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Chapter Text

Erik’s fist slams into Charles’ face like an iron bar.

Stunned, but somehow managing to stay on his feet, Charles raises a hand to his jaw.

“Ow,” he says, and then, plaintively, “That’s not fair, I wasn’t ready!”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says sardonically. “Was I supposed to warn you? Perhaps I should have called and left a message first?”

“Good god, you’re worse than Raven,” Charles says, because his jaw really hurts. “And at least she never hits me when I’m not expecting it.”

“It’s like chess, Charles,” Erik says impatiently. “You should always be several moves ahead of your opponent. You’re good with a weapon,” he adds fairly, and Charles brightens, only to be brought down to earth again when Erik continues with, “but you suck at hand-to-hand.”

“Thank you for that,” Charles says sourly. “I’d gone almost an entire hour without being insulted. I was starting to feel good about myself, but you just –”

“I’m not trying to insult you, Charles, I’m just trying to make you aware –”

“Alright, alright,” Charles interrupts, because this can, and will, go on for hours if he lets it. “I get it. There are myriad ways I could meet an untimely death and I should be prepared for as many as I can. Fine. But has it occurred to you, Erik,” Charles says, allowing himself what even he will admit is an annoyingly smug grin, “that this was all just a ruse, to lure you into a false sense of security?”

And then he kicks Erik in the stomach so hard Erik is knocked off his feet.

Charles watches with not a little satisfaction as Erik rolls over onto all-fours, coughing and clutching his torso and swearing loudly.

“Huh,” Charles says thoughtfully, and with some surprise. “I enjoyed that more than I thought I would.”

“You –” Erik starts, getting to his feet. “But you –” He’s very nearly speechless. It’s oddly gratifying.

“You see,” Charles says lightly, “people tend to make certain assumptions about me when they meet me for the first time. I don’t blame them, of course, or you,” he says cheerfully, shooting Erik a quick smile. “I’m well aware that I’m not what people imagine when they hear the word ‘assassin’. The fun part is teaching them that appearances can be so very deceiving and, often, quite fatal.” Charles pauses for a second, head tilted in thought, and then adds, “Well, that and I’m just really lazy.”

Erik stares at him for a few moments and then says, wonderingly, “How did I ever think you were nice?” Charles is fairly certain it’s meant as a compliment.

“I have no idea, and I’m positive I never –”

The rest of Charles’ words are lost as Erik lunges at him. Charles manages to twist out of the way just in time and lashes out with a right hook that is only partly pre-meditated and catches Erik’s jaw. Erik’s head snaps back and Charles winces in sympathy.

There’s a short silence; Erik reaches up to where there’s a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. He wipes at it vaguely and stares at the bright crimson smear on his fingers. Charles has the weirdest feeling that apologising now would be extremely unwise, so he says nothing and just stands there, fists still raised defensively.

And then Erik grins at him, blood coating his teeth, and says, “Good.”

Oh, fuck, Charles thinks frantically, as Erik tackles him to the ground, and the next few minutes are a confusing tangle of limbs and fists and pain, god, so much pain. Erik tries to grab him by the hair; Charles retaliates with an elbow to Erik’s stomach. When Charles manages to flip them and stagger away to get his bearings, Erik trips him, and laughs when Charles face-plants into the mat.

(“I hate you,” Charles says, voice muffled. “I fucking hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Erik says, smug amusement colouring his voice. Then, when Charles springs up and rushes him, his shoulder driving into Erik’s chest and taking them both down again, he gasps, “Okay, maybe a little bit.”

“Hate,” Charles insists, and knees him in the crotch).

Eventually, after much scuffling and bruises and one or two impromptu bites (“Charles, that’s cheating,” Erik says, sounding positively thrilled, and then gets his own back by getting Charles in a headlock and refusing to let go), Charles somehow finds himself pinning Erik face-first to the floor, Erik’s wrists clutched in one of his hands and held tightly at the small of Erik’s back.

Panting, Charles leans forward slightly. “How was that?” he asks, surprised and slightly dizzy. He probably shouldn’t have tried to head-butt Erik, but it was that or get punched in the face again, and Charles’ vanity had refused to go down that road a second time.

“Well,” Erik says, turning his head so he can look at Charles out the corner of his eye. “That didn’t completely suck.”

Charles blinks. “Oh, fuck you,” he retorts. Really, the least Erik could do is admit when he’s –

“I think you’d like to,” Erik says, far too calmly for a man who’s just had his arse thoroughly kicked, and –

- wait. What?

It’s only then that Charles realises he’s hard and gently rocking his hips against Erik for the friction. Well. That’s mildly embarrassing.

“I –” he starts to protest, and then thinks about it, really thinks about it, and shuts up.

They haven’t actually tried it that way yet, not because either of them has issues about it – considering the plethora of other issues they have, this comes as something of a shock to them both – but because Charles has just enjoyed being fucked into the mattress (and the floor, and the wall, and the kitchen table …) every night, and Erik had presumably enjoyed being the one doing the fucking.

