theletteraesc replied to your photo: Look at that tough little baby telepath.
Tough little baby telepath who’s seen and overheard far too many things in his life, who’s cornered into helping fellow mutant Det. Erik Lehnsherr solve…It takes Charles almost two weeks to realize that Lehnsherr’s attracted to him, which just makes it that much more of a shock when he figures it out.
It’s not as though people have exactly been throwing themselves at Charles - a scrawny teenage mutant geek is nobody’s idea of a real catch - but he does have some experience, enough that he knows what it’s like when somebody finds him appealing that way. It’s the kind of thought that people don’t really hide; between the strength of the thought and the awareness that it’s about him, it’s practically impossible for Charles not to pick up, even if he’s mostly trying to give people their privacy. And there are times Charles would rather not know, whether it’s a girl he thinks of as his best friend or a random stranger on the train.
But Lehnsherr - Charles doesn’t know if he’s more talented than Charles had expected at shielding, or if he’s just very skilled at compartmentalization, but either way, Charles is stunned by the discovery. This is probably why he reacts the way he does.
It’s not a big thought, anyway, just a tiny passing one. It’s early in the morning, and they’re sitting in Lehnsherr’s car, and as always he’s refused to put the heat on. Charles has his hands wrapped around his styrofoam cup of coffee, and he’s just taken a long swallow, and when he lowers the cup Lehnsherr is looking at him, and he catches it, the brief whisper of Lehnsherr’s musings about Charles’s mouth.
What gets Charles is that he can tell it’s not a new thought. It’s familiar, smooth around the edges like it’s been handled regularly. That’s what makes Charles react the way he does, gasping and very nearly dropping his coffee into his own lap.
“If you burn yourself, we’re not leaving the stakeout to take you to the hospital,” Lehnsherr says, tone scalding as the coffee Charles has nearly spilled everywhere.
Charles ignores Lehnsherr’s irascibility with the ease of nearly a month’s practice. He watches, instead, as that thought—red, gorgeous, soft, want-to-touch-kiss-fuck—slides away like a bubble in oil, subsumed in the straight-ahead thrum of Lehnsherr’s thoughts on the case. If he wants to, he can trace the fine spiderwebs of association from that thought to the images behind it (Charles talking, Charles smiling, Charles frowning, Charles half-asleep and breathing softly), to the memory of the first time Lehnsherr had focused on Charles’s mouth as a thing to be desired, to the more complicated interplay of sense-memory and imagination and id-driven want that creates anticipation.
That way lies madness, though, Charles is pretty sure. Lehnsherr seems the sort of person who desires only in safe, secret spaces. Charles and their partnership are neither safe nor private. And—Charles is absolutely convinced of this—Lehnsherr would not take kindly to having his mind read with the same disregard for privacy rights he tells Charles to show to the suspects they follow.
He lets the thought dissolve, unacknowledged, back into Lehnsherr’s subconscious, and says, with the haughtiness that he knows gets Lehnsherr’s hackles up, “If I’m writhing in pain from second-degree burns I’ll hardly be able to keep monitoring our maybe-suspect. He might, I don’t know, flee the jurisdiction after ten years, and then where will you be?”
“Just be more careful,” Lehnsherr growls, more warning than advice, but something like ruefulness touches the corners of his mouth.
It shouldn’t make any difference - it doesn’t make any difference. Lehnsherr is still the same person. He’s still a jerky robot with “work” taking up all the space that most people use up in things like “feelings” or “social skills.” It might be annoying that Charles can’t figure out how to unflip this switch that means he notices Lehnsherr now, all the time, in that way, but that’s all it is: an annoyance. It’s not a big deal. Charles may be young, but he’s not a kid, and certainly not the naive and immature brat Lehnsherr seems to take him for.
So it doesn’t matter, if Lehnsherr has pretty eyes or really big hands or broad shoulders and slim hips. And if Charles maybe tosses one off once in a while, imagining leaning over and going down on him in the driver’s seat of the car, or Lehnsherr pushing him up against the wall in a dark alleyway-
Well. Nobody knows better than Charles does how little thoughts are worth. It’s what people do that really counts.
And at any rate, what they have—whatever it is—works.
