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nekosmuseTitle: An Ideal Grace (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: More thanks to stlkrchck for helping with the NY details in this chapter. This story would suck without her.
Back to chapter 6
"He was following me. That has to mean something."
Charles sat, feet reclined on Moira's glass-top coffee table, a glass of white wine balanced precariously on the armrest of her sofa--he would have preferred red, but white was what Moira had offered, and Charles was nothing if not a amenable guest.
"It means he was made for you. Congratulations, Charles, you've finally found your soul mate," Moira replied, lifting her glass in a mock toast. Charles glared at her.
"It's not funny. This man is quite possibly the most perfect and yet infuriating person I have ever met. I'm certain he's interested, but something is holding him back." Charles let his head thump back on the couch, bouncing slightly in the process. His wine glass wobbled threateningly. Charles reached for it, swirling the wine in the glass before bringing it to his lips.
They'd chosen Moira's apartment tonight, even though she lived all the way down in Alphabet City. She hated Charles' apartment--complained loudly that the only place to sit was Charles' bed and she didn't trust that he washed his sheets as often as he had people between them, never mind that it had been months since Charles had last used his bed for anything aside from sleeping.
"Maybe he's married," Moira said.
She was sprawled across the sofa's matching loveseat, feet propped on the armrest opposite. It had been entirely too long since they'd last hung out, just the two of them, so when she'd offered--Charles neck deep in cultures and isolated DNA strands--Charles had been more than happy to accept.
"Maybe," she continued, "he has a wife back in Germany."
Charles sat up at that, wine glass halfway to his mouth. He frowned. "No, that can't be right. I've met his sister, and she seemed genuinely interested in us hooking up. Why would she do that if Erik was already married?"
Moira conceded the point with a nod. "Maybe he's just gotten out of a really bad relationship and he's not ready to start dating yet."
That was a distinct possibility. Certainly the poems Charles had just read--six times already--suggested as much. They were filled with such agony, such heartbreak, that it was hard to imagine anyone surviving the emotion. Charles might have fallen a little bit in love upon reading them.
But, if that were the case Charles could be patient--well, he could try to be patient. If Erik needed time, then Charles could give him time. It would help if Erik simply said as much. This guessing game was driving Charles crazy.
"Or maybe," Moira was on a roll now, more than a little drunk off their shared bottle of wine, "he's HIV positive."
Charles made a face, even as he drained the rest of his wine. "What difference would that make? They make condoms for a reason."
Moira didn't appear to have anything to say to that, so Charles pushed himself out of her sofa--an overstuffed monstrosity of a thing that Charles tended to get lost in more often than not. It wasn't that he didn't like it--Charles liked everything about Moira's apartment, the place as quaint as it was stylish, Moira having completely redecorated after she'd inherited the rent control from her grandmother--but he was feeling a little light headed and that meant everything he did seemed to take twice the effort.
He freed himself with some degree of difficulty, and then crossed to the floating island that separated Moira's kitchen from her living room. There was a second bottle of wine sitting on the counter. He lifted it up and turned back to Moira, raising an eyebrow.
"Go ahead," she said.
Charles wasn't much of a drinker; at least, not anymore--he'd had the tendency to go overboard during his younger years, but then again, what undergraduate didn't? Moira was just as much a lightweight.
They'd split the last bottle along with late night take-out, Charles reading Erik's poetry aloud while Moira burst into spontaneous, drunken tears--Oh, Charles, marry that boy, she'd said. He suspected they'd get half way through this bottle before she passed out. Charles wasn't far behind.
"I can't believe you buy screw top wine," Charles said. It didn't seem to matter how removed he was from his family, if there was one thing Sharon Xavier had instilled in him, it was an appreciation for fine wine. Moira wouldn't have known fine wine if it bit her on the ass.
Charles twisted off the cap, wincing as he did so, and then carried the bottle over to Moira, where he refilled her glass. He filled his and then set the bottle on the coffee table between them. He eyed the couch warily, and then chose to sit cross-legged on the floor.
"Out of curiosity," Moira said, "have you even asked him out? Directly, I mean; none of your round-about B.S.."
Charles thought about that for a minute. He'd certainly hinted, and he'd offered Erik the opportunity to ask Charles out, but he supposed he hadn't officially put it to a question.
"Because, you know," Moira continued, "he is German, and maybe your English subtlety isn't coming across. He might not know you're interested."
Charles supposed it was possible, although he couldn't really see how he could be any clearer on the subject--aside from throwing himself at Erik that was, which Charles was getting desperate enough to do at this point. Still, Moira had a point; one that was certainly worth exploring.
"How much do you love me, Moira?" Charles asked, mastering his most pleading expression.
"Barely, Charles, so don't bother with the puppy dog eyes. What do you want?"
Moira could be unshakable at times. He should have known better than to play games with her. Charles opted for blunt honesty.
"You have me scheduled to lab mentor Dr. Ashnar's Somatic Mutations seminar tomorrow, which just so happens to coincide with Erik's office hours. If someone were to fill in for me, I could go see him and clear all this up."
Moira's expression shifted to one of frank disbelief. Charles tried offering a smile, but it came out more apologetic than he intended. He knew she hated it when he took the passive aggressive route.
"Charles, you are utterly impossible," Moira finally said. She finished the last of her wine and set the glass down on the table with a resounding clink. "I will cover the first half of your lab--enough time for you to go and see Erik, ask him out, and then promptly get your ass to Hammer for the second half of your lab. Do we understand each other?"
Charles couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face. The wine had started him on the path to warm and fuzzy--Moira's sacrifice pushed him the rest of the way over. He gazed at her, blinking sleepily--if he thought himself capable of moving, he would have crawled to her couch and wrapped her in a hug. If Charles could have anyone for a sister--and he had wanted one so bad growing up--it would be Moira.
"On that note, we ought to get you to bed, before you pass out on my floor. Come on, you can crash in my guest--just, please do me the favour of not masturbating on my sheets."
Charles, who was in the process of standing, made a face. "Thank you for that," he said, wobbling slightly as he got himself to his feet. Because really, it was only that one time, and he'd had far more to drink that night than tonight. Tonight he was more likely to vomit on her sheets--wine didn't tend to agree with him for long.
Moira shook her head. She stood on equally shaky legs and gestured Charles towards the hall. This wouldn't be the first time Charles had crashed in Moira's spare, but it was the first time in longer than Charles could remember. It was with a strange sense of nostalgia that Charles collapsed on top of the made bed, the scent of potpourri reaching his nose, and turning his stomach.
"Goodnight, Charles," Moira said from the doorway, pulling the door shut. Charles grunted something that was meant to be affirmation, and then promptly fell asleep.
