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nekosmuseAlso, if anyone could point me in the direction of some cool X-men icons (I'd prefer comics) that would be awesome.
Title: An Ideal Grace (2/?)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Fandom: XMFC, a modern, non-powered AU
Rating: Eventual NC-17 (R for now)
Summary: Charles and Erik as university professors. Need I say more?
Author's note: A quick thanks to stlkrchck for helping me flesh out some of the details on location--both New York and Columbia. Thanks too to Timothy Morton and Richard Clarke, at UCDavis and Cambridge, respectively, for making their lectures available as podcasts.
Back to Chapter 1
Charles' cancelled Genetics course was on Monday and Wednesday mornings, so on Wednesday, instead of sleeping in like Moira had suggested, he got up early and made his way to the main campus. He'd asked around the lab last night--which meant he'd spoken to Hank and one of Hank's research assistants--but no one knew who Professor Lehnsherr was.
He'd looked Lehnsherr up in the faculty directory, but the name hadn't come up--not surprising as the thing was perpetually out of date. It really left him with only one option: a visit to the English Department. It was almost ironic after his meeting with Mrs. Summers yesterday that Charles would be seeking out her son--and his ex--today. He wondered if she'd known; if she had some eerie ability to see the future--it would certainly explain why she had never liked him. Perhaps that was why she was so cold to him yesterday.
His breakup with Scott wasn't particularly messy, but Charles held no illusions that he hadn't hurt Scott, probably deeply at the time. Scott had wanted far, far more from the relationship than Charles. Looking back, Charles could see that it was mostly bad timing--Charles preparing to defend his thesis while Scott was focused entirely on finding them a condo to share. Charles hadn't wanted to share a condo--he still didn't own real estate--but at the time he'd been too busy with work to set Scott straight until it was too late.
Needless to say, the resulting explosion would have been momentous, had Charles not been so distracted by his research. The end result was that he lost a three year relationship almost without noticing, and Scott had gotten his heart broken.
Charles was definitely not looking forward to seeing the man.
But Scott was a department advisor, and that meant he would undoubtedly know everyone and anyone working within the department. Charles wasn't going to rest until he figured out who had stolen his students. More importantly, he wanted to know why.
It was another beautiful morning, as though nature was making up for the rough start to the school year. Charles had grabbed a coffee on his walk from his apartment in West Harlem, cutting across Morningside Park to reach the campus. He'd had the place since grad school, a tiny little studio with windows that rattled every time anything larger than a car passed beneath his window and radiators that worked according to whim. Scott had hated the place--one of the many reasons he'd pushed for buying a condo; that and his obsessive desire to live in the East Village--but Charles found it charming, and more importantly, his mother had hated it enough never to visit.
His coffee was just getting to the right temperature to drink when he made it to Philosophy Hall, so Charles peeled off the lid and took a sip, enjoying the bitter burst of caffeine against his tongue. Scott's office was upstairs, on the third floor, so Charles made his way steadily up, only growing nervous when he actually stood outside the door.
It was closed, but Scott was an early bird--often up hours before Charles, and considering how early Charles tended to wake, that was quite the accomplishment. Charles transferred his coffee from his right to his left hand, and knocked.
There was a pause, Charles listening to rustling through the door, before Scott undoubtedly tore himself away from whatever he was working on and made it to across the room. He was obviously not expecting visitors--and was definitely not expecting Charles--because he blinked, dumbstruck when he found Charles standing outside his door.
"Oh, my God, Charles," he said after a minute or two of blinking. Charles offered a chagrined smile.
"Is this a bad time?" Charles asked, kicking himself then, because the last thing he wanted was for Scott to think he was here for... well, anything personal. Charles wasn't going down that road again.
"No, no, of course not, come in," Scott said, holding open the door and gesturing inside. He left the door open when he crossed around to the other side of his desk--and Charles took that as a good sign--squeezing between the narrow space between his bookcase and his chair to sit down. The English Department's offices were notoriously small.
Charles sat on the spare chair--though there was barely enough room for it, Charles' knees pressed up against the backside of Scott's desk. He set his coffee down on the desk.
"I'm really sorry to bug you, but I was hoping you could do me a favour," Charles said, cutting straight to the point.
Sitting behind his desk, expression indifferent and yet friendly, Scott looked nothing but professional. It occurred to Charles then that it had been four years and the chances were Scott was completely over him. Charles wasn't sure why he had thought otherwise. God, he was such an arrogant, self-absorbed ass sometimes.
"Whatever I can do," Scott said.
Charles' awkwardness faded. "I had to cancel one of my classes because I lost over half my students to an English lit course. I was hoping you could..."
"Let me guess," Scott interrupted. "It was one of Erik Lehnsherr's classes."
Charles had no doubt he looked rather gobsmacked--certainly his mouth was hanging open. He sputtered for several moments before his mouth caught up with his brain.
"Is this a common occurrence?" Charles asked. Scott smirked.
"You'll understand after you meet him," Scott said, and there was no doubt in Charles' mind what Scott was talking about. Against his better judgement--and his wishes--Charles felt a stab of jealousy. He took a sip of his coffee to mask his reaction.
Scott had leaned across to his filing cabinet and was digging through it now, undoubtedly coming up with Professor Lehnsherr's timetable--and it still amazed Charles how removed from technology Scott was; the man still didn't have a computer in his office. While they were dating, Scott had refused to own a cell phone. Charles wasn't sure if he had one now.
