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nekosmuseTitle: An Ideal Grace (6/?)
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?
Note: Another huge thanks to stlkrchck, whose insight into New York is making this story actually realistic.
Warning: There is some non graphic reference to past dubcon/noncon/underage stuff.
Back to chapter 5
The walk from Hamilton Hall to Philosophy Hall passed in a blur, Erik finding himself standing inside his office without really remembering how he'd gotten there. He blinked, staring at the surface of his desk, feeling then as though he'd been transported in time. He became aware that his hands were shaking, so he curled them into fists and pressed them hard against his sides.
Shaw had taught his introduction to English Literature class--not a popular class, given that English was a second language for most of the student body. Erik was two weeks into the start of his university career when Professor Shaw invited him back to his office--not unlike the office Erik now called his own--and told him he that he had a remarkable talent. It had been a very long time since someone had called Erik remarkable--not since the death of his mother. Until that point, Erik's interaction with adults had pretty much consisted of being ignored or being knocked around.
In hindsight, Erik recognized grooming for what it was; Shaw slick in his manipulation. Shaw had had Erik in his bed within three months, all while Erik had thought the entire affair his idea.
The last time he'd seen Shaw was while he was working on his PhD, Erik attending a conference solely because Shaw was one of the speakers and Erik was still hung up on the man who'd broken his heart. He hadn't yet figured out what Shaw had done to him. It had taken years to put together the pieces, to recognize Shaw for what he was.
And now he was coming to Columbia, likely unaware that Erik was teaching here--not that he would care if he did know. Erik exhaled steadily, uncurled his fists, and crossed to his desk.
His office was one of the bigger ones on the third floor, the window behind his desk facing out over Amsterdam Ave. Erik liked the space--liked the steady hum of traffic that broke the silence with its white noise. Erik shrugged out of his coat--that he hadn't really needed given the turn in the weather--and hung it over the back of his chair. The chair, an old fashioned wooden thing, creaked ominously as he sat in it. He'd just gotten settled when Janos appeared in the doorway.
He was holding the day's mail--collected from Erik's mail slot downstairs--and placed it now on the desk before claiming one of the two chairs that faced Erik's desk. Aside from two bookshelves leaned against the far wall--both filled to capacity--there was no other furniture in the room. Erik kept the space utilitarian--he was probably the only professor in the department whose office wasn't littered with personal accoutrements.
"Is everything all right?" Janos asked. Janos didn't say much, but when he did it was as though each word was carefully selected, designed to do the least damage possible. Janos was acutely aware of the power of language. It was one of the reasons Erik had taken him on as a graduate student.
"Just some bad news," Erik said, flipping through his mail. A powder blue envelope from the department drew his attention. Undoubtedly this was the invitation Xavier was talking about.
Janos, who was still watching Erik, nodded sagely. "Is there anything I can do?"
Erik considered. He hated to ask, Janos not particularly fond of lecturing, but it was either that or cancel his afternoon class. Erik didn't think he was in any condition to teach just now.
"Can you teach my Critical Methods course this afternoon?" he asked.
Janos nodded, not at all perturbed by the request. Erik had done a lot for Janos, and hadn't asked anything in return, so Erik knew there weren't many favours Janos would refuse. Still, he nodded his thanks.
"I'm going to head home then," he said, still toying with the envelope. Janos took this for what it was--a bid for privacy. He rose quickly and slipped from the room.
Erik waited until he had left to open the envelope. He slid out the invitation and stared at it. Despite expecting it, it was still startling to see Sebastian Shaw's name in bold blue lettering.
Erik reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his blackberry.
If Angel was surprised by Erik's call, she didn't comment. She also didn't seem surprised when Erik asked about bumping up his appointment with Dr. Frost. Dr. Frost, Erik knew, would undoubtedly be shocked--Erik wasn't one to take initiatives, but he was fairly certain this was what she had meant when she'd told him, not long after their first appointment, to call if an emergency cropped up. He was fairly certain this qualified.
Dr. Frost wouldn't be the first therapist he'd told about Shaw--Erik had told several over the years. It was one of the reasons he kept going--aside from Raven's piece of mind that was--because in those early days, after Erik had put together his role in Sebastian's life and Sebastian's role in his, talking about it with someone not connected to the incident had genuinely helped. It had certainly put things into context.
Erik felt like he needed some of that context now.
Angel, who'd put Erik on hold in order to check Dr. Frost's schedule, came back on the line.
"Can you make in within the hour?" she asked. He could almost picture her, checking with Dr. Frost, Dr. Frost's eyes growing wide as she told Angel to clear her schedule. Erik knew enough about people to know that Dr. Frost had been waiting for Erik to finally cave and open up.
He wished there was an easier way. He really, really did.
Instead he told Angel he'd be there, then disconnected the line and reached for his coat. He was midway across town before it occurred to him that this might not be the best use of his time, or his money.
He'd had a psychologist in Heidelberg tell him once that his fixation--and she'd used the word fixation, even though Erik suspected she'd wanted to use obsession--with Shaw stemmed from having never fully processed his parents death. Erik supposed that was probably true, to some extent. He'd talked about their death with a few of his doctors--and he'd seen numerous, from psychiatrists to psychologists to counselors to therapists--but the incident always seemed to pale in comparison to Shaw, which, when Erik thought about it, probably said a lot about him.
He barely remembered his parents, and the few memories he did have were so disjointed that it was hard for Erik to piece together a narrative. It was simpler easier to focus on his life after--which he remembered with vivid clarity--than to try to work out his life before.
Dr. Frost was waiting for him when he arrived at her office, her door open, Angel suspiciously absent from her desk, as though Dr. Frost had worried seeing her might have sent Erik running. Erik could have told her that wouldn't be the case--that when he decided to do something he did it. If there was one thing Erik wasn't, it was a coward.
"Erik, I'm glad to see you," Dr. Frost said as Erik entered the room. By force of habit, he closed the door behind him, and then crossed over to what he was beginning to consider his chair.
This time he slid out of his coat. Dr. Frost's expression didn't change, but her shock was still palpable. Erik didn't wait for her to speak. He handed across the invitation. She accepted it gingerly.
"You're not the first person I've seen, and so far no one's been able to help, but as I'm a little worried I may end up killing this man, I thought I'd at least give you a chance."