But he thinks about it now, in glorious detail – of being buried deep in Erik, all that tight heat surrounding his cock, of Erik gasping out his name and being completely undone as Charles pushes into him. Of doing that, and more, with Erik, who is one of the few people that Charles completely trusts and who has the kind of faith in him that no one besides Raven has ever had in Charles …

He swallows hard. “I think you might be right,” he says weakly.

“Really,” Erik snorts, and shuffles around under Charles until he’s lying on his back. Charles bites his lip as he releases Erik’s wrists, and tries very hard not to press Erik into the floor and just rub off on him there and then. “You don’t sound very sure.” He places both hands behind his head and smirks up at Charles, the very picture of self-satisfied arrogance, and Charles wants to do so many filthy things to him he can’t decide which to do first.

“Bastard,” he mutters. Erik laughs and slides one hand along the inside of Charles’ thigh. “Mmph. Oh, you bastard,” he breathes as Erik cups him through the front of his sweatpants.

“So I’ve been told,” Erik agrees blithely. “It’s worked out well for me, don’t you think?”

Charles draws in a breath as Erik lightly walks his fingers over the hard outline of his cock. “I’m not sure how you expect me to answer that question when you keep doing –” Erik twists his fingers a certain way and Charles’ words descend into a whimper “- that,” he finishes hoarsely. Charles is almost positive he shouldn’t be this close to an orgasm after they’ve essentially beat the hell out of each other.

“Well, I’ll make it easy for you, then,” Erik says, in that dangerously soft voice that makes Charles think of those knives Erik favours so much – sharply seductive but capable of tearing a man to pieces in no short order. The comparison makes Charles shiver. “Do you want to fuck me: yes or no?”

In answer, Charles slowly stretches out along Erik’s body. He curls one hand into the fabric of Erik’s t-shirt and the other around Erik’s neck, and pushes their hips together, not at all surprised to find Erik is just as hard as he is.

“I think that’s definitely a yes, don’t you?” he whispers hotly in Erik’s ear, and feels a little glow of satisfaction when Erik inhales sharply and turns his head to devour Charles’ mouth with his own.

Charles lets this go on for a few minutes, distracted by the prickle of Erik’s stubble and the way his hands dwarf the curve of Charles’ hips, and then he tears himself away and climbs to his feet. As he attempts to straighten his clothes - so he doesn’t look too much like he’s about to have incredible, athletic sex, just in case Raven happens to catch them on the way from the gym to the bed room – he glances down to find Erik staring at him, incredulous and slightly betrayed.

Grinning, Charles offers him a hand up. “Just remember,” he says. “You’re not the only bastard in this relationship.”

“Duly noted,” Erik says dryly, and gets to his feet.

 

 

***

 

 

He practically drags Charles through the mansion by the hand, muttering “- utter cocktease, I swear to god, you’re gonna regret it, I’m going to rock your world –” which should sound ridiculous, Charles knows, except for how it’s kind of stupidly arousing instead.

Although … “You sound like Raven,” Charles comments mildly.

Erik glances back at him, before barging through a side door and pulling Charles after him. “Well, if you’re determined to spend so much time at that godforsaken university lab of yours,” he says, coming to a set of stairs and taking them two at a time, “you have to be prepared for the consequences. Mystique and I,” he adds loftily, and Charles wonders for the hundredth time why Erik doesn’t just call her Raven, “have bonded.”

“Really?” Charles asks, amused and, it has to be said, intrigued.

“Hell yeah. We’re BFFs now, didn’t you know?” says another voice.

Erik and Charles come to a halt just twenty feet from Charles’ bedroom and turn to see Raven behind them at the end of the hall.

“We do each other’s hair and watch bad rom-coms together,” Raven goes on, smirking.

“We don’t,” Erik tells Charles immediately. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that, Erik,” Raven says, mock-disappointed. “We shared something special, I don’t know why you have to be so –”

“Please stop talking,” Erik begs her, while Charles laughs so hard he has to cling to Erik’s shoulder to keep himself standing.

“Okay, okay,” Raven says, lifting her hands in surrender. “Someone clearly can’t handle being in touch with his feminine side.”

“Oh, don’t you even –” Erik starts to argue, and though Charles is kind of reluctant to interrupt them – they look like they’re having enormous amounts of fun – for the sake of Charles’ sanity (not to mention his sex life) he has to stop them now, or this will go on all night.

“Alright, children,” he says over their voices, and then smiles as they both glare at him. “Don’t make me send you to your rooms.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Raven mutters. Then a wicked grin curves her mouth as she says, “Hey, Erik, does that make you the mo –”

“Finish that sentence and I will kill you,” Erik says, baring his teeth.