“Look,” Charles says, adopting the bluntness to which Lehnsherr seems capable of responding, “The victim was much, much closer with her cousin than with her brother. He never mentioned Lewis Mayfair, but the cousin’s mind was practically shouting his name when we were reinterviewing her.”
“Because she had an affair with Mayfair and it ended badly,” Lehnsherr says with the strained patience Charles has learned to ignore by now. “Mayfair told her husband, he divorced her, and Monica Gray was left with nothing in the settlement.”
Mostly, anyway. Charles takes one deep breath for patience. “No. Monica Gray knew Mayfair was capable of murder. He pulled a knife on her when she wanted to end their relationship, told her that he’d end her first before allowing her to walk out. And,” he continues before Lehnsherr can interrupt with his skepticism, “that is concrete memory. She remembers that incident as fact. If she’s faking it, she’s stronger than I am.”
The look he gives Lehnsherr forestalls any comment on his strength. Instead, Charles nearly shudders as a wave of Lehnsherr’s interest and—no other word for it—lust rolls over him, triggered by the mention of Charles’s power, loosed so quickly Lehnsherr’s quick he’s a kid-we’ve interviewed her three times-ignorant-rich-too smart of his own good can’t rein it back in time. Charles’s body wants, badly, to respond to it. His mind knows what a terrible idea that is, however easy it would be to wrap himself up in Lehnsherr and take and give what they both want.
There’s a specific moment, one of the times when the arrest doesn’t go off well. Charles doesn’t blame himself for not seeing how the perp was going to react, because there was no way he could have known; the man didn’t know himself what he was going to do, not until the very moment he did it.
But there’s a gun, and he’s shooting at Lehnsherr, and something in Charles’s vision blurs a little. The man freezes, completely still in mid-movement, artificial and terrifying - and then, after a moment, falls down to the ground unconscious, like a puppet whose strings have all just been cut.
Lehnsherr is fine, of course. Guns and bullets are made of metal, which is Lehnsherr’s bloody mutation, as Charles is perfectly well aware. He wasn’t really in any danger at all.
Lehnsherr kneels by the perp’s body, checking his pulse briefly, and then looks up at Charles appraisingly. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
Charles is still standing in the same place, shaking a little and trying to hide it. “I never have before,” he says. There’s something in Lehnsherr’s eyes he doesn’t recognize, and he has too many scruples to search it out, especially now, but it’s frightening and thrilling all at once.
The ride back to the station means close quarters with Lehnsherr for twenty minutes. Charles has never felt caged by another person’s mind, but in the small space of the car Lehnsherr’s thoughts press up against him, palpable and unignorable. Shielding only blocks out the wordless tumble of Lehnsherr’s short-term memory, replaying Mayfair freezing and then collapsing; Charles still feels it as pressure, like something rubbing up against a numbed limb.
He doesn’t have much of a chance to think about it, though, once Moira starts lecturing him on the extra paperwork he’s given her. His consulting work depends on the full disclosure of his abilities, and Moira’s torn between gratitude for them bringing Mayfair in and having to come up with a way to hide the fact that Charles can make people just… stop.
“Just lie low for a bit,” Moira says. The smile she offers him is strained but still friendly. She doesn’t fear him—or, at least, doesn’t anymore. Charles is grateful for the fact that he’s short, young, and harmless-looking; people tend to see the body first and only, and discount anything that doesn’t fit their impressions of him. “You’re dismissed, Xavier. Good work.”
Charles tugs his scarf around his neck and heads out, figuring that he can, maybe, get some sleep for the first time in three weeks.
Or, at least, he figures this until Lehnsherr’s thoughts curl around him, pulling him like a current. He’s standing braced against his car, staring attentively at the doors—at, Charles realizes, the watch on his wrist. Lehnsherr’s ability runs practiced fingers over it, tugging on the metal.
takes place before http://motleypatches.tumblr.com/post/33672491563/a-modern-genosha-au-of-persuasion-ficbit
“And Professor Charles Xavier will be joining us, of course.” Emma continued to fuss at the documents, reading and berating the advisors simultaneously. She was unaware of the impact…
For X-Men Fairy Tales I promised to write a Cinderella tale focusing on Erik as the Prince and Charles as the Fairy Godmother.
Then I vomited this scene out:
They called her Raven because she was always covered head-to-toe in soot.