"What class did you have to cancel?" Scott asked as he scanned the slip of paper he'd pulled from the cabinet.
"Monday and Wednesday, 8:15am," Charles said, "although one of my former students said it was a Romantic Poetry course."
"That would be 4402," Scott said. He slid across the sheet, index finger resting above the listing. Charles took particular note of the location.
But now of course he was doubly perplexed, because his third year biology students were dropping his class in favour of taking a 4000 level English course. It didn't make any sense. How had they even gotten in; certainly none of them would have the necessary prerequisites. Was this Lehnsherr--Erik, Scott had named him--really attractive enough that they would simply attend lectures without hope of earning credit? It was hardly the sort of behavior Charles expected from juniors.
Charles was still frowning over Scott's slip of paper when Scott cleared his throat. Charles glanced up, startled. He'd almost forgotten where he was.
"Sorry," he said, and then, because it was bugging him, asked, "Who is this guy anyway?"
Scott smiled--the kind of smile he usually reserved for inside jokes. Charles hadn't seen that smile in a very long time.
"Erik Lehnsherr is our visiting professor, on loan from Heidelberg."
Charles' eyes grew wide. What the hell was a German professor doing teaching English literature?
"Needless to say, he's creating quite a stir on campus. From the few conversations I've overheard, most people seem to think he is James Bond incarnate."
Charles frowned.
"He's an all right guy, if you're into the strong, silent type," Scott continued, and Charles knew Scott wasn't, just like Scott knew Charles was, "but I personally found him a little standoffish. Future advice, though; don't schedule a class at the same time as one of his."
"I'll try to keep that in mind," Charles said, ignoring the fact that he had relatively little choice in when his courses were scheduled. If he was lucky, he'd meet tenure at the end of the year and not have to worry about any of this next year. Certainly graduate students weren't this superficial.
Scott, who was obviously expecting Charles to leave now that he had the information he wanted, stood. He didn't look disappointed--he didn't look anything really, just indifferent, and Charles suspected that probably should have hurt more than it did. Mostly it just reminded Charles of his shortcomings, so Charles stood as well, grabbed his now empty cup, and extended Scott a hand.
"Thank you, for the help," Charles said, enduring one of Scott's firm, professional handshakes.
"Anytime," Scott said. He squeezed out from behind his desk and walked Charles to the door--the whole two paces. Charles ditched his empty cup in the waste bin beside the door, offered Scott a friendly wave, and then headed on his way.
It was 8:30, and if Charles was lucky he could make it over to Hamilton Hall in time to catch the last half of Lehnsherr's lecture. He wanted to see this Lehnsherr in action, but more than that, after speaking to Scott, Charles' interest was piqued.
During the time he'd been inside Scott's office, the sky had grown overcast--a familiar sight this year. Clouds had rolled in from the north, threatening the kind of drizzle that would undoubtedly leave Charles cold and damp, even if he had thought to bring an umbrella. Fortunately Hamilton Hall wasn't a far walk. Charles didn't exactly take his time, but he didn't run--he'd done enough of that yesterday and didn't particularly enjoy running unless he was swathed in technical fabric. He arrived with forty minutes remaining until the end of class.
Charles only taught two courses on the main campus, and while he was familiar with most of the grounds, he had few occasions to visit Hamilton. The building was old--like most of Columbia's buildings--Charles feeling momentarily transported in time as he searched the halls for Erik's lecture hall.
When he found it, he discovered it was more of a classroom than a hall, the room filled with writing chairs that had been bolted to the floor. Compared to the modernity of Hammer's classrooms, Lehnsherr's room looked like something out of a period film. Charles ducked in through the open door, attention immediately focusing on the figure standing at the room's podium.
The room was filled to capacity, at least a dozen students forced to stand. Only a few glanced in Charles' direction, most too enraptured by the man standing at the front of the room. Lehnsherr--and it could be no one else--was leaned against the podium, eyes downcast, staring at the open book in his hand. He was reading. There was something about his voice--hypnotic as it was--that immediately drew Charles' attention, though several minutes passed before Charles could make sense of the low rumble passing across Erik's lips.
And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
Blake, Charles realized. Lehnsherr was reading Blake--and quite well, his hindbrain told him, thinking only of the soft caress of Erik's voice. He found himself flashing back to boarding school, to years of wanting only to study science while being forced to study the history of England's finest poets; of analysing and analysing until Charles had thought his head might explode.
He'd developed an appreciation later in life, but in the days of his impetuous youth, when he'd wanted only to be a doctor, he had begrudged his instructors for forcing him to learn things he hadn't thought relevant.
They seemed particularly relevant now.
And all right, perhaps Scott had a point. Erik Lehnsherr was gorgeous--in a stern, austere kind of way, which only served to make him that much more appealing to Charles. Charles could understand why so many of his students had abandoned him. Had Charles known, he might have dropped his class, too.
Lehnsherr had finished reading, and was now staring over the top of his podium--and oh the steady steel of his gaze--eyes sweeping across the room, seeming to touch on each student in passing. Charles shivered when they slid across him. Lehnsherr cleared his throat.