~*~
"I like it when you cook," Raven said, clearing their plates and loading them into the dishwasher. She was the only one who used it, Erik always mistaking it for a washing machine--it was seriously bizarre the places Americans thought to tuck away washing machines--and besides, he preferred doing dishes by hand.
"That's only because my cooking doesn't involve the fire department," Erik said, but the joke fell flat, Erik's mood too strained for levity.
He was feeling... confused was probably the best word. The day felt exceedingly long. He could barely remember his morning class--learning about Shaw's impending arrival seemed a lifetime ago. He was already skirting the edge of a headache.
The problem was he had no idea what to address first. Raven had already put a halt to any discussion they might have had on her impending job, and Erik had spent too much time talking about Shaw today, and Xavier... Where did he even start with Xavier?
Raven, who knew him so well, put a hand on his shoulder. Erik glanced up, only then realizing that she'd already finished the cleaning up. Erik offered her a pained smile.
"What's going on with you?" she asked. Erik shook his head.
"I don't like the idea of you working in a club," he said, and he didn't, even if it was only the tip of today's iceberg. Gay club or no gay club, Raven could still get taken advantage of. Erik suspected she wasn't particularly interested in his overprotective brother routine tonight, though, so he didn't say anything else.
Raven was shaking her head, even as she grabbed his hand and pulled him from his stool. She led him away from the breakfast bar and into the living room, where she curled into his side as soon as they were seated on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her.
"This isn't about my new job--which I'm keeping by the way. I think it's about that guy. Am I right?"
Trust Raven to get right to the heart of the matter. Erik was tempted to lie--tempted to tell her about Shaw in a bid to change the subject, but that wasn't something he wanted to discuss either.
"He's just... stuck, you know?" There was really no other way to put it. He felt like a broken record, his thoughts constantly coming back to Xavier--to the soft porcelain of his skin and the vibrant blue of his eyes. Erik could close his eyes and recount everything Xavier had said in class this morning; could recall with vivid detail the way Wordsworth had flowed past his too red lips.
Which was ridiculous; Erik had no idea how Xavier had the power to supplant every other thought Erik had. This afternoon he'd been certain his world was imploding. Between learning that Shaw was coming to Columbia--and subsequently having to relive all the gritty details of their affair with Dr. Frost--and his worry over Raven, Erik shouldn't have had room left for anything else. But then he'd bumped into Xavier, and both Raven and Shaw had floated away, Erik left with nothing but the image of Xavier, wearing only a collared shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, brown paper bag tucked under his arm.
"Oh, Erik. Du bist ein dummkopf. Why don't you just ask him out? Clearly he's interested," Raven said.
Erik snorted. If only it were that simple. In the years since Shaw, Erik had been out a handful of dates, none of them resolving into an actual relationship. He'd slept with four people in the last decade or so, none within the last three years. For the first time since Shaw, Erik found himself genuinely interested in someone, and he was off limits.
"I can't," he said.
Raven shifted, pulling away so that she could look him in the eye.
"Why the hell not?" she asked.
"To begin with, he's a student."
That should have ended the conversation, but instead Raven's eyes lit up with excitement even as she bounded off the couch and disappeared down the hall. Erik watched, mildly confused, as she ducked into their shared office--although only Erik really used it as an office, Raven using it mostly to surf the internet, something Erik rarely, if ever, did.
When she returned, she was holding the policy book Columbia had included in his human resource package. She threw herself back down onto the couch, flipping the book open to a page she had clearly marked beforehand. Erik wondered how long she'd been waiting for this conversation.
"And I quote," she said, "Columbia University's educational mission is promoted by the professionalism in its faculty-student and staff-student relationships. Faculty and staff are cautioned that consensual romantic relationships with student members of the University community, while not expressly prohibited..." she trailed off, clearly thinking she'd made her point. When she glanced up from her reading, she was beaming.
Erik plucked the book from her hands. The part that she'd left out was a strongly worded caution about said relationships, as well as a bid to check with individual departments regarding their policies, and a policy requiring professors to remove themselves from academic or professional decisions regarding the student.
"It doesn't matter," Erik said when he was done reading. He handed the booklet back to Raven. "It's still unethical. I can't."
He rather wished he'd sounded more convinced, because Raven shot him the same look she did whenever she was calling his bluff. Erik waved her off, not particularly wanting to examine the way his stomach had flipped when she'd said the words, not expressly prohibited. It was still out of the question, regardless of what the school had to say on the subject. For all he knew his relationship with Shaw had been sanctioned. It shouldn't have been. It should have been stopped long before it started. Erik wouldn't do that to anyone else. He couldn't.
"You know," Raven said, clearly not done with the subject. "There is a chance he won't be a student for long. He could be graduating this semester."
Erik wished she hadn't said it, a traitorous seed of hope growing in his belly. He shook the thought off.
"And there's a chance he only just started, and has at least four years left. Now can we please drop this?"
Raven conceded, although reluctantly. She leaned into his space and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'm going to go to bed then," she said. "You can sit out here feeling sorry for yourself."
Erik let her leave, feeling the sudden urge to break out one of his notebooks. It had been months since he'd last felt the urge to commit words to paper. Perhaps doing so would help clear the tangle of his thoughts.
~*~
Charles woke the next morning still foggy from last night's wine, the pasty aftertaste of fermented grape on his tongue. He grunted, then pushed himself up onto his elbows and blinked at the floral pillow case covering his pillow.
Right, Moira's pillow, Charles registered, remembering where he was.
It was still early if the light coming in the window was any indication, so Charles rolled gingerly off the bed, getting his feet under him only through years of practice. He really, really didn't want to be awake just now.
A glance at the alarm clock Moira kept on the spare bedroom's nightstand told him it was shortly after 7:00. Erik's office hours, according to Kitty--whom Charles had had the fortune of bumping into on the way back from the bookshop yesterday--ran between 9:00 and 11:00 on Tuesday mornings. Charles' lab mentoring was supposed to start at 8:30.
Charles stumbled out of the room and down the hall, where he found Moira in the kitchen, holding a steaming mug of coffee. She took one look at him, shook her head and handed over the cup. Charles accepted it gratefully.
"Are you going to need a shower?" she asked. Charles shook his head.
"I'll stop at home. I don't particularly want to see Erik smelling like your girly shampoo."
He also wanted a change of clothes, the ones he was wearing wrinkled and stale with the scent of sleep. If he was going to do this--and that was still up in the air, because regardless of how many people Charles had dated, he had never directly asked someone out before--then he was going to do this right.
"Well, whenever you're ready, I can give you a lift back to your place, but then I have to go. Someone has me covering his lab mentoring today. I have to get in early so that I can get my own work done."
There was no malice in Moira's statement, but Charles still felt marginally guilty. Still, he knew why she was doing this. She'd told him once, not long ago, that she would never be able to thank him enough for introducing her to Sean. Helping Charles settle his love life seemed an even trade.