“Aaand that’s enough of that,” Charles intervenes, eager to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. “Raven, dear, was there something you wanted? Only Erik and I have, ah, things to do and –”

Still snickering, Raven says, “Nah, it was just –” She stops mid-sentence and stares at them like she’s seeing them for the first time. “Wait, why are you covered in bruises?”

“We were – sparring,” Charles says quickly. He feels Erik’s hand twitch uncomfortably in his. Raven’s gaze zeroes in on the action and realisation dawns.

“Oh my – you two were just about to – and you let me stand here and –” She breaks off and stares at them for so long that Charles starts to get edgy.

“What?” he says, slightly defensively.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” Raven shakes her head suddenly, as though to dislodge whatever she’s thinking. “It’s just slightly disturbing to realise that kicking the crap out of each other is foreplay for you two.”

Charles can feel his face go bright red and has the urge to go bang his head off the nearest wall. Erik mutters, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath and palms his face with his free hand, and Raven looks at them like she can’t decide whether this is hilarious or excruciatingly embarrassing.

Apparently opting for the latter she says, carefully, “I just wanted to talk to you about this whole ‘someone’s out to kill you’ thing. I’ve been on a job the past few days, I haven’t had chance to tell you what I know, so –”

“Alright, well, why don’t you –”

“Look, I’ll just tell you now, and then you guys can go do – whatever it is you do, I’m not judging,” Raven adds quickly, with a shadow of a grin. “Seriously, whatever you’re into, it’s none of my business –”

“Would you be terribly upset if I jumped out the nearest window?” Erik says to Charles in mortification.

“We’re on the second floor, it would only maim you,” Charles says. “Although it’d still be much less painful than having this conversation.”

Raven lets out a snort of laughter. “Assholes,” she says affectionately. “If you weren’t so fucking adorable, the pair of you, I’d kick you in the balls for that. Anyway,” she goes on, apparently done with what, were this anyone else, would be considered sentiment, “do you want to know who this jerk-off is, or what?”

“Do tell,” Charles says, trying to muster up enough interest. It’s not that finding out who and why someone has it out for him and Erik isn’t important; it is, it’s very important, Charles is getting sick of being stuck in the mansion every night. It’s just that when he weighs the knowledge against sex with Erik … well. Sex wins every time, obviously, he’s not dead.

“Okay,” Raven starts, and then goes into a long-winded explanation of how she managed to get their would-be assailant’s name, because it wasn’t easy, you know, she had to go through at least half of her contacts, then she tried MacTaggert, (“- because she’s Police Commissioner, I mean, if she doesn’t know something she’s doing it wrong, right?”), even going to the Black Widow, (“- that lady scares the shit out of me, I don’t mind saying –”), before finally going to the White Queen (“- and that was a treat, let me tell you, she’s still pissed at Erik by the way, I know, I know, quelle surprise, but –”) …

And so on.

Ten minutes later and she’s showing no sign of getting to the damn point already. Charles glances at Erik, whose face has completely glazed over, and sighs (in his head, where Raven can’t hear him).

“Raven,” he tries, raising a finger.

“- nobody seems to know a damn thing about the guy, the most I could get was his name and the fact that he’s a humongous douchebag, which, yeah, I figured –”

“Raven,” Charles says, a little bit louder.

“- what kind of asshole just goes around trying to kill off people he doesn’t know – uh, besides us, obviously, probably should’ve thought that one through before I said it –”

“Oh, for – Raven!” Charles shouts.

“What?” she shouts back, annoyed at him interrupting her flow.

“Will you just tell us the man’s bloody name?” Charles snaps, fed up.

“I was getting to that, jeez,” Raven replies haughtily, giving him the evil eye. When Charles just looks at her pointedly, she sighs and adds, “Shaw, his name is Shaw.”

“What,” Erik says flatly.

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” Charles says breezily, not taking any real notice.

“Sebastian Shaw?” Erik asks, suddenly tense.

“Yeah,” Raven frowns. “Wait – do you know this guy?” She looks disgruntled, probably irritated that all her research was for nothing, Charles thinks, amused.

A second later, and the humour drains out of him – because Erik rips his hand out of Charles’ and takes off up the hall to the room that has been his since he walked into the mansion.

Charles and Raven stare at each other, stunned.

“What in the hell was that?” Raven says into the silence.

 

 

***

 

 

Charles goes after him, of course, and it’s only partly out of curiosity. Erik says so little about his past, after all; it’s hard not to wonder what secrets he’s keeping, although Charles would never ask outright.

Erik is standing in the middle of the room, head bowed and shoulders so tense they’re hunched up under his ears. When Charles slowly approaches him – feeling like it’s a terrible idea but, as always, not letting that stop him – he sees that Erik is clutching a small, wood-handled knife in his hands. It looks wholly unremarkable, not like the razor-sharp Bowie knife Erik uses most often, the one that sits in his hand like a natural extension of his arm, so Charles can’t even begin to guess why Erik is holding it with a strange sort of reverence.