"On Monday, at the end of class, we read the accompanying poem in Songs of Innocence. Can anyone contrast the two?" he asked. Charles caught a hint of a German accent, though it was softened somewhat, Erik obviously having spent some of his life outside of Germany. Wherever it was, Charles approved.
No one answered Erik's question. Charles suspected that was probably because no one had paid attention to the question. It was rather hard to absorb the meaning of Lehnsherr's words when you were caught up only in their cadence. When the silence dragged on for longer than Charles would have allowed in his classroom, Charles, again flashing back to boarding school, began speaking.
Too late, he realized he probably should have raised his hand.
Too late, he realized it really wasn't his place.
"Blake himself tells us that the works in Songs of Innocence and the works in Songs of Experience represent the two opposing sides of humanity, written in an effort to show the full complexity of human existence," Charles said, instantly earning Lehnsherr's gaze. Oh, to have those eyes focused solely on him, Lehnsherr's full attention instantly addictive. Charles wanted nothing more than to capture that attention and hold it forever.
"Go on, Mr..." Lehnsherr said.
"Charles," Charles said, realizing then that all of his former students were staring at him in horror. Lehnsherr didn't seem to notice.
"Mr. Charles." Lehnsherr inclined his head even as it said it, like Charles' name was something to be cherished. Charles swallowed heavily and pressed on.
"The metamorphosis in Experience shows us the same child from Innocence, though through the eyes of an adult. So now, the exploitation that the child was ignorant of comes fully to light. The irony of the first poem is stripped away in Experience. In Innocence we see a child optimistic and full of faith, not aware of the father's wrongdoing. In Experience we see the true state of the child's betrayal.
"There are tone differences, too," Charles continued, cursing himself for missing Monday's class--a ridiculous notion considering he wasn't even registered in the class, let alone a student. Still, it had been far too long since he had last read either works. "In Innocence, the tone is simplistic, naive, whereas in Experience it is cynical, almost omniscient."
The whole room was watching him now, but Charles barely noticed--he was too busy staring at Lehnsherr, who was watching Charles with something Charles could only hope was open interest. Charles smiled when his rambling came to a stop, a little awkwardly he thought, but it was hard to think under the weight of that gaze.
"Well said, Mr. Charles," Lehnsherr eventually said. He turned back to the room and began expounding on Charles' answer, adding something about Blake's life experiences colouring his perspective--whatever it was it was lost to Charles, Charles noticing then that Lehnsherr talked with his hands.
Oh, God, he had such lovely, lovely hands.
~*~
Janos came in near the end of the lecture and began collecting Erik's things. If there was one thing Erik hated doing, it was sticking around at the end of a class to answer questions--he had office hours for a reason. Today might not be so bad, though, Erik thought, because unlike the first three classes of the semester, this time he'd actually inspired a little participation.
He still had too many students in his class--and he was fairly certain stuffing them all into the classroom violated fire codes--many of whom had obviously never once studied poetry. Today marked the first day someone had actively, without prompting, opened a discussion. As Erik wrote out the weekend's reading requirements on the blackboard--and it amazed him that there was a school anywhere that hadn't switched over to white--he tried to remember if anyone on the official class list had the surname Charles.
"We're looking at Wordsworth and Coleridge next week, so please ensure you have read Lyrical Ballad, with Preface," Erik said when he had written out the page numbers. He turned back to the face the class, and then dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
Unlike a good number of his classes at Heidelberg, his students didn't immediately flee for the door. They lingered, many casting glances towards the front of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two girls nudging each other. They took a tentative step in his direction, Erik frantically stuffing notes into his satchel in an attempt to escape whatever it was they were planning. Fortunately for him, they lost their nerve the second Mr. Charles brushed past them, giving them both a slight nod as he approached the front of the classroom--no hesitance there, Mr. Charles completely at ease, like he owned the school. He came to stand in front of the podium.
Erik caught his eye and promptly wished he hadn't. Mr. Charles had hauntingly beautiful eyes.
"Mr. Charles," he said, when the boy continued to stare, head cocked to the side, hands stuffed into his pockets. He smiled, somewhat lazily, Erik thought.
The boy's eyes weren't his only source of beauty.
Erik shook his head at that, because he was not that sort of man. He'd been on the receiving end of that sort of man, and it had scarred him for life--well, more than he was already scarred, which was perhaps not saying much. Still, if his experience with Professor Shaw had taught him anything, it was that Erik should stay as far away from his students as humanly possible.
"It's just Charles," Mr. Charles was saying. "Charles Xavier, actually. And I just wanted to say welcome to Columbia."
There was something decidedly inviting in the turn of Mr. Xavier's body, a thought that Erik cut off almost as soon as it formed. He glanced down at the podium and found it cleared.
"Thank you, Mr. Xavier," he said, tossing his satchel over his shoulder. He wanted to leave, but to do so he would need to physically remove Xavier from his path. Erik debated his options.
"And, of course, since you're new in town, if you ever need anyone to show you around, or even point out the nicer places to eat, please don't hesitate to ask."
Erik froze, not quite sure how to respond to that.
"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Xavier," he eventually said, seeking the quickest way to end this conversation before it grew any more uncomfortable than it already was. "I'll see you on Monday," he tried.
