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nekosmuseTitle: An Ideal Grace (12/?)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Fandom: XMFC, a modern, non-powered AU
Rating: R
Summary: Charles and Erik as university professors. Need I say more?
Many thanks go tostlkrchck, for again imparting her NYC knowledge. I feel like I know more about this city now than I do my hometown.
Another huge thanks toafrocurl for our fantastic poetry. I forgot to mention this before, but whenever you click on a link to one of her poems, if you then click on the poem, it'll take you to her AO3 account, which is a great place to leave kudos/comments (so that she does miss them here). Be sure to give her all the love she deserves.
Back to chapter 11
It was a shock to stumble into his office after his Critical Methods class and find Raven sitting at his desk. Erik paused inside the door frame, load of papers and books balanced precariously in his hands, and stared. Raven quirked a smile.
"Surprise?" she said.
Erik arched an eyebrow at that, but he stepped into the room, setting his pile down on the edge of his desk--and damn Janos for catching the first flu of the season, leaving Erik to lug around his own things.
"Is everything all right?" Erik asked. Unusual behavior from Raven demanded the question. He'd found out the hard way--more than once--that ignoring these shifts was never a good idea.
"Relax, I'm fine. I just thought I'd come see where you work, since I haven't done that yet." She glanced around his office. "It's nice--a little Spartan, but nice."
Erik chuckled at that, because if he had it his way their entire apartment would be furnished as minimally as possible. Every picture, every knickknack, every throw was Raven's doing. She had taken what would otherwise have been a utilitarian space and had turned it into a home.
"You want the grand tour?" Erik asked, because he had nothing else on the schedule for today, and even though it was absurdly cold outside, showing Raven the campus would at the very least allow him to postpone putting together his midterms--another reason he was unimpressed by Janos' sudden illness.
"Sounds like fun," Raven said. She stepped out from behind his desk and shrugged into her coat. Erik caught the scent of stale cigarette smoke.
"I thought you quit," he said, collecting the few things he wanted to take home with him. Erik had lost count of the number of times she had quit and started again. It was a mark of her respect for him that she didn't smoke around him--not that she tried to hide it, but she kept the habit discrete, and Erik appreciated it, if only because Shaw had smoked and the smell tended to trigger memories.
"And I thought you weren't going to give Charles that notebook," she countered.
It was a fair point. Erik coloured. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened," he said before he registered what Raven had said. When he did, he frowned at her. "How did you know?"
Raven let a mysterious little smile creep across her face. Erik recognized it as the one she wore whenever she thought she had done something exceedingly clever. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"I just know you," she said, smile still firmly in place.
He had no idea what to say to that--she was obviously lying, but Raven kept so few secrets from him that he let it pass. He pulled on his coat and scarf--Raven had teased him mercilessly this morning for donning it, but he was used to Heidelberg weather, and save for January and February, the temperature rarely dipped below freezing--and led them out of the building.
Erik didn't actually know much about the campus--save the names of a few buildings--so he mostly kept quiet, content to simply walk Raven around and let her take in the sights. The architecture, while nowhere near as old as in Germany, was still stunning--some of the best in the city, Erik thought. He took her through Low Plaza, where Raven tilted her head back and breathed deep the chilly autumn air. It was rare that she was so relaxed. Erik smiled to see it.
"How did you get here, anyway?" Erik asked after several minutes of comfortable silence. Their apartment was hardly within walking distance, and Raven outright refused to take public transportation. If he thought she wouldn't trash it inside a week, he'd force her to get her license and then buy her a car.
"Azazel gave me a lift," she said, shrugging non-committedly. Erik froze. Raven, who had taken several steps forward before realizing Erik wasn't at her side, turned and arched an eyebrow.
"The Russian guy?" Erik asked, hackles rising. The last thing he needed to worry about was some asshole thinking he could take advantage of Erik's sister.
Raven turned and crossed to where Erik was standing, giving him an exasperated look. "He's actually a pretty decent guy, Erik," she said.
Erik shook his head, because that wasn't the point.
"Tell me you're not dating this guy. You barely know him," Erik said, because Raven dated even less than he did, but every time she did it resulted in months of regression and flashbacks. The prospect was terrifying.
Raven, who was practically glaring now, grabbed Erik's arm and dragged him over to one of the plaza's fountains so that they were no longer blocking the late-afternoon crowds.
"I'm not dating him," she said. "We're occasionally hanging out, and for the record, I've talked to my shrink about it and she thinks it's a good idea. I can't just have you in my life, Erik. I need friends of my own. What am I going to do when you and Charles hook up and then go off and live happily ever after? I don't think he's going to appreciate always having your sister along."
Erik shook his head at that, because for one thing it was a little presumptuous, for another, he wasn't about to abandon Raven for anyone.
"First, you're jumping the gun a little, and second, if he's not okay with you being around then he wasn't meant to be." He'd hurt Raven too much during his relationship with Shaw to give any other answer.
"That doesn't mean he's going to always want me around. You two need some alone time," she said, shaking her head and holding up a hand when Erik tried to protest. "I ran into him on the way to see you, you know."
Erik promptly forgot every objection he had to Raven spending time with Azazel, his heart stuttering in his chest.
"Did you speak to him?" he asked, half terrified of what Raven might have said. He trusted her--absolutely--but she wasn't exactly known for her discretion.
"We exchanged pleasantries, though don't worry, I didn't tell him you were head over heels in love with him."
Erik tutted at that, because it wasn't precisely true. Certainly he was a little enamoured, maybe even a bit obsessed, definitely a lot smitten, but head over heels was a terrible metaphor.
"We also talked about his work," Raven continued, and Erik's breath caught at that; because it was entirely possible Raven had done what he hadn't yet worked up the nerve to do.
"And?" He was well aware he was fishing.
Raven paused long enough to perch on the rounded edge of the fountain. Erik did the same. Raven shot him a winning smile, and then said, "You'll be happy to know he's working on his PhD and will be finished this spring."
Erik took a moment to process that--and then another moment to smile stupidly once he'd absorbed what that meant. The prospect of waiting years had been agony, but this--a few scant months--he could handle this. Certainly he would have preferred this winter, but he could manage the spring. It also gave him ample time to reciprocate Columbia's attempts at recruitment.
"But," and here Raven let her features turn conspiratorial, "I'm not sure you have to wait quite that long."
Erik immediately balked at that, because they had had this conversation and PhD student or no PhD student he was still a student. Erik wasn't going to cross that line until they were on the same footing.
Raven shook her head. "You do realize he's not in the English department, don't you?" she said.