“Erik,” he says softly. “What –”

But Erik interrupts him. “Charles,” he says, and it would be pleasant if not for the way Erik’s knuckles whiten around the knife handle. “I realise this concept may be unfamiliar to you, but I am not in the mood to talk.”

Charles recoils at this; the last word is spat out with such disgust that it’s like a physical blow. “Oh,” he says quietly.

Erik looks at him sharply. He’s furious, Charles sees, getting more than the constant aura of suppressed rage that surrounds Erik even when he’s doing completely innocuous things – taking a shower, for example, or reading. Hell, Charles has even seen him attack a slice of toast like it had done him a great personal wrong before. But this … this is more than that, and Charles feels perfectly justified in his worry.

“Stop staring at me like you’re trying to read my mind, Charles,” Erik snaps at him, after a few minutes. “I’m not in the mood for your mind games, either.”

“Fine,” Charles says coolly, starting to get angry himself. He turns on his heel, ready to leave, when Erik sighs and grabs his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He suddenly sounds exhausted, and Charles instantly forgives him. “I just – I’d like some time alone. Okay?” he adds cautiously, like Charles might refuse. (He won’t).

Charles reaches up to where Erik’s hand is curled around his elbow and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Of course,” he says immediately. “I’ll be in the east wing study if you need me.”

Erik nods as he lets go of Charles’ arm, and when Charles glances back, he’s gone back to staring at the knife again.

 

 

***

 

 

An hour later finds him playing a half-hearted game of chess with Raven, who took one look at his face after he’d spoken to Erik and suggested it (out of pity, she tells him, but Charles recognises it for the gesture of solidarity it’s meant to be). Two hours later and he’s pacing the study floor restlessly in between moves.

At three hours, Raven throws a rook at his head. “Just go talk to him, for Christ’s sake,” she says exasperatedly. “Seriously, if you’re not in his room preparing to fuck him blind within the next ten minutes, I’ll go in there and do it myself.”

Charles stares at her. She makes a move to get up, and he hurries to the door.

The thing with Raven is, she might actually do it.

 

 

***

 

 

Erik’s room is empty when Charles gets there.

It feels like it’s been empty for some time, and the few personal belongings Erik had brought with him – the knife, a German coin, about a dozen turtlenecks, all black – are gone.

Charles stands in the doorway for a long time, and then he turns and goes into his own room.

Chapter Text

“There’s a contract out on some doctor who’s been murdering her patients.”

“No.”

“How about this one – some CEO of some insurance company on Wall Street? Hmm, quite a few people want him dead, you should take it.”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, maybe this – a guy ran over a six-year-old girl and got away on a technicality. You love those ones. Vigilante justice? It’s practically your calling card, Charles –”

“I really don’t think so.”

Raven throws up her hands in frustration. “Well, then, I don’t know what the hell you want!” she snaps at him. “But you can’t keep sitting here moping – yeah,” she adds, when Charles looks up at her “- moping, don’t even try to pull that wounded shit on me, it won’t work.”

“Look, I didn’t ask you to –” Charles starts hotly.

“No, you didn’t,” Raven says flatly. “You just sat there and stared at nothing, just like you’ve done since Erik left. I’ve known you for a long time, Charles, and I love you,” she says, sounding defeated now. “But I didn’t sign up to sit and watch you self-destruct over some asshole who can’t even be bothered to call you!”

Open-mouthed, Charles stares at her. Raven has a notoriously short temper, and is known in the assassin business for her creative, vitriolic tirades now and then, and she’ll occasionally snap at him when she thinks he’s being particularly obnoxious, but he can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’s gotten really, truly furious at him. The fact that most of it is on his behalf just makes it worse, really.

He reaches a hand out to her and tugs her gently onto the sofa with him. She sighs but goes willingly, curling into his side the way she has done since they met, as two lonely, disaffected children, each with a whole heap of resentment towards their respective families.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says quietly, into her hair. It’s an endearment he doesn’t use often, because Raven usually thumps him on the arm and calls him a sentimental old fart (and yes, those are her exact words). “I’m just finding it difficult to –”

“Care about basic hygiene?” Raven says, pointedly pulling at the shirt that Charles is a little bit ashamed to realise he can’t remember changing into. “Or your day job? The university’s been calling for the past three days, you know. I told them you had bird flu, but I’m pretty sure they know I’m lying.”

Charles laughs slightly at this. It’s the first time he’s laughed since … well. Yes.

“Thank you,” he says fondly. “I’ll make sure to cough on everyone when I get back, just to reinforce your story.”

“So you are going back?” Raven asks, in a quiet voice.

Charles sighs at this. “Of course I am, I was always going to go back, Raven, I just …” He trails off, unable to articulate exactly what he just.

There’s a pause while Raven digests this. “You know,” she says eventually, sounding thoughtful. “There’s a solution to all this.”

“All this being …?”

