cope with that – but he knows full well he’s going to be driven out of his skin within the week. He hates desk duty.
Which is why he’s caught with his figurative pants down when a young man with vaguely Hispanic features walks up to his cubicle four days later and introduces himself as “Janos Quested, your new partner.”
Erik eyes him with well-deserved suspicion – he’s never seen the man in his life, and there’s something about him, a familiarity in his eyes that has Erik on his guard instantly.
“Lehnsherr! You’re back on duty. Go show Quested the ropes, will you?” his Captain yells out of her open office door without looking up from her paperwork.
Erik isn’t daft enough to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, is he. “Come on,” he says, thumbing his computer off and snatching his coat from the tall rack in the corner.
They walk briskly out of headquarters, and Erik leads the way to his car, gesturing at Quested to get in. He drives away without wasting time, keeping a wary thought on the unknown quantity at his side. If worse comes to worst, he could always hold the man down by the metal in his seatbelt to give himself time to restrain him. They pass through traffic wordlessly – Quested is just as quiet and contained as Erik, and he sets Erik’s senses on high alert. The most worrying thing is that the man himself does not look the least bit apprehensive – he should be, by rights – even if he’s only been about a day, a well-meaning someone would have brought him up to speed on Erik’s reputation as a hardass that doesn’t mince his words. But the man is content to sit there and let himself be driven. That right there is a dead giveaway that something isn’t right.
Eventually they’ve travelled through the city centre and out the other side, on the outskirts of the city’s industrial zone, as it happens not all that far from where Erik and Alex had hidden from the gunmen what felt like a lifetime ago. Erik stops the car and gets out, turning immediately to face Quested, feeling out for every piece of metal in the vicinity.
“All right,” Erik says, allowing steel to enter his voice. “You want to tell me who you really are?”
To his surprise, Quested merely smirks. “She told me you wouldn’t fall for it,” he says cryptically, only putting Erik further on his guard. He waits, unwilling to give Quested the satisfaction of asking who ‘she’ is.
“Mr Lehnsherr, I have been sent by Emma Frost. I, too, had been under the mistaken impression that I was helping my fellow mutants, not harming them. Shaw truly made fools of all of us. Allow me to introduce myself properly.”
Quested raises his hands and twirls his fingers in the air; immediately small whirlwinds appear in the centre of his palms, warping dust and air until he’s holding a pair of miniature tornadoes. Erik stares, impressed despite himself. Quested flicks his fingers and the tornadoes dissipate into the ether; then he stands there, looking pleased with himself, waiting on Erik’s verdict.
Erik allows himself to relax a little. This is a fellow mutant, although Erik isn’t going to be completely comfortable until he can confirm with Emma that he is who he says he is.
As if sensing that, Quested lets out a shrill whistle that echoes oddly; Erik resists the urge to clap his hands over his ears. Immediately something snaps into existence next to Quested in a swirl of red mist and the faint smell of sulphur. Erik finds himself face to face with a tall man, skin the colour of poppies and hair a black so intense it seems to swallow the light around it.
“This is my associate, Azazel. I think you can guess what his power is.”
“A teleporter,” Erik says approvingly. Azazel nods, then disappears again only to come back a second later, holding tightly to a familiar figure that makes Erik’s lips twitch in welcome.
“Emma,” he says warmly.
“Hello, Erik,” Emma says easily, nodding at him -- the only sign that she’s pleased to see him that he’s ever likely to get. “I see your paranoia is alive and well.”
“Naturally. Surely you didn’t expect anything less.” The fact that she’s dressed for the Berlin cold speaks volumes anyway.
She merely smiles, but Erik has come to know her well enough to see a flicker of fondness in her eyes. “Indeed. I see you’ve met my associates.”
Erik nods, fears appeased for the time being. If Emma says they’re with them, then that’s what matters. Erik also knows her well enough to be well aware that if they were by some miracle lying to her, they would never have got this far.
“Janos will work with you until we’ve established there’s no more threat here, and all units have been recalled. After that – well, that’s up to you, really.”
Erik nods in agreement again. It’s as good a plan as any. “How is everyone?” he ventures, going for nonchalant even though he knows Emma sees right through him.
“Busy,” she replies shortly; then at his frown, unbends enough to say, “They are well. They miss you.” They both know she’s not just talking about the younger crowd.
“Give everyone my regards,” Erik says, and watches Janos and Azazel share a charged look, a last touch before there’s a shift of air and Azazel and Emma are gone once again.
Erik looks at Janos, who’s watching him back warily. Oh, well. He is one of them.
“Come on. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
---
Three weeks into his partnership with Janos, Erik drags his ass home, sore and tired and really too cold for anyone’s liking, with the only intention of drawing a steaming hot bath and soaking for half an hour, trying not to fall asleep in it. He picks up his mail on autopilot, not even looking at it unit he pushes the door closed behind himself, flicks on the light in the hallway and his eyes fall on a plain brown envelope lying innocuously on top of the stack, like it doesn’t contain something that might well determine the course of the rest of Erik’s life. He chucks the rest of the mail on top of the hallway table, slams his briefcase on top of it and tears into the envelope’s flap, ripping it apart haphazardly.
Erik doesn’t bother reading any more of it; those few words alone have his blood singing and his adrenaline spiking. No longer feeling even remotely tired, he grabs his keys and the letter and rushes out again, jumps into the car and drives straight to his mother’s house, eager like a kid with an A+ on his exam. If his letter is in, hers should be, too – to their mutual agreement Erik had only applied for a Visa Waiver for her at this stage, so they could visit Charles and the others – and that takes less time to secure than the extended visitors visa he had applied for. They still haven't talked more about moving over to Westchester, but Erik hopes that when his mother sees what they are trying to do there, she will change her mind.
It’s not Thursday, but when he parks the car and jumps out, he can see his mother sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine at her elbow, as if she’s expecting him. It’s definitely arrived, then; she’d know Erik would rush over as soon as he got the answer.
He unlocks the door, shutting it behind him and toeing off his shoes in the hallway. He lopes quickly inside, not quite able to contain his excitement at the thought of seeing Charles and the others again.
“Mamma, did you get it?” he asks eagerly. Edie smiles at him, fond and loving as always, and yet—
“Hello to you, too,” she says archly, and Erik grins at her sheepishly. “And yes, I did get it. Erik, you’d better sit down.”
Erik feels the smile slip right off his face at her tone. “What’s the matter?” he asks, urgent and a little afraid. “Are you all right?”
“I’m perfectly fine. Liebling, I have to warn you -- it’s not what you’re expecting.”
Erik takes the sheet of paper from her hand with numb fingers.
Erik skims the whole thing with dismay, feeling his earlier pleasure turn to dust in his chest. If she’s been denied even a Visa Waiver, she’s never going to be issued an actual visa to enter the country, not with her age to consider, and the fact that she’s retired and therefore probably intending to remain in the States once she gains entry. Even if they appeal, the outcome is very unlikely to change given that Edie is likely not going to work again (even if anyone would hire her, the economic climate being what it is).
If Erik wants to go, wants to stay there, he’s going to have to leave her behind. And that’s something he cannot, will not do.
“Erik,” Edie says, decisive and compelling. “Liebling, you must go. I know you don’t want to leave me here, but this is your life, and you deserve to be with the man you love, just like I was with your father for so many years. You know I will be all right, and you and Charles will visit as often as you can. But I can’t let you chain yourself to me and miss your chance at being happy.”
Erik’s jaw clenches painfully; he is so furious at the fucking bureaucrats who have made this decision purely on the basis of faceless numbers; he wants to tear something apart, wants to yank all the metal from the fucking Embassy and let the building fall in on itself; wants to scream himself hoarse and drive nine-inch nails through the heads of those pencil-pushers. It isn’t. Fucking. Fair.
“Life often isn’t, Schatz,” Edie says sadly, and he realises he must have let that last part slip from between lips white with anger. “We just have to make the best of it.”
“No,” Erik growls, raw and painful, clenching the fucking letter in his fists. “I am not leaving you,” he bites out, glaring down at the crumpled piece of paper that has shattered all those stupid hopes and dreams he’d let himself have in the last month. He should have fucking known better. He should have stopped this thing back when it started, when it would have been—if not painless, then at least easier. Now—now he feels like something’s tearing him slowly apart, inch by excruciating inch, slicing him open like that shard of glass that started the whole thing in the first place.
“Erik, you have to. Please, my love, do not make me watch you make yourself unhappy, knowing I am the cause of it,” she pleads, eyes red-rimmed as she lays a hand over his white knuckles.
“No,” Erik says hollowly. He can’t. She’s his mother. He’s known Charles all of a couple of months; he’s known her all his life. Knowing what she’s been through, her own mother and father in the camps, the last to go in but not the last to never come out; escaping just before her parents had been taken, to live with her aunt and her cousin Anne only to come back to the ruins of her home town and no house left to live in; the harsh life of an orphan, the years of near-destitution, together with his father clawing her way out of it so that Erik would have a chance to make something of himself, all the while carrying her secret like a fluttering bird close to her heart – no. He can’t leave. He’ll never leave her. “No. You can’t ask it of me.”
“Liebling--“
“Mother, please. Do you want me to never be able to look myself in the eye again? No. We’ll—think of something else.”
Edie sighs wearily, tears glittering unshed behind her eyelids. “Damn it, Erik.”
He lets go of the crumpled paper and squeezes her hand in his, lifting it to his lips and laying a kiss over the base of her thumb. Surely this isn’t over. Surely he and Charles would come up with something. Charles would understand. He has to.
Still, it’s three days before Erik can pick up his courage to dial the long number, familiar even though it’s the first time he’s called it (he’s a coward, but that’s neither here nor there). He’s spent the time thinking of options, anything and everything he’s been able to come up with – but if they were to ask Azazel to flash them over, then what? They would be illegal aliens, always hiding from the system. And suppose another attack like the last one happened? Suppose Azazel was injured, or killed outright; suppose Hank wasn’t in any shape to fly the jet – where does that leave them? Stuck in a country that would lock them up and deport them, or worse, if they knew what they were? No. Putting his mother at such a risk was never an option. Even if she was willing to forego her wood carving business (which she would, for him, Erik is sure), he could not take that chance.