And Erik knew this--because that much at least he'd checked. He hadn't checked to find out what department Charles was with, though only because he suspected walking into the Registrar's office and asking for details on a student outside his department would be viewed as both strange and inappropriate.
Still, he was curious, and kept meaning to ask, but his brain rather had a tendency to short-circuit whenever Charles was around--hence the notebook this morning.
"You asked?" Erik asked, already knowing her answer.
"He's with the Genetics Department."
Of all the things Erik was expecting Raven to say, that wasn't it. He thought perhaps one of the languages--some of his more guilt-worthy fantasies involved Charles whispering Latin into Erik's ear--or maybe philosophy, possibly even history--Charles looked like the history type.
The sciences hadn't even made his list.
He tried to picture Charles bent over a microscope--oh, God, it was a fantastic image--hair pulled back, lab coat draped over his shoulders. He was probably incredibly smart--smarter than Erik had first assumed, because it was one thing to analyze poetry in a fourth year course; another entirely to complete a PhD in genetics.
Suddenly Charles seemed very much out of Erik's league.
"Seriously, Erik, it's not like he's even on the same campus," Raven was saying, but her reassurances did nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in his stomach when he even contemplated such a thing--something else he could throw at the feet of Sebastian Shaw.
"It's not open for discussion, Raven," he said, and then, before she could offer any further rationale, added, "Come on, let's go home, see about an early dinner."
~*~
Charles sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed, the scent of Thai take-out still lingering in the apartment. He had Erik's leather journal open in front of him, blank page staring at him mockingly. He really didn't know the first thing about writing poetry.
Sitting next to it was a pad of lined paper. He'd scribbled several verses--at least he thought they were verses--on the paper, only to scratch them out. Inevitably the page would end up crumpled into a ball and then tossed in the waste bin--alongside the first sheet he'd already filled in and then torn out.
It was probably ridiculous how much thought he was putting into this. Surely he could simply avoid the topic of conversation until he found a way to tell Erik that, no, sorry, he didn't actually write poetry.
Inspiration, he suspected, was what he needed, so Charles climbed off the bed and padded over to the window. He drew the blind and looked outside--nature, he'd told Erik, but the dark cityscape did nothing for him. He pulled the blind back down and then began a circuit of his apartment.
It didn't take long. Charles didn't own much--a bed, an oversized chair that was constantly covered in books, several bookshelves, all filled to capacity, and a couple of dressers--a necessity in a space with only one closet. His kitchen was just as sparse, a handful of appliances--mostly designed for reheating food--and a couple boxes of cereal that wouldn't fit in his cupboards. His dishes were second hand, bought at a local thrift shop. It had amused him, thinking his mother might one day be forced to use them, but she rarely visited, and when she did, she refused to set foot anywhere near his apartment.
He didn't even own a television set.
He kept few personal effects--save those related to his academic career. The ones he did have he kept in the bottom drawer of his main dresser. There were pictures, mostly of himself, sometimes alongside an ex or ex interest. He'd had few friends growing up--although it might have been more accurate to say he'd had no friends growing up--and only a handful throughout university. There were pictures of him with Moira, and a couple of him with Hank. They sat nestled inside an old tea box--though Charles kept meaning to transfer them into a photo album.
In another box--this one a shortbread tin--he kept a few mementos from his numerous relationships. There was the watch that Scott had given him--the style completely ill-suited to Charles' tastes--and the poppy from the lapel of a guy he'd picked up on Remembrance Day last year. There was a Canadian coin from that guy who had vomited over the side of his bed, and a hand stamp from the bouncer at Hellfire. And, of course, there were Erik's lecture notes.
The drawer was also where he was keeping Erik's binder of poetry. If he was lucky, Erik would never, ever ask for it back, and it would make its way into Charles' permanent collection.
There was also another binder, one that Charles tended to ignore whenever possible. It occurred to him, though, that people wrote poetry about the losses they'd experience, so it was entirely possible this was the inspiration he was looking for.
He pulled the binder out of the drawer and carried it back to the bed.
Inside were dozens of newspaper clippings and magazine covers, all featuring Brian Xavier. There was the Time magazine cover and article. There was the People profile. There were interviews and press releases.
And there were the reports of his death.
He read the New York Times clipping for the first time in years. It still sounded so clinical--so clean. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, like it was an abstract concept that could be summed up with only a handful of words.
In reality, his father had taken a Smith and Wesson 586, stuck the barrel into his mouth, and blown his brains out. They had spattered against the wall behind his desk. Undoubtedly, it had been very, very messy.
Not that Charles had blamed him--still didn't. His world was falling apart and the only thing keeping him tethered was his emotionally unavailable wife and a precocious child who did nothing but ask questions. Charles might have blown his brains out, too.
This was doing absolutely nothing to inspire poetry. In fact, the only thing it was inspiring was the urge to drink himself into an early grave. Either that or head out and find someone warm and willing to share his bed for the night.
There was a reason Charles tended to ignore this binder. He tucked the clippings away and returned it to the drawer, and then gave up on poetry writing for the night.
He called Moira instead.
"He gave me a journal," he said as soon as she answered.
She gave a long-suffering sigh and then said, "Yes, I know, you showed me. Twice."
She obviously didn't understand.
"To write poetry in, Moira."
There was a long pause, during which Charles contemplated his toenails. They were due for a cut. When Moira spoke again, it was with cautious trepidation, as though half afraid she might inadvertently make Charles cry--which, really, had only happened the one time, and he'd been drunk at the time, so it hardly counted.
"But you don't write poetry," she said.
And of course Charles knew that. That was the whole point. He loved her dearly and all, but sometimes talking to Moira was like talking to a brick wall.
"I know," Charles said. He could almost picture Moira rubbing at the back of her neck, forehead furrowed as she tried to work out what Charles was driving at. He took pity on her. "I told him I did, because he asked if I did, and then it just came out, and now I'm sitting here looking at his journal--which is gorgeous by the way--and trying to figure out how to write poetry, except, I don't write poetry."
There was a long moment of silence, in which Charles thought he was going to have to start from scratch and explain this all over again. Finally Moira coughed.
"So you can either tell him you lied, that you're sorry, and then give him back the journal, or you can tuck it away and hope he never brings the subject up again."
"Do you think that'll work?" Charles asked.
Moira groaned. "I meant you should do the first, because the second is idiotic. How do you get yourself into these messes? Really, Charles. I'm sorry, but I have to go. Sean's coming over and I'm not even dressed. Could you, for once, just try to be normal?"
