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schmericaThis is totally not either my Yuletide OR my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
secret_mutant story, which are what I should have been spending my afternoon working on. I ... have no excuses, actually. But, hey! Here! Have some fic! :D?
My Push and My Shove
by Pearl-o
X-men: First Class. Charles/Erik, PGish, ~1000 words.
Summary: Snapshots from a marriage, the first twenty five years (1962-1987).
*****
1963
Erik wakes up from a nightmare, completely still, completely silent. His first instinct is still to attack, to lash out - but there's nothing here, it's all in his head, it's not--
"Concentrate," Charles says from beside him, his voice soft, groggy and still half-asleep. "Concentrate, Erik."
Erik takes a deep breath. Westchester; Charles's bedroom, his bed. Their bed. He goes through the room, feeling each piece of metal in turn: the brass lamp on the nightstand, alarm clock, watch, bed frame, door handle, mirror frame, Charles's wheelchair across the room. Everything familiar and in its place.
"That's a good man," Charles murmurs, yawning. "Good man." He reaches over, pats his hand once against Erik's chest and then leaves it there. "Back to sleep, now."
Erik closes his eyes.
1969
"Absolutely not," Erik says, and Charles shakes his head, but Erik doesn't let him interrupt. "They're infants, Charles, we're not equipped for that. This is no place for a baby. Do you know how much care they need--"
"Of course I do," Charles says. "That's exactly why we need to take them in, don't you see? Can you imagine how they would survive in an orphanage, or a foster home? This is why I wanted to create this place in the first place."
"It's a school, not a nursery," Erik says, frustrated.
"It's a refuge," Charles says flatly. "Not only a training ground."
Erik wants to punch something, but he doesn't.
"We can protect these children," Charles says, more softly. "We can. It won't be like that, Erik."
"Don't," Erik says, before Charles can say anything else. They both know the image in Erik's mind that he carries of Anya's chubby baby fists and faltering steps; Erik can't stand the thought of a word of it being said out loud.
After a moment, Erik says, "Do what you want, Charles. You always do."
"That's unfair."
"I don't give a shit about fairness."
Charles almost smiles at that. "I know you don't, my love. I know."
1974
It's the Fourth of July: the fireworks display is, as always, completely glorious. The entire school is out on the front lawn, sitting on blankets and staring up at the sky. Erik and Charles are in the back of the crowd, where they can see everyone and keep track of the children. There's nothing happening, though, and Charles is enjoying the display himself, his eyes bright like a child. Erik stands beside his chair and watches Charles's face instead of the explosions.
After a moment he takes Charles's hand and raises it up to his lips, pressing a dry kiss to the skin there.
Charles squeezes his hand around Erik's. Do you know, that is the first time you've kissed me in front of others.
Surely not, Erik thinks, but as he runs through his mind he cannot think of a counter-example.
It's not shame or secrecy he sends to Charles. He's never set out to hide what he and Charles have. He long ago ceased to be anything but proud of what he is. Just ... privacy.
I know the difference, Charles says, and the emotion he sends is uncomplicated and bright.
1980
Erik's Spanish is rustier than it once was, but it's still tolerable - and after all, there's not much he needs to say here at this resort. More towels. More wine. Don't disturb. Charles could do it out of his phrasebook, if Erik were to let him.
There's a phone in the main building here, but not their cabin. Erik didn't give the phone number to anybody from the school. If there's an emergency, they'd be able to reach Charles anyway, even all the way out here. Anything less than that, he won't have him bothered with. It's the first vacation Charles has had since Erik can remember; it's going to be a true one.
He sits in a chair by the edge of the pool. He'd brought out a book, intending to read, but now that he's out here, he finds he's more interested in watching Charles swim, lap after lap around the pool, slicing through the clear blue water.
Charles doesn't acknowledge him with words or looks, but Erik can feel the low thrumming awareness Charles is feeling, Erik's appreciation of his strength and form reflecting back and forth between them like a series of mirrors.
1987
Erik wakes up every morning just before dawn. The dog at the foot of the bed wakes up as he puts on his sweatpants and running shoes. They are almost always the only two conscious in the entire house as Erik walks through the halls, checking for any disturbances, anything out of the ordinary, although on occasion he'll find one of the children, unable to asleep. But usually there's nothing: everything and everyone in their place.
He lets himself and the dog out of the house just as the sun begins to rise. The air is still chill, the ground wet with dew; sometimes fog hangs in front of him as he runs his favorite three mile course around the property. It's the best part of the day, peaceful, silent but for the sound of his own breath, his soles flapping against the ground, the huffy breaths of the beast beside him.
A new day. Another day. By the time he's finished the run, he's readied himself for it. The day has started in truth, the faint bustlings that will only grow louder and rowdier as the hours pass.
"Good morning, Mr. Lehnsherr," the most earlybird of the children say around mouthfuls of cereal, as he passes through the kitchen.
