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[personal profile] monstrousregiment
Title: Brief Lives (13/?)
Author: monstrousreg
Word count:  3396
Warnings:  Sexual situation. 
Pairing: Erik/Charles.
Summary: Erik thinks he's going to seduce, interrogate and murder some nondescript CIA intelligence agent, and winds up biting more than
he can chew. Charles is not keen on being murdered, he doesn't favor interrogations, and he's certainly not willing to be seduced. That he's not cooperating is midly put.   

Notes:  Unbetaed, and stuff. Soooo. The round of tequila is on me.

Erik sleeps, and in his dream he’s sitting under the sun in a vast green field, cross-legged. The scent of fresh grass newly torn fills his nostrils, the sunlight makes him squint. At his side sit someone, taller, broader.

A rich, deep voice read from the book in the man’s hands, You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless, houseless creatures! It's a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and I'll break it, for one, the first time I get a chance; and I hope I shall have a chance, I do! Things have got to a pretty pass, if a woman can't give a warm supper and a bed to poor, starving creatures, just because they are slaves, and have been abused and oppressed all their lives, poor things!

The man turns, eyes bluer than the sky, hair dark as night. He towers over Erik like a statue, handsome and calm and kind.

This is Erik’s father, except it’s not. This is not Erik’s dream, either.

Oh. So you do remember him.

Another dream, wrapped in memories.

Sunlight makes Charles blind as he looks up, but Francis leans down and scoops the boy up in his arms, smoothing down his hair lovingly with a big hand. His lips don’t move, but he says:

What do we do when we fall, Charles?

He has the reins of the horse in his other hand.

The boy hides his face in the man’s neck, shivering.

I’ll count to five, Francis says. You can be scared for five seconds, son. And when I say five, you’ll be brave for me again. Can you do that, Charles?

You can do anything you want, Charles, Francis says and he sits to the piano bench, his son between his legs, toddler fingers reaching shyly for the ivory keys. You can be anything you want, if you want it bad enough, and you work hard enough.

I want to be like you.

I want you to be yourself, Francis’ laugh is clear and frank, loud. I’ll be proud and love you always, son.

But you don’t know what I’ll be when I’m older.

You’ll be my son, Francis’ eyes are Charles’, but playful, bright. And no one else’s.

Francis says, five.

Erik wakes.

Momentarily disoriented, he swallows and focuses on the wall right in front of him.  The shift between the scenes of the dream and the reality has left him off-balance. Charles sleeps; he can feel the low, comforting murmur of his mind at rest, at the back of his own consciousness. Erik shifts, sits up and runs a hand through his hair.

Charles is sleeping on his stomach, face turned towards Erik, breathing slow and even.

Erik glances out the window. It’s still dark outside, the dead of night. He knows he won’t fall asleep again; he can still smell the grass and the horsehair as if they were smeared across his the skin of his hands. He can feel the shift of the muscles on a horses’ back beneath his thighs, feel the roughness of the hair he clung to as a child.

Erik’s never ridden a horse in his life.

Hesitating for only a moment, Erik leans down and combs his fingers gently through Charles’ hair, much the way Francis had done. The way the man relaxes even further into the bed with a sigh is almost painful.

You shouldn’t project into me, he thinks quietly. Those are your memories, private and intimate. You don’t need to share everything with me.
Charles mind resolves itself into something like lucidity with some effort. He shifts, blinking his eyes open sleepily before propping his upper body up on his elbows. His back makes a rather fascinating curve, but Erik ignored the urge to touch, because he can instantly tell that Charles is troubled.

“What is it?” he asks urgently, spreading out his senses to all the metal in the house, tracking down unusual movements, shifts in bits of his awareness.

“I didn’t know I still had those,” Charles says, eyes wide. “I told you. I don’t remember him.”

Erik frowns, “But it was very vivid. I felt like I was right there.”

“You were,” Charles sits up uneasily, eyes flitting around and mind spiraling slowly into panic. “Because I was. But—those memories, God, I haven’t seen them in… not since before he died. I didn’t remember them. They were lost.” Erik isn’t sure he understands what has Charles so freaked out.

“Well, all the better,” he shrugs. “It’s good you remember. He’s your father.”

Charles throws the covers off and stands impatiently, brushing his hair away from his face with shaking fingers. Erik carefully follows him out of the bed, unsure of what precisely is going on.

“They were supposed to be lost,” Charles insists. “I’m not supposed to be able to remember him.”