Charles was fairly certain they both knew the answer to that, but he apologized all the same, and let Moira disconnect their call, Moira promising they'd talk more in the morning. For a long time after Charles merely sat in the middle of his bed, alternating between staring at his phone and at Erik's journal. He needed another opinion, but aside from Hank--who would undoubtedly run screaming from any such conversation--Charles had no one.
~*~
The next morning he left for the school with Erik's journal tucked carefully back into his messenger bag. He had plans on going straight to Erik's office--of giving him back the journal and apologizing for having lied--but chickened out at the last minute.
It was how he came to be sitting on the steps to the Low Library, ignoring the cold and tracing a finger along the journal's spine when his phone chirped.
Charles blinked at the message for several seconds before realizing what Raven wanted him to do--he should have known instantly, their conversation yesterday ending with Raven's promise to give him a head's up whenever she knew where Erik was going to be.
Because now Charles had Erik's sister stalking her brother for him.
He might actually deserve a medal for that.
It was dumb luck, more than anything--actually it was mostly Charles lurking around in hopes of bumping into Erik--that saw Charles on the main campus instead of at the Medical Center. Still, he ran--literally ran--to get to the Hungarian Pastry Shop ahead of Erik. He was winded when he got there, but Erik was nowhere to be seen, so Charles got into line--letting people ahead of him whenever he seemed in danger of reaching the counter--and focused on getting his breathing under control.
The shop was usually busy, and today was no exception--even the outdoor seating was in use, despite the chill in the air. He spotted Erik coming down Amsterdam Ave., hand tucked in his pocket, scarf draped around his neck. He looked... delicious, Charles thought, feeling more than a little giddy. The door the shop opened, a handful of undergraduates coming inside. Charles waved them to the front of the line, and then took up residence behind them, pretending he was concentrating on the menu above the counter. He heard the door chime open a second time and willed himself not to tense--or turn around--as Erik entered the shop.
He heard rather than saw Erik pause--undoubtedly he recognized Charles--and for one brief moment Charles was terrified Erik was going to turn around and head back the way he had come. Erik's hand on his shoulder was a genuine surprise.
Charles turned, heart lodged in his throat--and God, up close Erik was positively edible this morning, never mind that he was still touching him. Erik offered him a slightly awkward half smile and then dropped his hand. Charles grinned.
"Erik, hello," he said, shifting aside so that Erik could join him in the line. Had anyone else entered the shop, Charles might have waved them ahead too, just to prolong this moment.
"Early lunch, or late breakfast?" Erik asked. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Charles. Charles took it as a victory, though Erik's journal was a heavy weight in his bag.
"Mid-morning snack, I suppose," Charles said. The people ahead of them collected their coffees and pastries and cleared the line. Charles shrugged, and then stepped forward.
He ordered a coffee and a chocolate croissant, and then, on impulse, turned to face Erik. "What are you having?" he asked, and then froze when Erik hesitated, indecision clear on his features.
For a moment Charles thought he'd crossed a line, that this would be the point where Erik would balk; where Erik would again apologize and tell Charles they couldn't date and, damn it, why had he opened his stupid mouth?
"A coffee sounds good, and maybe some strudel," Erik said, though he still sounded hesitant--that and a little awkward, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Charles smiled and placed his order.
"You want to share a table?" he asked when they had their pastries, and then, because Erik still looked ready to bolt, added, "there aren't many free."
Erik nodded, as though Charles' argument on economy of space had reluctantly swayed him. He'd drawn himself tight, so that he occupied as little space as possible, sitting exactly opposite from Charles, chair pushed back so that not even their knees brushed under the tiny table. Charles was a little disappointed, but Erik was sitting with him--which totally counted as a date as far as Charles was concerned--so he took it as another victory.
For a while they didn't talk, Erik eating his strudel--with a fork and knife Charles noted--Charles making a complete mess with his croissant. When he had finished, he glanced up to find Erik watching him with an amused smile, but before Charles could ask, Erik mimicked wiping the side of his mouth.
Charles brought his thumb to his face and rubbed at the corner of his mouth, thumb coming away covered in chocolate. He blushed--could feel it spread all the way down his neck--grabbed a handful of napkins and wiped hastily at his mouth. Erik laughed.
"Raven does that, too," he said. Charles wasn't certain if being compared to Erik's sister was a good or bad thing. He offered a lopsided smile.
"My mother always abhorred my table manners. She even sent me to a finishing school, but it didn't really take." Charles shrugged. In truth, it might have took, save that he'd had no incentive to follow their instructions. It was far more enjoyable to watch his mother squirm. She never took more notice of him than she did when he was eating--even if it was only to sit and scowl in his direction.
Erik was smiling now, like the little tidbit from Charles' childhood was somehow precious. Charles blushed again--he really needed to work on that; certainly no one else had ever made him blush so readily--and took a sip of his coffee.
The shop was steadily filling the closer they got to the lunch hour, so now Erik had to push his chair in, knees brushing against Charles'--and Charles delighted in seeing Erik's cheeks colour when they did--just to make room.
As if to dispel his awkwardness, Erik coughed.
"Raven mentioned that she ran into you yesterday," he said.
Charles momentarily froze, because did Erik know? Certainly he wouldn't be here if he thought Charles some kind of creepy stalker--and Charles wasn't so far gone that he didn't realize that was exactly what he was. No, undoubtedly Raven had only mentioned it in passing, which meant that Erik was just bringing it up because they'd been talking about Raven not two minutes ago.
"Yes, though I'm afraid I bored her terribly," Charles said, because even if Raven hadn't revealed any details from their conversation, they had discussed Charles' research.
"I'm not sure if she was bored or confused. She was never one for science," Erik said, and then, to Charles' surprise, said, "she wasn't too clear on exactly what it is you are researching."
It was as open an invitation as Charles had ever received. His head grew dizzy at the thought of sharing his work, his passion, with Erik. Before Charles could stop himself, he was talking.
He told Erik about stem cell research and the advances that had been made in the past decade. He told Erik about the tremendous potential for using these cells in the treatment of disease. He talked about forced mutation--Mutation is what took us from singled celled organisms to the dominant form of reproductive life on this planet and how applying something as simple as evolution could theoretically allow them to pinpoint and treat diseases even before they manifested.
He talked far too long, and far too quickly, becoming animated in a way that always had Moira telling him to Just take a breath and breathe, Charles. Then he stuttered to a stop because Erik was still watching him and Charles had just geeked out in front of him.
Horror surged in his chest, even as his face flushed scarlet. Charles willed the floor to open beneath him.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry. That was probably all really boring and silly and, I swear, I don't usually go on like that, and it won't..."
He stopped, though only because Erik had held up a hand.