It would have been much easier if he were on his own, but he refuses to even contemplate such a thing.
The phone rings once, twice, three times, four, before someone picks it up, sounding out of breath. “Yes?”
Erik recognises Scott’s lighter timbre, wonders what he must have been doing to be in such a rush. “Scott, it’s Erik Lehnsherr.”
“Mr Lehnsherr, hello,” Scott says calmly. They’ve never really warmed up to each other, even if Erik is willing to trust him more than a few of the others.
“Is Charles there?”
“Yes, he’s outside with Banshee and Darwin,” Scott says, like that makes any kind of sense at all.
“Who the hell are Banshee and Darwin?”
“Oh, sorry. They’ve got me doing it too, now. I meant with Sean and Armando. They’ve gone and given themselves superhero names.” Erik can hear Scott’s eyeroll in his voice.
“Huh.” That’s… actually kind of cool, but he’s not going to admit it any time soon. He mercilessly crushes the tiny voice that really wants to know what they’d call him.
“I can go get him if you’ll wait?”
“I’ll wait.” He’d wait for a hell of a lot longer than it would take Scott to fetch Charles, but that’s beside the point.
The silence stretches, and if it wasn’t for the faint yells that Erik can hear over the line, he would have thought the call had disconnected. Then there are running footsteps getting closer and closer and someone fumbles the receiver before there’s panting in his ear.
“Erik?” Charles says urgently, like Erik might have gone away. His voice makes Erik want to cry a little.
“I’m here.”
“Oh! Good.” More panting. “Sorry, I was on the other side of the house.”
“Training with Banshee and Darwin, Scott said.” He literally can’t help himself. “What’s your superhero name?”
Charles clears his throat; Erik doesn’t have to see him to know he’s flushing. “They’re calling me Professor X, god knows why.”
Erik laughs, for what feels like the first time in forever. “It suits you,” he says earnestly.
“Thank you, I think. How are you?”
And just like that, the levity evaporates like a fine morning mist.
“Tired,” Erik admits. It costs him nothing, and if he can’t be honest with Charles, there’s no one else in the world bar his mother that he can be honest with. “The department's running Janos and I into the ground.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” And Charles does sound sorry, now that he’s caught his breath.
“How about you? How’s things on your end?”
“Great, really great. The children, Erik, you should see them. They’re working so hard, and the progress they’re making, it’s astonishing. I honestly don’t know that I’ll have anything left to teach them in another month.”
Erik smiles at the affection and delight in Charles’ voice, something inside him aching at the thought that it’ll be a while yet before he can see that smile again for himself. “They’re hardly kids, Charles.”
“Oh, I know. It’s a figure of speech, you know – I am a Professor now, apparently.”
“God, I miss you,” Erik blurts out; he doesn’t mean to, it’s the last thing he wants to say when he’s got that bombshell coming, the broken promise he’s yet to own up to, but the words bypass his speech sensors and go straight past his lips, small and wistful and desperately fond.
There’s silence for a beat, and then Charles sighs. “I miss you too, my friend.”
“Charles.” God, it has to be now, otherwise he’ll never say it, never want to put it into words. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Charles is quiet on the other end of the line, and Erik has never felt so tired in his life. “All right,” Charles says, sounding like he’s bracing himself.
“My mother’s visa application was denied. She can’t enter the States. And I—Charles, I—I can’t—“
Charles makes a soothing sound on the other end, a long susurration, like it could take away the clench in Erik’s chest. “It’s okay. I understand. You won’t leave her.”
“I’m sorry,” Erik says miserably. There’s a huff of air, and then:
“Don’t be. You could never leave your mother behind, or anyone that you care about. I know, Erik; I’ve always known that, right from the start. It’s one of the many reasons why I love you so much.”
Erik closes his eyes, lips pressed tightly together, as if he could hold his distress in. “There can’t be that many,” he says disparagingly. He’s not someone people just love.
“You’re wrong, my friend. There are so, so many of them; sometimes I wish you could see what I see when I look at you.”
They’re both quiet for a long minute, sharing breath that Erik desperately wishes he could feel instead of just hear.
“We’ll figure something out,” Charles tells him, insistent and determined, and god, Erik loves him so much it is physically painful that he can’t touch him right now.
“We will?” he says, and he hates that he sounds so needy, so uncertain, but fuck, he just needs to believe it to have the strength to get up in the morning.
“I promise.”
“Okay,” Erik says, although he just can’t see what they can do, short of everyone moving to Germany, and let’s be honest, it’s not something any of them would want.
They say their goodbyes; Erik doesn’t want to hang up, but he feels like he might cry with relief if he doesn’t – he needs a little space right now, to process that Charles is still with him, hasn’t sent him packing, is willing to try and work with Erik’s stubbornness and broken promises. He can’t quite believe it, but he’s so grateful for Charles being Charles that he has to just sit there for a while after the call ends, sunk in the armchair by his phone, breathing in and out and remembering Charles’ words in his ear.
The world goes on, despite Erik’s suspicions to the contrary prior to making the dreaded phone call. He misses Alex like a phantom limb some days, his supernatural way of knowing what Erik is thinking, what Erik needs of him, and getting it done before Erik even asks – but he and Janos do such a good job together that Erik hears rumours of Europol eyeing the two of them for recruitment. Unbeknownst to the powers that be, Erik does everything he can to make sure they get snapped up, because access to Europol’s databases would be invaluable when looking for other facilities out there. From what Erik saw at the one in Arkansas, Shaw's operation has all the signs of a much larger, maybe even global network. And with Stryker's main base destroyed, he would have regrouped somewhere on the other side of the world, a place no one suspected, and in all likelihood continued his experiments on their kind -- that's what Erik's military training would have dictated, were he in Stryker's position. Stryker is going to have to be dealt with sooner rather than later; and god only knows how many other mutants are out there, in pain, waiting to be rescued. It would be as good a purpose for the rest of his life as any, and he knows he can always count on the others' support in pursuing it – that they will help has never been in question.
On the evenings when there hasn’t been another grisly murder he has to solve, and he isn’t spending hours digging through Europol’s databases for far-fetched clues, he takes the familiar drive to his mother’s house, parks outside the gate and slips inside the spacious garage. Sometimes Janos comes with him, sometimes he doesn’t – Edie has taken a shine to him, there’s no denying it; not many people can discuss history of European art like Janos can, when he puts his mind to it. Regardless, Edie always looks up from her work and smiles a welcome; he smiles back, shucks his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and spends his time in a much more pleasant manner – moulding metal to Edie’s wood, creating fantastical shapes and figures and landscapes, letting his imagination run riot as he lets his senses acknowledge the iron, or copper, or aluminium calling their siren song to him. They turn molten under his mind and his fingers, until he can twist and shape and bend and feel the tension seeping out of his shoulders, leaving him loose and relaxed and bringing him a measure of serenity like he could never have imagined.
---
The harsh German winter is starting to edge into tentative spring by the time they have wrapped up their most recent case (which had involved Erik and Janos train-hopping through three different countries to bust the human trafficking ring Europol had been after). Erik spends the morning doing paperwork in their office, while Janos cites some family emergency or other in order to skive off for the day. Since their work had been crucial to solving the case, Erik doesn't think anyone would bat too much of an eyelid if one (or both) of them decide to take it easy today. The office is quiet, and Erik gets through the forms much faster than usual (when he has to deal with one interruption after the next). By three o'clock he's draining his third coffee of the day and hitting Ctrl+S. There's nothing left in the pile that won't keep a day -- even two, now he comes to think of it. With Janos gone god knows where, Erik decides to indulge -- he passes by his favourite Italian and picks up a nice dinner for two, together with a bottle of fine Muscat. Edie deserves a break, too.
It's a fine day, chilly but bright even late in the afternoon, and the sky is still light when he makes his way to the house, parks the car and hefts the bags with him to the back door. It's probably a good thing that whatever ice there had been when he'd left Berlin two weeks ago is gone by this time, because when he rounds the corner and sees Hank's jet parked in his mother's back garden like it belongs there, Erik might well have found himself flat on his back from the shock.
He pushes the back door open cautiously; now that he's listening for it, he can hear the chatter of excited voices from the living room, Raven's unmistakable laughter floating easily through the cooling air. Erik dumps the food on the kitchen table, kicks off his shoes and pads quietly up to the door, not quite daring to believe what his ears are telling him. He stands in the doorway, struck dumb with surprise at the sight of people on every single sofa, armchair and foot stool that there is in the house, all chatting and laughing, Edie's slight frame presiding over the gathering from the tall armchair that used to be his father's.
He looks around, heart in his throat, and of course, there sits Charles with Raven on one side and Alex on the other, smiling at Erik so warmly that Erik feels his cold cheeks heat with it. He can't look away from Charles' eyes, a shade of blue he's never quite found anywhere else (not that he's been looking, because he hasn’t. Really), and a moment later there's the familiar soft, gentle touch of Charles' mind on his, spelling out a welcome that Erik's been yearning for all this time.
"Erik!" Alex shouts, finally noticing his appearance. He struggles out of the huge sofa's embrace and crosses the room quickly, throwing his arms around Erik and thumping him on the back. Erik grips him right back, almost light-headed with how much he's missed him. Before he can even say a word of greeting he's surrounded, Raven tugging him away from Alex for her turn to hold him, and he feels a body plaster itself to his back, a familiar hover of wings close to his ear that gives away its identity. Sean keeps a wary distance -- he's not forgotten Erik's unique training methods -- but still shakes him by the hand. Armando does the same, with his usual amiable smile.
Emma just waves at him from the other armchair, and Erik notices Scott and Logan behind her, Scott sitting primly on a straight-backed chair while Logan lounges with his shoulder propped on the wall. Logan sees him looking, and sends him a mocking salute. Scott looks pissed, but nods at Erik grudgingly.
And then, of course, there's Charles. Everyone has let him go at last, and they back away to reveal Charles standing behind them, cheeks red and lips redder, with a look in his eyes that Erik feels all the way to the soles of his feet.
"I'm going to make some tea," Edie says diplomatically, and there's a chorus of hurried agreement as everyone follows her through the door to the kitchen. Logan leers at Erik as he passes, and Erik sends him a glare of warning. Logan rolls his eyes, scoffs, and sneaks out of the side door for a smoke. Scott slinks out behind him.