Raven leans back slightly to fix him with a look that says she thinks he’s being more of an idiot than usual. Charles waits her out patiently; he knows better than to take offence.

“This whole teenage angstfest with you and Erik, what did you think I meant?” she says, rolling her eyes. “’Cause frankly, sweetie, seeing you pine after the guy is just pathetic, and if I’m any judge of character – which I am, I’m an excellent judge, don’t you even try to deny it, Charles Xavier – Erik is probably as miserable as you are right now.”

“Raven, don’t –” Charles says, all amusement gone.

“What, you don’t think he’s just as in love with you as you are with him?” Raven demands, poking him in the arm repeatedly.

Charles shakes her off, irritated. “I think,” he says sharply, “that it’s pointless to speculate on things I haven’t a hope of ever knowing.” He stands up and runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the ends a little bit in frustration. “Thank you for your help,” he says, trying to sound sincere and missing by about a mile. “But I’m going to call the university and let them know I’ll be back on Monday, and then I think I’ll take a look at those contracts you kindly collected for me.”

And then, he thinks to himself, as he walks out of the room, Raven’s crestfallen expression following him all the way to the study. Then maybe I’ll forget about Erik bloody Lehnsherr.

 

 

***

 

 

Raven, however, makes this impossible.

She seems to have made it her mission in life to make sure Charles never forgets the name of Erik Lehnsherr, and spends a great deal of time and energy trying to get Charles to talk about him. Charles refuses each time, telling her that he’s not interested in dredging up unpleasant memories. At this point, Raven’s face falls, and Charles sort of hates himself a little for doing that to her, but she just won’t shut up about Erik and it gets a little more painful every time he lets himself think about the man, so his regret is temporary.

“You can’t just leave things like this between you two,” Raven says one night, about a week after Erik’s departure. “At the very least, you deserve an explanation for this bullshit, Charles. Why don’t you just –”

“This is the last time I’m going to say this, Raven, so listen very closely,” Charles says, with forced patience. “Whatever happened between me and Erik was over the minute he walked out the door without saying a word to anyone. And moreover,” he adds coldly, “it is none of your damn business, so I would appreciate it if you –”

“I realise,” Raven interrupts, in a voice that makes Charles wish he’d just shut his mouth and let her keep badgering him, “that this is a difficult time for you, so when you say shit like that, I’m happy to cut you some slack. But if you think for one second that this has nothing to do with me – when you brought the guy into our home, our home, Charles, and more importantly, when it’s affecting you so much you can’t even function – then you’re a fucking moron!”

After that, they descend into an argument that ends with Raven storming out of the mansion, screaming, “Fine! Rot in your own self-fucking-pity, Charles, see if I give a rat’s ass!” on the way out, and with Charles completely demolishing another study and yelling expletives until his throat is ripped to shreds and he can’t speak.

 

 

***

 

 

Moira turns up the next evening.

Charles answers the door, bleary-eyed and hungover, and groans, “Did Raven put you up to this?”

Moira looks bewildered. “What – Raven? No,” she says, frowning, and then, “Jesus, Charles, you look like hell.”

“As always, your powers of observation never fail to impress, Commissioner,” Charles says bitterly, and stands back as she invites herself in.

“Wow, sarcasm. Nice,” Moira says, eyebrows raised. She leads the way to the nearest room, which happens to be the study, and which Charles hasn’t got around to clearing up yet. She stops in the doorway in shock, while Charles lurks behind her, half desperate for a drink and yet certain the smell of alcohol will make him throw up.

“What the fuck,” Moira says, turning around and glaring at him, hands on her hips, “happened in here?”

Next to Raven – and Erik, before he left, the traitorous bastard – Moira is Charles’ closest friend. They met when Moira had just taken the office of Police Commissioner and Charles was just starting his professorial career, at some charity function that Charles doesn’t remember and clearly didn’t care about at the time, either, because he left early. Moira had caught him on the way out, and stunned Charles into silence (never an easy feat) by using his assassin name.

“I need someone with your particular skills on my payroll, Professor,” she’d said, smiling serenely at his dumbstruck expression. “And I’m not talking about your brilliance with a microscope and DNA.”

To this day, Charles still doesn’t know why he accepted her offer; before that night he’d been freelance, as it were, and with every intention of retiring from the assassin game altogether and placing his focus on teaching. But he had, and every now and then, he gets a visit from her, (off the record, of course), and she quietly and in a way that allows her full plausible deniability later on, gives him the names of people she wants ‘out of the picture’.

So when she demands answers, Charles thinks nothing of leading her to a different room – one where the seats actually have, well, seats, and where the windows aren’t letting in the cool, crisp air – forcing down a mouthful of scotch and blurting out the entire story, gory details and all.

Moira says nothing for a few minutes after Charles finishes speaking. Then she grabs his glass off him, downs the remaining dregs of alcohol, kicks off her ridiculously high shoes and puts her feet up.