"It's fine. Good, even." Here Erik ducked his head. When he glanced back up there was an edge of vulnerability in his eyes. "Passion's a good look on you," he said, looking for all the world like admitting as much had terrified him.
Charles froze. There was no other way to process what Erik had said. No one had ever complimented him on his passion before. It was always, calm down, Charles, or slow down, Charles, or for God's sake, sit down and be quiet, Charles. Erik was looking at him like Charles was a wonder worth capturing on film.
"Still, I'm sure it's nowhere near as interesting as poetry," Charles said, aiming for self-deprecation. It came out sounding like self-pity.
To his surprise, Erik shook his head.
"On the contrary; at least you're doing something that matters. You're saving lives. There's nothing more important than that. I think it's brilliant." He flushed even as it said it, like bestowing the compliment had cost him the last reserve of his nerve.
Charles sat, a little stunned, and more than a little moved. He wanted to crawl across the table and climb into Erik's lap--too soon, he told himself. He wanted to run off with this man and keep him forever and ever.
"Genetics and poetry, thought; kind of an odd combination," Erik said with nervous chuckle, like he was purposely trying to redirect their conversation towards something lighter.
The giddy smile that was threatening to break across Charles' face vanished in an instant. His mood plummeted, because how could he keep lying to Erik after everything Erik had just said?
"What?" Erik asked, even as Charles said, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."
Erik looked confused, and more than a little hurt, like Charles was going to outright reject Erik's acceptance. He looked like he wanted to get up from the table and flee the shop. Charles glanced to his bag, where it sat on the floor, and then back to Erik. Resigning himself to his fate--and hoping Erik would accept his show of faith--Charles retrieved the bag, and then pulled out the journal.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't write poetry. I don't even know why I said I did. I guess I just thought..." He shrugged, because there was really no way to put what he'd thought into words. He'd thought Erik might like him better. He'd thought it might make him more interesting. He'd thought it might give them something in common.
The truth was, he hadn't really thought.
Erik didn't say anything, but he was staring at Charles like he couldn't quite figure out where Charles had come from, or what he was talking about. Charles' heart sank. He held the journal across the table.
"I should probably give this back," he said. It physically hurt to do so. "It's beautiful, and the nicest thing anyone's ever given me, but it was given under false pretenses, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Erik's expression was impossible to read. If Charles had to guess, he would say Erik was processing. Charles sat, the arm holding the book shaking almost uncontrollable, his entire body tense as he waited for Erik to stand from the table and leave the room.
Instead, Erik let out a little huff of air--that for the life of him Charles couldn't decipher--and then reached for the journal. To Charles' surprise, instead of taking it, he pushed it back towards Charles.
"You should keep it anyway," Erik said. He smiled then, a little confused, but a little fond, too, so Charles drew the journal to his chest and held it there, willing himself not to cry.
"I..." Charles tried, but it was impossible to speak around the lump in his throat.
Erik took a sip of his coffee--which was undoubtedly cold by this point--and said, "I'm actually more impressed than I was. For a scientist, who doesn't write poetry, you have remarkable insight into the art."
Charles had no idea what to say to that, but Erik wasn't leaving, so he did the only thing he could. He clutched Erik's journal to his chest and excused himself.
And then promptly fled into the bathroom.
As retreats went it was probably as undignified as they came. He told himself he just needed a minute--that knowing Erik didn't mind hearing about his work and having Erik forgive him for lying within a ten minute period was too much for anyone to process. Mostly he just didn't want Erik to see him hyperventilating.
He set the journal down on top of the paper towel dispenser, and then splashed his face with cold water, breathing steadily through his nose until his heart stopped racing.
"It's fine," he told his reflection. "You told him, and he's fine, so it's fine."
When he'd repeated the mantra several times over, he retrieved Erik's journal--except it was his now, wasn't it?--and returned to the table.
He found Erik bent over a paper napkin, scribbling furiously. Charles approached him cautiously, catching enough of the poem--and it was a poem--to know that it was about him. Any lingering doubt he might have had vanishing in an instant.
He'd followed Moira's advice. He'd told Erik the truth and Erik had forgiven him. More than that, Erik seemed genuinely interested in him--the real him. And best of all, Charles no longer had to worry about figuring out how to write poetry.
He cleared his throat, Erik glancing up, even as he half covered what he'd been working on. He looked set to ignore their earlier awkwardness, so Charles mustered his courage and asked, "Do you have to get going? Or do you have time for another cup?"
Erik hesitated for half a second before nodding.
"I'll buy," he said, slipping the napkin into his pocket as he stood. "You save our table."
Charles nodded, and then watched him leave, giddy smile spreading across his face. Erik was buying him a coffee, while Charles saved their table.
On to chapter 13
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Fandom: XMFC, a modern, non-powered AU
Rating: R
Summary: Charles and Erik as university professors. Need I say more?
Many thanks go to
stlkrchck, for again imparting her NYC knowledge. I feel like I know more about this city now than I do my hometown.Another huge thanks to
afrocurl for our fantastic poetry. I forgot to mention this before, but whenever you click on a link to one of her poems, if you then click on the poem, it'll take you to her AO3 account, which is a great place to leave kudos/comments (so that she does miss them here). Be sure to give her all the love she deserves.Back to chapter 11
It was a shock to stumble into his office after his Critical Methods class and find Raven sitting at his desk. Erik paused inside the door frame, load of papers and books balanced precariously in his hands, and stared. Raven quirked a smile.
"Surprise?" she said.
Erik arched an eyebrow at that, but he stepped into the room, setting his pile down on the edge of his desk--and damn Janos for catching the first flu of the season, leaving Erik to lug around his own things.
"Is everything all right?" Erik asked. Unusual behavior from Raven demanded the question. He'd found out the hard way--more than once--that ignoring these shifts was never a good idea.
"Relax, I'm fine. I just thought I'd come see where you work, since I haven't done that yet." She glanced around his office. "It's nice--a little Spartan, but nice."
Erik chuckled at that, because if he had it his way their entire apartment would be furnished as minimally as possible. Every picture, every knickknack, every throw was Raven's doing. She had taken what would otherwise have been a utilitarian space and had turned it into a home.
"You want the grand tour?" Erik asked, because he had nothing else on the schedule for today, and even though it was absurdly cold outside, showing Raven the campus would at the very least allow him to postpone putting together his midterms--another reason he was unimpressed by Janos' sudden illness.
"Sounds like fun," Raven said. She stepped out from behind his desk and shrugged into her coat. Erik caught the scent of stale cigarette smoke.