And then there's no one but Charles there with him, and Erik pretty much forgets where he is, that there are other people in the house with them, that there is a world out there that isn't Charles and the way he's drinking Erik in with his eyes.
>>Hi,<< Charles says in his mind, smiling his delight. He looks like the only thing Erik wants to see ever again.
>>Hi,<< Erik says back, feeling his lips stretch and his eyes crinkle.
They stand there looking at each other for Erik doesn't know how long, before Charles lifts his hand and cups his cheek, and it's like a dam has burst; Erik surges forward and presses their mouths together with a broken groan, feeling Charles open for him immediately, tug him closer with a hand in his hair and the other on his back, urging him nearer. Charles tastes of tea and his mother's stem ginger and chocolate cookies; he tastes of yes, finally, Charles, of the answer to each and every one of Erik's prayers.
After a long, long (too short) moment, Erik has to come up for air, and he stares down at Charles, worried that he might dissolve like one of Erik’s all-too-frequent dreams. But no, Charles is still there, warm and solid in his arms, pressing another kiss to the corner of Erik's mouth that Erik turns to capture again.
"What is going on?" Erik says at last, quietly, not ready to let go of Charles just yet. "How are you all here?"
Charles blinks languidly, lips still curved into a smile that makes Erik dizzy to think about, eyes twinkling behind his long lashes.
"It's a long story," Charles says, and oh, his voice, fuck but Erik's missed him. "It might be best to just show you?"
There's hope in his eyes, and hell, Erik has to actually stop and breathe for a moment so he doesn't shout a desperate, needy 'YES'.
He might as well have, however, the way Charles' face loses some of its stiffness. Erik must have thought it pretty damn loudly, but just the thought of Charles in his head again, the last proof that he's really here, that this isn't all just a figment of Erik's desperate imagination -- it's more than he can handle; he needs it so bad that he doesn't know how he's still breathing without it.
Charles smiles again, reaches up and draws Erik's head down until their foreheads are touching, and Erik sees--
There's an argument. Alex and Scott rage at each other, snarling and furious, glaring daggers. Charles' thoughts tell him this is far from the first time.
"Fine," Alex yells, stalking away; then he stops and looks back, teeth bared. "You know what, maybe I'll just go back to Germany. Fuck, Erik's probably miserable as hell over there on his own; I would have been there if it wasn't-- if I hadn't-- goddamn it." He turns his back on Scott in disgust. Erik feels Charles' unhappiness, knows it's as much because of the boys fighting as what Alex had said about Erik.
"Maybe you should," Scott sneers, stalking away in the opposite direction.
Logan and Armando share a look, then go after them in their chosen corners. The others stare warily at each other.
Later that night, at dinner, the table is quiet. Alex and Scott are both present, but they're not acknowledging each other, choosing instead to play with their food.
"Maybe we should all go," Armando says, loud in the sullen silence. Heads snap up to look at him, but he doesn't seem bothered. "To Germany. Like on a holiday."
"We can take the jet," Hank says eagerly amidst the chorus of ‘yes’-es. Raven and Angel feel pleased in Charles’ mind; Alex looks grateful and Scott looks perturbed, while Logan merely shrugs, uncaring. Azazel mutters something about a personal matter and meeting them there, grins devilishly and disappears from the table, leaving behind nothing but a puff of displaced red mist.
"Capital idea," Charles says, and the vision dissolves in a fuzzy feeling of happiness.
Erik opens his eyes and looks at Charles, with his floppy hair and his fair skin and that slight dent between his eyebrows that's a dead giveaway of too much worrying and too little rest. Erik leans closer and kisses it gently, feels it smooth out beneath his lips, feels Charles' eyelashes graze his chin as his eyes drift closed again and Charles clutches at him tighter.
'I'm so happy you're here,' Erik wants to say, but doesn't know how.
Charles just smiles into his throat like he hears it anyway, burrows his nose under Erik's turtleneck to reach the crook where it joins his shoulder, presses a kiss to his skin. Erik finds himself devoid of words; instead, he holds tight to Charles' shoulders and tucks him closer.
By the time they disengage and compose themselves enough to join the others in the kitchen, the food is long gone and two empty bottles of wine sit forgotten on the counter while Alex tops off everyone's glasses from a third. Erik takes in the scene, noticing Azazel's absence together with another, more unexpected one.
"Where's Moira?" he asks Charles quietly.
"Gone to stay with her sister in New York. She and I have... not exactly parted ways, but--I'll explain later."
Erik shrugs. It's not important. What is important is seeing everyone here, chatting easily amongst themselves and with Edie; watching the delighted smile on his mother's face when she turns to look at him, the soothing presence of Charles in his thoughts. It's everything Erik had ever hoped for.
---
It's pretty late by the time everyone heads to bed -- Erik had been worried, but apparently Hank had converted the seats on the jet to join up and fold out into cots, and with the guest rooms and the fold-out sofas at Edie’s house, everyone has a space to bunk down.
No one says a word when Charles mentions he has made other arrangements, least of all Erik – although he wants to, quite vocally, before he sees the smile Charles throws him when he thinks no one is looking. He's therefore not even remotely surprised when Charles climbs in the passenger seat of his car; he does end up breaking a number of traffic laws getting them back to his flat as fast as mutantly possible as a result. He throws the handbrake, rushes out of the car and up the stairs without even looking to see that Charles follows, unlocks the door and sets to tidying the detritus of a fortnight away on the job -- the mail he'd tossed on top of the small table in the hallway, the papers still spread over the kitchen table, the take-away boxes that had been the only thing he'd had the strength to attempt when he crawled off the train last night.
Charles finds him in the bedroom, where Erik hopes what he's doing doesn't look so damning -- namely, he's changing the old, dusty sheets on the bed. Charles raises one eloquent eyebrow at him, mouth twisted in a sly smirk, and Erik's entire face feels like it's burst into flames even as his cock starts taking an interest in the proceedings. Erik clears his throat awkwardly, but doesn't stop -- even if there's none of that (and he privately doubts it -- the look in Charles' eyes speaks volumes about plans well made), he still doesn't want Charles to sleep on dirty sheets.
He tucks in the last corner and straightens, folding up the duvet across the foot of the bed. And then, there's nothing left to do but turn and face Charles, lounging with a shoulder propped on the doorway and his hands in his pockets.
"All that, just for me? Erik, I'm touched," Charles teases.
"Shut up, Charles," Erik says, advancing on him. Charles' smirk turns into a grin; Erik kisses it off his lips, tastes it in his mouth when he sneaks a tongue inside. Charles' hands find his back gratifyingly quickly; Erik presses him into the wall, slides a leg between Charles' thighs, fits their bodies together like they're two parts of a whole, seamless. Charles moans into his mouth and tries to push closer; a tendril of delight brushes against Erik's mind, and without even thinking about it he opens for it, invites it inside, invites Charles inside, all the way. Charles doesn't surge and take, like Erik had when Charles had given him an opening; it's a gentle advance, a languorous uncurling of sensation that bathes Erik's mind in delicious pleasure.
"Charles," Erik groans, pushing Charles' cardigan up and tugging his white pinstriped shirt out of his slacks, sliding his hands underneath to feel smooth skin against his palms, Charles' taut muscles shifting under his fingers. Charles kisses him harder, lifting one long leg and wrapping it around the back of Erik's thigh--and something must honest-to-god short-circuit in Erik's mind because the next thing he knows Charles' shirt is gone and his pale chest is bared to Erik's covetous gaze. Charles pants, head thrown back against the wall, watching Erik through heavy eyelids, fingers on Erik's belt working stealthily until it falls open and Charles attacks the button behind it.
Erik has to kiss him again; his breath hitches in Charles' mouth when Charles' hand slips inside the flap, pushes the front of his boxer shorts down and curls long fingers around his half-hard cock. The touch alone makes Erik buck his hips forward into the apex of Charles' thighs, grinding against the pressure. He's fully hard so fast he feels a little lightheaded, has to brace his hands against the wall beside Charles' shoulders, and for a moment he can do nothing more than thrust into Charles' hand and pant against Charles' throat. He presses his lips there, sucks a bruising kiss into the pale skin, can't help his triumphant thoughts of 'Mine, there, see? Mine', doesn't want to. Charles moans quietly close to his ear and flexes his leg around Erik's thigh, bringing him closer. It's so unbelievably hot that it's all Erik can do not to give in and simply hump him until he comes.
Charles' other hand tugs Erik's turtleneck up so it can slip underneath, a plea of >>Off, Erik, please<< in Erik's head; Erik manages to make his legs hold him up until he can tear it over his head and throw it away in the corner. And oh, yes, what the hell was he thinking earlier? How could he have stood not to have this, the feel of his skin sliding against Charles' again; sheer bliss. He slips one hand down the back of Charles' open slacks, palms one cheek and squeezes, slips his fingers lower, and Charles jerks against him so hard that he almost unbalances both of them. His groan is music to Erik's ears, god, how is he ever going to be able to let this man leave again? It can't be done, impossible. He's not going to think about it when Charles' cock drags heavy against his hip, hard and long and begging for Erik's mouth around it.
Charles moans again and bucks his hips; Erik supposes he caught that last thought. And he wants it too, so bad his mouth is watering with it, but not just now. No, they're both too wound up, and Erik wants to come with Charles' ass clenching around him, with Charles' cock in his hand spitting his release all over the two of them.
>>Erik, for fuck's sake stop thinking about it and damn well do it already,<< Charles thinks at him desperately. He sucks at Erik’s neck, hard, frantic, in time with his thrusts against Erik's hipbone, and yes, he's completely right, it's not like Erik to not do everything he's promising, right the fuck now.