And that was why he was here, Erik realized, because a good number of his fantasies in recent years involved killing Sebastian Shaw. One fantasy in particular had him driving a coin through Shaw's head--an impossible feat, Erik knew, but nothing was impossible in the realm of the imagination. During their time together, Shaw had had a lucky coin he liked the roll across the backs of his fingers when lecturing. Erik had always found the sight hypnotic. As it turned out, he wasn't the only boy to think so.
Shaw wasn't the only person he'd fantasized about killing. When he was younger, before he met Shaw, he used to imagine he'd find the man who'd ran his parents off the road and into the Rhine, causing their deaths--never mind that it was simply an accident, the roads icy. Erik had been in the car at the time--had escaped through an open window and swam the frigid waters to the shore. He'd waited for hours, expecting his parents to re-emerge from the murky river. There were whole months after that event that Erik still couldn't remember. Mostly he blamed that on the resulting hypothermia.
Dr. Frost didn't know about his parents.
Dr. Frost, who had read the invitation, set it down on the desk in front of her. She laced her fingers together and gave Erik a searching look.
"Tell me how you know Professor Shaw," she coached.
Erik leaned back in his chair and released a breath. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it.
"He was my teacher. I was seventeen when he began a sexual relationship with me," he said, sounding detached even to his own ears.
Dr. Frost, who was undoubtedly expecting Erik's usual avoidance, appeared momentarily startled before she mastered herself.
"You were in high school," she said. Erik shook his head.
"They are gymnasiums in Germany, but I had already started university. Most people don't start until they are nineteen or twenty, but I had completed my Abitur early. He introduced me to English poetry."
Before that, Erik had had little interest in the subject. The poems he'd written in his youth, things he hadn't realized were poetry until much, much later--at the time he'd only needed a space of his own, and a found notebook had suited his purpose--were all in German. Shaw had introduced him to the thrill of manipulating a new language.
"How long did this relationship last?" Dr. Frost asked. Erik thought she sounded more hesitant than usual.
"Until I was accepted to Oxford for my graduate studies." Erik had thought, naively at the time, that he would go to England and finish his PhD, and then returned to Germany and Shaw, that together they would carve out a life. "I found him in his office with another boy, one of his first year students. He asked me if I really thought he'd wait for me."
He'd laughed then, a patronizing sound that Erik had heard before and brushed off as simply one of Sebastian's quirks. In that moment, he'd heard it for what it was.
She didn't ask him how that made him feel--he'd had a few people do that, and on every occasion Erik had stood and left the room, never to return. Instead she looked him directly in the eye and said, "Your anger is justified."
And of course Erik knew that, but to know it and to hear it were two different things. Tension Erik hadn't been fully aware he was carrying eased, his chest feeling lighter. He nodded.
"That does not mean killing him is justified," Dr. Frost continued, and Erik knew this too--it was why he was here, after all. "I don't know how German law works, but here in the U.S., you would have legal recourse against this man."
Erik shook his head. She wasn't the first to urge him take this to the authorities, or at least the university, and she probably wouldn't be the last. She was probably right--it was probably the best thing to do--but Erik couldn't conceive stepping forward and making the admission. The entire thing still filled him with shame.
Dr. Frost continued, "It's your choice, and no one will force you to do anything. You should know, however, that what he did was wrong. You have no blame in any of it."
No, thought Erik, but that doesn't mean I am blameless.
~*~
Charles drummed his fingers against the counter top as he waited, phone cradled between his ear and his neck. Across the room, Hank was bent over a microscope.
"Hello, yes," he said when the line reconnected, Charles straightening with sudden eagerness. This was the sixth place he'd called, and the first that thought they might have what Charles was looking for.
"I have two periodicals that include the works of Erik Lehnsherr," the woman on the other end of the line said. Charles broke out into what he was sure was a ridiculous looking grin.
"Can you put them aside for me? I'll come pick them up this later this afternoon. I can even give you my credit card number to hold them if you like."
Charles was vaguely aware that Hank was watching him now, frown pulling at his mouth. He'd been keen to get started when Charles had turned up this morning, but instead of working, Charles had spent the bulk of his time calling independent bookstores in a bid to find more of Erik's work. He offered Hank an apologetic smile.
He'd met Hank during their undergraduate years, Hank Charles' first lab partner, and if he was honest, his first friend. They'd kept in touch during their graduate years, despite attending different institutions. Mostly they'd bounced ideas off each other over email. Charles had gotten Hank his research position with Columbia. He was easily Charles' favourite person to work with. He also knew Charles well enough to forgive him the occasional indiscretion.
The woman on the other end of the line waved off Charles' offer to pay over the phone, saying she'd put the periodicals aside. Charles was more than a little giddy when he got off the line, even knowing he was going to have to truck down to the lower east side to find St. Mark's. It would be worth it, though, the journals including three poems Charles had yet to read.
"Sorry about that," Charles said when he made it back over to where Hank was working.
"Not that I haven't seen this before, but what exactly is it about this guy?"
Charles laughed. Hank was right in saying it had happened before, though not as often as people might assume. Most of Charles' pursuits lasted a night, ending the next morning after a very nice lay. Only a handful of people had earned the full force of Charles' attention. Erik was the first person to thoroughly attract his attention in a really long time--although, if Charles were honest, had Erik slept with him that first day, he'd probably have ended up just another one night stand. If there was one thing Charles appreciated, it was a challenge.
"I can't figure him out," he said, shrugging. It was about as honest as he could be. Hank shook his head.
"Have you tried just asking him out?"
It figured Hank would be on Moira's side. Sometimes the man was too pragmatic for his own good.
"It's a little hard to do when the only time I see him is in class," Charles confessed. As he spoke, he crossed to the sequencer to retrieve his completed chromatogram. When he turned back, Hank was frowning again.
"You're attending this guy's lectures? No, wait, never mind, I don't want to know." Hank paused. "Seriously, though, you can't figure him out? Surely it's more than that. I haven't seen you like this... well, ever, actually."
Charles leaned a hip on the counter. He considered the question. "He's gorgeous, and he gets really passionate when he lectures--he talks with his hands and says yes, yes when someone gets something right, like he's having an orgasm, and..."