Erik crosses his arms, frowning. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He kept telling me I was his creature, calling me son,” Charles growls. “I knew he wasn’t my father, but Shaw, he—he knew how to get under my skin and twist everything up, exactly what to do to ruin me. He made me tell him about Francis and then he’d do what Francis used to do and—“

Charles stops, hugs himself tightly as if the room were cold against his bare skin, and turns to Erik again, eyes wide.

“I had to lock it away. I had to forget, or else I’d lose it all to Shaw, do you see?”

Erik rubs his temple, “You—what, repressed memories of Francis to protect them?”

“It was Raven’s idea,” Charles nods. “It worked surprisingly well, except Shaw wasn’t very pleased.”

“How much did he,” Erik waves a hand, uncertain. “get?”

“Oh, not bloody much,” Charles sighs, shoulders slumping. “Even the little he could learn he twisted to well out of shape it became completely alien to me. But still—that’s not the point, Erik. The point is I didn’t unlock those, so what are they doing in our dreams?”

Erik shrugs, “It’s not like it was mental scarring material, Charles. They were good memories. It’s not—“

“Erik,” Charles cuts right through, almost plaintive. “I have a very tenuous grasp on sanity on a good day, and a large part of that depends on me being able to lock those memories away until Shaw is dead and I am certain, absolutely certain, that he will not use them to harm me.”

Erik reaches forward and catches Charles’ wrist, grip firm and eyes serious. “You said it yourself. We’re something else entirely now. Shaw won’t have as easy a time scrambling your mind as he did in the past, not with mine setting up the guidelines.”

All of a sudden, Erik remembers he’s a man, almost thirty, that he’s lived a full live riddled with both good and bad things, whereas Charles might be only four years younger but is certainly still very much a child in many things.

Charles’ eyes cut up to him sharply, and the man seems to titter uncertainly on the edge, torn between being offended and finding the whole thing endearing. The threat of one of Charles frequent and dangerous mood swings makes Erik brace himself, but just as he does Charles settles down, relaxing against him. Erik brings his hand up to squeeze the back of his neck reassuringly, sighing.

You have your own mood swings, he protests weakly.

I never say I was anything like stable, Erik shrugs. But at least with me you know to predict I’ll be angry, as it’s my reaction to most things.
How very self-aware. You must be very proud of yourself. Charles’ voice sounded more than a little petulant, and Erik thought, that doesn’t make you sound immature at all.

You think me childish? Charles looks up, playful and amused, blue eyes bright. He is his father’s son, and no one else’s.

Boyish, Erik concedes, bowing his head to kiss Charles in the mouth.

“What was he reading?” Erik asks, smiling when Charles pushes him gently towards the bed, dipping curious fingers well below the waistband of Erik’s boxers. Charles squeezes and Erik gasps, swelling obligingly. It’s not as if it takes much to get Erik going, especially considering he’s been celibate since he arrived at the mansion, despite Charles’ frequent, careless innuendos.

“Hm? Oh. ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’.”

Erik thought that was a strange choice for a young boy, and perhaps Francis might have been rushing Charles education just a little—then he remembers, brusquely, that Francis has spoken without moving his lips.

He snaps his head up, eyes wide.

“Your father was a telepath.”

Charles goes still.

“Yes,” he says warily, eyeing Erik as if unsure as to how the man will take this. “He was the one that helped me build my shields, before Shaw tore them down.”

“Does he know?” Erik sits up, wrapping his arms around Charles’ waist as the man sits above him. Charles hesitates and finally settles down, hissing a little when their erections grind.

“Shaw? No. I contained it before he got that far.”

Erik is absolutely fascinated. “How powerful was he? Do you think he was on par with yourself? Would your children also be telepaths?”
Charles looks half-way between being amused and being irritated. “Why? Is your secondary mutation getting pregnant? Because if that’s the case, why, I think I should probably be on top all the time. Think of the scientific research, Erik.”

Erik laughs and manhandles Charles down onto the mattress, where he drops down on top of him comfortably, completely disregarding the air in Charles’ lungs.

You inconsiderate oaf, Charles admonishes, pushing at Erik’s shoulders until the taller man lifts himself up on his elbows.

You love it, Erik retorts, biting Charles’ bottom lip. Charles arches his back, rolling his hips sinfully into Erik’s and enjoying the faint gasp it gets him.

Yes, he thinks quietly, Yes, I do.