"Good morning," Erik says, giving them a nod, and he prepares Charles's tea and takes it with him, back up to their bedroom.
secret_mutant story, which are what I should have been spending my afternoon working on. I ... have no excuses, actually. But, hey! Here! Have some fic! :D?My Push and My Shove
by Pearl-o
X-men: First Class. Charles/Erik, PGish, ~1000 words.
Summary: Snapshots from a marriage, the first twenty five years (1962-1987).
*****
1963
Erik wakes up from a nightmare, completely still, completely silent. His first instinct is still to attack, to lash out - but there's nothing here, it's all in his head, it's not--
"Concentrate," Charles says from beside him, his voice soft, groggy and still half-asleep. "Concentrate, Erik."
Erik takes a deep breath. Westchester; Charles's bedroom, his bed. Their bed. He goes through the room, feeling each piece of metal in turn: the brass lamp on the nightstand, alarm clock, watch, bed frame, door handle, mirror frame, Charles's wheelchair across the room. Everything familiar and in its place.
"That's a good man," Charles murmurs, yawning. "Good man." He reaches over, pats his hand once against Erik's chest and then leaves it there. "Back to sleep, now."
Erik closes his eyes.
1969
"Absolutely not," Erik says, and Charles shakes his head, but Erik doesn't let him interrupt. "They're infants, Charles, we're not equipped for that. This is no place for a baby. Do you know how much care they need--"
"Of course I do," Charles says. "That's exactly why we need to take them in, don't you see? Can you imagine how they would survive in an orphanage, or a foster home? This is why I wanted to create this place in the first place."
"It's a school, not a nursery," Erik says, frustrated.
"It's a refuge," Charles says flatly. "Not only a training ground."
Erik wants to punch something, but he doesn't.
"We can protect these children," Charles says, more softly. "We can. It won't be like that, Erik."
"Don't," Erik says, before Charles can say anything else. They both know the image in Erik's mind that he carries of Anya's chubby baby fists and faltering steps; Erik can't stand the thought of a word of it being said out loud.
After a moment, Erik says, "Do what you want, Charles. You always do."
"That's unfair."
"I don't give a shit about fairness."
Charles almost smiles at that. "I know you don't, my love. I know."
1974
It's the Fourth of July: the fireworks display is, as always, completely glorious. The entire school is out on the front lawn, sitting on blankets and staring up at the sky. Erik and Charles are in the back of the crowd, where they can see everyone and keep track of the children. There's nothing happening, though, and Charles is enjoying the display himself, his eyes bright like a child. Erik stands beside his chair and watches Charles's face instead of the explosions.
After a moment he takes Charles's hand and raises it up to his lips, pressing a dry kiss to the skin there.
Charles squeezes his hand around Erik's. Do you know, that is the first time you've kissed me in front of others.
Surely not, Erik thinks, but as he runs through his mind he cannot think of a counter-example.
It's not shame or secrecy he sends to Charles. He's never set out to hide what he and Charles have. He long ago ceased to be anything but proud of what he is. Just ... privacy.
I know the difference, Charles says, and the emotion he sends is uncomplicated and bright.
1980
Erik's Spanish is rustier than it once was, but it's still tolerable - and after all, there's not much he needs to say here at this resort. More towels. More wine. Don't disturb. Charles could do it out of his phrasebook, if Erik were to let him.
There's a phone in the main building here, but not their cabin. Erik didn't give the phone number to anybody from the school. If there's an emergency, they'd be able to reach Charles anyway, even all the way out here. Anything less than that, he won't have him bothered with. It's the first vacation Charles has had since Erik can remember; it's going to be a true one.
He sits in a chair by the edge of the pool. He'd brought out a book, intending to read, but now that he's out here, he finds he's more interested in watching Charles swim, lap after lap around the pool, slicing through the clear blue water.
Charles doesn't acknowledge him with words or looks, but Erik can feel the low thrumming awareness Charles is feeling, Erik's appreciation of his strength and form reflecting back and forth between them like a series of mirrors.
1987
Erik wakes up every morning just before dawn. The dog at the foot of the bed wakes up as he puts on his sweatpants and running shoes. They are almost always the only two conscious in the entire house as Erik walks through the halls, checking for any disturbances, anything out of the ordinary, although on occasion he'll find one of the children, unable to asleep. But usually there's nothing: everything and everyone in their place.
He lets himself and the dog out of the house just as the sun begins to rise. The air is still chill, the ground wet with dew; sometimes fog hangs in front of him as he runs his favorite three mile course around the property. It's the best part of the day, peaceful, silent but for the sound of his own breath, his soles flapping against the ground, the huffy breaths of the beast beside him.
A new day. Another day. By the time he's finished the run, he's readied himself for it. The day has started in truth, the faint bustlings that will only grow louder and rowdier as the hours pass.
"Good morning, Mr. Lehnsherr," the most earlybird of the children say around mouthfuls of cereal, as he passes through the kitchen.
"Good morning," Erik says, giving them a nod, and he prepares Charles's tea and takes it with him, back up to their bedroom.
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10/12/11 01:41 (UTC)(no subject)
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