"Stop. Please stop. I'm sorry I asked," Hank interjected. Charles stopped. It was an amusing sight, Hank having turned bright red. Charles had forgotten how much Hank hated hearing about his conquests--or potential conquests for that matter.
"Look, why don't you just find out when his office hours are?" Hank asked. He'd turned back to his microscope and was determinedly not looking in Charles direction.
Charles froze. "Office hours? Oh, Hank, you are brilliant. I could kiss you."
Hank shot up so fast at that he almost tripped over the stool he was sitting on. His expression, stuck somewhere between embarrassment and horror, grew conciliatory as he lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. "Please don't," he said, taking a stumbling step back. Charles laughed.
"I will refrain from molesting you on one condition." Hank arched an eyebrow. "Loan me your car?"
There were few people who could resist Charles' most beseeching look, but unfortunately Hank was one of them. Still, Charles had to try, so he let his eyes grow wide, his eye lashing fluttering ever so slightly, even as the corners of his mouth turned down into a pout. He'd mastered the look when he was six; had used it numerous times to manipulate maids and nannies into doing his bidding--sadly, his mother had shared Hanks' immunity.
Hank rolled his eyes, shaking his head in what Charles hoped was fond exasperation.
"I'm not loaning you my car because you did your puppy dog eyes thing. I'm loaning you my car because it'll get you across town faster, and that means you'll get back faster, and then maybe we can get some actual work done tonight. Also, I have a condition."
Charles cocked his head.
"When you're finished wooing this guy, never, ever tell me about your sex life," Hank said, digging into his pocket to hand over a set of keys.
Charles accepted them graciously, slipping them into his lab coat pocket before turning back to his work.
~*~
Erik could spend the rest of his life in New York without ever growing used to having a doorman. His very existence made Erik feel awkward--Erik always reaching for the door a moment before it opened, the doorman stepping outside to wave Erik in. He rarely spoke--except to Raven, and then only because Raven seemed to think he was their own personal concierge and did things like ask after the best restaurants and bakeries. Once, she'd asked him to recommend a good butcher, and then had lectured the man for twenty minutes on the benefit of protein when he'd announced he was a vegan.
The doorman smiled at Erik now, the kind of fake, plastered on smile that likely came with the job. Erik nodded in his direction, and then headed to the elevator.
He was feeling particularly wrung out from his session with Dr. Frost, and wanted little more than to curl up in bed and sleep. He suspected that was probably a bad idea--it was barely mid-afternoon--so instead he began contemplating what to make for dinner. It wasn't often he got home early enough to cook a nice meal.
He was expecting to find Raven at home, but the apartment was empty. Erik did a quick sweep, searching all of Raven's hiding spots--and she still sometimes climbed into her closet, or hid under her bed--but didn't find her anywhere. Raven didn't work, and didn't tend to go out much during the day--didn't tend to go out much period, at least, not without Erik. He tried to remember if today was one of her shrink days, as she liked to call them, but didn't think so. Hers were Tuesdays and Fridays, Erik recalled.
He found his answer in the form of a note left on the kitchen counter, Raven's sprawling hand as familiar as his own.
Erik frowned at the notebook. He wasn't sure what to make of it. He tried to recall where he had heard the name Hellfire before, remembering then a club they'd passed the other night, not four blocks from here. Raven had an interview? At a club?
He tried to picture Raven working at a club, serving drinks or clearing tables, drunken men grabbing at her, trying to fondle her as she worked. The image filled him with rage. Raven had had enough of drunken men during their childhood.
He wasn't really thinking clearly when he tossed his coat onto the couch--after retrieving his keys and blackberry from its pockets, the day having grown too hot to warrant wearing it--and headed back downstairs. The doorman didn't even blink at him on his way out--that was the way of doorman; they welcomed you home and ignored your leaving.
The Hellfire Club, from what Erik remembered, was in the East Village, just east of 3rd. Erik pulled out his blackberry as he walked and did a quick web search--or at least, he tried to do a quick web search, but he still didn't really know how to use his phone, never mind that Erik tried his hardest to avoid the internet whenever possible. Hell, he still did most of his writing by hand.
Eventually he found what he was looking for, following Google maps until he was standing out in front of the place. From the outside, it looked like the kind of place that employed bouncers and used them on a regular basis. Erik felt his hackles rise.
The club was obviously closed for business, but the front door was unlocked, so Erik headed inside. He wasn't a complete stranger to clubs, though he didn't tend to frequent them himself. Still, there was something inherently ugly about seeing a club fully lit by the light of day. What was meant to be mysterious and trendy under neon light now looked worn and lackluster. There were stains places Erik didn't think were meant to have stains.
It took him all of five seconds to spot Raven.
She was standing at the bar, sat atop a stool, talking to a tall, broad-shouldered man who was laughing at something she'd said. As soon as Erik entered the room, their conversation broke off, both of them swiveling to stare in his direction. Erik bared his teeth.
He was across the room and gripping Raven's elbow before he fully realized what he was doing.
"You can wait over there, da," the man said. Erik ignored him.
"You are absolutely not getting a job here," he told Raven. "And you are certainly not working for some Russian."
The man, who had obviously clued in that Erik was there for Raven and not a job interview, laughed.
"Your boyfriend, he is the clingy type. Dat is not so good, but he is cute, so provided he keeps his mouth shut, we can comp him," he said. Erik glared at the man.
"She is my sister, and she is not working here."
He'd explained to Raven, shortly after they'd arrived in New York, that she could take her time finding a job, that he didn't mind footing the bills until she found something safe and fulfilling. He had never expected Raven to pull her weight--never considered that she didn't given everything she did for them--but it was something she worried about frequently, so he knew what was driving her.
"Erik," Raven said, speaking for the first time since his arrival. The shocked confusion that had coloured her features upon his arrival had cleared. Now she only looked mad. There was clear warning in her tone.
"What?" he asked.
She glared at him, and then smiled apologetically at the man. "Can you give us a minute?" she asked. The man, still looking amused, nodded. Raven shook off Erik's hand, hopped off her stool, and then dragged Erik to the end of the bar. Erik went, though only because he didn't want to have to start a fight, and there was a better chance of getting Raven out of there if they could talk privately.
"You don't have to..." he started, but Raven overrode him.