"We can go now," Charles said, taking too big a chug of too hot coffee. He sputtered a little, but managed to get it down.
Moira turned back to her cupboards and pulled out a travel mug. She handed it to Charles, waiting only long enough for him to transfer his coffee into it before leading them out the door.
One of the things that Charles loved about Moira's neighbourhood was that it felt like an oasis inside the city. Charles never had any doubts that he lived inside New York, but Moira could have lived in a quiet, sleepy town. Most of the buildings were pre-war, low rise tenements, and the streets were lined with row upon row of trees.
There were birds singing this morning, something Charles had never really paid attention to growing up, but missed now that he was mostly surrounded by concrete. Charles had spent a good deal of his childhood outside, roaming the grounds of the Xavier estate. He spent far too much of his time indoors now, locked away from everything that had made his childhood bearable.
Moira led them to the street, where her car--a practical, leaf green Prius--was parked. As she tossed her bags into the back, Charles emptied the front seat of file-folders so that he could sit down. Moira's car had always been an extension of her office.
Moira, who was quite possibly the most terrifying driver Charles had ever driven with, navigated Manhattan traffic like she was racing the Grand Prix. Charles was thankful for the travel mug--at the very least it kept him from spilling coffee all over the place. They made it to his apartment in record time--though the experience of getting there had undoubtedly taken ten years off Charles' life. Moira pulled to a stop outside his building.
"Good luck, and don't be late. I have an appointment at 10, so if you're not there, Dr. Ashnar is without a lab mentor," she said. Charles nodded.
"Thank you, Moira," he said, and then climbed out of the car. She had already disappeared from view by the time he reached his front door.
Charles' building was mostly inhabited by students, which meant on any given morning, before 10am, the place resembled a ghost town. Charles tiptoed up the stairs, well aware of the need he'd had for sleep during his student years.
His apartment still smelt a little like musty books, Charles having yet to return the cardboard box filled with his boarding school notes to storage. At least it didn't smell like dead mouse, he reasoned, already shucking his clothes as he crossed to the tiny washroom that sat opposite his front hall closet--which was in fact his apartment's only closet, Charles clothes warring with his coats for space.
It was nice to step under the hot spray of water--that was the great thing about Charles' apartment; the water was always hot, the pressure exactly perfect. On a day like today Charles could have spent hours letting the water pulse against his shoulders. He didn't have hours, but he did have enough time to take a leisurely shower, Charles taking his time lathering his hair, mentally going over exactly what he was going to say to Erik when he saw him.
He'd go on the pretense of returning his notes--minus the ones from Monday's lecture, which Charles had already tucked away in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Those he would keep, along with the other mementos Charles had accumulated over the years. School notes weren't the only things Charles was incapable of throwing away.
Once he got Erik talking, it would be a simple matter to ask him out.
"Erik, would you like to have dinner with me?" Charles asked the line of shampoo bottles on the ledge opposite. They didn't respond, but Charles could imagine a shy smile appearing on Erik's face.
He'd duck his head, maybe blush, and say, "Of course, I'd love to."
Charles would take him somewhere nice--somewhere they could find a quiet table and enjoy a glass of wine. Perhaps somewhere near Erik's apartment--Charles was dying to see it--and then after Erik would invite him back for coffee, and Charles would accept, but there wouldn't be any coffee, because as soon as they were in the door Erik would close it behind them and then press Charles against it. He'd move in for a kiss, but at the last minute change his trajectory, his lips meeting Charles' neck.
Charles would arch into the sensation, letting Erik mark him and bruise him as he fit their bodies together, rocking up into Charles until they set a steady pace, Erik rutting against him, Charles squirming to get closer.
In his fantasy, they'd get past that point--Erik would break away and pull him into the bedroom, push him down onto the bed and begin slowly stripping him of his clothes. In reality, the image of Erik dry humping him against the door was enough to send Charles over the edge. He came, his hand, slick with conditioner, wrapped around his cock.
Well, he thought, smiling a little, even as he slumped over and caught himself on the tile. He wondered briefly if this was something Erik did--jerked off in his shower thinking of Charles. He probably did, Charles decided. He probably felt a little guilty about it afterwards, Charles decided--not that he needed to be, but then, Charles knew he was far more open with his sexuality than most. Erik seemed a little... not repressed, but certainly a little more conservative than any of Charles' previous partners.
Charles was looking forward to getting him to open up a little.
Which wasn't going to happen unless he managed to make some progress in initiating a relationship, Charles reminded himself. He rinsed off, the water still blessedly hot. He'd never seen the building's hot water tank, but he imagined it large enough to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool--there was really no other explanation for why it, in a building full of students, had never run dry.
When he was clean and dried, he took his time finding something to wear, wanting to look at least a little fashionable--not something Charles had cared about before, but Erik always looked like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ and Charles rather felt he ought to step up his game.
He found an old graphic t-shirt from his PhD days and put it on, hoping it might make him look a little more hip than his usual tweed. He paired it with an open blazer and a pair of soft, dark blue jeans--he could just imagine the looks on his students faces this afternoon. When he was done, he eyed his reflection in the mirror, debating whether or not to shave. His scruff made him look a little bit older--not that Charles had ever looked old; he still got carded whenever he bought alcohol--but Erik always looked so tidy, so Charles took the ten extra minutes to shave it off.
A little aftershave, a quick brush of his hair--which had air dried in its usual waves--and Charles was out the door, a spring in his step as he crossed Morningside Park to reach the main campus. It was now close to 8:30.
He'd debated whether to arrive early, not wanting to appear overeager, but also not wanting to be forced to wait behind a line of actual students. Moira had rather made the decision for him, her window long enough to do what Charles needed to do, but not long enough for him to linger. Still, it was early enough that he had time to stop at Brownie's.
He considered buying Erik a coffee--Erik drank cappuccinos, made with whole milk, Charles had learned, having cleared Erik's empty cup from atop his podium yesterday morning. He couldn't decide if it was a nice gesture, or too forward, so he decided against it, purchasing only his usual latte and scone for breakfast. He ate the scone as he crossed to Philosophy Hall.
Erik's office was on the same floor as Scott's--though on the opposite side of the building. Even having a general idea of where it was it still took Charles some time to find it. To his surprise, the door was wide open, Erik bent over a notebook, pen moving furiously across the page. He was alone.
Charles paused outside the door, taking a moment to admire the lines of Erik's shoulders before bringing his knuckles up to wrap against the frame. Erik glanced up, startled.
His features softened, soft smile tugging at his lips in a way that made Charles' heart leap in his throat. He returned the smile, giddiness turning to confusion when Erik's expression shifted, becoming entirely neutral, as though he was fighting against his natural inclination and purposely setting up barriers between them.
The man was as confusing as he was desirable.