It's not easy, but he twists them to fall over the freshly laid sheets (Erik's never been more grateful for how small his flat actually is), kicking off his trousers and helping Charles out of his slacks and underwear. Charles' cock rises from a nest of dark curls, pale and gorgeous except for the tip, which is so red it's almost purple with need. Erik simply can't help himself -- he leans down and sucks that tip into his mouth, collecting drops of precome on his tongue, rubbing his lips against the glans. Charles' spine arches so taut that for a sickening second Erik thinks he's going to snap himself in half, but all Charles does is to fist his hands in the sheets and damn near scream, cock jerking in Erik's mouth. Erik moves away fast, because as much as he'd love Charles to come in his mouth, he wants something more. The drawer by the bed flies open and a metal tube zooms into Erik's hand; Charles' eyes follow it feverishly as Erik's fingers close tightly around it. Then Charles' eyes find Erik's, and the cheeky minx is grinning, egging Erik on with images of slick fingers probing his ass open. Erik can't get the cap off fast enough.
His hand actually shakes a little as he rubs the lube around Charles' entrance, slipping the tip of one finger inside. Charles' spine bows up again, and Charles thrusts himself down over Erik's finger, taking it to the knuckle. Erik chokes a groan in his throat, but Charles isn't half as subdued -- the noises he's making are threatening to snap Erik's control faster than is probably advisable.
>>Stop thinking and take me,<< Charles throws at him, drawn out and thrumming with need.
>>Wait, Jesus, Charles, just a bit longer,<< Erik thinks back desperately as he fits another finger inside and spreads them out. Charles' ass swallows them like he's been aching for it.
>>Come on, Erik, come on, come on, please!<<
Charles stretches easily around him, far looser than he should be, and Erik feels a vicious stab of jealousy at the thought of why that might be.
Charles has the nerve to laugh, but his thoughts stop Erik short. >>Wanted it, but only from you, no one else, had to do it myself last night as the others slept in the rooms around me, you have turned me into some sex-starved wretch and I love it. Now fuck me.<<
Jesus Christ, does Charles even know what he's doing to him? Charles' filthy smirk says he knows exactly how he's testing Erik's composure. His lips are red from Erik’s kisses, and Erik watches as he sets his teeth in the lower one and sucks it into his mouth. Erik surges up and draws it back out, takes it into his mouth instead, licks it soothingly before he kisses Charles deeper, pours every feeling Charles draws out effortlessly into it, and Charles takes it all eagerly and comes back for more. Erik pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock -- no condom, his tests came back clean a month ago and he doesn't give a fuck if Charles is, not like he'd want to go on if Charles doesn’t. Charles' walls part for him eagerly, hot and welcoming and so very tight; Erik slides in an inch, waits, feeds in another inch until Charles has taken all of him, until Charles' legs are tight around his hips and Charles is urging him on with his body, pulling him closer.
Erik isn't too coherent after that; there's only heat and need and Charles' arms around him and Charles' voice in his mind, an endless loop of pleasure that leaves Erik gasping and bucking helplessly inside him, taking and being taken at the same time, and just, it's too much, it's--
His climax blinds him, coming as it does a second before Charles', the two of them jerking together, probably yelling the block down by the sound of it, Erik doesn’t know and doesn’t care. The point is this: they flop back onto the bed, sweaty and still wound around each other, not planning to move any time soon. Around them, metal rains in a circle over the worn carpet, released at last from Erik's grasp. Erik pulls out gently and pants into Charles' throat for a moment before he rolls half-off him so Charles can breathe. The space between them is a mess, sweat and come covering both of their fronts, but Erik can't find the strength to move any more than he already has. Charles lies on his back, small sounds of languid satisfaction coming from his throat, a ridiculous grin on his lips when he curls an arm around Erik and tugs him closer. Erik plants a sloppy kiss to the underside of his chin and lets his head drop on Charles' shoulder, pillowed by delicious muscle. One of his legs finds a space between Charles' thighs again, and Charles' ankle hooks over his own. Charles buries a hand in his hair and breathes under him, in and out, and Erik can relax at long last.
Eventually not even the lure of Charles' bare skin against his can keep Erik from feeling filthy, however, and he drags himself upright, bullies Charles into getting up too, strips the no-longer-clean sheet from the bed and throws it into a corner.
"You're kind of anal about cleanliness, do you know?" Charles grumbles. Erik swats him on the backside to get him into the shower, and Charles yelps delightedly. Erik pulls out another fresh sheet and makes the bed quickly, then follows him out through the corridor and into the bathroom--but just before he goes in, something in the corner of his eye pulls him up short. He turns his head to look -- there's a rather large suitcase by the front door that certainly wasn't there before. Charles, the sneaky bugger, must have brought it up while Erik was panicking about the state of his flat.
"Are you coming or--" Charles says laughingly, but stops when he notices the direction of Erik's gaze. When Erik looks at him again, there's apprehension in Charles' eyes, and he suddenly looks a lot more naked than a moment ago. "Ah."
Erik hardly dares hope that this is what he thinks it is; he swallows audibly, watching Charles watch him, then takes a deep breath, picks up his courage and says--
"That's a suitcase."
He cringes immediately. Way to go, Lehnsherr, wow him with your superior deduction skills.
Charles' expression does lighten at that, and he hides a smile. "Indeed it is."
"Is it your suitcase?" Erik fishes.
"Correct.”
“It’s rather large.”
“It needs to be, to contain everything that a professor at the Max Planck Institute might need for teaching."
If it takes Erik a moment to work his way through that loaded statement, he blames the sight of a blush spreading over Charles' face, all the way down to his chest. And then his breath hitches, because is Charles saying--
"You're staying? Here? In Berlin?"With me?
"I am." >>And yes, if you'll have me.<<
Erik can't quite find the words to tell Charles how much there really isn't an ‘if’ of any kind; but he rather thinks that the way he literally throws himself on Charles and kisses him stupid might give him some indication.
"What about the kids?" he asks when they come up for air.
Charles look thoughtful. "Sean -- I've no idea what he'll do. He has family in Ireland, he was saying he wanted to stay with them for a while. Alex and Armando are planning to stick around here. Alex misses you terribly, you know, and well -- Armando goes where Alex goes, I think you'll find. Scott and Logan -- it's anyone's guess what those two will decide, but I have a feeling they might head back to Westchester. You see, Raven, Angel, Emma, Hank and Azazel are staying at the mansion. They have plans to refurbish it and turn it into a school for mutant children. They've asked Moira to teach Biology and Chemistry for them, and I think she'll agree."
"That's -- wow," Erik says, processing all the news as Charles finally succeeds in luring him inside the bathroom and into the shower. The thought of a school for young ones of their kind leaves him with a warm glow; he can think of no one better to teach those kids -- except perhaps Charles, but Erik is a horribly selfish mutant being and he isn't letting him go, not any time soon. "That's fantastic," he says diplomatically, watching droplets of water bounce off his chest and tangle in Charles’ eyelashes.
Charles laughs again, that same delighted sound, and Erik is bathed in a feeling of fierce affection.
"I'll give guest lectures, of course, every now and then," Charles demurs, sliding his hands up Erik’s wet back and smiling innocently – or as innocently as he can look when he’s standing naked in Erik’s shower, eyeing him up like a piece of candy. "We're likely to see Azazel quite often, if you know what I mean."
"Are he and Janos..."
"Yep. But Janos has got used to working with you, Azazel said, and it's no trouble for him to pop in and out all the time."
Erik honestly can't speak for a moment. To have Charles here with him; to have the option of seeing the others whenever he'd like; to know that everyone he holds dear is settled and happy; to be able to stay with his mother for as long as he can -- it's more than he ever thought he'd have in his life.
He succumbs to the temptation to kiss Charles’ inviting mouth again, and knows in his bones that he'll hold on to it with everything he's got, whatever it takes.
END
Pairing/characters: Charles/Erik, Erik/Alex BFFS, hints of Logan/Scott, Raven/Emma, Alex/Darwin, Janos/Azazel, ensemble cast.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~9,300 this part
For Warnings, Summary and Notes, please see [Part One] | [Part Two] | [Part Three] | [Part Four]
Part Five
He gets to his mother's house very late the next night, after an abysmally long flight and an even longer taxi ride back from the airport. It looks the same from the outside, ground-floor windows shuttered, lawn just a little overgrown, but otherwise there's no sign that anything untoward happened here. There aren't even any bullet holes in the walls; the assailants had at least been polite enough to only shoot the windows out.
Still, it’s quite obvious that there’s a fair amount of work needing to get done before his mother arrives in a few days. Erik welcomes it – he needs the distraction. Meanwhile, it’s gone eleven at night and he is exhausted -- and not just physically, if he’s honest with himself. He’s trying hard not to think about what he’s missing, the part of his routine he’d enjoyed the most – curling himself around Charles, feeling Charles’ breath flow easily in and out of his lungs, feeling Charles’ hand come to rest on top of his, lacing their fingers together loosely before drifting off. But his bed feels far too empty, and the sheets are cold around him in a way that even the depth of winter can’t achieve. Erik lies in his old bed, and lets the exhaustion take him. His last waking thought is to hope that he doesn’t dream.
The menial work through the next couple of days is soothing– he sorts through rubble and sweeps and vacuums and washes and tidies tirelessly, gets rid of the bullet-torn sofa and drives to the nearest IKEA for a new one, in shades of green and yellow and white that remind him of rolling hills behind a large mansion. He gets a few tins of paint, too, and paints over the shards of plaster knocked off by the flying debris, until the kitchen looks brand new. He gets the windows repaired, and gently deflects the workers’ interest about the wonderful shutters and where they could be ordered. Something to think about, perhaps, once his mother gets home.
And on one chilly afternoon he makes his way to the American embassy, and hands in a plain brown envelope that contains all his hopes and dreams of a different future, a future filled with touches and kisses and warm blue eyes welcoming him home.
---
Edie flies in the next Thursday, and Erik waits impatiently to see her face in between all the arrivals. He spots her hair first, greying and tucked up in a neat bun, and then he sees the rest of her and feels almost faint with relief that she looks fine – more than fine, rested and relaxed, even if there are a few wrinkles around her eyes that are that much deeper than he remembers.
“Hello Liebling,” she says, just like always, smiling warmly up at him, and Erik sweeps her into his arms and presses a kiss to her hair, weak with gratitude and love.
“How is Aunt Anna?” he asks, and she’s off, chattering a mile a minute, filling the aching space behind his sternum with seeping warmth.
“And how is Charles?” she asks. Erik tries not to flinch, thinks he does a pretty good job of it until she turns to him expectantly.