“Okay,” she begins, shifting until she’s comfortable. “I’ll get to the whole Erik thing later – oh yes,” she says, smirking at Charles’ pained expression, “we’re absolutely going to talk about that, don’t you worry. But first things first: Charles, you’re an idiot.”

Charles makes a noise of protest but she waves him down. “You treated Raven like crap, Charles,” she says seriously. “No, really. I mean, this girl is closer than a sister to you, right? And you treated her like her opinion wasn’t worth jack to you.”

“But – I didn’t –” Charles says helplessly, but Moira just steamrollers over his stuttering objections and says, “No, I know you didn’t mean to, of course you didn’t. If you had, she’d probably have stabbed you in your sleep by now, which is a real comfort to you, I’m sure. But look, you need to go find Raven and apologise as soon as possible – not now,” she says, wrinkling her nose as he gets out of his seat. “You’re drunk, and if she’s anything like me, Raven will be too, and that would just not go well for anyone. Tomorrow, maybe, she might want to speak to you then.”

Charles can’t think of anything to say to this, so he stares at his hands and lets the silence hang in the air.

“Of course, you deserve an apology as well,” Moira says, which is so unexpected that Charles looks up and blinks at her. “Don’t look so surprised, I don’t always side with Raven, you know.”

This is so patently untrue that Charles scoffs a little.

Moira smiles. “Alright, maybe I do, but that’s mostly because she’s usually right. This time, however …” She shrugs. “She should have respected your decision not to talk about whatever happened with Erik. And she didn’t, so …

“Speaking of which – Erik.” She pauses to stretch out her legs. “Or Magneto, I should say, I know how paranoid you guys get about your real identities.”

Erik and Moira had met exactly once, and Charles had resolved to never let them meet a second time – they’d spent the entire time sniping at one another, and it had taken all of Charles’ British reserve to stop them stabbing each other over the tea and biscuits. In light of this, Charles is sort of morbidly curious about what Moira might have to say about the situation.

“Well, Raven’s right about that, too, actually,” Moira says after a pause. “You do deserve an explanation from him. But you’re not going to get one sitting here, taking it out on Raven and your home, Charles,” she says, eyeing him disapprovingly, but also with a hint of sympathy.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Charles retorts. “I have no idea where he went, or how to find him, or even someone who might be able to!”

Moira makes an impatient noise. “Really, for a genius, you’re astonishingly stupid sometimes, Xavier,” she tells him. “You’re an assassin, aren’t you? Don’t you have, like, contacts or something to help you look for people whose lives depend on not being found? Jesus, it’s not rocket science.”

“No, it’s about ten times more complicated,” Charles mutters to himself, but only so he doesn’t have to admit she’s right. Sitting here in the mansion and railing at the world isn’t going to do anything except turn him into a carbon copy of his mother: a lonely, bitter alcoholic, and Charles had promised himself years ago that that wasn’t going to happen to him.

He sighs. “It seems I have work to do,” he says wryly.

Moira gives him a bright smile and says, “That’s the spirit, hon.”

 

 

***

 

 

He finds Raven in the bar where they celebrated Charles’ graduation, and Raven’s twenty-first birthday, and Hank’s first successfully completed contract. It’s a tiny place on a nondescript street in the centre of the city, and it was the first place Charles heard mention of Magneto, thereby kick-starting a fascination with the man that Charles considers only slightly embarrassing and Raven calls “fucking creepy, you were flat-out obsessed with the guy, Charles, don’t even lie.”

She’s sitting in one of the corner booths, a bottle in her hands and her eyes half-closed. She looks defeated, and Charles mentally kicks himself for it and walks over to her.

When she catches sight of him, Charles gives her an awkward wave and then slides onto the adjacent seat.

“Awesome,” he hears her say under her breath, and he almost smiles.

“Hello,” he says quietly instead.

“Hi,” Raven says, after staring at him through narrowed eyes for a few seconds. Then she says, “Drink?” and raises a hand to signal the barman.

“Just water, please,” Charles tells him when he comes over, and then to a surprised Raven says, “I think all those years of not getting hangovers are well behind me. Scotch is no longer my friend.”

“It was just waiting to make you its bitch,” Raven agrees, her mouth quirking at the corners. “Maybe I’ll finally be able to drink you under the table, now, yeah?”

“With the amount you can put away, it’s more likely to be an early grave,” Charles says, relaxing slightly. This is going better than he’d hoped.

A laugh bubbles out of Raven, almost as though she wasn’t expecting it. “Stop making me want to forgive you, asshole, I’m not done being mad at you,” she insists, trying to stop smiling and failing.

Charles figures this is as good a moment as any and says, “I’m so sorry, Raven. The things I said to you …”

“Oh, Charles,” Raven sighs, suddenly serious. “You can’t just leave it, can you?”