Xavier beamed at that--though why, Erik couldn't say--and then stepped aside, gesturing towards the door. For one brief, hysterical moment, Erik though Xavier might actually try to walk him from the room. He didn't, letting Erik leave.
Out in the hall, Janos immediately fell into step at Erik's side. "Do you have the class list?" Erik asked.
Without pausing, Janos twisted his bag around so that it hung in front, rummaging through it until he found what he was searching for. He handed over a piece of paper. Erik scanned the list, looking under both C for Charles and X for Xavier, but neither name appeared on the list. Xavier was one of his sit-ins, then--and it was ridiculous how many he had.
He was older, Erik thought--at the very least a senior, though Erik suspected he might be a graduate student. Not that it made any different--he was still a student and Erik was still in a position of authority. Erik shook his head, scolding himself for letting the thought linger.
"I'm going to go grab some coffee. Can you drop these by my office," Erik said, handing over the class list and his satchel. Janos, easily the best TA Erik had ever had, wordlessly accepted both and then vanished in the direction of Erik's office.
After he was gone, Erik, without quite meaning to, thought about Xavier. He was maybe close to Janos' age--possibly a few years younger. He tried to imagine taking advantage of his influence over Janos, but couldn't. He scanned the crowd of passing students, but found no attraction there either. Obviously, Mr. Xavier was just an anomaly. It was somewhat of a relief to learn he wasn't destined to follow in Shaw's footsteps--after Erik had graduated, Shaw had deemed him too old, and had promptly found a new eighteen year old to drag through his bed. It remained one of Erik's more bitter experiences.
In all likelihood what he was experiencing was just excitement at having an apt student in his class, even if he wasn't sitting for credit. Erik nodded at that, content with the explanation. He headed out to grab his coffee and then see about putting together some notes for this afternoon's Milton seminar.
~*~
The moment Erik left the classroom, Charles pulled out his iPhone. He texted Moira, because he had few friends and couldn't think of anyone on that short list who might actually want to listen to him talk about Erik.
It was rather ridiculous that he wanted to talk about Erik. Charles couldn't remember the last time someone had so thoroughly--and quickly--affected him.
Charles smiled when Moira didn't respond. He expected by busy she meant she was with Sean--though it was entirely possible she was neck-deep in cultures at the lab. Charles didn't have to wonder for long, his phone ringing a second later.
"You've fallen in love?" Moira asked the second Charles answered. Charles chuckled.
"Okay, perhaps that's a little premature, but certainly I have fallen in lust."
He could almost picture Moira rolling her eyes. Charles grinned to himself, thankful there wasn't another class scheduled after Erik's--he probably looked like an idiot, standing next to Erik's podium, smiling into his phone like a loon.
"It's 9:30 in the morning, on a day I told you to sleep in. How in the hell did you fall into lust?" Charles could hear the muted sounds of a computer fan in the background. Moira was in her office then. He started moving, intending to catch a shuttle.
"I found the man who stole my students," Charles said. "He's pretty much a Greek god, unless the German's had gods who ran around all oiled and chiselled, wearing loin cloths, in which case he's a German god."
And now he was picturing Erik wearing a loin cloth. The image was highly distracting. It was quickly becoming apparent that Charles' lack of a social life needed to be remedied. He needed to get laid, and quickly.
"You're not making any sense, Charles. Or rather, you're making less sense than you usually do, which doesn't bode well for anybody, especially not me. Explain."
He loved this about Moira--had loved this about Moira the second they met, when she'd tried so hard to be his teacher and mentor, and Charles had delighted in teasing her mercilessly. She was easily the best friend he had ever had.
"That class I had to cancel," Charles said, exiting Hamilton Hall now. It looked like the rain was actually going to hold off. "My students ditched me for a Romantic Poetry course, taught by one Erik Lehnsherr, a visiting professor from Heidelberg. I tracked him down today."
"You tracked him down? How?" Moira asked. She liked details. It was impossible to cut corners with her.
"Those girls I talked to yesterday told me, and then I confirmed it with Scott." That earned him a released breath. Moira was around for Scott. "Anyway, I went to his room, checked him out, and fell in lust."
For the longest minute Moira was perfectly silent. Charles could tell she was busy processing everything he had just said. He headed over to where he could catch a free shuttle that would take him to the Medical Center.
"Did you ask him out?" Moira eventually asked, because clearly this was the important part--even Charles thought so.
"Kind of," Charles admitted.
"Kind of?"
"I offered to show him around town, and he said he appreciated the offer, or something like that. Then he told me he'd see me on Monday."
"So you have a date Monday?"
Charles pondered this even as he transferred his iPhone from his right ear to his left, his neck starting to crick.
"I think it was an invitation to attend another lecture," Charles admitted. He endured another long pause.
"Do you even know if this guy is gay?" Moira asked, which was a fair question, because Charles tended to operate on the assumption that every attractive guy in New York was a) gay and b) interested in Charles. It had earned him more than a few fat lips, and on one memorable occasion a drink in the face--this from the guy's wife. On the flip side, it had also introduced Moira to Sean. She'd come over expecting to have to rescue Charles from the slightly wild looking red-head who might or might not have taken offense to a drunk Charles trying to stick his tongue down Sean's throat.
Charles had obviously paused too long, because Moira continued, "You don't, do you?"
"I'm working on it," Charles said, and technically that was true. As of Monday morning, operation seduce Erik Lehnsherr would be in full swing.