You’re wrong if you think this is her story.
When…
I have no idea how to lengthen the original post so I’m just posting this here if anyone is interested in reading. Also no idea how to put it under a cut. (Yeap. That’s me. Techfail)
Also the unhappiness/happiness quote is from Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen.
From: Part…
“Can we go?” Raven stage-whispered. “This place is creeping me out.”
“Soon,” Charles promised, guiding her as they wade through the crowded convention floor. “I just need to get a look at the new cloned-skin models. Do you see the sign for EML’s booth?”
“I’m not any taller than you.”
Unlike everyone else here, it seemed, and they all appeared to be intent on blocking Charles’s way. “You’re not any shorter, either, in those boots.”
“You should try heels, Charles, they’re coming into style for men now.”
“Because that would go so well with the rest of my fashion-forward wardrobe,” Charles answered, abstracted. He was sure he saw the L of the end of the logo up ahead, and he glimpsed some of the biobots on display, standing on tiers along the back and sides of the space. “This way.”
“—the new Sophisticated Formats, with EML’s patented synthetic skin,” the spokesmodel was saying.
“I thought you said it was cloned,” Raven muttered.
“It is, that’s the patented part.” Charles took her arm and forded the crowd with her. A hidden advantage of being short; no one seemed to question their prerogative to get up front. “It’s genetically engineered and grown on the frame. You should see the molecular structure, it’s amazing.”
“May I help you,” a man said.
“We’re just trying to get through, thanks,” Charles answered, looking over, and stopped so abruptly that Raven nearly tripped.
“I’m afraid that you aren’t meant to enter the booth, at the request of the convention center. There are liability issues,” said the— well, he couldn’t possibly be a robot. It must be some sort of gimmick, dressing a real man in the same open white waistcoat and white trousers that the robots wore. Perhaps EML intended to run a contest: tell the difference between real people and EML’s products, and win a prize. From a distance, this man might look too perfect to be real. But he had faint lines around his eyes, a shadow of eventual stubble, and freckles, light on his face and darker on his forearms.
“We’ll keep behind the line,” Charles promised.
The man smiled and offered him a brochure. Charles accepted it, tuning out the spokesperson in favor of examining the biobots as best he could from his vantage point.
“Are you interested in a particular model?” asked the man.
“The Sophisticated Formats,” Charles said. According to the brochure there were only ten on display, most of the others being a refresh of the different levels of the original Vanguard line.
The man smiled and offered his hand. “That would be me. I’m type nine, Erik.” As Charles gaped, he added helpfully, “Page four.”
a;lsdjfjkas;ldjf HI. I WOULD LIKE ALL THE SEXBOT FIC NOW.
(Source: vi11ain)
AAAAAAAAAAAA What do you mean “you hope I’ll like it”, I LOVE THIS! Thank you, THANK YOU, Cat! I’m seeing him as a hired sword, except judging by the degree of “work” he’s paid to do, he sometimes kills his hirer instead (say, if they are asking him to kill someone innocent.) Charles the apothecarist hires him, but to protect rather than kill. This confuses Erik to no apparent end, and Charles confuses him too, so he sticks around longer than he was initially bound for, aaaaand things of a raburabu sort happen ♪(´ε｀ )this is for the lovely k, a belated holidays gift! It’s… fantasy-ish… Erik. alskjd I HOPE YOU LIKE IT, K. OTL
I kind of let this one get away from me, sorry, but this is what happens when you wonderful people are so inspiring and spread beauty all over the place ♥♥♥♥♥
ninemoons42 writes: in accord
Duck, and weave, and breathe. Not enough room between him and the nearest thug - he can’t swing his sword, and fast as thought Erik switches from one weapon to another, drives his knife into his current assailant’s throat, all the way to the hilt and he yanks it out and on the backswing clubs another man with the butt of the blade - and now he has some room. Erik smiles, wolfishly, and dispatches the man at his feet with a single sword-thrust.
He’s turning, and there are still threatening shadows looming over him and he’s already halfway to moving when there’s a sudden sharp soft cry from somewhere - “Stay down!” - and he freezes in blind obedience.
Something flies past his cheek, so close, that could have been him, but it’s clearly meant for the man who had been about to stab Erik in the back - it strikes home cleanly, right into the meat of the shoulder, and the thug shrieks and goes down.