"First off, I'm not working for a Russian? What the hell kind of bigot are you?" She didn't wait for a reply, which was probably good, because Erik didn't have one. He didn't really have anything against Russians, save perhaps that his parents had died in 1986, and three years later, after the wall fell, Erik was so lost to the system that no one bothered tracking down the family he had living in the east. It was a strange thing, to have something so fleeting as politics set the course of one's entire adolescence.
"Second, this is a perfectly decent establishment, and it pays well, and unlike you, I don't want to spend all my time moping in our apartment."
"Raven," Erik tried, holding up his hands when it looked like she might ignore him. "I'm just worried you might get taken advantage of. I want you to be safe."
The look Raven shot him was so incredulous Erik found himself frowning. He tracked back over what he'd said, but still couldn't find any fault with it. Raven sighed.
"You do realize this is a gay club, right? Pretty sure the clientele aren't going to try taking advantage. In fact, of all the places I could work, this might be about perfect. So now, if you'll excuse me, Azazel over there was in the middle of offering me a job, which I am going to accept."
She didn't wait for a reply, Erik watching as she crossed back to Azazel's side and extended her hand. Erik stuck around long enough to hear something about getting one of the go-go boys--whom Azazel called Pyro, mentioning something about some fantastic pyrotechnic display involving his penis--to give her a tour.
There was really little else to do save slink out the way he'd come.
He wandered around for a bit after that, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself--he could always head back home, but if he stayed in the neighbourhood long enough, he could probably catch Raven on her way out and they could walk back together. He found himself in need of coffee, so he went in search of a cup, finding one at a street-side vendor's cart, Erik having never been too particular about his caffeine.
He was taking his first sip when he happened to glance up and catch sight of a familiar figure. For a moment he was too stunned to do anything but stare, Charles Xavier the last person he'd expected to see. He was coming out of a bookstore, paper bag clutched in his hand--and Erik knew the store, shopped there often, because they always had the best selection of rare texts. Xavier turned--away from Erik--and before Erik quite knew what he was doing he was following.
Xavier was obviously heading somewhere with a purpose--and God, he walked down the streets of New York like he did the halls of the school, like he owned every inch of space, like the city existed for him alone. Erik had never seen such confidence in anyone before, let alone a student. By all rights, Xavier should still be figuring himself out, exploring what made him tick, uncertain what he liked or didn't like. Certainly Erik still felt that way. But Xavier seemed so put together, like he was the master of his domain.
Erik couldn't help but be a little bit impressed.
At the same time it was oddly alarming, because the only other person Erik had met who exuded such charisma was Shaw, and Erik didn't particularly like the comparison. Certainly Xavier was nothing like Shaw, but he wore his skin with the same confidence.
At the corner of 10th and 3rd, Xavier paused. Erik, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of panic, found himself ducking behind a bus shelter--stupid thing to do, considering they were made almost entirely of glass. A litany of what the hell am I doing? ran through his head even as his heart stuttered in his chest. Was he really stalking one of his students? What the hell was wrong with him?
Clearly he should have brought Xavier up with Dr. Frost.
Possibly it was a good topic for next week--although, Erik was starting to see why Raven saw her therapist twice a week.
It wasn't even a little bit surprising to glance up and find Xavier staring at him, eyes wide, a soft smile playing across his face. Erik cursed under his breath, debating whether to acknowledge Xavier or simply take off running--he really, really wanted to run. Instead he remained frozen where he was, watching as Xavier closed the distance between them.
"Are you following me?" Xavier asked when he got to Erik's side. He sounded more than a little delighted. Erik wasn't entirely certain what to make of that.
"Um..." There were a dozen ways he could answer that, but he suspected Xavier would probably see through any lie Erik managed to cobble together. In lieu of answering, he settled on shrugging.
Xavier beamed at him. It was a really good look on the kid.
"In that case, you can at least buy me a coffee," he said.
And this was not good--this was really not good, because not only did Erik want to buy him a coffee, but he rather wanted to invite Xavier home with him. There was something about seeing him on the street, outside of a school setting, that made Erik realize just how many years Xavier had on his classmates. Here Xavier didn't look like the kind of person Erik might take advantage of--he looked like the kind of person who might take advantage of Erik.
"I can't," Erik said, although it took a good deal of effort to do so. "I'm waiting on my sister, and then we have plans."
The urge to run was back again, though mostly because Xavier's expression had turned crestfallen and Erik wanted to do everything in his power to change it. He was really not used to reacting to people this way. It just didn't happen.
"Well, some other time then," Xavier said, still sounding disappointed. He glanced over his shoulder. "You know, this is the second time I've seen you in this end of town. You must live nearby."
"A couple of blocks," Erik said without really thinking about it. No matter how much his conscience shouted at him, there was something intrinsically easy about talking to Xavier. Erik couldn't bring himself to end the conversation.
At least he managed to stop himself from asking if Xavier lived in the neighbourhood as well--it stood to reason, given that they kept bumping into one another--but it was really none of his business where his students lived. Xavier, who seemed poised to ask another question--or perhaps lead their strangely not awkward conversation in a new direction--started suddenly, and it took Erik a few seconds to realize it was because someone had called Erik's name.
Erik glanced over his shoulder, spotting Raven who looked equal parts exasperated and delighted. She'd reached Erik's side before she registered Xavier's presence.
"Oh, it's the cute guy," she said, smiling.
For perhaps the first time in Erik's life, he rather wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Instead he cut off anything Xavier might have said--or worse, anything Raven might have said.
"Well, we should get going then. I'll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Xavier," he said, ignoring Xavier's startled confusion, along with Raven's indignant yelp when he grabbed her arm and started pulling her in the opposite direction from where Xavier had been walking.
Erik very purposely didn't look back, even after Xavier called out, "Wednesday, then," like they'd just arranged a date.
Judging from Raven's smirk, it was fairly obvious she thought the same.
On to chapter 7
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?
Note: Another huge thanks to stlkrchck, whose insight into New York is making this story actually realistic.
Warning: There is some non graphic reference to past dubcon/noncon/underage stuff.
Back to chapter 5
The walk from Hamilton Hall to Philosophy Hall passed in a blur, Erik finding himself standing inside his office without really remembering how he'd gotten there. He blinked, staring at the surface of his desk, feeling then as though he'd been transported in time. He became aware that his hands were shaking, so he curled them into fists and pressed them hard against his sides.