On to chapter 3
Title: An Ideal Grace (2/?)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Fandom: XMFC, a modern, non-powered AU
Rating: Eventual NC-17 (R for now)
Summary: Charles and Erik as university professors. Need I say more?
Author's note: A quick thanks to stlkrchck for helping me flesh out some of the details on location--both New York and Columbia. Thanks too to Timothy Morton and Richard Clarke, at UCDavis and Cambridge, respectively, for making their lectures available as podcasts.
Back to Chapter 1
Charles' cancelled Genetics course was on Monday and Wednesday mornings, so on Wednesday, instead of sleeping in like Moira had suggested, he got up early and made his way to the main campus. He'd asked around the lab last night--which meant he'd spoken to Hank and one of Hank's research assistants--but no one knew who Professor Lehnsherr was.
He'd looked Lehnsherr up in the faculty directory, but the name hadn't come up--not surprising as the thing was perpetually out of date. It really left him with only one option: a visit to the English Department. It was almost ironic after his meeting with Mrs. Summers yesterday that Charles would be seeking out her son--and his ex--today. He wondered if she'd known; if she had some eerie ability to see the future--it would certainly explain why she had never liked him. Perhaps that was why she was so cold to him yesterday.
His breakup with Scott wasn't particularly messy, but Charles held no illusions that he hadn't hurt Scott, probably deeply at the time. Scott had wanted far, far more from the relationship than Charles. Looking back, Charles could see that it was mostly bad timing--Charles preparing to defend his thesis while Scott was focused entirely on finding them a condo to share. Charles hadn't wanted to share a condo--he still didn't own real estate--but at the time he'd been too busy with work to set Scott straight until it was too late.
Needless to say, the resulting explosion would have been momentous, had Charles not been so distracted by his research. The end result was that he lost a three year relationship almost without noticing, and Scott had gotten his heart broken.
Charles was definitely not looking forward to seeing the man.
But Scott was a department advisor, and that meant he would undoubtedly know everyone and anyone working within the department. Charles wasn't going to rest until he figured out who had stolen his students. More importantly, he wanted to know why.
It was another beautiful morning, as though nature was making up for the rough start to the school year. Charles had grabbed a coffee on his walk from his apartment in West Harlem, cutting across Morningside Park to reach the campus. He'd had the place since grad school, a tiny little studio with windows that rattled every time anything larger than a car passed beneath his window and radiators that worked according to whim. Scott had hated the place--one of the many reasons he'd pushed for buying a condo; that and his obsessive desire to live in the East Village--but Charles found it charming, and more importantly, his mother had hated it enough never to visit.
His coffee was just getting to the right temperature to drink when he made it to Philosophy Hall, so Charles peeled off the lid and took a sip, enjoying the bitter burst of caffeine against his tongue. Scott's office was upstairs, on the third floor, so Charles made his way steadily up, only growing nervous when he actually stood outside the door.
It was closed, but Scott was an early bird--often up hours before Charles, and considering how early Charles tended to wake, that was quite the accomplishment. Charles transferred his coffee from his right to his left hand, and knocked.
There was a pause, Charles listening to rustling through the door, before Scott undoubtedly tore himself away from whatever he was working on and made it to across the room. He was obviously not expecting visitors--and was definitely not expecting Charles--because he blinked, dumbstruck when he found Charles standing outside his door.
"Oh, my God, Charles," he said after a minute or two of blinking. Charles offered a chagrined smile.
"Is this a bad time?" Charles asked, kicking himself then, because the last thing he wanted was for Scott to think he was here for... well, anything personal. Charles wasn't going down that road again.
"No, no, of course not, come in," Scott said, holding open the door and gesturing inside. He left the door open when he crossed around to the other side of his desk--and Charles took that as a good sign--squeezing between the narrow space between his bookcase and his chair to sit down. The English Department's offices were notoriously small.
Charles sat on the spare chair--though there was barely enough room for it, Charles' knees pressed up against the backside of Scott's desk. He set his coffee down on the desk.
"I'm really sorry to bug you, but I was hoping you could do me a favour," Charles said, cutting straight to the point.
Sitting behind his desk, expression indifferent and yet friendly, Scott looked nothing but professional. It occurred to Charles then that it had been four years and the chances were Scott was completely over him. Charles wasn't sure why he had thought otherwise. God, he was such an arrogant, self-absorbed ass sometimes.
"Whatever I can do," Scott said.
Charles' awkwardness faded. "I had to cancel one of my classes because I lost over half my students to an English lit course. I was hoping you could..."
"Let me guess," Scott interrupted. "It was one of Erik Lehnsherr's classes."
Charles had no doubt he looked rather gobsmacked--certainly his mouth was hanging open. He sputtered for several moments before his mouth caught up with his brain.
"Is this a common occurrence?" Charles asked. Scott smirked.
"You'll understand after you meet him," Scott said, and there was no doubt in Charles' mind what Scott was talking about. Against his better judgement--and his wishes--Charles felt a stab of jealousy. He took a sip of his coffee to mask his reaction.
Scott had leaned across to his filing cabinet and was digging through it now, undoubtedly coming up with Professor Lehnsherr's timetable--and it still amazed Charles how removed from technology Scott was; the man still didn't have a computer in his office. While they were dating, Scott had refused to own a cell phone. Charles wasn't sure if he had one now.