"Is this a bad time?" Charles asked, starting to question whether this was a good idea. The initial warmth of Erik's reaction, followed by this cautious, clearly intentional indifference, was making Charles rethink his plan.
"It's fine, Mr. Xavier. What can I help you with?"
Charles hesitated, fighting his doubts until he caught a hint of pleading in Erik's eyes. Whatever Erik was trying to do, he wanted Charles to come inside.
Charles stepped through the door and crossed to one of the chairs set up in front of Erik's desk.
"You know, you can call me Charles," he said, not quite certain why Erik always insisted on being so formal, unless... "I'm not sure how they do these things in Germany, but here it's perfectly acceptable for you to use my given name."
Erik blinked. He glanced down at the notebook still opened in front of him, seeming surprised to find it there. He closed it and slid it aside, well out of Charles' reach. Charles would have given anything to know what was written in it.
"Charles, then," he said, and the way he said Charles' name, like it was something utterly forbidden, twisted Charles' stomach into knots.
Erik didn't say anything else, continuing to stare across the desk like he wasn't quite certain what to make of Charles' visit. Charles cleared his throat.
"I just came by to apologize for yesterday. Morning, I mean," Charles said, slipping his messenger bag off his shoulder and placing it in his lap. He reached inside, careful not to let Erik see the periodicals and anthology he was carrying around, and pulled out Erik's cue cards. "Also, you left these behind," he said, handing them over.
Erik, who was still staring at Charles, accepted the cards. He flipped through them.
"Was this all of them? I could have sworn there were more," he said. It took all of Charles' willpower not to blush.
"Were there?" he asked. "I'm not sure." He made a show of searching his bag. "I could double check at home, see if they fell out."
Much to Charles' relief, Erik shook his head. He set the cards down on top of his notebook.
"I don't need them," he said. He seemed poised on the verge of saying something else, so Charles sat patiently and waited.
And waited. He'd just about decided to lead the conversation in a new direction, the silence between quickly stretching towards awkward, when Erik finally spoke.
"I should apologize too," he said, "for taking off like that. Both times." He smiled, a little crookedly, the gesture filled with so much awkwardness that the butterflies in Charles' stomach became angry hornets. "I wasn't expecting to hear Shaw's name."
"You know Shaw?" Charles asked, curious now.
Erik glanced up quickly at that, face draining of colour, expression turning to one of horror. Charles had never been particularly good at reading people, but it was easy to tell Erik hadn't meant to share that knowledge. Charles scrambled to defuse the sudden tension that pulled at Erik's shoulders.
"I'm taking it you're not a fan," Charles said, trying for levity. "Not that I blame you. I've always found Shaw's work quite shallow. If Wordsworth tells us that all good poetry is the externalization of internal emotions, then clearly we can't consider Shaw's work good poetry. He writes emotion as though his understanding of it is entirely text book. Reading his work, I would doubt he'd experienced a genuine emotion in his life. I have no idea how he ended a poet laureate."
Charles held his breath, waiting for Erik's reaction. He'd taken a gamble, sharing his true thoughts on Shaw's work--even if Erik disagreed, Charles could at least stand by his reasoning. He didn't think Erik would shun him simply because their opinions on poetry differed. There was, of course, a good chance Erik shared his views, Erik's expression enough to suggest that Erik, at the very least, disliked the man.
Erik, who had been watching Charles with wide eyes--looking rather like a startled deer--chuckled, the tension between them dissipating nicely.
"You'd hate my work, then," he said.
And that wasn't at all what Charles was aiming for, so he shook his head. "On the contrary, what I've read of your work highlights such startling vulnerability that it's clear you very much understand human emotion. You have marvelous insight into the human condition.
Erik blinked. Charles didn't miss the hint of pink that coloured his cheeks.
"You've read my work," he said, seeming equal parts flattered and embarrassed. Charles allowed his smile to turn seductive. This was going exceptionally well.
"A few pieces--they're not easy to find, you know."
Erik laughed at that--a nervous sound--even as he stood and crossed to one of the bookshelves lining the far wall. He pulled down a binder, flipped it open, scanned through it, closed it, and then handed it to Charles.
Charles' hand shook as he accepted it.
"There are a few in there that haven't seen publication," Erik said, seeming hesitant now. He wore awkwardness well, Charles thought.
"Thank you," Charles said, holding the binder to his chest. "I look forward to reading them."
Erik nodded, and Charles could tell he had grown uncomfortable enough that it was time to change the subject.
It didn't look like Erik was going to reclaim his seat, so Charles turned, pausing long enough to slip Erik's binder into his bag before he stood. Erik watched him, radiating uncertainty.
"I was wondering," Charles began, clearing his throat. Erik's expression was so open, so hopeful, that it bolstered Charles' confidence. "I was wondering if you wanted to grab some dinner sometime."
And there, it was out; Charles had asked. He had half a second to feel excited before Erik's expression fell, his earlier ease vanishing, replaced by a look of such sorrow, such longing that Charles knew his answer even before he gave it.
"I'm sorry," he said, seeming at loss for words--not that they were necessary, Erik's rejection rather succinct.
"Right, sorry," Charles said, floundering then. He wanted to ask why--to demand an explanation, because Erik had just given Charles a book of his poetry, damn it--but he was too caught up in feeling embarrassed; too dejected to do anything save fumble with getting his bag over his shoulder. "I'll just..." he said once he had managed it, gesturing to the door. Erik stepped forward.
"Charles," and God, the way he said Charles' name, "I..." was as far as he got before a knock on Erik's doorframe startled them both. Charles had forgotten he hadn't closed the door.
It was a startling thing to glance over and find Scott standing in the doorway, glancing between them somewhat awkwardly, as though he'd only just then realized he was interrupting something. He held a file folder in his hand.
"Sorry," he said, glancing between them. He turned to Erik. "Sorry, Professor Lehnsherr, I just needed a few signatures." He glanced back to Charles.
"It's all right," Charles said, suddenly glad for the interruption. "I was just leaving." He spared one final glance at Erik, who looked miserable, before heading towards the door, brushing past Scott on the way out.
"Charles," Scott called after him, but Charles was already far enough away to pretend he hadn't heard.
On to chapter 8
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: More thanks to stlkrchck for helping with the NY details in this chapter. This story would suck without her.
Back to chapter 6
"He was following me. That has to mean something."
Charles sat, feet reclined on Moira's glass-top coffee table, a glass of white wine balanced precariously on the armrest of her sofa--he would have preferred red, but white was what Moira had offered, and Charles was nothing if not a amenable guest.
"It means he was made for you. Congratulations, Charles, you've finally found your soul mate," Moira replied, lifting her glass in a mock toast. Charles glared at her.