"I thought you quit," he said, collecting the few things he wanted to take home with him. Erik had lost count of the number of times she had quit and started again. It was a mark of her respect for him that she didn't smoke around him--not that she tried to hide it, but she kept the habit discrete, and Erik appreciated it, if only because Shaw had smoked and the smell tended to trigger memories.
"And I thought you weren't going to give Charles that notebook," she countered.
It was a fair point. Erik coloured. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened," he said before he registered what Raven had said. When he did, he frowned at her. "How did you know?"
Raven let a mysterious little smile creep across her face. Erik recognized it as the one she wore whenever she thought she had done something exceedingly clever. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"I just know you," she said, smile still firmly in place.
He had no idea what to say to that--she was obviously lying, but Raven kept so few secrets from him that he let it pass. He pulled on his coat and scarf--Raven had teased him mercilessly this morning for donning it, but he was used to Heidelberg weather, and save for January and February, the temperature rarely dipped below freezing--and led them out of the building.
Erik didn't actually know much about the campus--save the names of a few buildings--so he mostly kept quiet, content to simply walk Raven around and let her take in the sights. The architecture, while nowhere near as old as in Germany, was still stunning--some of the best in the city, Erik thought. He took her through Low Plaza, where Raven tilted her head back and breathed deep the chilly autumn air. It was rare that she was so relaxed. Erik smiled to see it.
"How did you get here, anyway?" Erik asked after several minutes of comfortable silence. Their apartment was hardly within walking distance, and Raven outright refused to take public transportation. If he thought she wouldn't trash it inside a week, he'd force her to get her license and then buy her a car.
"Azazel gave me a lift," she said, shrugging non-committedly. Erik froze. Raven, who had taken several steps forward before realizing Erik wasn't at her side, turned and arched an eyebrow.
"The Russian guy?" Erik asked, hackles rising. The last thing he needed to worry about was some asshole thinking he could take advantage of Erik's sister.
Raven turned and crossed to where Erik was standing, giving him an exasperated look. "He's actually a pretty decent guy, Erik," she said.
Erik shook his head, because that wasn't the point.
"Tell me you're not dating this guy. You barely know him," Erik said, because Raven dated even less than he did, but every time she did it resulted in months of regression and flashbacks. The prospect was terrifying.
Raven, who was practically glaring now, grabbed Erik's arm and dragged him over to one of the plaza's fountains so that they were no longer blocking the late-afternoon crowds.
"I'm not dating him," she said. "We're occasionally hanging out, and for the record, I've talked to my shrink about it and she thinks it's a good idea. I can't just have you in my life, Erik. I need friends of my own. What am I going to do when you and Charles hook up and then go off and live happily ever after? I don't think he's going to appreciate always having your sister along."
Erik shook his head at that, because for one thing it was a little presumptuous, for another, he wasn't about to abandon Raven for anyone.
"First, you're jumping the gun a little, and second, if he's not okay with you being around then he wasn't meant to be." He'd hurt Raven too much during his relationship with Shaw to give any other answer.
"That doesn't mean he's going to always want me around. You two need some alone time," she said, shaking her head and holding up a hand when Erik tried to protest. "I ran into him on the way to see you, you know."
Erik promptly forgot every objection he had to Raven spending time with Azazel, his heart stuttering in his chest.
"Did you speak to him?" he asked, half terrified of what Raven might have said. He trusted her--absolutely--but she wasn't exactly known for her discretion.
"We exchanged pleasantries, though don't worry, I didn't tell him you were head over heels in love with him."
Erik tutted at that, because it wasn't precisely true. Certainly he was a little enamoured, maybe even a bit obsessed, definitely a lot smitten, but head over heels was a terrible metaphor.
"We also talked about his work," Raven continued, and Erik's breath caught at that; because it was entirely possible Raven had done what he hadn't yet worked up the nerve to do.
"And?" He was well aware he was fishing.
Raven paused long enough to perch on the rounded edge of the fountain. Erik did the same. Raven shot him a winning smile, and then said, "You'll be happy to know he's working on his PhD and will be finished this spring."
Erik took a moment to process that--and then another moment to smile stupidly once he'd absorbed what that meant. The prospect of waiting years had been agony, but this--a few scant months--he could handle this. Certainly he would have preferred this winter, but he could manage the spring. It also gave him ample time to reciprocate Columbia's attempts at recruitment.
"But," and here Raven let her features turn conspiratorial, "I'm not sure you have to wait quite that long."
Erik immediately balked at that, because they had had this conversation and PhD student or no PhD student he was still a student. Erik wasn't going to cross that line until they were on the same footing.
Raven shook her head. "You do realize he's not in the English department, don't you?" she said.
And Erik knew this--because that much at least he'd checked. He hadn't checked to find out what department Charles was with, though only because he suspected walking into the Registrar's office and asking for details on a student outside his department would be viewed as both strange and inappropriate.
Still, he was curious, and kept meaning to ask, but his brain rather had a tendency to short-circuit whenever Charles was around--hence the notebook this morning.
"You asked?" Erik asked, already knowing her answer.
"He's with the Genetics Department."
Of all the things Erik was expecting Raven to say, that wasn't it. He thought perhaps one of the languages--some of his more guilt-worthy fantasies involved Charles whispering Latin into Erik's ear--or maybe philosophy, possibly even history--Charles looked like the history type.
The sciences hadn't even made his list.
He tried to picture Charles bent over a microscope--oh, God, it was a fantastic image--hair pulled back, lab coat draped over his shoulders. He was probably incredibly smart--smarter than Erik had first assumed, because it was one thing to analyze poetry in a fourth year course; another entirely to complete a PhD in genetics.
Suddenly Charles seemed very much out of Erik's league.
"Seriously, Erik, it's not like he's even on the same campus," Raven was saying, but her reassurances did nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in his stomach when he even contemplated such a thing--something else he could throw at the feet of Sebastian Shaw.
"It's not open for discussion, Raven," he said, and then, before she could offer any further rationale, added, "Come on, let's go home, see about an early dinner."
~*~
Charles sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed, the scent of Thai take-out still lingering in the apartment. He had Erik's leather journal open in front of him, blank page staring at him mockingly. He really didn't know the first thing about writing poetry.
Sitting next to it was a pad of lined paper. He'd scribbled several verses--at least he thought they were verses--on the paper, only to scratch them out. Inevitably the page would end up crumpled into a ball and then tossed in the waste bin--alongside the first sheet he'd already filled in and then torn out.
It was probably ridiculous how much thought he was putting into this. Surely he could simply avoid the topic of conversation until he found a way to tell Erik that, no, sorry, he didn't actually write poetry.