"What class did you have to cancel?" Scott asked as he scanned the slip of paper he'd pulled from the cabinet.
"Monday and Wednesday, 8:15am," Charles said, "although one of my former students said it was a Romantic Poetry course."
"That would be 4402," Scott said. He slid across the sheet, index finger resting above the listing. Charles took particular note of the location.
But now of course he was doubly perplexed, because his third year biology students were dropping his class in favour of taking a 4000 level English course. It didn't make any sense. How had they even gotten in; certainly none of them would have the necessary prerequisites. Was this Lehnsherr--Erik, Scott had named him--really attractive enough that they would simply attend lectures without hope of earning credit? It was hardly the sort of behavior Charles expected from juniors.
Charles was still frowning over Scott's slip of paper when Scott cleared his throat. Charles glanced up, startled. He'd almost forgotten where he was.
"Sorry," he said, and then, because it was bugging him, asked, "Who is this guy anyway?"
Scott smiled--the kind of smile he usually reserved for inside jokes. Charles hadn't seen that smile in a very long time.
"Erik Lehnsherr is our visiting professor, on loan from Heidelberg."
Charles' eyes grew wide. What the hell was a German professor doing teaching English literature?
"Needless to say, he's creating quite a stir on campus. From the few conversations I've overheard, most people seem to think he is James Bond incarnate."
Charles frowned.
"He's an all right guy, if you're into the strong, silent type," Scott continued, and Charles knew Scott wasn't, just like Scott knew Charles was, "but I personally found him a little standoffish. Future advice, though; don't schedule a class at the same time as one of his."
"I'll try to keep that in mind," Charles said, ignoring the fact that he had relatively little choice in when his courses were scheduled. If he was lucky, he'd meet tenure at the end of the year and not have to worry about any of this next year. Certainly graduate students weren't this superficial.
Scott, who was obviously expecting Charles to leave now that he had the information he wanted, stood. He didn't look disappointed--he didn't look anything really, just indifferent, and Charles suspected that probably should have hurt more than it did. Mostly it just reminded Charles of his shortcomings, so Charles stood as well, grabbed his now empty cup, and extended Scott a hand.
"Thank you, for the help," Charles said, enduring one of Scott's firm, professional handshakes.
"Anytime," Scott said. He squeezed out from behind his desk and walked Charles to the door--the whole two paces. Charles ditched his empty cup in the waste bin beside the door, offered Scott a friendly wave, and then headed on his way.
It was 8:30, and if Charles was lucky he could make it over to Hamilton Hall in time to catch the last half of Lehnsherr's lecture. He wanted to see this Lehnsherr in action, but more than that, after speaking to Scott, Charles' interest was piqued.
During the time he'd been inside Scott's office, the sky had grown overcast--a familiar sight this year. Clouds had rolled in from the north, threatening the kind of drizzle that would undoubtedly leave Charles cold and damp, even if he had thought to bring an umbrella. Fortunately Hamilton Hall wasn't a far walk. Charles didn't exactly take his time, but he didn't run--he'd done enough of that yesterday and didn't particularly enjoy running unless he was swathed in technical fabric. He arrived with forty minutes remaining until the end of class.
Charles only taught two courses on the main campus, and while he was familiar with most of the grounds, he had few occasions to visit Hamilton. The building was old--like most of Columbia's buildings--Charles feeling momentarily transported in time as he searched the halls for Erik's lecture hall.
When he found it, he discovered it was more of a classroom than a hall, the room filled with writing chairs that had been bolted to the floor. Compared to the modernity of Hammer's classrooms, Lehnsherr's room looked like something out of a period film. Charles ducked in through the open door, attention immediately focusing on the figure standing at the room's podium.
The room was filled to capacity, at least a dozen students forced to stand. Only a few glanced in Charles' direction, most too enraptured by the man standing at the front of the room. Lehnsherr--and it could be no one else--was leaned against the podium, eyes downcast, staring at the open book in his hand. He was reading. There was something about his voice--hypnotic as it was--that immediately drew Charles' attention, though several minutes passed before Charles could make sense of the low rumble passing across Erik's lips.
And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
Blake, Charles realized. Lehnsherr was reading Blake--and quite well, his hindbrain told him, thinking only of the soft caress of Erik's voice. He found himself flashing back to boarding school, to years of wanting only to study science while being forced to study the history of England's finest poets; of analysing and analysing until Charles had thought his head might explode.
He'd developed an appreciation later in life, but in the days of his impetuous youth, when he'd wanted only to be a doctor, he had begrudged his instructors for forcing him to learn things he hadn't thought relevant.
They seemed particularly relevant now.
And all right, perhaps Scott had a point. Erik Lehnsherr was gorgeous--in a stern, austere kind of way, which only served to make him that much more appealing to Charles. Charles could understand why so many of his students had abandoned him. Had Charles known, he might have dropped his class, too.
Lehnsherr had finished reading, and was now staring over the top of his podium--and oh the steady steel of his gaze--eyes sweeping across the room, seeming to touch on each student in passing. Charles shivered when they slid across him. Lehnsherr cleared his throat.