"It's not funny. This man is quite possibly the most perfect and yet infuriating person I have ever met. I'm certain he's interested, but something is holding him back." Charles let his head thump back on the couch, bouncing slightly in the process. His wine glass wobbled threateningly. Charles reached for it, swirling the wine in the glass before bringing it to his lips.
They'd chosen Moira's apartment tonight, even though she lived all the way down in Alphabet City. She hated Charles' apartment--complained loudly that the only place to sit was Charles' bed and she didn't trust that he washed his sheets as often as he had people between them, never mind that it had been months since Charles had last used his bed for anything aside from sleeping.
"Maybe he's married," Moira said.
She was sprawled across the sofa's matching loveseat, feet propped on the armrest opposite. It had been entirely too long since they'd last hung out, just the two of them, so when she'd offered--Charles neck deep in cultures and isolated DNA strands--Charles had been more than happy to accept.
"Maybe," she continued, "he has a wife back in Germany."
Charles sat up at that, wine glass halfway to his mouth. He frowned. "No, that can't be right. I've met his sister, and she seemed genuinely interested in us hooking up. Why would she do that if Erik was already married?"
Moira conceded the point with a nod. "Maybe he's just gotten out of a really bad relationship and he's not ready to start dating yet."
That was a distinct possibility. Certainly the poems Charles had just read--six times already--suggested as much. They were filled with such agony, such heartbreak, that it was hard to imagine anyone surviving the emotion. Charles might have fallen a little bit in love upon reading them.
But, if that were the case Charles could be patient--well, he could try to be patient. If Erik needed time, then Charles could give him time. It would help if Erik simply said as much. This guessing game was driving Charles crazy.
"Or maybe," Moira was on a roll now, more than a little drunk off their shared bottle of wine, "he's HIV positive."
Charles made a face, even as he drained the rest of his wine. "What difference would that make? They make condoms for a reason."
Moira didn't appear to have anything to say to that, so Charles pushed himself out of her sofa--an overstuffed monstrosity of a thing that Charles tended to get lost in more often than not. It wasn't that he didn't like it--Charles liked everything about Moira's apartment, the place as quaint as it was stylish, Moira having completely redecorated after she'd inherited the rent control from her grandmother--but he was feeling a little light headed and that meant everything he did seemed to take twice the effort.
He freed himself with some degree of difficulty, and then crossed to the floating island that separated Moira's kitchen from her living room. There was a second bottle of wine sitting on the counter. He lifted it up and turned back to Moira, raising an eyebrow.
"Go ahead," she said.
Charles wasn't much of a drinker; at least, not anymore--he'd had the tendency to go overboard during his younger years, but then again, what undergraduate didn't? Moira was just as much a lightweight.
They'd split the last bottle along with late night take-out, Charles reading Erik's poetry aloud while Moira burst into spontaneous, drunken tears--Oh, Charles, marry that boy, she'd said. He suspected they'd get half way through this bottle before she passed out. Charles wasn't far behind.
"I can't believe you buy screw top wine," Charles said. It didn't seem to matter how removed he was from his family, if there was one thing Sharon Xavier had instilled in him, it was an appreciation for fine wine. Moira wouldn't have known fine wine if it bit her on the ass.
Charles twisted off the cap, wincing as he did so, and then carried the bottle over to Moira, where he refilled her glass. He filled his and then set the bottle on the coffee table between them. He eyed the couch warily, and then chose to sit cross-legged on the floor.
"Out of curiosity," Moira said, "have you even asked him out? Directly, I mean; none of your round-about B.S.."
Charles thought about that for a minute. He'd certainly hinted, and he'd offered Erik the opportunity to ask Charles out, but he supposed he hadn't officially put it to a question.
"Because, you know," Moira continued, "he is German, and maybe your English subtlety isn't coming across. He might not know you're interested."
Charles supposed it was possible, although he couldn't really see how he could be any clearer on the subject--aside from throwing himself at Erik that was, which Charles was getting desperate enough to do at this point. Still, Moira had a point; one that was certainly worth exploring.
"How much do you love me, Moira?" Charles asked, mastering his most pleading expression.
"Barely, Charles, so don't bother with the puppy dog eyes. What do you want?"
Moira could be unshakable at times. He should have known better than to play games with her. Charles opted for blunt honesty.
"You have me scheduled to lab mentor Dr. Ashnar's Somatic Mutations seminar tomorrow, which just so happens to coincide with Erik's office hours. If someone were to fill in for me, I could go see him and clear all this up."
Moira's expression shifted to one of frank disbelief. Charles tried offering a smile, but it came out more apologetic than he intended. He knew she hated it when he took the passive aggressive route.
"Charles, you are utterly impossible," Moira finally said. She finished the last of her wine and set the glass down on the table with a resounding clink. "I will cover the first half of your lab--enough time for you to go and see Erik, ask him out, and then promptly get your ass to Hammer for the second half of your lab. Do we understand each other?"
Charles couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face. The wine had started him on the path to warm and fuzzy--Moira's sacrifice pushed him the rest of the way over. He gazed at her, blinking sleepily--if he thought himself capable of moving, he would have crawled to her couch and wrapped her in a hug. If Charles could have anyone for a sister--and he had wanted one so bad growing up--it would be Moira.
"On that note, we ought to get you to bed, before you pass out on my floor. Come on, you can crash in my guest--just, please do me the favour of not masturbating on my sheets."
Charles, who was in the process of standing, made a face. "Thank you for that," he said, wobbling slightly as he got himself to his feet. Because really, it was only that one time, and he'd had far more to drink that night than tonight. Tonight he was more likely to vomit on her sheets--wine didn't tend to agree with him for long.
Moira shook her head. She stood on equally shaky legs and gestured Charles towards the hall. This wouldn't be the first time Charles had crashed in Moira's spare, but it was the first time in longer than Charles could remember. It was with a strange sense of nostalgia that Charles collapsed on top of the made bed, the scent of potpourri reaching his nose, and turning his stomach.
"Goodnight, Charles," Moira said from the doorway, pulling the door shut. Charles grunted something that was meant to be affirmation, and then promptly fell asleep.
~*~
"I like it when you cook," Raven said, clearing their plates and loading them into the dishwasher. She was the only one who used it, Erik always mistaking it for a washing machine--it was seriously bizarre the places Americans thought to tuck away washing machines--and besides, he preferred doing dishes by hand.
"That's only because my cooking doesn't involve the fire department," Erik said, but the joke fell flat, Erik's mood too strained for levity.
He was feeling... confused was probably the best word. The day felt exceedingly long. He could barely remember his morning class--learning about Shaw's impending arrival seemed a lifetime ago. He was already skirting the edge of a headache.
The problem was he had no idea what to address first. Raven had already put a halt to any discussion they might have had on her impending job, and Erik had spent too much time talking about Shaw today, and Xavier... Where did he even start with Xavier?