“I wish you’d told me sooner that you two have been corresponding,” he grumbles mildly, but it’s all for show – he can’t get the least bit angry at her. “I might have known how to handle him, then.”
“So he needed handling, did he?” Edie asks slyly, and Erik does flinch this time, sore and winded and missing Charles viscerally with every image his mother’s words evoke. He flushes under her knowing gaze.
“Oh,” Edie says, as usual needing nothing more than a look to read Erik like a book she’d learned by heart long ago. “Well. Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming. Darling, I am so happy for you! When is he coming over?”
Erik presses his lips together tightly to keep from admitting that he doesn’t know if Charles is coming at all. “I was hoping that, maybe, you and I might—think about joining them.”
Edie goes quiet at that, thoughtful. “I’d like to meet him properly, Schatz, you know that,” she says hesitantly. “But moving over there? To America? Leaving this place behind? I’m not sure, Erik.”
Erik feels apprehension lance through him, but he keeps it back, reigns it in as harshly as he knows how. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Just think about it? Please? I’ve submitted my visa authorisation application; we can get you one, too. We can just visit, to start with.”
Edie doesn’t say anything, looking out of the window with a melancholy little smile. It’s as if she’s already preparing to say goodbye to him, and Erik can barely stand it; his heart wrenches and his eyes sting, and he shoves the thought away viciously. He could never leave her behind. Never. Not even for Charles. But the thought of giving up Charles as the alternative...
He can’t do this right now. This is all hypothetical anyway, undecided, up in the air. They have time aplenty to sort the details out. He clenches his jaw and forces himself to regale Edie with the story about the handymen admiring the window shutters, and she turns back to him with a ready smile, rare maudlin mood forgotten. Erik tries not to show just how relieved he is.
He knows he's not quite out of the woods yet – Edie will extract every single scrap of information from him in due time. But with his separation from Charles still so raw in his mind, in his heart, he doesn't think he could bear talking about it, reliving it again. He can only be grateful that his mother knows him as well as she does, and leaves him be for one more night.
---
On Monday Erik goes to his precinct. To say his Captain isn’t thrilled about his absence is a gross understatement – he gets reamed to within an inch of his life, all the more because he can’t tell her where he’s been – ‘look, it was an emergency’ would not cut it this time, not just because he can’t explain what the emergency was. Still, he’s back on board, chiefly because he’s the best damn detective in the precinct and his Captain knows it. But he’s confined to desk duty until he gets a new partner; Alex’s resignation has just exacerbated the issue. Erik can cope with that – but he knows full well he’s going to be driven out of his skin within the week. He hates desk duty.
Which is why he’s caught with his figurative pants down when a young man with vaguely Hispanic features walks up to his cubicle four days later and introduces himself as “Janos Quested, your new partner.”
Erik eyes him with well-deserved suspicion – he’s never seen the man in his life, and there’s something about him, a familiarity in his eyes that has Erik on his guard instantly.
“Lehnsherr! You’re back on duty. Go show Quested the ropes, will you?” his Captain yells out of her open office door without looking up from her paperwork.
Erik isn’t daft enough to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, is he. “Come on,” he says, thumbing his computer off and snatching his coat from the tall rack in the corner.
They walk briskly out of headquarters, and Erik leads the way to his car, gesturing at Quested to get in. He drives away without wasting time, keeping a wary thought on the unknown quantity at his side. If worse comes to worst, he could always hold the man down by the metal in his seatbelt to give himself time to restrain him. They pass through traffic wordlessly – Quested is just as quiet and contained as Erik, and he sets Erik’s senses on high alert. The most worrying thing is that the man himself does not look the least bit apprehensive – he should be, by rights – even if he’s only been about a day, a well-meaning someone would have brought him up to speed on Erik’s reputation as a hardass that doesn’t mince his words. But the man is content to sit there and let himself be driven. That right there is a dead giveaway that something isn’t right.
Eventually they’ve travelled through the city centre and out the other side, on the outskirts of the city’s industrial zone, as it happens not all that far from where Erik and Alex had hidden from the gunmen what felt like a lifetime ago. Erik stops the car and gets out, turning immediately to face Quested, feeling out for every piece of metal in the vicinity.
“All right,” Erik says, allowing steel to enter his voice. “You want to tell me who you really are?”
To his surprise, Quested merely smirks. “She told me you wouldn’t fall for it,” he says cryptically, only putting Erik further on his guard. He waits, unwilling to give Quested the satisfaction of asking who ‘she’ is.
“Mr Lehnsherr, I have been sent by Emma Frost. I, too, had been under the mistaken impression that I was helping my fellow mutants, not harming them. Shaw truly made fools of all of us. Allow me to introduce myself properly.”
Quested raises his hands and twirls his fingers in the air; immediately small whirlwinds appear in the centre of his palms, warping dust and air until he’s holding a pair of miniature tornadoes. Erik stares, impressed despite himself. Quested flicks his fingers and the tornadoes dissipate into the ether; then he stands there, looking pleased with himself, waiting on Erik’s verdict.
Erik allows himself to relax a little. This is a fellow mutant, although Erik isn’t going to be completely comfortable until he can confirm with Emma that he is who he says he is.
As if sensing that, Quested lets out a shrill whistle that echoes oddly; Erik resists the urge to clap his hands over his ears. Immediately something snaps into existence next to Quested in a swirl of red mist and the faint smell of sulphur. Erik finds himself face to face with a tall man, skin the colour of poppies and hair a black so intense it seems to swallow the light around it.
“This is my associate, Azazel. I think you can guess what his power is.”
“A teleporter,” Erik says approvingly. Azazel nods, then disappears again only to come back a second later, holding tightly to a familiar figure that makes Erik’s lips twitch in welcome.
“Emma,” he says warmly.
“Hello, Erik,” Emma says easily, nodding at him -- the only sign that she’s pleased to see him that he’s ever likely to get. “I see your paranoia is alive and well.”
“Naturally. Surely you didn’t expect anything less.” The fact that she’s dressed for the Berlin cold speaks volumes anyway.
She merely smiles, but Erik has come to know her well enough to see a flicker of fondness in her eyes. “Indeed. I see you’ve met my associates.”
Erik nods, fears appeased for the time being. If Emma says they’re with them, then that’s what matters. Erik also knows her well enough to be well aware that if they were by some miracle lying to her, they would never have got this far.
“Janos will work with you until we’ve established there’s no more threat here, and all units have been recalled. After that – well, that’s up to you, really.”
Erik nods in agreement again. It’s as good a plan as any. “How is everyone?” he ventures, going for nonchalant even though he knows Emma sees right through him.
“Busy,” she replies shortly; then at his frown, unbends enough to say, “They are well. They miss you.” They both know she’s not just talking about the younger crowd.
“Give everyone my regards,” Erik says, and watches Janos and Azazel share a charged look, a last touch before there’s a shift of air and Azazel and Emma are gone once again.
Erik looks at Janos, who’s watching him back warily. Oh, well. He is one of them.
“Come on. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
---
Three weeks into his partnership with Janos, Erik drags his ass home, sore and tired and really too cold for anyone’s liking, with the only intention of drawing a steaming hot bath and soaking for half an hour, trying not to fall asleep in it. He picks up his mail on autopilot, not even looking at it unit he pushes the door closed behind himself, flicks on the light in the hallway and his eyes fall on a plain brown envelope lying innocuously on top of the stack, like it doesn’t contain something that might well determine the course of the rest of Erik’s life. He chucks the rest of the mail on top of the hallway table, slams his briefcase on top of it and tears into the envelope’s flap, ripping it apart haphazardly.
”Dear Kriminalhauptkommissar Lehnsherr,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been granted a B-2 Visitor Visa to enter or leave the United States of America for a period of ten years from the date of issue…
Erik doesn’t bother reading any more of it; those few words alone have his blood singing and his adrenaline spiking. No longer feeling even remotely tired, he grabs his keys and the letter and rushes out again, jumps into the car and drives straight to his mother’s house, eager like a kid with an A+ on his exam. If his letter is in, hers should be, too – to their mutual agreement Erik had only applied for a Visa Waiver for her at this stage, so they could visit Charles and the others – and that takes less time to secure than the extended visitors visa he had applied for. They still haven't talked more about moving over to Westchester, but Erik hopes that when his mother sees what they are trying to do there, she will change her mind.
It’s not Thursday, but when he parks the car and jumps out, he can see his mother sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine at her elbow, as if she’s expecting him. It’s definitely arrived, then; she’d know Erik would rush over as soon as he got the answer.
He unlocks the door, shutting it behind him and toeing off his shoes in the hallway. He lopes quickly inside, not quite able to contain his excitement at the thought of seeing Charles and the others again.
“Mamma, did you get it?” he asks eagerly. Edie smiles at him, fond and loving as always, and yet—
“Hello to you, too,” she says archly, and Erik grins at her sheepishly. “And yes, I did get it. Erik, you’d better sit down.”
Erik feels the smile slip right off his face at her tone. “What’s the matter?” he asks, urgent and a little afraid. “Are you all right?”
“I’m perfectly fine. Liebling, I have to warn you -- it’s not what you’re expecting.”
Erik takes the sheet of paper from her hand with numb fingers.
”Dear Mrs Lehnsherr,
I regret to inform you that your application for a Visa Waiver has been denied, on the basis that you can provide no proof of intention to leave the United States again after 90 days…”
Erik skims the whole thing with dismay, feeling his earlier pleasure turn to dust in his chest. If she’s been denied even a Visa Waiver, she’s never going to be issued an actual visa to enter the country, not with her age to consider, and the fact that she’s retired and therefore probably intending to remain in the States once she gains entry. Even if they appeal, the outcome is very unlikely to change given that Edie is likely not going to work again (even if anyone would hire her, the economic climate being what it is).
If Erik wants to go, wants to stay there, he’s going to have to leave her behind. And that’s something he cannot, will not do.
“Erik,” Edie says, decisive and compelling. “Liebling, you must go. I know you don’t want to leave me here, but this is your life, and you deserve to be with the man you love, just like I was with your father for so many years. You know I will be all right, and you and Charles will visit as often as you can. But I can’t let you chain yourself to me and miss your chance at being happy.”