"On Monday, at the end of class, we read the accompanying poem in Songs of Innocence. Can anyone contrast the two?" he asked. Charles caught a hint of a German accent, though it was softened somewhat, Erik obviously having spent some of his life outside of Germany. Wherever it was, Charles approved.
No one answered Erik's question. Charles suspected that was probably because no one had paid attention to the question. It was rather hard to absorb the meaning of Lehnsherr's words when you were caught up only in their cadence. When the silence dragged on for longer than Charles would have allowed in his classroom, Charles, again flashing back to boarding school, began speaking.
Too late, he realized he probably should have raised his hand.
Too late, he realized it really wasn't his place.
"Blake himself tells us that the works in Songs of Innocence and the works in Songs of Experience represent the two opposing sides of humanity, written in an effort to show the full complexity of human existence," Charles said, instantly earning Lehnsherr's gaze. Oh, to have those eyes focused solely on him, Lehnsherr's full attention instantly addictive. Charles wanted nothing more than to capture that attention and hold it forever.
"Go on, Mr..." Lehnsherr said.
"Charles," Charles said, realizing then that all of his former students were staring at him in horror. Lehnsherr didn't seem to notice.
"Mr. Charles." Lehnsherr inclined his head even as it said it, like Charles' name was something to be cherished. Charles swallowed heavily and pressed on.
"The metamorphosis in Experience shows us the same child from Innocence, though through the eyes of an adult. So now, the exploitation that the child was ignorant of comes fully to light. The irony of the first poem is stripped away in Experience. In Innocence we see a child optimistic and full of faith, not aware of the father's wrongdoing. In Experience we see the true state of the child's betrayal.
"There are tone differences, too," Charles continued, cursing himself for missing Monday's class--a ridiculous notion considering he wasn't even registered in the class, let alone a student. Still, it had been far too long since he had last read either works. "In Innocence, the tone is simplistic, naive, whereas in Experience it is cynical, almost omniscient."
The whole room was watching him now, but Charles barely noticed--he was too busy staring at Lehnsherr, who was watching Charles with something Charles could only hope was open interest. Charles smiled when his rambling came to a stop, a little awkwardly he thought, but it was hard to think under the weight of that gaze.
"Well said, Mr. Charles," Lehnsherr eventually said. He turned back to the room and began expounding on Charles' answer, adding something about Blake's life experiences colouring his perspective--whatever it was it was lost to Charles, Charles noticing then that Lehnsherr talked with his hands.
Oh, God, he had such lovely, lovely hands.
~*~
Janos came in near the end of the lecture and began collecting Erik's things. If there was one thing Erik hated doing, it was sticking around at the end of a class to answer questions--he had office hours for a reason. Today might not be so bad, though, Erik thought, because unlike the first three classes of the semester, this time he'd actually inspired a little participation.
He still had too many students in his class--and he was fairly certain stuffing them all into the classroom violated fire codes--many of whom had obviously never once studied poetry. Today marked the first day someone had actively, without prompting, opened a discussion. As Erik wrote out the weekend's reading requirements on the blackboard--and it amazed him that there was a school anywhere that hadn't switched over to white--he tried to remember if anyone on the official class list had the surname Charles.
"We're looking at Wordsworth and Coleridge next week, so please ensure you have read Lyrical Ballad, with Preface," Erik said when he had written out the page numbers. He turned back to the face the class, and then dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
Unlike a good number of his classes at Heidelberg, his students didn't immediately flee for the door. They lingered, many casting glances towards the front of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two girls nudging each other. They took a tentative step in his direction, Erik frantically stuffing notes into his satchel in an attempt to escape whatever it was they were planning. Fortunately for him, they lost their nerve the second Mr. Charles brushed past them, giving them both a slight nod as he approached the front of the classroom--no hesitance there, Mr. Charles completely at ease, like he owned the school. He came to stand in front of the podium.
Erik caught his eye and promptly wished he hadn't. Mr. Charles had hauntingly beautiful eyes.
"Mr. Charles," he said, when the boy continued to stare, head cocked to the side, hands stuffed into his pockets. He smiled, somewhat lazily, Erik thought.
The boy's eyes weren't his only source of beauty.
Erik shook his head at that, because he was not that sort of man. He'd been on the receiving end of that sort of man, and it had scarred him for life--well, more than he was already scarred, which was perhaps not saying much. Still, if his experience with Professor Shaw had taught him anything, it was that Erik should stay as far away from his students as humanly possible.
"It's just Charles," Mr. Charles was saying. "Charles Xavier, actually. And I just wanted to say welcome to Columbia."
There was something decidedly inviting in the turn of Mr. Xavier's body, a thought that Erik cut off almost as soon as it formed. He glanced down at the podium and found it cleared.
"Thank you, Mr. Xavier," he said, tossing his satchel over his shoulder. He wanted to leave, but to do so he would need to physically remove Xavier from his path. Erik debated his options.
"And, of course, since you're new in town, if you ever need anyone to show you around, or even point out the nicer places to eat, please don't hesitate to ask."
Erik froze, not quite sure how to respond to that.
"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Xavier," he eventually said, seeking the quickest way to end this conversation before it grew any more uncomfortable than it already was. "I'll see you on Monday," he tried.
Xavier beamed at that--though why, Erik couldn't say--and then stepped aside, gesturing towards the door. For one brief, hysterical moment, Erik though Xavier might actually try to walk him from the room. He didn't, letting Erik leave.