Shaw had taught his introduction to English Literature class--not a popular class, given that English was a second language for most of the student body. Erik was two weeks into the start of his university career when Professor Shaw invited him back to his office--not unlike the office Erik now called his own--and told him he that he had a remarkable talent. It had been a very long time since someone had called Erik remarkable--not since the death of his mother. Until that point, Erik's interaction with adults had pretty much consisted of being ignored or being knocked around.
In hindsight, Erik recognized grooming for what it was; Shaw slick in his manipulation. Shaw had had Erik in his bed within three months, all while Erik had thought the entire affair his idea.
The last time he'd seen Shaw was while he was working on his PhD, Erik attending a conference solely because Shaw was one of the speakers and Erik was still hung up on the man who'd broken his heart. He hadn't yet figured out what Shaw had done to him. It had taken years to put together the pieces, to recognize Shaw for what he was.
And now he was coming to Columbia, likely unaware that Erik was teaching here--not that he would care if he did know. Erik exhaled steadily, uncurled his fists, and crossed to his desk.
His office was one of the bigger ones on the third floor, the window behind his desk facing out over Amsterdam Ave. Erik liked the space--liked the steady hum of traffic that broke the silence with its white noise. Erik shrugged out of his coat--that he hadn't really needed given the turn in the weather--and hung it over the back of his chair. The chair, an old fashioned wooden thing, creaked ominously as he sat in it. He'd just gotten settled when Janos appeared in the doorway.
He was holding the day's mail--collected from Erik's mail slot downstairs--and placed it now on the desk before claiming one of the two chairs that faced Erik's desk. Aside from two bookshelves leaned against the far wall--both filled to capacity--there was no other furniture in the room. Erik kept the space utilitarian--he was probably the only professor in the department whose office wasn't littered with personal accoutrements.
"Is everything all right?" Janos asked. Janos didn't say much, but when he did it was as though each word was carefully selected, designed to do the least damage possible. Janos was acutely aware of the power of language. It was one of the reasons Erik had taken him on as a graduate student.
"Just some bad news," Erik said, flipping through his mail. A powder blue envelope from the department drew his attention. Undoubtedly this was the invitation Xavier was talking about.
Janos, who was still watching Erik, nodded sagely. "Is there anything I can do?"
Erik considered. He hated to ask, Janos not particularly fond of lecturing, but it was either that or cancel his afternoon class. Erik didn't think he was in any condition to teach just now.
"Can you teach my Critical Methods course this afternoon?" he asked.
Janos nodded, not at all perturbed by the request. Erik had done a lot for Janos, and hadn't asked anything in return, so Erik knew there weren't many favours Janos would refuse. Still, he nodded his thanks.
"I'm going to head home then," he said, still toying with the envelope. Janos took this for what it was--a bid for privacy. He rose quickly and slipped from the room.
Erik waited until he had left to open the envelope. He slid out the invitation and stared at it. Despite expecting it, it was still startling to see Sebastian Shaw's name in bold blue lettering.
Erik reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his blackberry.
If Angel was surprised by Erik's call, she didn't comment. She also didn't seem surprised when Erik asked about bumping up his appointment with Dr. Frost. Dr. Frost, Erik knew, would undoubtedly be shocked--Erik wasn't one to take initiatives, but he was fairly certain this was what she had meant when she'd told him, not long after their first appointment, to call if an emergency cropped up. He was fairly certain this qualified.
Dr. Frost wouldn't be the first therapist he'd told about Shaw--Erik had told several over the years. It was one of the reasons he kept going--aside from Raven's piece of mind that was--because in those early days, after Erik had put together his role in Sebastian's life and Sebastian's role in his, talking about it with someone not connected to the incident had genuinely helped. It had certainly put things into context.
Erik felt like he needed some of that context now.
Angel, who'd put Erik on hold in order to check Dr. Frost's schedule, came back on the line.
"Can you make in within the hour?" she asked. He could almost picture her, checking with Dr. Frost, Dr. Frost's eyes growing wide as she told Angel to clear her schedule. Erik knew enough about people to know that Dr. Frost had been waiting for Erik to finally cave and open up.
He wished there was an easier way. He really, really did.
Instead he told Angel he'd be there, then disconnected the line and reached for his coat. He was midway across town before it occurred to him that this might not be the best use of his time, or his money.
He'd had a psychologist in Heidelberg tell him once that his fixation--and she'd used the word fixation, even though Erik suspected she'd wanted to use obsession--with Shaw stemmed from having never fully processed his parents death. Erik supposed that was probably true, to some extent. He'd talked about their death with a few of his doctors--and he'd seen numerous, from psychiatrists to psychologists to counselors to therapists--but the incident always seemed to pale in comparison to Shaw, which, when Erik thought about it, probably said a lot about him.
He barely remembered his parents, and the few memories he did have were so disjointed that it was hard for Erik to piece together a narrative. It was simpler easier to focus on his life after--which he remembered with vivid clarity--than to try to work out his life before.
Dr. Frost was waiting for him when he arrived at her office, her door open, Angel suspiciously absent from her desk, as though Dr. Frost had worried seeing her might have sent Erik running. Erik could have told her that wouldn't be the case--that when he decided to do something he did it. If there was one thing Erik wasn't, it was a coward.
"Erik, I'm glad to see you," Dr. Frost said as Erik entered the room. By force of habit, he closed the door behind him, and then crossed over to what he was beginning to consider his chair.
This time he slid out of his coat. Dr. Frost's expression didn't change, but her shock was still palpable. Erik didn't wait for her to speak. He handed across the invitation. She accepted it gingerly.
"You're not the first person I've seen, and so far no one's been able to help, but as I'm a little worried I may end up killing this man, I thought I'd at least give you a chance."
And that was why he was here, Erik realized, because a good number of his fantasies in recent years involved killing Sebastian Shaw. One fantasy in particular had him driving a coin through Shaw's head--an impossible feat, Erik knew, but nothing was impossible in the realm of the imagination. During their time together, Shaw had had a lucky coin he liked the roll across the backs of his fingers when lecturing. Erik had always found the sight hypnotic. As it turned out, he wasn't the only boy to think so.