Inspiration, he suspected, was what he needed, so Charles climbed off the bed and padded over to the window. He drew the blind and looked outside--nature, he'd told Erik, but the dark cityscape did nothing for him. He pulled the blind back down and then began a circuit of his apartment.
It didn't take long. Charles didn't own much--a bed, an oversized chair that was constantly covered in books, several bookshelves, all filled to capacity, and a couple of dressers--a necessity in a space with only one closet. His kitchen was just as sparse, a handful of appliances--mostly designed for reheating food--and a couple boxes of cereal that wouldn't fit in his cupboards. His dishes were second hand, bought at a local thrift shop. It had amused him, thinking his mother might one day be forced to use them, but she rarely visited, and when she did, she refused to set foot anywhere near his apartment.
He didn't even own a television set.
He kept few personal effects--save those related to his academic career. The ones he did have he kept in the bottom drawer of his main dresser. There were pictures, mostly of himself, sometimes alongside an ex or ex interest. He'd had few friends growing up--although it might have been more accurate to say he'd had no friends growing up--and only a handful throughout university. There were pictures of him with Moira, and a couple of him with Hank. They sat nestled inside an old tea box--though Charles kept meaning to transfer them into a photo album.
In another box--this one a shortbread tin--he kept a few mementos from his numerous relationships. There was the watch that Scott had given him--the style completely ill-suited to Charles' tastes--and the poppy from the lapel of a guy he'd picked up on Remembrance Day last year. There was a Canadian coin from that guy who had vomited over the side of his bed, and a hand stamp from the bouncer at Hellfire. And, of course, there were Erik's lecture notes.
The drawer was also where he was keeping Erik's binder of poetry. If he was lucky, Erik would never, ever ask for it back, and it would make its way into Charles' permanent collection.
There was also another binder, one that Charles tended to ignore whenever possible. It occurred to him, though, that people wrote poetry about the losses they'd experience, so it was entirely possible this was the inspiration he was looking for.
He pulled the binder out of the drawer and carried it back to the bed.
Inside were dozens of newspaper clippings and magazine covers, all featuring Brian Xavier. There was the Time magazine cover and article. There was the People profile. There were interviews and press releases.
And there were the reports of his death.
He read the New York Times clipping for the first time in years. It still sounded so clinical--so clean. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, like it was an abstract concept that could be summed up with only a handful of words.
In reality, his father had taken a Smith and Wesson 586, stuck the barrel into his mouth, and blown his brains out. They had spattered against the wall behind his desk. Undoubtedly, it had been very, very messy.
Not that Charles had blamed him--still didn't. His world was falling apart and the only thing keeping him tethered was his emotionally unavailable wife and a precocious child who did nothing but ask questions. Charles might have blown his brains out, too.
This was doing absolutely nothing to inspire poetry. In fact, the only thing it was inspiring was the urge to drink himself into an early grave. Either that or head out and find someone warm and willing to share his bed for the night.
There was a reason Charles tended to ignore this binder. He tucked the clippings away and returned it to the drawer, and then gave up on poetry writing for the night.
He called Moira instead.
"He gave me a journal," he said as soon as she answered.
She gave a long-suffering sigh and then said, "Yes, I know, you showed me. Twice."
She obviously didn't understand.
"To write poetry in, Moira."
There was a long pause, during which Charles contemplated his toenails. They were due for a cut. When Moira spoke again, it was with cautious trepidation, as though half afraid she might inadvertently make Charles cry--which, really, had only happened the one time, and he'd been drunk at the time, so it hardly counted.
"But you don't write poetry," she said.
And of course Charles knew that. That was the whole point. He loved her dearly and all, but sometimes talking to Moira was like talking to a brick wall.
"I know," Charles said. He could almost picture Moira rubbing at the back of her neck, forehead furrowed as she tried to work out what Charles was driving at. He took pity on her. "I told him I did, because he asked if I did, and then it just came out, and now I'm sitting here looking at his journal--which is gorgeous by the way--and trying to figure out how to write poetry, except, I don't write poetry."
There was a long moment of silence, in which Charles thought he was going to have to start from scratch and explain this all over again. Finally Moira coughed.
"So you can either tell him you lied, that you're sorry, and then give him back the journal, or you can tuck it away and hope he never brings the subject up again."
"Do you think that'll work?" Charles asked.
Moira groaned. "I meant you should do the first, because the second is idiotic. How do you get yourself into these messes? Really, Charles. I'm sorry, but I have to go. Sean's coming over and I'm not even dressed. Could you, for once, just try to be normal?"
Charles was fairly certain they both knew the answer to that, but he apologized all the same, and let Moira disconnect their call, Moira promising they'd talk more in the morning. For a long time after Charles merely sat in the middle of his bed, alternating between staring at his phone and at Erik's journal. He needed another opinion, but aside from Hank--who would undoubtedly run screaming from any such conversation--Charles had no one.
~*~
The next morning he left for the school with Erik's journal tucked carefully back into his messenger bag. He had plans on going straight to Erik's office--of giving him back the journal and apologizing for having lied--but chickened out at the last minute.
It was how he came to be sitting on the steps to the Low Library, ignoring the cold and tracing a finger along the journal's spine when his phone chirped.
Charles blinked at the message for several seconds before realizing what Raven wanted him to do--he should have known instantly, their conversation yesterday ending with Raven's promise to give him a head's up whenever she knew where Erik was going to be.
Because now Charles had Erik's sister stalking her brother for him.
He might actually deserve a medal for that.
It was dumb luck, more than anything--actually it was mostly Charles lurking around in hopes of bumping into Erik--that saw Charles on the main campus instead of at the Medical Center. Still, he ran--literally ran--to get to the Hungarian Pastry Shop ahead of Erik. He was winded when he got there, but Erik was nowhere to be seen, so Charles got into line--letting people ahead of him whenever he seemed in danger of reaching the counter--and focused on getting his breathing under control.
The shop was usually busy, and today was no exception--even the outdoor seating was in use, despite the chill in the air. He spotted Erik coming down Amsterdam Ave., hand tucked in his pocket, scarf draped around his neck. He looked... delicious, Charles thought, feeling more than a little giddy. The door the shop opened, a handful of undergraduates coming inside. Charles waved them to the front of the line, and then took up residence behind them, pretending he was concentrating on the menu above the counter. He heard the door chime open a second time and willed himself not to tense--or turn around--as Erik entered the shop.
He heard rather than saw Erik pause--undoubtedly he recognized Charles--and for one brief moment Charles was terrified Erik was going to turn around and head back the way he had come. Erik's hand on his shoulder was a genuine surprise.