Out in the hall, Janos immediately fell into step at Erik's side. "Do you have the class list?" Erik asked.
Without pausing, Janos twisted his bag around so that it hung in front, rummaging through it until he found what he was searching for. He handed over a piece of paper. Erik scanned the list, looking under both C for Charles and X for Xavier, but neither name appeared on the list. Xavier was one of his sit-ins, then--and it was ridiculous how many he had.
He was older, Erik thought--at the very least a senior, though Erik suspected he might be a graduate student. Not that it made any different--he was still a student and Erik was still in a position of authority. Erik shook his head, scolding himself for letting the thought linger.
"I'm going to go grab some coffee. Can you drop these by my office," Erik said, handing over the class list and his satchel. Janos, easily the best TA Erik had ever had, wordlessly accepted both and then vanished in the direction of Erik's office.
After he was gone, Erik, without quite meaning to, thought about Xavier. He was maybe close to Janos' age--possibly a few years younger. He tried to imagine taking advantage of his influence over Janos, but couldn't. He scanned the crowd of passing students, but found no attraction there either. Obviously, Mr. Xavier was just an anomaly. It was somewhat of a relief to learn he wasn't destined to follow in Shaw's footsteps--after Erik had graduated, Shaw had deemed him too old, and had promptly found a new eighteen year old to drag through his bed. It remained one of Erik's more bitter experiences.
In all likelihood what he was experiencing was just excitement at having an apt student in his class, even if he wasn't sitting for credit. Erik nodded at that, content with the explanation. He headed out to grab his coffee and then see about putting together some notes for this afternoon's Milton seminar.
~*~
The moment Erik left the classroom, Charles pulled out his iPhone. He texted Moira, because he had few friends and couldn't think of anyone on that short list who might actually want to listen to him talk about Erik.
It was rather ridiculous that he wanted to talk about Erik. Charles couldn't remember the last time someone had so thoroughly--and quickly--affected him.
Charles smiled when Moira didn't respond. He expected by busy she meant she was with Sean--though it was entirely possible she was neck-deep in cultures at the lab. Charles didn't have to wonder for long, his phone ringing a second later.
"You've fallen in love?" Moira asked the second Charles answered. Charles chuckled.
"Okay, perhaps that's a little premature, but certainly I have fallen in lust."
He could almost picture Moira rolling her eyes. Charles grinned to himself, thankful there wasn't another class scheduled after Erik's--he probably looked like an idiot, standing next to Erik's podium, smiling into his phone like a loon.
"It's 9:30 in the morning, on a day I told you to sleep in. How in the hell did you fall into lust?" Charles could hear the muted sounds of a computer fan in the background. Moira was in her office then. He started moving, intending to catch a shuttle.
"I found the man who stole my students," Charles said. "He's pretty much a Greek god, unless the German's had gods who ran around all oiled and chiselled, wearing loin cloths, in which case he's a German god."
And now he was picturing Erik wearing a loin cloth. The image was highly distracting. It was quickly becoming apparent that Charles' lack of a social life needed to be remedied. He needed to get laid, and quickly.
"You're not making any sense, Charles. Or rather, you're making less sense than you usually do, which doesn't bode well for anybody, especially not me. Explain."
He loved this about Moira--had loved this about Moira the second they met, when she'd tried so hard to be his teacher and mentor, and Charles had delighted in teasing her mercilessly. She was easily the best friend he had ever had.
"That class I had to cancel," Charles said, exiting Hamilton Hall now. It looked like the rain was actually going to hold off. "My students ditched me for a Romantic Poetry course, taught by one Erik Lehnsherr, a visiting professor from Heidelberg. I tracked him down today."
"You tracked him down? How?" Moira asked. She liked details. It was impossible to cut corners with her.
"Those girls I talked to yesterday told me, and then I confirmed it with Scott." That earned him a released breath. Moira was around for Scott. "Anyway, I went to his room, checked him out, and fell in lust."
For the longest minute Moira was perfectly silent. Charles could tell she was busy processing everything he had just said. He headed over to where he could catch a free shuttle that would take him to the Medical Center.
"Did you ask him out?" Moira eventually asked, because clearly this was the important part--even Charles thought so.
"Kind of," Charles admitted.
"Kind of?"
"I offered to show him around town, and he said he appreciated the offer, or something like that. Then he told me he'd see me on Monday."
"So you have a date Monday?"
Charles pondered this even as he transferred his iPhone from his right ear to his left, his neck starting to crick.
"I think it was an invitation to attend another lecture," Charles admitted. He endured another long pause.
"Do you even know if this guy is gay?" Moira asked, which was a fair question, because Charles tended to operate on the assumption that every attractive guy in New York was a) gay and b) interested in Charles. It had earned him more than a few fat lips, and on one memorable occasion a drink in the face--this from the guy's wife. On the flip side, it had also introduced Moira to Sean. She'd come over expecting to have to rescue Charles from the slightly wild looking red-head who might or might not have taken offense to a drunk Charles trying to stick his tongue down Sean's throat.
Charles had obviously paused too long, because Moira continued, "You don't, do you?"
"I'm working on it," Charles said, and technically that was true. As of Monday morning, operation seduce Erik Lehnsherr would be in full swing.
On to chapter 3