Erik’s jaw clenches painfully; he is so furious at the fucking bureaucrats who have made this decision purely on the basis of faceless numbers; he wants to tear something apart, wants to yank all the metal from the fucking Embassy and let the building fall in on itself; wants to scream himself hoarse and drive nine-inch nails through the heads of those pencil-pushers. It isn’t. Fucking. Fair.
“Life often isn’t, Schatz,” Edie says sadly, and he realises he must have let that last part slip from between lips white with anger. “We just have to make the best of it.”
“No,” Erik growls, raw and painful, clenching the fucking letter in his fists. “I am not leaving you,” he bites out, glaring down at the crumpled piece of paper that has shattered all those stupid hopes and dreams he’d let himself have in the last month. He should have fucking known better. He should have stopped this thing back when it started, when it would have been—if not painless, then at least easier. Now—now he feels like something’s tearing him slowly apart, inch by excruciating inch, slicing him open like that shard of glass that started the whole thing in the first place.
“Erik, you have to. Please, my love, do not make me watch you make yourself unhappy, knowing I am the cause of it,” she pleads, eyes red-rimmed as she lays a hand over his white knuckles.
“No,” Erik says hollowly. He can’t. She’s his mother. He’s known Charles all of a couple of months; he’s known her all his life. Knowing what she’s been through, her own mother and father in the camps, the last to go in but not the last to never come out; escaping just before her parents had been taken, to live with her aunt and her cousin Anne only to come back to the ruins of her home town and no house left to live in; the harsh life of an orphan, the years of near-destitution, together with his father clawing her way out of it so that Erik would have a chance to make something of himself, all the while carrying her secret like a fluttering bird close to her heart – no. He can’t leave. He’ll never leave her. “No. You can’t ask it of me.”
“Liebling--“
“Mother, please. Do you want me to never be able to look myself in the eye again? No. We’ll—think of something else.”
Edie sighs wearily, tears glittering unshed behind her eyelids. “Damn it, Erik.”
He lets go of the crumpled paper and squeezes her hand in his, lifting it to his lips and laying a kiss over the base of her thumb. Surely this isn’t over. Surely he and Charles would come up with something. Charles would understand. He has to.
Still, it’s three days before Erik can pick up his courage to dial the long number, familiar even though it’s the first time he’s called it (he’s a coward, but that’s neither here nor there). He’s spent the time thinking of options, anything and everything he’s been able to come up with – but if they were to ask Azazel to flash them over, then what? They would be illegal aliens, always hiding from the system. And suppose another attack like the last one happened? Suppose Azazel was injured, or killed outright; suppose Hank wasn’t in any shape to fly the jet – where does that leave them? Stuck in a country that would lock them up and deport them, or worse, if they knew what they were? No. Putting his mother at such a risk was never an option. Even if she was willing to forego her wood carving business (which she would, for him, Erik is sure), he could not take that chance.
It would have been much easier if he were on his own, but he refuses to even contemplate such a thing.
The phone rings once, twice, three times, four, before someone picks it up, sounding out of breath. “Yes?”
Erik recognises Scott’s lighter timbre, wonders what he must have been doing to be in such a rush. “Scott, it’s Erik Lehnsherr.”
“Mr Lehnsherr, hello,” Scott says calmly. They’ve never really warmed up to each other, even if Erik is willing to trust him more than a few of the others.
“Is Charles there?”
“Yes, he’s outside with Banshee and Darwin,” Scott says, like that makes any kind of sense at all.
“Who the hell are Banshee and Darwin?”
“Oh, sorry. They’ve got me doing it too, now. I meant with Sean and Armando. They’ve gone and given themselves superhero names.” Erik can hear Scott’s eyeroll in his voice.
“Huh.” That’s… actually kind of cool, but he’s not going to admit it any time soon. He mercilessly crushes the tiny voice that really wants to know what they’d call him.
“I can go get him if you’ll wait?”
“I’ll wait.” He’d wait for a hell of a lot longer than it would take Scott to fetch Charles, but that’s beside the point.
The silence stretches, and if it wasn’t for the faint yells that Erik can hear over the line, he would have thought the call had disconnected. Then there are running footsteps getting closer and closer and someone fumbles the receiver before there’s panting in his ear.
“Erik?” Charles says urgently, like Erik might have gone away. His voice makes Erik want to cry a little.
“I’m here.”
“Oh! Good.” More panting. “Sorry, I was on the other side of the house.”
“Training with Banshee and Darwin, Scott said.” He literally can’t help himself. “What’s your superhero name?”
Charles clears his throat; Erik doesn’t have to see him to know he’s flushing. “They’re calling me Professor X, god knows why.”
Erik laughs, for what feels like the first time in forever. “It suits you,” he says earnestly.
“Thank you, I think. How are you?”
And just like that, the levity evaporates like a fine morning mist.
“Tired,” Erik admits. It costs him nothing, and if he can’t be honest with Charles, there’s no one else in the world bar his mother that he can be honest with. “The department's running Janos and I into the ground.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” And Charles does sound sorry, now that he’s caught his breath.
“How about you? How’s things on your end?”
“Great, really great. The children, Erik, you should see them. They’re working so hard, and the progress they’re making, it’s astonishing. I honestly don’t know that I’ll have anything left to teach them in another month.”
Erik smiles at the affection and delight in Charles’ voice, something inside him aching at the thought that it’ll be a while yet before he can see that smile again for himself. “They’re hardly kids, Charles.”
“Oh, I know. It’s a figure of speech, you know – I am a Professor now, apparently.”
“God, I miss you,” Erik blurts out; he doesn’t mean to, it’s the last thing he wants to say when he’s got that bombshell coming, the broken promise he’s yet to own up to, but the words bypass his speech sensors and go straight past his lips, small and wistful and desperately fond.
There’s silence for a beat, and then Charles sighs. “I miss you too, my friend.”
“Charles.” God, it has to be now, otherwise he’ll never say it, never want to put it into words. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Charles is quiet on the other end of the line, and Erik has never felt so tired in his life. “All right,” Charles says, sounding like he’s bracing himself.
“My mother’s visa application was denied. She can’t enter the States. And I—Charles, I—I can’t—“
Charles makes a soothing sound on the other end, a long susurration, like it could take away the clench in Erik’s chest. “It’s okay. I understand. You won’t leave her.”
“I’m sorry,” Erik says miserably. There’s a huff of air, and then:
“Don’t be. You could never leave your mother behind, or anyone that you care about. I know, Erik; I’ve always known that, right from the start. It’s one of the many reasons why I love you so much.”
Erik closes his eyes, lips pressed tightly together, as if he could hold his distress in. “There can’t be that many,” he says disparagingly. He’s not someone people just love.
“You’re wrong, my friend. There are so, so many of them; sometimes I wish you could see what I see when I look at you.”
They’re both quiet for a long minute, sharing breath that Erik desperately wishes he could feel instead of just hear.
“We’ll figure something out,” Charles tells him, insistent and determined, and god, Erik loves him so much it is physically painful that he can’t touch him right now.
“We will?” he says, and he hates that he sounds so needy, so uncertain, but fuck, he just needs to believe it to have the strength to get up in the morning.
“I promise.”
“Okay,” Erik says, although he just can’t see what they can do, short of everyone moving to Germany, and let’s be honest, it’s not something any of them would want.
They say their goodbyes; Erik doesn’t want to hang up, but he feels like he might cry with relief if he doesn’t – he needs a little space right now, to process that Charles is still with him, hasn’t sent him packing, is willing to try and work with Erik’s stubbornness and broken promises. He can’t quite believe it, but he’s so grateful for Charles being Charles that he has to just sit there for a while after the call ends, sunk in the armchair by his phone, breathing in and out and remembering Charles’ words in his ear.
The world goes on, despite Erik’s suspicions to the contrary prior to making the dreaded phone call. He misses Alex like a phantom limb some days, his supernatural way of knowing what Erik is thinking, what Erik needs of him, and getting it done before Erik even asks – but he and Janos do such a good job together that Erik hears rumours of Europol eyeing the two of them for recruitment. Unbeknownst to the powers that be, Erik does everything he can to make sure they get snapped up, because access to Europol’s databases would be invaluable when looking for other facilities out there. From what Erik saw at the one in Arkansas, Shaw's operation has all the signs of a much larger, maybe even global network. And with Stryker's main base destroyed, he would have regrouped somewhere on the other side of the world, a place no one suspected, and in all likelihood continued his experiments on their kind -- that's what Erik's military training would have dictated, were he in Stryker's position. Stryker is going to have to be dealt with sooner rather than later; and god only knows how many other mutants are out there, in pain, waiting to be rescued. It would be as good a purpose for the rest of his life as any, and he knows he can always count on the others' support in pursuing it – that they will help has never been in question.
On the evenings when there hasn’t been another grisly murder he has to solve, and he isn’t spending hours digging through Europol’s databases for far-fetched clues, he takes the familiar drive to his mother’s house, parks outside the gate and slips inside the spacious garage. Sometimes Janos comes with him, sometimes he doesn’t – Edie has taken a shine to him, there’s no denying it; not many people can discuss history of European art like Janos can, when he puts his mind to it. Regardless, Edie always looks up from her work and smiles a welcome; he smiles back, shucks his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and spends his time in a much more pleasant manner – moulding metal to Edie’s wood, creating fantastical shapes and figures and landscapes, letting his imagination run riot as he lets his senses acknowledge the iron, or copper, or aluminium calling their siren song to him. They turn molten under his mind and his fingers, until he can twist and shape and bend and feel the tension seeping out of his shoulders, leaving him loose and relaxed and bringing him a measure of serenity like he could never have imagined.
---
The harsh German winter is starting to edge into tentative spring by the time they have wrapped up their most recent case (which had involved Erik and Janos train-hopping through three different countries to bust the human trafficking ring Europol had been after). Erik spends the morning doing paperwork in their office, while Janos cites some family emergency or other in order to skive off for the day. Since their work had been crucial to solving the case, Erik doesn't think anyone would bat too much of an eyelid if one (or both) of them decide to take it easy today. The office is quiet, and Erik gets through the forms much faster than usual (when he has to deal with one interruption after the next). By three o'clock he's draining his third coffee of the day and hitting Ctrl+S. There's nothing left in the pile that won't keep a day -- even two, now he comes to think of it. With Janos gone god knows where, Erik decides to indulge -- he passes by his favourite Italian and picks up a nice dinner for two, together with a bottle of fine Muscat. Edie deserves a break, too.