Shaw wasn't the only person he'd fantasized about killing. When he was younger, before he met Shaw, he used to imagine he'd find the man who'd ran his parents off the road and into the Rhine, causing their deaths--never mind that it was simply an accident, the roads icy. Erik had been in the car at the time--had escaped through an open window and swam the frigid waters to the shore. He'd waited for hours, expecting his parents to re-emerge from the murky river. There were whole months after that event that Erik still couldn't remember. Mostly he blamed that on the resulting hypothermia.
Dr. Frost didn't know about his parents.
Dr. Frost, who had read the invitation, set it down on the desk in front of her. She laced her fingers together and gave Erik a searching look.
"Tell me how you know Professor Shaw," she coached.
Erik leaned back in his chair and released a breath. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it.
"He was my teacher. I was seventeen when he began a sexual relationship with me," he said, sounding detached even to his own ears.
Dr. Frost, who was undoubtedly expecting Erik's usual avoidance, appeared momentarily startled before she mastered herself.
"You were in high school," she said. Erik shook his head.
"They are gymnasiums in Germany, but I had already started university. Most people don't start until they are nineteen or twenty, but I had completed my Abitur early. He introduced me to English poetry."
Before that, Erik had had little interest in the subject. The poems he'd written in his youth, things he hadn't realized were poetry until much, much later--at the time he'd only needed a space of his own, and a found notebook had suited his purpose--were all in German. Shaw had introduced him to the thrill of manipulating a new language.
"How long did this relationship last?" Dr. Frost asked. Erik thought she sounded more hesitant than usual.
"Until I was accepted to Oxford for my graduate studies." Erik had thought, naively at the time, that he would go to England and finish his PhD, and then returned to Germany and Shaw, that together they would carve out a life. "I found him in his office with another boy, one of his first year students. He asked me if I really thought he'd wait for me."
He'd laughed then, a patronizing sound that Erik had heard before and brushed off as simply one of Sebastian's quirks. In that moment, he'd heard it for what it was.
She didn't ask him how that made him feel--he'd had a few people do that, and on every occasion Erik had stood and left the room, never to return. Instead she looked him directly in the eye and said, "Your anger is justified."
And of course Erik knew that, but to know it and to hear it were two different things. Tension Erik hadn't been fully aware he was carrying eased, his chest feeling lighter. He nodded.
"That does not mean killing him is justified," Dr. Frost continued, and Erik knew this too--it was why he was here, after all. "I don't know how German law works, but here in the U.S., you would have legal recourse against this man."
Erik shook his head. She wasn't the first to urge him take this to the authorities, or at least the university, and she probably wouldn't be the last. She was probably right--it was probably the best thing to do--but Erik couldn't conceive stepping forward and making the admission. The entire thing still filled him with shame.
Dr. Frost continued, "It's your choice, and no one will force you to do anything. You should know, however, that what he did was wrong. You have no blame in any of it."
No, thought Erik, but that doesn't mean I am blameless.
~*~
Charles drummed his fingers against the counter top as he waited, phone cradled between his ear and his neck. Across the room, Hank was bent over a microscope.
"Hello, yes," he said when the line reconnected, Charles straightening with sudden eagerness. This was the sixth place he'd called, and the first that thought they might have what Charles was looking for.
"I have two periodicals that include the works of Erik Lehnsherr," the woman on the other end of the line said. Charles broke out into what he was sure was a ridiculous looking grin.
"Can you put them aside for me? I'll come pick them up this later this afternoon. I can even give you my credit card number to hold them if you like."
Charles was vaguely aware that Hank was watching him now, frown pulling at his mouth. He'd been keen to get started when Charles had turned up this morning, but instead of working, Charles had spent the bulk of his time calling independent bookstores in a bid to find more of Erik's work. He offered Hank an apologetic smile.
He'd met Hank during their undergraduate years, Hank Charles' first lab partner, and if he was honest, his first friend. They'd kept in touch during their graduate years, despite attending different institutions. Mostly they'd bounced ideas off each other over email. Charles had gotten Hank his research position with Columbia. He was easily Charles' favourite person to work with. He also knew Charles well enough to forgive him the occasional indiscretion.
The woman on the other end of the line waved off Charles' offer to pay over the phone, saying she'd put the periodicals aside. Charles was more than a little giddy when he got off the line, even knowing he was going to have to truck down to the lower east side to find St. Mark's. It would be worth it, though, the journals including three poems Charles had yet to read.
"Sorry about that," Charles said when he made it back over to where Hank was working.
"Not that I haven't seen this before, but what exactly is it about this guy?"
Charles laughed. Hank was right in saying it had happened before, though not as often as people might assume. Most of Charles' pursuits lasted a night, ending the next morning after a very nice lay. Only a handful of people had earned the full force of Charles' attention. Erik was the first person to thoroughly attract his attention in a really long time--although, if Charles were honest, had Erik slept with him that first day, he'd probably have ended up just another one night stand. If there was one thing Charles appreciated, it was a challenge.
"I can't figure him out," he said, shrugging. It was about as honest as he could be. Hank shook his head.
"Have you tried just asking him out?"
It figured Hank would be on Moira's side. Sometimes the man was too pragmatic for his own good.
"It's a little hard to do when the only time I see him is in class," Charles confessed. As he spoke, he crossed to the sequencer to retrieve his completed chromatogram. When he turned back, Hank was frowning again.
"You're attending this guy's lectures? No, wait, never mind, I don't want to know." Hank paused. "Seriously, though, you can't figure him out? Surely it's more than that. I haven't seen you like this... well, ever, actually."
Charles leaned a hip on the counter. He considered the question. "He's gorgeous, and he gets really passionate when he lectures--he talks with his hands and says yes, yes when someone gets something right, like he's having an orgasm, and..."
"Stop. Please stop. I'm sorry I asked," Hank interjected. Charles stopped. It was an amusing sight, Hank having turned bright red. Charles had forgotten how much Hank hated hearing about his conquests--or potential conquests for that matter.
"Look, why don't you just find out when his office hours are?" Hank asked. He'd turned back to his microscope and was determinedly not looking in Charles direction.
Charles froze. "Office hours? Oh, Hank, you are brilliant. I could kiss you."
Hank shot up so fast at that he almost tripped over the stool he was sitting on. His expression, stuck somewhere between embarrassment and horror, grew conciliatory as he lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. "Please don't," he said, taking a stumbling step back. Charles laughed.