Charles turned, heart lodged in his throat--and God, up close Erik was positively edible this morning, never mind that he was still touching him. Erik offered him a slightly awkward half smile and then dropped his hand. Charles grinned.
"Erik, hello," he said, shifting aside so that Erik could join him in the line. Had anyone else entered the shop, Charles might have waved them ahead too, just to prolong this moment.
"Early lunch, or late breakfast?" Erik asked. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Charles. Charles took it as a victory, though Erik's journal was a heavy weight in his bag.
"Mid-morning snack, I suppose," Charles said. The people ahead of them collected their coffees and pastries and cleared the line. Charles shrugged, and then stepped forward.
He ordered a coffee and a chocolate croissant, and then, on impulse, turned to face Erik. "What are you having?" he asked, and then froze when Erik hesitated, indecision clear on his features.
For a moment Charles thought he'd crossed a line, that this would be the point where Erik would balk; where Erik would again apologize and tell Charles they couldn't date and, damn it, why had he opened his stupid mouth?
"A coffee sounds good, and maybe some strudel," Erik said, though he still sounded hesitant--that and a little awkward, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Charles smiled and placed his order.
"You want to share a table?" he asked when they had their pastries, and then, because Erik still looked ready to bolt, added, "there aren't many free."
Erik nodded, as though Charles' argument on economy of space had reluctantly swayed him. He'd drawn himself tight, so that he occupied as little space as possible, sitting exactly opposite from Charles, chair pushed back so that not even their knees brushed under the tiny table. Charles was a little disappointed, but Erik was sitting with him--which totally counted as a date as far as Charles was concerned--so he took it as another victory.
For a while they didn't talk, Erik eating his strudel--with a fork and knife Charles noted--Charles making a complete mess with his croissant. When he had finished, he glanced up to find Erik watching him with an amused smile, but before Charles could ask, Erik mimicked wiping the side of his mouth.
Charles brought his thumb to his face and rubbed at the corner of his mouth, thumb coming away covered in chocolate. He blushed--could feel it spread all the way down his neck--grabbed a handful of napkins and wiped hastily at his mouth. Erik laughed.
"Raven does that, too," he said. Charles wasn't certain if being compared to Erik's sister was a good or bad thing. He offered a lopsided smile.
"My mother always abhorred my table manners. She even sent me to a finishing school, but it didn't really take." Charles shrugged. In truth, it might have took, save that he'd had no incentive to follow their instructions. It was far more enjoyable to watch his mother squirm. She never took more notice of him than she did when he was eating--even if it was only to sit and scowl in his direction.
Erik was smiling now, like the little tidbit from Charles' childhood was somehow precious. Charles blushed again--he really needed to work on that; certainly no one else had ever made him blush so readily--and took a sip of his coffee.
The shop was steadily filling the closer they got to the lunch hour, so now Erik had to push his chair in, knees brushing against Charles'--and Charles delighted in seeing Erik's cheeks colour when they did--just to make room.
As if to dispel his awkwardness, Erik coughed.
"Raven mentioned that she ran into you yesterday," he said.
Charles momentarily froze, because did Erik know? Certainly he wouldn't be here if he thought Charles some kind of creepy stalker--and Charles wasn't so far gone that he didn't realize that was exactly what he was. No, undoubtedly Raven had only mentioned it in passing, which meant that Erik was just bringing it up because they'd been talking about Raven not two minutes ago.
"Yes, though I'm afraid I bored her terribly," Charles said, because even if Raven hadn't revealed any details from their conversation, they had discussed Charles' research.
"I'm not sure if she was bored or confused. She was never one for science," Erik said, and then, to Charles' surprise, said, "she wasn't too clear on exactly what it is you are researching."
It was as open an invitation as Charles had ever received. His head grew dizzy at the thought of sharing his work, his passion, with Erik. Before Charles could stop himself, he was talking.
He told Erik about stem cell research and the advances that had been made in the past decade. He told Erik about the tremendous potential for using these cells in the treatment of disease. He talked about forced mutation--Mutation is what took us from singled celled organisms to the dominant form of reproductive life on this planet and how applying something as simple as evolution could theoretically allow them to pinpoint and treat diseases even before they manifested.
He talked far too long, and far too quickly, becoming animated in a way that always had Moira telling him to Just take a breath and breathe, Charles. Then he stuttered to a stop because Erik was still watching him and Charles had just geeked out in front of him.
Horror surged in his chest, even as his face flushed scarlet. Charles willed the floor to open beneath him.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry. That was probably all really boring and silly and, I swear, I don't usually go on like that, and it won't..."
He stopped, though only because Erik had held up a hand.
"It's fine. Good, even." Here Erik ducked his head. When he glanced back up there was an edge of vulnerability in his eyes. "Passion's a good look on you," he said, looking for all the world like admitting as much had terrified him.
Charles froze. There was no other way to process what Erik had said. No one had ever complimented him on his passion before. It was always, calm down, Charles, or slow down, Charles, or for God's sake, sit down and be quiet, Charles. Erik was looking at him like Charles was a wonder worth capturing on film.
"Still, I'm sure it's nowhere near as interesting as poetry," Charles said, aiming for self-deprecation. It came out sounding like self-pity.
To his surprise, Erik shook his head.
"On the contrary; at least you're doing something that matters. You're saving lives. There's nothing more important than that. I think it's brilliant." He flushed even as it said it, like bestowing the compliment had cost him the last reserve of his nerve.
Charles sat, a little stunned, and more than a little moved. He wanted to crawl across the table and climb into Erik's lap--too soon, he told himself. He wanted to run off with this man and keep him forever and ever.
"Genetics and poetry, thought; kind of an odd combination," Erik said with nervous chuckle, like he was purposely trying to redirect their conversation towards something lighter.
The giddy smile that was threatening to break across Charles' face vanished in an instant. His mood plummeted, because how could he keep lying to Erik after everything Erik had just said?
"What?" Erik asked, even as Charles said, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."
Erik looked confused, and more than a little hurt, like Charles was going to outright reject Erik's acceptance. He looked like he wanted to get up from the table and flee the shop. Charles glanced to his bag, where it sat on the floor, and then back to Erik. Resigning himself to his fate--and hoping Erik would accept his show of faith--Charles retrieved the bag, and then pulled out the journal.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't write poetry. I don't even know why I said I did. I guess I just thought..." He shrugged, because there was really no way to put what he'd thought into words. He'd thought Erik might like him better. He'd thought it might make him more interesting. He'd thought it might give them something in common.
The truth was, he hadn't really thought.