It's a fine day, chilly but bright even late in the afternoon, and the sky is still light when he makes his way to the house, parks the car and hefts the bags with him to the back door. It's probably a good thing that whatever ice there had been when he'd left Berlin two weeks ago is gone by this time, because when he rounds the corner and sees Hank's jet parked in his mother's back garden like it belongs there, Erik might well have found himself flat on his back from the shock.
He pushes the back door open cautiously; now that he's listening for it, he can hear the chatter of excited voices from the living room, Raven's unmistakable laughter floating easily through the cooling air. Erik dumps the food on the kitchen table, kicks off his shoes and pads quietly up to the door, not quite daring to believe what his ears are telling him. He stands in the doorway, struck dumb with surprise at the sight of people on every single sofa, armchair and foot stool that there is in the house, all chatting and laughing, Edie's slight frame presiding over the gathering from the tall armchair that used to be his father's.
He looks around, heart in his throat, and of course, there sits Charles with Raven on one side and Alex on the other, smiling at Erik so warmly that Erik feels his cold cheeks heat with it. He can't look away from Charles' eyes, a shade of blue he's never quite found anywhere else (not that he's been looking, because he hasn’t. Really), and a moment later there's the familiar soft, gentle touch of Charles' mind on his, spelling out a welcome that Erik's been yearning for all this time.
"Erik!" Alex shouts, finally noticing his appearance. He struggles out of the huge sofa's embrace and crosses the room quickly, throwing his arms around Erik and thumping him on the back. Erik grips him right back, almost light-headed with how much he's missed him. Before he can even say a word of greeting he's surrounded, Raven tugging him away from Alex for her turn to hold him, and he feels a body plaster itself to his back, a familiar hover of wings close to his ear that gives away its identity. Sean keeps a wary distance -- he's not forgotten Erik's unique training methods -- but still shakes him by the hand. Armando does the same, with his usual amiable smile.
Emma just waves at him from the other armchair, and Erik notices Scott and Logan behind her, Scott sitting primly on a straight-backed chair while Logan lounges with his shoulder propped on the wall. Logan sees him looking, and sends him a mocking salute. Scott looks pissed, but nods at Erik grudgingly.
And then, of course, there's Charles. Everyone has let him go at last, and they back away to reveal Charles standing behind them, cheeks red and lips redder, with a look in his eyes that Erik feels all the way to the soles of his feet.
"I'm going to make some tea," Edie says diplomatically, and there's a chorus of hurried agreement as everyone follows her through the door to the kitchen. Logan leers at Erik as he passes, and Erik sends him a glare of warning. Logan rolls his eyes, scoffs, and sneaks out of the side door for a smoke. Scott slinks out behind him.
And then there's no one but Charles there with him, and Erik pretty much forgets where he is, that there are other people in the house with them, that there is a world out there that isn't Charles and the way he's drinking Erik in with his eyes.
>>Hi,<< Charles says in his mind, smiling his delight. He looks like the only thing Erik wants to see ever again.
>>Hi,<< Erik says back, feeling his lips stretch and his eyes crinkle.
They stand there looking at each other for Erik doesn't know how long, before Charles lifts his hand and cups his cheek, and it's like a dam has burst; Erik surges forward and presses their mouths together with a broken groan, feeling Charles open for him immediately, tug him closer with a hand in his hair and the other on his back, urging him nearer. Charles tastes of tea and his mother's stem ginger and chocolate cookies; he tastes of yes, finally, Charles, of the answer to each and every one of Erik's prayers.
After a long, long (too short) moment, Erik has to come up for air, and he stares down at Charles, worried that he might dissolve like one of Erik’s all-too-frequent dreams. But no, Charles is still there, warm and solid in his arms, pressing another kiss to the corner of Erik's mouth that Erik turns to capture again.
"What is going on?" Erik says at last, quietly, not ready to let go of Charles just yet. "How are you all here?"
Charles blinks languidly, lips still curved into a smile that makes Erik dizzy to think about, eyes twinkling behind his long lashes.
"It's a long story," Charles says, and oh, his voice, fuck but Erik's missed him. "It might be best to just show you?"
There's hope in his eyes, and hell, Erik has to actually stop and breathe for a moment so he doesn't shout a desperate, needy 'YES'.
He might as well have, however, the way Charles' face loses some of its stiffness. Erik must have thought it pretty damn loudly, but just the thought of Charles in his head again, the last proof that he's really here, that this isn't all just a figment of Erik's desperate imagination -- it's more than he can handle; he needs it so bad that he doesn't know how he's still breathing without it.
Charles smiles again, reaches up and draws Erik's head down until their foreheads are touching, and Erik sees--
There's an argument. Alex and Scott rage at each other, snarling and furious, glaring daggers. Charles' thoughts tell him this is far from the first time.
"Fine," Alex yells, stalking away; then he stops and looks back, teeth bared. "You know what, maybe I'll just go back to Germany. Fuck, Erik's probably miserable as hell over there on his own; I would have been there if it wasn't-- if I hadn't-- goddamn it." He turns his back on Scott in disgust. Erik feels Charles' unhappiness, knows it's as much because of the boys fighting as what Alex had said about Erik.
"Maybe you should," Scott sneers, stalking away in the opposite direction.
Logan and Armando share a look, then go after them in their chosen corners. The others stare warily at each other.
Later that night, at dinner, the table is quiet. Alex and Scott are both present, but they're not acknowledging each other, choosing instead to play with their food.
"Maybe we should all go," Armando says, loud in the sullen silence. Heads snap up to look at him, but he doesn't seem bothered. "To Germany. Like on a holiday."
"We can take the jet," Hank says eagerly amidst the chorus of ‘yes’-es. Raven and Angel feel pleased in Charles’ mind; Alex looks grateful and Scott looks perturbed, while Logan merely shrugs, uncaring. Azazel mutters something about a personal matter and meeting them there, grins devilishly and disappears from the table, leaving behind nothing but a puff of displaced red mist.
"Capital idea," Charles says, and the vision dissolves in a fuzzy feeling of happiness.
Erik opens his eyes and looks at Charles, with his floppy hair and his fair skin and that slight dent between his eyebrows that's a dead giveaway of too much worrying and too little rest. Erik leans closer and kisses it gently, feels it smooth out beneath his lips, feels Charles' eyelashes graze his chin as his eyes drift closed again and Charles clutches at him tighter.
'I'm so happy you're here,' Erik wants to say, but doesn't know how.
Charles just smiles into his throat like he hears it anyway, burrows his nose under Erik's turtleneck to reach the crook where it joins his shoulder, presses a kiss to his skin. Erik finds himself devoid of words; instead, he holds tight to Charles' shoulders and tucks him closer.
By the time they disengage and compose themselves enough to join the others in the kitchen, the food is long gone and two empty bottles of wine sit forgotten on the counter while Alex tops off everyone's glasses from a third. Erik takes in the scene, noticing Azazel's absence together with another, more unexpected one.
"Where's Moira?" he asks Charles quietly.
"Gone to stay with her sister in New York. She and I have... not exactly parted ways, but--I'll explain later."
Erik shrugs. It's not important. What is important is seeing everyone here, chatting easily amongst themselves and with Edie; watching the delighted smile on his mother's face when she turns to look at him, the soothing presence of Charles in his thoughts. It's everything Erik had ever hoped for.
---
It's pretty late by the time everyone heads to bed -- Erik had been worried, but apparently Hank had converted the seats on the jet to join up and fold out into cots, and with the guest rooms and the fold-out sofas at Edie’s house, everyone has a space to bunk down.
No one says a word when Charles mentions he has made other arrangements, least of all Erik – although he wants to, quite vocally, before he sees the smile Charles throws him when he thinks no one is looking. He's therefore not even remotely surprised when Charles climbs in the passenger seat of his car; he does end up breaking a number of traffic laws getting them back to his flat as fast as mutantly possible as a result. He throws the handbrake, rushes out of the car and up the stairs without even looking to see that Charles follows, unlocks the door and sets to tidying the detritus of a fortnight away on the job -- the mail he'd tossed on top of the small table in the hallway, the papers still spread over the kitchen table, the take-away boxes that had been the only thing he'd had the strength to attempt when he crawled off the train last night.
Charles finds him in the bedroom, where Erik hopes what he's doing doesn't look so damning -- namely, he's changing the old, dusty sheets on the bed. Charles raises one eloquent eyebrow at him, mouth twisted in a sly smirk, and Erik's entire face feels like it's burst into flames even as his cock starts taking an interest in the proceedings. Erik clears his throat awkwardly, but doesn't stop -- even if there's none of that (and he privately doubts it -- the look in Charles' eyes speaks volumes about plans well made), he still doesn't want Charles to sleep on dirty sheets.
He tucks in the last corner and straightens, folding up the duvet across the foot of the bed. And then, there's nothing left to do but turn and face Charles, lounging with a shoulder propped on the doorway and his hands in his pockets.
"All that, just for me? Erik, I'm touched," Charles teases.
"Shut up, Charles," Erik says, advancing on him. Charles' smirk turns into a grin; Erik kisses it off his lips, tastes it in his mouth when he sneaks a tongue inside. Charles' hands find his back gratifyingly quickly; Erik presses him into the wall, slides a leg between Charles' thighs, fits their bodies together like they're two parts of a whole, seamless. Charles moans into his mouth and tries to push closer; a tendril of delight brushes against Erik's mind, and without even thinking about it he opens for it, invites it inside, invites Charles inside, all the way. Charles doesn't surge and take, like Erik had when Charles had given him an opening; it's a gentle advance, a languorous uncurling of sensation that bathes Erik's mind in delicious pleasure.