"I will refrain from molesting you on one condition." Hank arched an eyebrow. "Loan me your car?"
There were few people who could resist Charles' most beseeching look, but unfortunately Hank was one of them. Still, Charles had to try, so he let his eyes grow wide, his eye lashing fluttering ever so slightly, even as the corners of his mouth turned down into a pout. He'd mastered the look when he was six; had used it numerous times to manipulate maids and nannies into doing his bidding--sadly, his mother had shared Hanks' immunity.
Hank rolled his eyes, shaking his head in what Charles hoped was fond exasperation.
"I'm not loaning you my car because you did your puppy dog eyes thing. I'm loaning you my car because it'll get you across town faster, and that means you'll get back faster, and then maybe we can get some actual work done tonight. Also, I have a condition."
Charles cocked his head.
"When you're finished wooing this guy, never, ever tell me about your sex life," Hank said, digging into his pocket to hand over a set of keys.
Charles accepted them graciously, slipping them into his lab coat pocket before turning back to his work.
~*~
Erik could spend the rest of his life in New York without ever growing used to having a doorman. His very existence made Erik feel awkward--Erik always reaching for the door a moment before it opened, the doorman stepping outside to wave Erik in. He rarely spoke--except to Raven, and then only because Raven seemed to think he was their own personal concierge and did things like ask after the best restaurants and bakeries. Once, she'd asked him to recommend a good butcher, and then had lectured the man for twenty minutes on the benefit of protein when he'd announced he was a vegan.
The doorman smiled at Erik now, the kind of fake, plastered on smile that likely came with the job. Erik nodded in his direction, and then headed to the elevator.
He was feeling particularly wrung out from his session with Dr. Frost, and wanted little more than to curl up in bed and sleep. He suspected that was probably a bad idea--it was barely mid-afternoon--so instead he began contemplating what to make for dinner. It wasn't often he got home early enough to cook a nice meal.
He was expecting to find Raven at home, but the apartment was empty. Erik did a quick sweep, searching all of Raven's hiding spots--and she still sometimes climbed into her closet, or hid under her bed--but didn't find her anywhere. Raven didn't work, and didn't tend to go out much during the day--didn't tend to go out much period, at least, not without Erik. He tried to remember if today was one of her shrink days, as she liked to call them, but didn't think so. Hers were Tuesdays and Fridays, Erik recalled.
He found his answer in the form of a note left on the kitchen counter, Raven's sprawling hand as familiar as his own.
Erik frowned at the notebook. He wasn't sure what to make of it. He tried to recall where he had heard the name Hellfire before, remembering then a club they'd passed the other night, not four blocks from here. Raven had an interview? At a club?
He tried to picture Raven working at a club, serving drinks or clearing tables, drunken men grabbing at her, trying to fondle her as she worked. The image filled him with rage. Raven had had enough of drunken men during their childhood.
He wasn't really thinking clearly when he tossed his coat onto the couch--after retrieving his keys and blackberry from its pockets, the day having grown too hot to warrant wearing it--and headed back downstairs. The doorman didn't even blink at him on his way out--that was the way of doorman; they welcomed you home and ignored your leaving.
The Hellfire Club, from what Erik remembered, was in the East Village, just east of 3rd. Erik pulled out his blackberry as he walked and did a quick web search--or at least, he tried to do a quick web search, but he still didn't really know how to use his phone, never mind that Erik tried his hardest to avoid the internet whenever possible. Hell, he still did most of his writing by hand.
Eventually he found what he was looking for, following Google maps until he was standing out in front of the place. From the outside, it looked like the kind of place that employed bouncers and used them on a regular basis. Erik felt his hackles rise.
The club was obviously closed for business, but the front door was unlocked, so Erik headed inside. He wasn't a complete stranger to clubs, though he didn't tend to frequent them himself. Still, there was something inherently ugly about seeing a club fully lit by the light of day. What was meant to be mysterious and trendy under neon light now looked worn and lackluster. There were stains places Erik didn't think were meant to have stains.
It took him all of five seconds to spot Raven.
She was standing at the bar, sat atop a stool, talking to a tall, broad-shouldered man who was laughing at something she'd said. As soon as Erik entered the room, their conversation broke off, both of them swiveling to stare in his direction. Erik bared his teeth.
He was across the room and gripping Raven's elbow before he fully realized what he was doing.
"You can wait over there, da," the man said. Erik ignored him.
"You are absolutely not getting a job here," he told Raven. "And you are certainly not working for some Russian."
The man, who had obviously clued in that Erik was there for Raven and not a job interview, laughed.
"Your boyfriend, he is the clingy type. Dat is not so good, but he is cute, so provided he keeps his mouth shut, we can comp him," he said. Erik glared at the man.
"She is my sister, and she is not working here."
He'd explained to Raven, shortly after they'd arrived in New York, that she could take her time finding a job, that he didn't mind footing the bills until she found something safe and fulfilling. He had never expected Raven to pull her weight--never considered that she didn't given everything she did for them--but it was something she worried about frequently, so he knew what was driving her.
"Erik," Raven said, speaking for the first time since his arrival. The shocked confusion that had coloured her features upon his arrival had cleared. Now she only looked mad. There was clear warning in her tone.
"What?" he asked.
She glared at him, and then smiled apologetically at the man. "Can you give us a minute?" she asked. The man, still looking amused, nodded. Raven shook off Erik's hand, hopped off her stool, and then dragged Erik to the end of the bar. Erik went, though only because he didn't want to have to start a fight, and there was a better chance of getting Raven out of there if they could talk privately.
"You don't have to..." he started, but Raven overrode him.
"First off, I'm not working for a Russian? What the hell kind of bigot are you?" She didn't wait for a reply, which was probably good, because Erik didn't have one. He didn't really have anything against Russians, save perhaps that his parents had died in 1986, and three years later, after the wall fell, Erik was so lost to the system that no one bothered tracking down the family he had living in the east. It was a strange thing, to have something so fleeting as politics set the course of one's entire adolescence.
"Second, this is a perfectly decent establishment, and it pays well, and unlike you, I don't want to spend all my time moping in our apartment."
"Raven," Erik tried, holding up his hands when it looked like she might ignore him. "I'm just worried you might get taken advantage of. I want you to be safe."