Erik didn't say anything, but he was staring at Charles like he couldn't quite figure out where Charles had come from, or what he was talking about. Charles' heart sank. He held the journal across the table.
"I should probably give this back," he said. It physically hurt to do so. "It's beautiful, and the nicest thing anyone's ever given me, but it was given under false pretenses, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Erik's expression was impossible to read. If Charles had to guess, he would say Erik was processing. Charles sat, the arm holding the book shaking almost uncontrollable, his entire body tense as he waited for Erik to stand from the table and leave the room.
Instead, Erik let out a little huff of air--that for the life of him Charles couldn't decipher--and then reached for the journal. To Charles' surprise, instead of taking it, he pushed it back towards Charles.
"You should keep it anyway," Erik said. He smiled then, a little confused, but a little fond, too, so Charles drew the journal to his chest and held it there, willing himself not to cry.
"I..." Charles tried, but it was impossible to speak around the lump in his throat.
Erik took a sip of his coffee--which was undoubtedly cold by this point--and said, "I'm actually more impressed than I was. For a scientist, who doesn't write poetry, you have remarkable insight into the art."
Charles had no idea what to say to that, but Erik wasn't leaving, so he did the only thing he could. He clutched Erik's journal to his chest and excused himself.
And then promptly fled into the bathroom.
As retreats went it was probably as undignified as they came. He told himself he just needed a minute--that knowing Erik didn't mind hearing about his work and having Erik forgive him for lying within a ten minute period was too much for anyone to process. Mostly he just didn't want Erik to see him hyperventilating.
He set the journal down on top of the paper towel dispenser, and then splashed his face with cold water, breathing steadily through his nose until his heart stopped racing.
"It's fine," he told his reflection. "You told him, and he's fine, so it's fine."
When he'd repeated the mantra several times over, he retrieved Erik's journal--except it was his now, wasn't it?--and returned to the table.
He found Erik bent over a paper napkin, scribbling furiously. Charles approached him cautiously, catching enough of the poem--and it was a poem--to know that it was about him. Any lingering doubt he might have had vanishing in an instant.
He'd followed Moira's advice. He'd told Erik the truth and Erik had forgiven him. More than that, Erik seemed genuinely interested in him--the real him. And best of all, Charles no longer had to worry about figuring out how to write poetry.
He cleared his throat, Erik glancing up, even as he half covered what he'd been working on. He looked set to ignore their earlier awkwardness, so Charles mustered his courage and asked, "Do you have to get going? Or do you have time for another cup?"
Erik hesitated for half a second before nodding.
"I'll buy," he said, slipping the napkin into his pocket as he stood. "You save our table."
Charles nodded, and then watched him leave, giddy smile spreading across his face. Erik was buying him a coffee, while Charles saved their table.
On to chapter 13
no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 02:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 02:19 pm (UTC)I swear, every cap I steal from Shame makes me want to write nothing but suave businessman Erik fic. That pic in particular.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 03:01 am (UTC)Every update makes me shake my head, but then this is Erik and Charles for you, in any universe: absurd and oftentimes unnecessary angst between them
beach divorce includedno subject
Date: 2011-11-14 02:20 pm (UTC)I think that's probably why I love Magneto/Professor X. They're one of my oldest ships (even before I knew what fanfiction was). They're so hopeless and frustrating and wonderful. I heart them so.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 02:21 pm (UTC)Charles is such a dork. I heart him so.
Yay!
Date: 2011-11-14 04:31 am (UTC)(and I love afrocurl's poems! This one really struck my fancy cause it was so obviously about Charles)
Re: Yay!
Date: 2011-11-14 02:22 pm (UTC)Re: Yay!
Date: 2011-11-25 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 04:48 am (UTC)Also: Charles is a babe. Surely he's got as many undergrad admirers as Erik - especially in the genetics department! The sciences don't get a lot of hotties. I would imagine all of the female (and some of the male) students earning degrees in biology, chemistry, physics, bioengineering, marine science... hell anyone studying anything vaguely sciency would find an excuse to slot Professor Xavier's class into their schedule!
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Date: 2011-11-14 05:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 09:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 02:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 02:23 pm (UTC)As for ditching Charles' class, I'm afraid we're all going to have to suspend our disbelief (because, yeah, there is no way I'd ditch his class-yum). Suspending disbelief should actually be a disclaimer for this fic.
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Date: 2011-11-14 08:29 am (UTC)But this was the best approach and good I just want to shake them and tell them to hug and kiss already.
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Date: 2011-11-14 02:25 pm (UTC)But, yeah, kind of important to have them on a somewhat honest footing.
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Date: 2011-11-14 09:57 am (UTC)I guess I keep waiting for a random student to great Charles as Professor Xavier while Erik is present, or for Charles to ask him about a menial subject that is strictly faculty-related. I dunno. There are just so many ways things could go right, and yet the misunderstandings continue!!
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Date: 2011-11-14 02:26 pm (UTC)As for random students, that shall feature in a "how it didn't happen" story. I've got one in the works. It would be so easy to just clear it all up, but nowhere near as fun.
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Date: 2011-11-14 05:18 pm (UTC)That would be kind of hilarious, actually. Erik is wistfully staring at Charles, angsting away, and Charles just casually says, "Can you believe faculty now has to pay for photocopies in the library? How tacky." And Erik's brain stops, only leaving enough functioning to say, "What?" "It's embarrassing," Charles says, "I'm a professor at Columbia University and I have to walk around begging students for change. Honestly. It's ten cents a page, they can't even give us that anymore?" And Erik's eyeballs nearly pop out of his head as he pieces it all together. Charles notices the crazed look on Erik's face and says, "What? Oh, you don't understand. You don't hand out exams, your students hand you term papers. You're not digging in the couch cushions trying to find enough change to make 150 copies of your midterm to hand out to Genetics 101."
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Date: 2011-11-14 11:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 05:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-14 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-15 01:45 am (UTC)Great job, as always... seriously, as a biophysics major, is there somewhere I can send an official letter of complaint? Because I promise you, none of my profs look like that. My girlfriend maintains everyone attractive takes philosophy. ;)
Also, if he has a bio degree (expensive private school aside) he totally speaks Latin! And, oh, God, my brain just went somewhere dangerous that involved sexually explicit poetry featuring enzymes.
Like gyrase, you
unwind
my tension
and leave
me open
to interpretation.... Okay, okay, stopping now! XD
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Date: 2011-11-15 02:46 am (UTC)Oddly enough, the most attractive prof I had during my university career was a pure math prof. Go figure, huh?
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Date: 2011-11-15 02:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-15 02:47 am (UTC)