That’s possibly the closest they’ll ever get to hearing it said between them, and Erik thinks that’s fine, and he obligingly falls to his side to let Charles take the lead, this time. With startling confidence, possibly stemming from the fact that Erik hasn’t yet rejected his advances even once, Charles nudges at the inside of Erik’s knee, spreading his legs and falling perfectly in place between his thighs.

“Shit,” Erik hisses sharply, head snapping up to kiss Charles. He can feel the swirl of Charles arousal skating hot against his own, braiding them together and spiraling—

Erik tugs urgently at Charles’ hair, panting. “Don’t, stop—you’re going to push me over too quickly again, pull back a little.”

After a brief hesitation Charles does just that, folding back, peeling himself away even as he settles heavily on Erik’s hips.

“Not that much,” Erik growls impatiently.

“Make up your fucking mind,” Charles returns harshly, snapping his hips sharply and making Erik grunt.

“You’re a fucking telepath, figure it out.”

“I want to hear you say it, Erik,” Charles breathes, biting at Erik’s earlobe. “Tell me. I’ll give you whatever, but just tell me—“

“Your mouth,” Erik says almost immediately. He leans up and grabs Charles’ face, staring into his eyes intensely. Impulsively, he snaps closer and kisses Charles hard enough to hurt, just shy of breaking skin. He’s somewhat surprised at the ferocity of the feeling, considering it’s all his now that Charles has withdrawn almost entirely from his mind.

Charles grins, and Erik catches the disturbing end of a thought that sounds something like I’m really good at that and almost takes it back, except Charles is already lifting off his body and reaching down, eager and pleased.

There’s not much room to complain after that. Charles really is good at it, and Erik would be worried, but he can feel the low hum at the shores of his awareness that tells him Charles is especially pleased to do this for Erik, that he’s here in mind and body and thinking of no one else.

When Erik is finally sated, loose-limbed on the bed and struggling to breathe, Charles bends over him smugly and kisses his cheek chastely. Erik snaps aware enough to reach into Charles’ underwear, only to find the telepath’s already finished as well.

Did I drag you with me? Erik asks vaguely.

Charles makes a sound of contented agreement as he settles on the bed, hugging Erik close.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Erik sits up, batting away grabby hands. “If I let you get a hold of me I’ll never get up again, you sleep like the dead and it’s easier to get rid of an anaconda.”

Charles looks abashed, but blinks in slow amusement. He’s obviously drowsy, and rather unwilling to start on an argument now.

Unfortunately he’s blinking those huge eyes and his lips are cherry-red, cheeks flushed and—

“Oh, goddamnit—lay back. Lay back.”

Charles obeyed, laying down on his back and blinking owlishly as Erik rearranged himself so he was lying sprawled half over him, sharing his pillow, right arm curled around Charles’ chest so his hand splayed over the man’s ribs.

“Happy now?” he grumbles.

“Where’s the romance?” Charles complains for the sake of it, turning his head to face Erik, eyes closed.

“Dead,” Erik retorts. “Now sleep.”

Charles is out like a light. Erik shifts a little, slightly uncomfortable with the heat they are sharing at the expanse of skin in contact, but he has to admit the proximity is nice. Erik has had his fair share of lovers and bed-mates, but he’s never really shared anything with them. Unless you count the fluids.

He breathes in, finding some measure of comfort in the scent of Charles’ skin so close to his nose, and allows himself to relax and fall asleep.

>>>>> 

Erik rarely moves in his sleep, so he is not surprised to find himself in the same position he fell asleep in, half draped over Charles. Charles is sleep-warm and sleeping more deeply than he has in years.

Erik thinks this is, probably, the reason he hasn’t picked up on the mind of the person slipping announced into his bedroom in the early hours of the morning.

But Erik is awake and lucid, and his hand is moving, very slowly, imperceptibly, towards the knife he keeps beneath Charles’ pillow, at the same time the knife moves, equally slowly, towards him—until metal and skin meet, and his fingers curl around the long hilt.

He hasn’t moved his body a single inch, besides his hand, and he lets his eyes fall closed again, searching for metal scattered on the body of their attacker. He finds none—not even a wrist-watch. Whoever’s here knows well what he can do, and has taken precautions.

Erik shifts, moving his leg so it lies across Charles’ thighs. That should give him the chance to leap over the telepath when the time comes, should Charles fail to wake. Now it’s all about the perfect timing and striking before the attacker moves to hurt them. Erik waits, controlling his breath, muscles loose and relaxed.