The look Raven shot him was so incredulous Erik found himself frowning. He tracked back over what he'd said, but still couldn't find any fault with it. Raven sighed.
"You do realize this is a gay club, right? Pretty sure the clientele aren't going to try taking advantage. In fact, of all the places I could work, this might be about perfect. So now, if you'll excuse me, Azazel over there was in the middle of offering me a job, which I am going to accept."
She didn't wait for a reply, Erik watching as she crossed back to Azazel's side and extended her hand. Erik stuck around long enough to hear something about getting one of the go-go boys--whom Azazel called Pyro, mentioning something about some fantastic pyrotechnic display involving his penis--to give her a tour.
There was really little else to do save slink out the way he'd come.
He wandered around for a bit after that, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself--he could always head back home, but if he stayed in the neighbourhood long enough, he could probably catch Raven on her way out and they could walk back together. He found himself in need of coffee, so he went in search of a cup, finding one at a street-side vendor's cart, Erik having never been too particular about his caffeine.
He was taking his first sip when he happened to glance up and catch sight of a familiar figure. For a moment he was too stunned to do anything but stare, Charles Xavier the last person he'd expected to see. He was coming out of a bookstore, paper bag clutched in his hand--and Erik knew the store, shopped there often, because they always had the best selection of rare texts. Xavier turned--away from Erik--and before Erik quite knew what he was doing he was following.
Xavier was obviously heading somewhere with a purpose--and God, he walked down the streets of New York like he did the halls of the school, like he owned every inch of space, like the city existed for him alone. Erik had never seen such confidence in anyone before, let alone a student. By all rights, Xavier should still be figuring himself out, exploring what made him tick, uncertain what he liked or didn't like. Certainly Erik still felt that way. But Xavier seemed so put together, like he was the master of his domain.
Erik couldn't help but be a little bit impressed.
At the same time it was oddly alarming, because the only other person Erik had met who exuded such charisma was Shaw, and Erik didn't particularly like the comparison. Certainly Xavier was nothing like Shaw, but he wore his skin with the same confidence.
At the corner of 10th and 3rd, Xavier paused. Erik, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of panic, found himself ducking behind a bus shelter--stupid thing to do, considering they were made almost entirely of glass. A litany of what the hell am I doing? ran through his head even as his heart stuttered in his chest. Was he really stalking one of his students? What the hell was wrong with him?
Clearly he should have brought Xavier up with Dr. Frost.
Possibly it was a good topic for next week--although, Erik was starting to see why Raven saw her therapist twice a week.
It wasn't even a little bit surprising to glance up and find Xavier staring at him, eyes wide, a soft smile playing across his face. Erik cursed under his breath, debating whether to acknowledge Xavier or simply take off running--he really, really wanted to run. Instead he remained frozen where he was, watching as Xavier closed the distance between them.
"Are you following me?" Xavier asked when he got to Erik's side. He sounded more than a little delighted. Erik wasn't entirely certain what to make of that.
"Um..." There were a dozen ways he could answer that, but he suspected Xavier would probably see through any lie Erik managed to cobble together. In lieu of answering, he settled on shrugging.
Xavier beamed at him. It was a really good look on the kid.
"In that case, you can at least buy me a coffee," he said.
And this was not good--this was really not good, because not only did Erik want to buy him a coffee, but he rather wanted to invite Xavier home with him. There was something about seeing him on the street, outside of a school setting, that made Erik realize just how many years Xavier had on his classmates. Here Xavier didn't look like the kind of person Erik might take advantage of--he looked like the kind of person who might take advantage of Erik.
"I can't," Erik said, although it took a good deal of effort to do so. "I'm waiting on my sister, and then we have plans."
The urge to run was back again, though mostly because Xavier's expression had turned crestfallen and Erik wanted to do everything in his power to change it. He was really not used to reacting to people this way. It just didn't happen.
"Well, some other time then," Xavier said, still sounding disappointed. He glanced over his shoulder. "You know, this is the second time I've seen you in this end of town. You must live nearby."
"A couple of blocks," Erik said without really thinking about it. No matter how much his conscience shouted at him, there was something intrinsically easy about talking to Xavier. Erik couldn't bring himself to end the conversation.
At least he managed to stop himself from asking if Xavier lived in the neighbourhood as well--it stood to reason, given that they kept bumping into one another--but it was really none of his business where his students lived. Xavier, who seemed poised to ask another question--or perhaps lead their strangely not awkward conversation in a new direction--started suddenly, and it took Erik a few seconds to realize it was because someone had called Erik's name.
Erik glanced over his shoulder, spotting Raven who looked equal parts exasperated and delighted. She'd reached Erik's side before she registered Xavier's presence.
"Oh, it's the cute guy," she said, smiling.
For perhaps the first time in Erik's life, he rather wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Instead he cut off anything Xavier might have said--or worse, anything Raven might have said.
"Well, we should get going then. I'll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Xavier," he said, ignoring Xavier's startled confusion, along with Raven's indignant yelp when he grabbed her arm and started pulling her in the opposite direction from where Xavier had been walking.
Erik very purposely didn't look back, even after Xavier called out, "Wednesday, then," like they'd just arranged a date.
Judging from Raven's smirk, it was fairly obvious she thought the same.
On to chapter 7
no subject
Date: 2011-11-02 03:31 am (UTC)Absolutely wonderful :) And thanks for the thanks!
no subject
Date: 2011-11-02 12:22 pm (UTC)Yay!
Date: 2011-11-02 05:00 am (UTC)I do have a question though. Does Charles not realize that Erik thinks of him as a student? It seems like he's assuming that Erik knows he's a fellow professor, but I can't really make it out.
Re: Yay!
Date: 2011-11-02 12:25 pm (UTC)To answer your question, no, Charles does not. He's pretty arrogant (I tried to take that aspect of his personality from the film) and since he's the genetics department golden boy, he rather assumes the whole world knows who he is. Also, he's an Xavier, and surely everyone in New York state knows who the Xavier's are. They must know Charles Xavier is a renowned professor at Columbia.
It hasn't even occurred to him to think Erik might have made this mistake.
It's ridiculous, but amusing, so I'm going to play with the idea forever and ever.
Re: Yay!
Date: 2011-11-03 12:36 pm (UTC)Re: Yay!
Date: 2011-11-03 05:03 pm (UTC)