Raven, who knew him so well, put a hand on his shoulder. Erik glanced up, only then realizing that she'd already finished the cleaning up. Erik offered her a pained smile.
"What's going on with you?" she asked. Erik shook his head.
"I don't like the idea of you working in a club," he said, and he didn't, even if it was only the tip of today's iceberg. Gay club or no gay club, Raven could still get taken advantage of. Erik suspected she wasn't particularly interested in his overprotective brother routine tonight, though, so he didn't say anything else.
Raven was shaking her head, even as she grabbed his hand and pulled him from his stool. She led him away from the breakfast bar and into the living room, where she curled into his side as soon as they were seated on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her.
"This isn't about my new job--which I'm keeping by the way. I think it's about that guy. Am I right?"
Trust Raven to get right to the heart of the matter. Erik was tempted to lie--tempted to tell her about Shaw in a bid to change the subject, but that wasn't something he wanted to discuss either.
"He's just... stuck, you know?" There was really no other way to put it. He felt like a broken record, his thoughts constantly coming back to Xavier--to the soft porcelain of his skin and the vibrant blue of his eyes. Erik could close his eyes and recount everything Xavier had said in class this morning; could recall with vivid detail the way Wordsworth had flowed past his too red lips.
Which was ridiculous; Erik had no idea how Xavier had the power to supplant every other thought Erik had. This afternoon he'd been certain his world was imploding. Between learning that Shaw was coming to Columbia--and subsequently having to relive all the gritty details of their affair with Dr. Frost--and his worry over Raven, Erik shouldn't have had room left for anything else. But then he'd bumped into Xavier, and both Raven and Shaw had floated away, Erik left with nothing but the image of Xavier, wearing only a collared shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, brown paper bag tucked under his arm.
"Oh, Erik. Du bist ein dummkopf. Why don't you just ask him out? Clearly he's interested," Raven said.
Erik snorted. If only it were that simple. In the years since Shaw, Erik had been out a handful of dates, none of them resolving into an actual relationship. He'd slept with four people in the last decade or so, none within the last three years. For the first time since Shaw, Erik found himself genuinely interested in someone, and he was off limits.
"I can't," he said.
Raven shifted, pulling away so that she could look him in the eye.
"Why the hell not?" she asked.
"To begin with, he's a student."
That should have ended the conversation, but instead Raven's eyes lit up with excitement even as she bounded off the couch and disappeared down the hall. Erik watched, mildly confused, as she ducked into their shared office--although only Erik really used it as an office, Raven using it mostly to surf the internet, something Erik rarely, if ever, did.
When she returned, she was holding the policy book Columbia had included in his human resource package. She threw herself back down onto the couch, flipping the book open to a page she had clearly marked beforehand. Erik wondered how long she'd been waiting for this conversation.
"And I quote," she said, "Columbia University's educational mission is promoted by the professionalism in its faculty-student and staff-student relationships. Faculty and staff are cautioned that consensual romantic relationships with student members of the University community, while not expressly prohibited..." she trailed off, clearly thinking she'd made her point. When she glanced up from her reading, she was beaming.
Erik plucked the book from her hands. The part that she'd left out was a strongly worded caution about said relationships, as well as a bid to check with individual departments regarding their policies, and a policy requiring professors to remove themselves from academic or professional decisions regarding the student.
"It doesn't matter," Erik said when he was done reading. He handed the booklet back to Raven. "It's still unethical. I can't."
He rather wished he'd sounded more convinced, because Raven shot him the same look she did whenever she was calling his bluff. Erik waved her off, not particularly wanting to examine the way his stomach had flipped when she'd said the words, not expressly prohibited. It was still out of the question, regardless of what the school had to say on the subject. For all he knew his relationship with Shaw had been sanctioned. It shouldn't have been. It should have been stopped long before it started. Erik wouldn't do that to anyone else. He couldn't.
"You know," Raven said, clearly not done with the subject. "There is a chance he won't be a student for long. He could be graduating this semester."
Erik wished she hadn't said it, a traitorous seed of hope growing in his belly. He shook the thought off.
"And there's a chance he only just started, and has at least four years left. Now can we please drop this?"
Raven conceded, although reluctantly. She leaned into his space and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'm going to go to bed then," she said. "You can sit out here feeling sorry for yourself."
Erik let her leave, feeling the sudden urge to break out one of his notebooks. It had been months since he'd last felt the urge to commit words to paper. Perhaps doing so would help clear the tangle of his thoughts.
~*~
Charles woke the next morning still foggy from last night's wine, the pasty aftertaste of fermented grape on his tongue. He grunted, then pushed himself up onto his elbows and blinked at the floral pillow case covering his pillow.
Right, Moira's pillow, Charles registered, remembering where he was.
It was still early if the light coming in the window was any indication, so Charles rolled gingerly off the bed, getting his feet under him only through years of practice. He really, really didn't want to be awake just now.
A glance at the alarm clock Moira kept on the spare bedroom's nightstand told him it was shortly after 7:00. Erik's office hours, according to Kitty--whom Charles had had the fortune of bumping into on the way back from the bookshop yesterday--ran between 9:00 and 11:00 on Tuesday mornings. Charles' lab mentoring was supposed to start at 8:30.
Charles stumbled out of the room and down the hall, where he found Moira in the kitchen, holding a steaming mug of coffee. She took one look at him, shook her head and handed over the cup. Charles accepted it gratefully.
"Are you going to need a shower?" she asked. Charles shook his head.
"I'll stop at home. I don't particularly want to see Erik smelling like your girly shampoo."
He also wanted a change of clothes, the ones he was wearing wrinkled and stale with the scent of sleep. If he was going to do this--and that was still up in the air, because regardless of how many people Charles had dated, he had never directly asked someone out before--then he was going to do this right.
"Well, whenever you're ready, I can give you a lift back to your place, but then I have to go. Someone has me covering his lab mentoring today. I have to get in early so that I can get my own work done."
There was no malice in Moira's statement, but Charles still felt marginally guilty. Still, he knew why she was doing this. She'd told him once, not long ago, that she would never be able to thank him enough for introducing her to Sean. Helping Charles settle his love life seemed an even trade.
"We can go now," Charles said, taking too big a chug of too hot coffee. He sputtered a little, but managed to get it down.
Moira turned back to her cupboards and pulled out a travel mug. She handed it to Charles, waiting only long enough for him to transfer his coffee into it before leading them out the door.
One of the things that Charles loved about Moira's neighbourhood was that it felt like an oasis inside the city. Charles never had any doubts that he lived inside New York, but Moira could have lived in a quiet, sleepy town. Most of the buildings were pre-war, low rise tenements, and the streets were lined with row upon row of trees.