“I could, and ordinarily, I would do, but …” Charles hesitates and then plunges on. “You’re one of the most important people in my life, love, I don’t think I tell you that enough, and I treated you appallingly. By rights, you should have thrown that drink in my face when I walked in –”

“I still might if you don’t stop with this touchy-feely crap,” Raven says, trying to laugh it off, but her voice has gone oddly shaky and her eyes are brighter than usual. Charles shuffles around until he’s sitting right next to her and pulls her into a hug.

“So I’m sorry – really, absolutely, one hundred per cent sorry,” he whispers into her ear. “Your opinion matters more to me than almost anything, darling, even if I say otherwise.”

“You’re gonna make me cry, you fucker, I hate it when you do that,” Raven says, sounding distinctly sniffly.

“So I’m forgiven?”

“Oh, hell, Charles, you were forgiven the minute you did that dorky little wave,” Raven tells him, leaning back and blinking a little bit. “Seriously, what the hell was that?” She does an impression of him that, despite the buck-teeth and constipated expression, is uncannily reminiscent of Charles at his most awkward.

“And what’s with all the pet names?” she adds, nudging him in the side. “People are gonna think we’re dating or something, god.”

“You could do worse than me,” Charles says, wondering if he should be offended.

“Oh, sweetie, I have, believe me,” Raven smirks. “There was this one guy who –”

“Yes, right, no. Please, spare me the details,” Charles begs. He hates to think about Raven having sex because it’s true what Moira said, Raven is like a sister to him. She’s more like family to him than his actual family were, although admittedly, she never had much competition on that front.

“Anyway, aren’t you … involved, or whatever, with Hank and Alex?” he asks, recalling that he has yet to have a necessary but very uncomfortable conversation with the boys.

“That was ages ago, Charles, keep up.”

“Oh, excuse me, I’ve been busy, you know –”

“Yeah, busy screwing on every available surface in the mansion, don’t think I don’t know about the kitchen table, asshole, you’d better have cleaned that shit up before I –” She stops at the look on Charles face. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

Charles hitches a smile onto his face, and even manages to mean some of it. “Don’t worry about it.”

Raven watches him for a minute, and then she says, “Well no, Alex and Hank and I aren’t a thing anymore, since you ask. It was all mutual, though, so don’t go berating them or anything. It ran its course, I guess.”

“And you’re alright with that?”

“Yeah. No, really,” Raven says, smiling at the sceptical look on his face. “I don’t really do drama, and anyway, it was my idea to call it quits. I wasn’t happy with how things were, and isn’t that the whole point, being happy? They’re still together,” she adds, shrugging. “I’m glad.”

Charles has to hug her again at these words. She sighs and pretends it’s a complete inconvenience, but she hugs back just as tightly.

 

 

***

 

 

“I’m sorry too, you know,” she says later, when they’re on the way back to the mansion. “I should have let you deal with the whole Erik thing how you wanted to.”

“Well, yes,” Charles says gently. “But you were right, as well, even if you went about it the wrong way. I wasn’t – dealing with it well, I needed someone to snap me out of it. You almost did.”

“See, I am always right!” Raven says, throwing a mock-triumphant fist into the air. “You just didn’t know it.”

“You’re going to be insufferable over this, aren’t you?”

“Well, of course, I get my kicks where I can.”

They’re silent for a while as they walk up the drive, gravel crunching under their feet.

“So …” Raven says eventually, hesitant. “Any … change on the Erik front?”

Sighing, Charles opens the front door and lets her go through first. They walk past the ruined study; Raven rolls her eyes at him but says nothing about it. They walk up the stairs, preparing to go to their respective rooms, when Raven pulls him to a stop.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says softly.

“No, I know,” Charles says. He sighs again. “I haven’t seen or heard from him since that night, and I have no idea where he is. I suppose the only change is … now I want to know why.”

“Okay,” Raven says slowly. “So, what does that mean?”

“It means,” Charles says, and finds a smile from somewhere, “that we’re going to drag his arse back here and get him to explain it to us.”

After Raven jumps on him and punches him on the arm and shouts, “Fuck yeah!” into his ear a dozen times, Charles retires to bed and sleeps better than he has in days.

Chapter Text

They get started the very next day.

Raven brings in Armando, Alex and Hank because, “the more people we have looking for him, the quicker we find Erik, okay, god, you have done this before, right?”

At first it goes slowly, whether because they all have a similar group of contacts or because Erik is really just that good –

(“Imagine playing hide-and-seek with this guy,” Alex says admiringly, and everyone nods solemnly, except Charles, who puts his head in his hands and decides that this must be what going mad feels like) -

- it’s hard to say. In any case, it’s a further three days before they get anything useful, and even then it’s nothing concrete, just a name and the questionable assurance that it’s completely legitimate from one of Armando’s contacts.

“Banshee’s, uh. Kind of a pothead,” Armando says, sounding slightly apologetic. “I don’t think I’ve seen the kid not stoned out of his mind, actually. But I’ve heard he knows Magneto personally, and besides, he’s the best lead we’ve got right now.”