The attacker stands over the bed now, looming over them.

Charles shifts slightly, turning his face in towards Erik’s.

There is a long, calm moment of silence. Nothing happens. Erik knows their attacker can’t see his knife, hidden beneath the curve of Charles’ shoulder, so that can’t be what’s stalling their hand.

It’s a risk, but a calculated one. He’s lying almost over Charles, so the telepath is largely safe from harm while Erik is exposed, awake and ready to fight. He opens his eyes and cuts his gaze up to—

Raven.

They stare at each other for a moment, both very still. Raven arches a brow.

Erik shifts up to an elbow, reaching over to place the knife on the nightstand on Charles’ side of the bed. He sits up and moves the covers, but when he makes to move away Charles stirs, protesting sleepily the loss of warmth. Erik leans down over him, brushing back a lock of dark hair and smoothing the pad of his thumb down Charles’ sensitive temple.

“It’s fine. Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.

Charles sinks back into oblivion.

Erik removes the covers entirely and gets out of bed, unashamed of his nudity. He has to look around briefly to find his briefs and pants, but even then it’s done quickly enough. He’s truly in no hurry to get dressed. Raven’s walked into her brother’s bedroom to find Erik draped over the man in question, both of them naked. It’s clear she knows the situation. The only reason he’s even getting dressed is because if he’s to have this conversation with his lover’s sister, he’d sooner not have with his cock within her easy reach. Besides, Raven never wears clothes around the house.

They slip silently out into the study, where Erik fishes for and easily finds his cigarettes and lighter even as he nudges the door closed with his mind. He leans his hips against the desk and crosses his arms, giving Raven a level look.

They stare at each other.

Erik blows smoke through his nostrils.

Raven smiles, “So, you had your way with him after all.”

Erik frowns slightly, “More like we had our way with each other—but I’d like to assume you didn’t get me out of bed to inquire on the details of your brother’s sexual life, Raven.”

“Well, no.”

Raven crosses her arms, stares out the window carelessly. Erik waits for her to tell him what she needs to say, and when she makes no move to speak, he clears his throat.

“Do you remember your father, Raven?” he asks gently.

The girl looks at him from the corner of her eye, watchful, “A little. Why?”

“Charles—sort of repressed his memories of him, to protect them. Says it was a failsafe to make sure Shaw didn’t break everything in his mind. I was wondering if he might have done the same with you, just in case.”

“Interesting,” Raven says flatly.

Erik shakes his head, bemused and growing alarmed. “Raven, is something wrong? Should we wake Charles and—“

“He’ll be awake in a minute,” Raven says breezily. She steps closer to pluck the cigarette from his lips. Bewildered by the action, Erik doesn’t sense her movement until it is too late—until the needle has pierced the skin of his wrist, and his limb starts quickly to grow numb. He glances down and sees the smooth bone needle in her fingers.

He stumbles away from her, mind reeling. He can feel panic rising, clotting up his throat, and is aware of the exact second it snaps Charles awake as if his mind had been set on fire.

“Why?” Erik asks hoarsely, blinking as the room begins to swim in his eyes.

“You really have ruined him,” Raven says, and then she’s not Raven anymore.

“You tore down all the defenses he built around himself,” Emma Frost says, and she drops his cigarette to crush with the heel of her boot on the carpet. She tilts her head in a lovely manner, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Everything in the room, in the manor, that is metal, twists and bends out of shape. The glass panes in every window explode outwards under the pressure of their bending frames, door mechanisms shatter they wood they are concealed within.

Charles’ mind spikes and shuts down abruptly, leaving behind a ringing, painful silence as the connection between them withers and dies.
Frost smiles, comes closer and pushes, with the top of her boot, at Erik’s right hip, forcing a misbalance that his him falling on his back on the floor. His body hardly responds to him anymore, muscles clumsy and numb. The metal is quiet around him, and Charles is gone, gone gone

“Why, dear. You did all the work for us, didn’t you?”

The door to the bedroom opens, and Sebastian Shaw leans against the doorframe, cool blue eyes hard as his mouth smiles. Behind him, Erik can see a tall man leaning over the bed, skin fire-red and hair-ink black. He straightens and has Charles in his arms, arms dangling limp and careless. A puff of smoke and he’s gone.

“Hello, little Erik,” says Shaw. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Thankfully, Erik blacks out.

Chapter 14
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