There were birds singing this morning, something Charles had never really paid attention to growing up, but missed now that he was mostly surrounded by concrete. Charles had spent a good deal of his childhood outside, roaming the grounds of the Xavier estate. He spent far too much of his time indoors now, locked away from everything that had made his childhood bearable.
Moira led them to the street, where her car--a practical, leaf green Prius--was parked. As she tossed her bags into the back, Charles emptied the front seat of file-folders so that he could sit down. Moira's car had always been an extension of her office.
Moira, who was quite possibly the most terrifying driver Charles had ever driven with, navigated Manhattan traffic like she was racing the Grand Prix. Charles was thankful for the travel mug--at the very least it kept him from spilling coffee all over the place. They made it to his apartment in record time--though the experience of getting there had undoubtedly taken ten years off Charles' life. Moira pulled to a stop outside his building.
"Good luck, and don't be late. I have an appointment at 10, so if you're not there, Dr. Ashnar is without a lab mentor," she said. Charles nodded.
"Thank you, Moira," he said, and then climbed out of the car. She had already disappeared from view by the time he reached his front door.
Charles' building was mostly inhabited by students, which meant on any given morning, before 10am, the place resembled a ghost town. Charles tiptoed up the stairs, well aware of the need he'd had for sleep during his student years.
His apartment still smelt a little like musty books, Charles having yet to return the cardboard box filled with his boarding school notes to storage. At least it didn't smell like dead mouse, he reasoned, already shucking his clothes as he crossed to the tiny washroom that sat opposite his front hall closet--which was in fact his apartment's only closet, Charles clothes warring with his coats for space.
It was nice to step under the hot spray of water--that was the great thing about Charles' apartment; the water was always hot, the pressure exactly perfect. On a day like today Charles could have spent hours letting the water pulse against his shoulders. He didn't have hours, but he did have enough time to take a leisurely shower, Charles taking his time lathering his hair, mentally going over exactly what he was going to say to Erik when he saw him.
He'd go on the pretense of returning his notes--minus the ones from Monday's lecture, which Charles had already tucked away in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Those he would keep, along with the other mementos Charles had accumulated over the years. School notes weren't the only things Charles was incapable of throwing away.
Once he got Erik talking, it would be a simple matter to ask him out.
"Erik, would you like to have dinner with me?" Charles asked the line of shampoo bottles on the ledge opposite. They didn't respond, but Charles could imagine a shy smile appearing on Erik's face.
He'd duck his head, maybe blush, and say, "Of course, I'd love to."
Charles would take him somewhere nice--somewhere they could find a quiet table and enjoy a glass of wine. Perhaps somewhere near Erik's apartment--Charles was dying to see it--and then after Erik would invite him back for coffee, and Charles would accept, but there wouldn't be any coffee, because as soon as they were in the door Erik would close it behind them and then press Charles against it. He'd move in for a kiss, but at the last minute change his trajectory, his lips meeting Charles' neck.
Charles would arch into the sensation, letting Erik mark him and bruise him as he fit their bodies together, rocking up into Charles until they set a steady pace, Erik rutting against him, Charles squirming to get closer.
In his fantasy, they'd get past that point--Erik would break away and pull him into the bedroom, push him down onto the bed and begin slowly stripping him of his clothes. In reality, the image of Erik dry humping him against the door was enough to send Charles over the edge. He came, his hand, slick with conditioner, wrapped around his cock.
Well, he thought, smiling a little, even as he slumped over and caught himself on the tile. He wondered briefly if this was something Erik did--jerked off in his shower thinking of Charles. He probably did, Charles decided. He probably felt a little guilty about it afterwards, Charles decided--not that he needed to be, but then, Charles knew he was far more open with his sexuality than most. Erik seemed a little... not repressed, but certainly a little more conservative than any of Charles' previous partners.
Charles was looking forward to getting him to open up a little.
Which wasn't going to happen unless he managed to make some progress in initiating a relationship, Charles reminded himself. He rinsed off, the water still blessedly hot. He'd never seen the building's hot water tank, but he imagined it large enough to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool--there was really no other explanation for why it, in a building full of students, had never run dry.
When he was clean and dried, he took his time finding something to wear, wanting to look at least a little fashionable--not something Charles had cared about before, but Erik always looked like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ and Charles rather felt he ought to step up his game.
He found an old graphic t-shirt from his PhD days and put it on, hoping it might make him look a little more hip than his usual tweed. He paired it with an open blazer and a pair of soft, dark blue jeans--he could just imagine the looks on his students faces this afternoon. When he was done, he eyed his reflection in the mirror, debating whether or not to shave. His scruff made him look a little bit older--not that Charles had ever looked old; he still got carded whenever he bought alcohol--but Erik always looked so tidy, so Charles took the ten extra minutes to shave it off.
A little aftershave, a quick brush of his hair--which had air dried in its usual waves--and Charles was out the door, a spring in his step as he crossed Morningside Park to reach the main campus. It was now close to 8:30.
He'd debated whether to arrive early, not wanting to appear overeager, but also not wanting to be forced to wait behind a line of actual students. Moira had rather made the decision for him, her window long enough to do what Charles needed to do, but not long enough for him to linger. Still, it was early enough that he had time to stop at Brownie's.
He considered buying Erik a coffee--Erik drank cappuccinos, made with whole milk, Charles had learned, having cleared Erik's empty cup from atop his podium yesterday morning. He couldn't decide if it was a nice gesture, or too forward, so he decided against it, purchasing only his usual latte and scone for breakfast. He ate the scone as he crossed to Philosophy Hall.
Erik's office was on the same floor as Scott's--though on the opposite side of the building. Even having a general idea of where it was it still took Charles some time to find it. To his surprise, the door was wide open, Erik bent over a notebook, pen moving furiously across the page. He was alone.
Charles paused outside the door, taking a moment to admire the lines of Erik's shoulders before bringing his knuckles up to wrap against the frame. Erik glanced up, startled.
His features softened, soft smile tugging at his lips in a way that made Charles' heart leap in his throat. He returned the smile, giddiness turning to confusion when Erik's expression shifted, becoming entirely neutral, as though he was fighting against his natural inclination and purposely setting up barriers between them.
The man was as confusing as he was desirable.
"Is this a bad time?" Charles asked, starting to question whether this was a good idea. The initial warmth of Erik's reaction, followed by this cautious, clearly intentional indifference, was making Charles rethink his plan.
"It's fine, Mr. Xavier. What can I help you with?"
Charles hesitated, fighting his doubts until he caught a hint of pleading in Erik's eyes. Whatever Erik was trying to do, he wanted Charles to come inside.
Charles stepped through the door and crossed to one of the chairs set up in front of Erik's desk.
"You know, you can call me Charles," he said, not quite certain why Erik always insisted on being so formal, unless... "I'm not sure how they do these things in Germany, but here it's perfectly acceptable for you to use my given name."