Erik glances briefly over his shoulder - there is a slight shape behind him, still holding a bow, and he could be friend or foe but he has to attend to more pressing matters first. He strides to the thug, leans over him, and casually presses the tip of his knife to his throat. “Who sent you after me, and how much did they pay you?”
The thug shows some common sense: he looks away and says nothing.
Erik shrugs and starts to press the knife in - and then there’s a hard hand on his wrist and he doesn’t think, just moves, and then he’s crying out in pain, suddenly down on one knee.
Bow in one hand, the twisting grip on his arm in the other, and Erik looks at the other fighter at last.
The first thing that catches his attention is the blue eyes. Like the sky before a storm, like deep waters. Three perfectly parallel scars over the left cheekbone. Lips as red as freshly spilled blood. There are other scars on him, including the one that peeks out of the cloth wound around his throat - and Erik has seen that mark before, but only on corpses, those who’d been hanged for justice or for penance or for remorse.
“Your name,” the man with the bow asks.
“Who wants to know,” Erik says.
“I hired a swordsman, and I am looking for him, and his name is Erik.”
He’s…surprised, to say the least. “I was told to look for a healer.”
“That’s me - oh, I should let you up.” And the hand on his wrist is gone. “I’m Charles. I’m from the next town over. You’ve worried me, you know - you were supposed to be here two days ago.”
“You can see why I’ve been delayed,” Erik says, taking refuge in bitter humor.
“Yes, I suppose there is that. But hello. You ought to come with me, I guess. We’ve food, and if you’re hurt, if you’re wounded, I can help you now - “
Erik watches Charles throw his light cloak back and - yes, now he can believe the claim to be a healer. Tell-tale roll of bandages and leather kit bag that clinks when he moves.
A healer with a bow, and who knows enough to wound with it.
Erik motions over his shoulder to the dead and the dying. “What about seeing to them?”
“I’ll get to them, you first,” Charles says.
“I am unharmed.”
“Which speaks to your skills - I am impressed, of course.”
Erik watches him as he attends to the man he wounded, pressing a bottle of something to his lips and then - the thug’s head lolls back, he’s clearly unconscious, and Charles’s hands move with admirable speed and efficiency as he pulls out the arrow and dresses the wound. When he’s finished, he absently checks the point on the arrow, and sticks it back into the quiver on his hip.
“You’re just going to leave him there?”
Charles smiles, mischievous and full of intent, and Erik almost wants to step away from him in sudden foreboding. “I gave him something to make him forget.”
“I will not accept any wine or water you might offer me, then.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” Charles strides past. “Come along. We’re about a day away from the village. Do you wish to discuss the terms of your employment now, or wait until then?”
“Now is good,” Erik says, and why does he feel like he can trust this man, a man full of surprises, and not all of them good ones?
“Are you…amenable to taking direction from me, then?” Charles asks, as though reading his mind.
Erik narrows his eyes. A dangerous question, and a necessary one. But the more he looks at Charles the more he begins to respect him. A protector, in several senses of the word. He moves with certainty, with strength, and Erik is familiar with others who are like him.
He thinks quietly as they ford a small stream, and then he says, at last, “If what you propose suits me.”
Charles throws him a smile, sudden and sunny, and the scars in his face are folded into that smile and seem to improve on it. “I expected no less from you. Very well, here are the terms. Few, but vital. You are here to protect me and mine, to guard those in my care. You have the freedom to employ such strategies and tactics as you are accustomed to using in your line of work.
“Save one.”
Erik raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”
Charles stops, and looks him straight in the eyes. “You may not kill.”
Erik stares. He is a man with a sword, who knows how to use that sword, who considers death a constant companion and an eventual destination. He is a sell-sword, and this healer is a fool after all.
He believes in these things, knows them in his hands, in his very bones - and yet he finds himself replying: “As best I can.”
The answer to that is a strange and matchless understanding in those storm-blue eyes. “That is all I ask.”
Ummm, just holy shit. PJ, you may not stop here (PLEASE) ; 3;
Also: PJ + Cat = I will sit here consumed with aglhlwke jrwlkejr ekjr AWESOME for the rest of the evening.
(via zimothy)