"Charles," Erik groans, pushing Charles' cardigan up and tugging his white pinstriped shirt out of his slacks, sliding his hands underneath to feel smooth skin against his palms, Charles' taut muscles shifting under his fingers. Charles kisses him harder, lifting one long leg and wrapping it around the back of Erik's thigh--and something must honest-to-god short-circuit in Erik's mind because the next thing he knows Charles' shirt is gone and his pale chest is bared to Erik's covetous gaze. Charles pants, head thrown back against the wall, watching Erik through heavy eyelids, fingers on Erik's belt working stealthily until it falls open and Charles attacks the button behind it.
Erik has to kiss him again; his breath hitches in Charles' mouth when Charles' hand slips inside the flap, pushes the front of his boxer shorts down and curls long fingers around his half-hard cock. The touch alone makes Erik buck his hips forward into the apex of Charles' thighs, grinding against the pressure. He's fully hard so fast he feels a little lightheaded, has to brace his hands against the wall beside Charles' shoulders, and for a moment he can do nothing more than thrust into Charles' hand and pant against Charles' throat. He presses his lips there, sucks a bruising kiss into the pale skin, can't help his triumphant thoughts of 'Mine, there, see? Mine', doesn't want to. Charles moans quietly close to his ear and flexes his leg around Erik's thigh, bringing him closer. It's so unbelievably hot that it's all Erik can do not to give in and simply hump him until he comes.
Charles' other hand tugs Erik's turtleneck up so it can slip underneath, a plea of >>Off, Erik, please<< in Erik's head; Erik manages to make his legs hold him up until he can tear it over his head and throw it away in the corner. And oh, yes, what the hell was he thinking earlier? How could he have stood not to have this, the feel of his skin sliding against Charles' again; sheer bliss. He slips one hand down the back of Charles' open slacks, palms one cheek and squeezes, slips his fingers lower, and Charles jerks against him so hard that he almost unbalances both of them. His groan is music to Erik's ears, god, how is he ever going to be able to let this man leave again? It can't be done, impossible. He's not going to think about it when Charles' cock drags heavy against his hip, hard and long and begging for Erik's mouth around it.
Charles moans again and bucks his hips; Erik supposes he caught that last thought. And he wants it too, so bad his mouth is watering with it, but not just now. No, they're both too wound up, and Erik wants to come with Charles' ass clenching around him, with Charles' cock in his hand spitting his release all over the two of them.
>>Erik, for fuck's sake stop thinking about it and damn well do it already,<< Charles thinks at him desperately. He sucks at Erik’s neck, hard, frantic, in time with his thrusts against Erik's hipbone, and yes, he's completely right, it's not like Erik to not do everything he's promising, right the fuck now.
It's not easy, but he twists them to fall over the freshly laid sheets (Erik's never been more grateful for how small his flat actually is), kicking off his trousers and helping Charles out of his slacks and underwear. Charles' cock rises from a nest of dark curls, pale and gorgeous except for the tip, which is so red it's almost purple with need. Erik simply can't help himself -- he leans down and sucks that tip into his mouth, collecting drops of precome on his tongue, rubbing his lips against the glans. Charles' spine arches so taut that for a sickening second Erik thinks he's going to snap himself in half, but all Charles does is to fist his hands in the sheets and damn near scream, cock jerking in Erik's mouth. Erik moves away fast, because as much as he'd love Charles to come in his mouth, he wants something more. The drawer by the bed flies open and a metal tube zooms into Erik's hand; Charles' eyes follow it feverishly as Erik's fingers close tightly around it. Then Charles' eyes find Erik's, and the cheeky minx is grinning, egging Erik on with images of slick fingers probing his ass open. Erik can't get the cap off fast enough.
His hand actually shakes a little as he rubs the lube around Charles' entrance, slipping the tip of one finger inside. Charles' spine bows up again, and Charles thrusts himself down over Erik's finger, taking it to the knuckle. Erik chokes a groan in his throat, but Charles isn't half as subdued -- the noises he's making are threatening to snap Erik's control faster than is probably advisable.
>>Stop thinking and take me,<< Charles throws at him, drawn out and thrumming with need.
>>Wait, Jesus, Charles, just a bit longer,<< Erik thinks back desperately as he fits another finger inside and spreads them out. Charles' ass swallows them like he's been aching for it.
>>Come on, Erik, come on, come on, please!<<
Charles stretches easily around him, far looser than he should be, and Erik feels a vicious stab of jealousy at the thought of why that might be.
Charles has the nerve to laugh, but his thoughts stop Erik short. >>Wanted it, but only from you, no one else, had to do it myself last night as the others slept in the rooms around me, you have turned me into some sex-starved wretch and I love it. Now fuck me.<<
Jesus Christ, does Charles even know what he's doing to him? Charles' filthy smirk says he knows exactly how he's testing Erik's composure. His lips are red from Erik’s kisses, and Erik watches as he sets his teeth in the lower one and sucks it into his mouth. Erik surges up and draws it back out, takes it into his mouth instead, licks it soothingly before he kisses Charles deeper, pours every feeling Charles draws out effortlessly into it, and Charles takes it all eagerly and comes back for more. Erik pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock -- no condom, his tests came back clean a month ago and he doesn't give a fuck if Charles is, not like he'd want to go on if Charles doesn’t. Charles' walls part for him eagerly, hot and welcoming and so very tight; Erik slides in an inch, waits, feeds in another inch until Charles has taken all of him, until Charles' legs are tight around his hips and Charles is urging him on with his body, pulling him closer.
Erik isn't too coherent after that; there's only heat and need and Charles' arms around him and Charles' voice in his mind, an endless loop of pleasure that leaves Erik gasping and bucking helplessly inside him, taking and being taken at the same time, and just, it's too much, it's--
His climax blinds him, coming as it does a second before Charles', the two of them jerking together, probably yelling the block down by the sound of it, Erik doesn’t know and doesn’t care. The point is this: they flop back onto the bed, sweaty and still wound around each other, not planning to move any time soon. Around them, metal rains in a circle over the worn carpet, released at last from Erik's grasp. Erik pulls out gently and pants into Charles' throat for a moment before he rolls half-off him so Charles can breathe. The space between them is a mess, sweat and come covering both of their fronts, but Erik can't find the strength to move any more than he already has. Charles lies on his back, small sounds of languid satisfaction coming from his throat, a ridiculous grin on his lips when he curls an arm around Erik and tugs him closer. Erik plants a sloppy kiss to the underside of his chin and lets his head drop on Charles' shoulder, pillowed by delicious muscle. One of his legs finds a space between Charles' thighs again, and Charles' ankle hooks over his own. Charles buries a hand in his hair and breathes under him, in and out, and Erik can relax at long last.
Eventually not even the lure of Charles' bare skin against his can keep Erik from feeling filthy, however, and he drags himself upright, bullies Charles into getting up too, strips the no-longer-clean sheet from the bed and throws it into a corner.
"You're kind of anal about cleanliness, do you know?" Charles grumbles. Erik swats him on the backside to get him into the shower, and Charles yelps delightedly. Erik pulls out another fresh sheet and makes the bed quickly, then follows him out through the corridor and into the bathroom--but just before he goes in, something in the corner of his eye pulls him up short. He turns his head to look -- there's a rather large suitcase by the front door that certainly wasn't there before. Charles, the sneaky bugger, must have brought it up while Erik was panicking about the state of his flat.
"Are you coming or--" Charles says laughingly, but stops when he notices the direction of Erik's gaze. When Erik looks at him again, there's apprehension in Charles' eyes, and he suddenly looks a lot more naked than a moment ago. "Ah."
Erik hardly dares hope that this is what he thinks it is; he swallows audibly, watching Charles watch him, then takes a deep breath, picks up his courage and says--
"That's a suitcase."
He cringes immediately. Way to go, Lehnsherr, wow him with your superior deduction skills.
Charles' expression does lighten at that, and he hides a smile. "Indeed it is."
"Is it your suitcase?" Erik fishes.
"Correct.”
“It’s rather large.”
“It needs to be, to contain everything that a professor at the Max Planck Institute might need for teaching."
If it takes Erik a moment to work his way through that loaded statement, he blames the sight of a blush spreading over Charles' face, all the way down to his chest. And then his breath hitches, because is Charles saying--
"You're staying? Here? In Berlin?"With me?
"I am." >>And yes, if you'll have me.<<
Erik can't quite find the words to tell Charles how much there really isn't an ‘if’ of any kind; but he rather thinks that the way he literally throws himself on Charles and kisses him stupid might give him some indication.
"What about the kids?" he asks when they come up for air.
Charles look thoughtful. "Sean -- I've no idea what he'll do. He has family in Ireland, he was saying he wanted to stay with them for a while. Alex and Armando are planning to stick around here. Alex misses you terribly, you know, and well -- Armando goes where Alex goes, I think you'll find. Scott and Logan -- it's anyone's guess what those two will decide, but I have a feeling they might head back to Westchester. You see, Raven, Angel, Emma, Hank and Azazel are staying at the mansion. They have plans to refurbish it and turn it into a school for mutant children. They've asked Moira to teach Biology and Chemistry for them, and I think she'll agree."
"That's -- wow," Erik says, processing all the news as Charles finally succeeds in luring him inside the bathroom and into the shower. The thought of a school for young ones of their kind leaves him with a warm glow; he can think of no one better to teach those kids -- except perhaps Charles, but Erik is a horribly selfish mutant being and he isn't letting him go, not any time soon. "That's fantastic," he says diplomatically, watching droplets of water bounce off his chest and tangle in Charles’ eyelashes.
Charles laughs again, that same delighted sound, and Erik is bathed in a feeling of fierce affection.
"I'll give guest lectures, of course, every now and then," Charles demurs, sliding his hands up Erik’s wet back and smiling innocently – or as innocently as he can look when he’s standing naked in Erik’s shower, eyeing him up like a piece of candy. "We're likely to see Azazel quite often, if you know what I mean."
"Are he and Janos..."
"Yep. But Janos has got used to working with you, Azazel said, and it's no trouble for him to pop in and out all the time."
Erik honestly can't speak for a moment. To have Charles here with him; to have the option of seeing the others whenever he'd like; to know that everyone he holds dear is settled and happy; to be able to stay with his mother for as long as he can -- it's more than he ever thought he'd have in his life.
He succumbs to the temptation to kiss Charles’ inviting mouth again, and knows in his bones that he'll hold on to it with everything he's got, whatever it takes.
END
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