Erik blinked. He glanced down at the notebook still opened in front of him, seeming surprised to find it there. He closed it and slid it aside, well out of Charles' reach. Charles would have given anything to know what was written in it.
"Charles, then," he said, and the way he said Charles' name, like it was something utterly forbidden, twisted Charles' stomach into knots.
Erik didn't say anything else, continuing to stare across the desk like he wasn't quite certain what to make of Charles' visit. Charles cleared his throat.
"I just came by to apologize for yesterday. Morning, I mean," Charles said, slipping his messenger bag off his shoulder and placing it in his lap. He reached inside, careful not to let Erik see the periodicals and anthology he was carrying around, and pulled out Erik's cue cards. "Also, you left these behind," he said, handing them over.
Erik, who was still staring at Charles, accepted the cards. He flipped through them.
"Was this all of them? I could have sworn there were more," he said. It took all of Charles' willpower not to blush.
"Were there?" he asked. "I'm not sure." He made a show of searching his bag. "I could double check at home, see if they fell out."
Much to Charles' relief, Erik shook his head. He set the cards down on top of his notebook.
"I don't need them," he said. He seemed poised on the verge of saying something else, so Charles sat patiently and waited.
And waited. He'd just about decided to lead the conversation in a new direction, the silence between quickly stretching towards awkward, when Erik finally spoke.
"I should apologize too," he said, "for taking off like that. Both times." He smiled, a little crookedly, the gesture filled with so much awkwardness that the butterflies in Charles' stomach became angry hornets. "I wasn't expecting to hear Shaw's name."
"You know Shaw?" Charles asked, curious now.
Erik glanced up quickly at that, face draining of colour, expression turning to one of horror. Charles had never been particularly good at reading people, but it was easy to tell Erik hadn't meant to share that knowledge. Charles scrambled to defuse the sudden tension that pulled at Erik's shoulders.
"I'm taking it you're not a fan," Charles said, trying for levity. "Not that I blame you. I've always found Shaw's work quite shallow. If Wordsworth tells us that all good poetry is the externalization of internal emotions, then clearly we can't consider Shaw's work good poetry. He writes emotion as though his understanding of it is entirely text book. Reading his work, I would doubt he'd experienced a genuine emotion in his life. I have no idea how he ended a poet laureate."
Charles held his breath, waiting for Erik's reaction. He'd taken a gamble, sharing his true thoughts on Shaw's work--even if Erik disagreed, Charles could at least stand by his reasoning. He didn't think Erik would shun him simply because their opinions on poetry differed. There was, of course, a good chance Erik shared his views, Erik's expression enough to suggest that Erik, at the very least, disliked the man.
Erik, who had been watching Charles with wide eyes--looking rather like a startled deer--chuckled, the tension between them dissipating nicely.
"You'd hate my work, then," he said.
And that wasn't at all what Charles was aiming for, so he shook his head. "On the contrary, what I've read of your work highlights such startling vulnerability that it's clear you very much understand human emotion. You have marvelous insight into the human condition.
Erik blinked. Charles didn't miss the hint of pink that coloured his cheeks.
"You've read my work," he said, seeming equal parts flattered and embarrassed. Charles allowed his smile to turn seductive. This was going exceptionally well.
"A few pieces--they're not easy to find, you know."
Erik laughed at that--a nervous sound--even as he stood and crossed to one of the bookshelves lining the far wall. He pulled down a binder, flipped it open, scanned through it, closed it, and then handed it to Charles.
Charles' hand shook as he accepted it.
"There are a few in there that haven't seen publication," Erik said, seeming hesitant now. He wore awkwardness well, Charles thought.
"Thank you," Charles said, holding the binder to his chest. "I look forward to reading them."
Erik nodded, and Charles could tell he had grown uncomfortable enough that it was time to change the subject.
It didn't look like Erik was going to reclaim his seat, so Charles turned, pausing long enough to slip Erik's binder into his bag before he stood. Erik watched him, radiating uncertainty.
"I was wondering," Charles began, clearing his throat. Erik's expression was so open, so hopeful, that it bolstered Charles' confidence. "I was wondering if you wanted to grab some dinner sometime."
And there, it was out; Charles had asked. He had half a second to feel excited before Erik's expression fell, his earlier ease vanishing, replaced by a look of such sorrow, such longing that Charles knew his answer even before he gave it.
"I'm sorry," he said, seeming at loss for words--not that they were necessary, Erik's rejection rather succinct.
"Right, sorry," Charles said, floundering then. He wanted to ask why--to demand an explanation, because Erik had just given Charles a book of his poetry, damn it--but he was too caught up in feeling embarrassed; too dejected to do anything save fumble with getting his bag over his shoulder. "I'll just..." he said once he had managed it, gesturing to the door. Erik stepped forward.
"Charles," and God, the way he said Charles' name, "I..." was as far as he got before a knock on Erik's doorframe startled them both. Charles had forgotten he hadn't closed the door.
It was a startling thing to glance over and find Scott standing in the doorway, glancing between them somewhat awkwardly, as though he'd only just then realized he was interrupting something. He held a file folder in his hand.
"Sorry," he said, glancing between them. He turned to Erik. "Sorry, Professor Lehnsherr, I just needed a few signatures." He glanced back to Charles.
"It's all right," Charles said, suddenly glad for the interruption. "I was just leaving." He spared one final glance at Erik, who looked miserable, before heading towards the door, brushing past Scott on the way out.
"Charles," Scott called after him, but Charles was already far enough away to pretend he hadn't heard.
On to chapter 8
Yay!
Date: 2011-11-04 02:06 am (UTC)I find the Scott/Charles relationship interesting. It's something I never considered before, and even though this is an AU and they seem to be similar in age, it's a pairing that just doesn't sit well with me (which I guess may be a little hypocritical since I love Scott/Logan and Wolverine is waaay older). It's probably more to do with the teacher/student mentality thing, since i always saw Scott and Xavier as a father/son-esque relationship. Guess Erik and I have similar thoughts about teachers dating students :)
Re: Yay!
Date: 2011-11-04 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-04 03:48 am (UTC)Reading this story, I can't but help thinking that my entire undergrad is deprived of hot professors...*cough*
no subject
Date: 2011-11-04 04:55 pm (UTC)And oddly enough so was mine, which is rather silly considering I'm married to one now.
PS: nice icon.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-04 06:02 pm (UTC)I imagine a conversation with Frost: "I think I met a student who's a serial seducer of students" would not go over well.
Erik's trying so hard to do the right thing here. It's amusing and somewhat tragic to see him muddle along, which's what does even in XMFC.
I think academic hotness must be one of those mythical creatures, like dragons, which's rumored to exist/have existed, somewhere and sometime...(I'm in grad school, still no hot professors...XD)
no subject
Date: 2011-11-04 06:02 pm (UTC)