They all stare across the room at Banshee as they digest this slightly depressing concept. Banshee blinks back at them all, wide-eyed, and gives them a nervous wave.

“Why does he call himself Banshee?” Raven wonders out loud.

“Apparently he does this weird shriek thing when he finishes a job,” Armando sighs. “He keeps saying it’s like a battle-cry or whatever, but to be honest, I usually zone out round about then, so who the hell knows?”

Charles closes his eyes for a second, mentally praying that Erik will walk through the door right at this moment and save them the trouble of interrogating someone who clearly has no idea where he is, never mind Erik. Sadly, this doesn’t happen, so Charles opens his eyes and pulls himself together, and approaches Banshee with what he hopes is a friendly smile.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the sofa. “So, Banshee –”

“If this is about me taking that job off of Wolverine,” Banshee starts, holding his hands up, “then, look, man, I was just doing what I get paid to do, and if he doesn’t like that, then he can kiss my –”

“I don’t know any Wolverine,” Charles butts in quickly, which is technically true. He may or may not have had a one-night stand with a man who may or may not have been the aforementioned Wolverine, but Charles was horrifically drunk at the time and can’t recall any of the fine detail, although to this day he can’t look at a cigar without cringing. Raven still doesn’t know, thank god, and Charles has absolutely no plans to tell her.

“Oh,” Banshee says. This close, his eyes look glassy and red-rimmed. Then he says, “Okay, but if you’re with the White Queen, will you please, please tell her I didn’t mean that thing I said, it was just a joke!”

“What did you say to her?” Alex asks, curious.

Banshee looks up at him, grimacing at little as he says, “I might have made a crack about how her wearing white all the time was kind of misleading – but I didn’t mean it like that!” he protests, seeing the incredulous looks everybody’s giving him. “Seriously, I was just trying to break the ice, y’know? She and her goons need to lighten up some, I just thought –”

“I’m surprised she didn’t kill you there and then,” Raven says finally, mouth twisted in vague disgust. “I would have.”

“Well, I just hauled ass out of there as soon as I knew it hadn’t gone down well,” Banshee admits. “I’ve been trying to keep off her radar since then.”

“As fascinating as that story is,” Charles says dryly, “that’s not why you’re here. We’re looking for Magneto and someone mentioned you know him –”

“Holy shit, you’re the Professor, aren’t you?” Banshee blurts. “Man, I owe you big time, you don’t even know.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean,” Charles says, puzzled.

“Magneto, dude. Ever since he met you he’s been, like, a million times easier to deal with, seriously. Angel and I ripped the shit out of him a while back and he only threatened to kill us three times.” He looks around at their confused faces and adds, “No, no, you don’t get it, that’s him in a good mood. Usually he’d kick our asses – well, mine, anyway. Angel’s too good for him now, she gets to kick his ass.”

He stares up at Charles. “And it’s all because of you, dude. I’d hug you if I didn’t think Magneto would actually stab me for touching you.”

Charles can feel the others’ gazes on him and blushes, but he can’t stop the smile that unfurls across his face.

“I think I might hug you for saying that,” Raven says to Banshee, who grins.

“Go right ahead, baby, I’m all yours,” he says, holding his arms out.

“Yeah, no, on second thoughts, I’ll settle for not punching you in the face,” Raven retorts, crossing her arms.

“Sucks to be you,” Armando tells a crestfallen Banshee, patting him on the shoulder.

“Fuckin’ A,” Banshee agrees despondently. “But, wait, why are you looking for Magneto? Isn’t he here?”

“Unfortunately no,” Charles says, and even this doesn’t dim his sudden good mood. “We were rather hoping you’d be able to tell us where he might be.”

“Shit, no, I don’t even know what day it is half the time,” Banshee says cheerfully. “’Sides, Magneto wouldn’t tell me in case I came around and tried to cheat him at poker. Bastard’s a fucking card shark, I swear to god, but I’m gonna beat that son of a bitch one of these days. Angel might know, though,” he adds, seeing that he’s not quite taking his audience with him. “She’s known Magneto longest, he usually tells her where he’s going in case of emergencies.”

“And you can tell us where this Angel is?” Charles asks doubtfully, because he’s not entirely confident that this isn’t all some drug-induced delusion on Banshee’s part.

“Sure thing,” Banshee shrugs, and rattles off an address. “Tell her I sent you first, she’ll be less likely to kill you that way.”

“I’d have thought that would have made it more likely,” Alex says in an undertone to Hank, who nudges him with an elbow and hisses, “Shut up, he’ll hear you!”

Raven gives them a Look, and then turns to Charles and says, “I think I should be the one to find this Angel chick. She sounds more capable than you five put together,” she finishes dryly, gesturing to where Banshee seems to have fallen asleep, Armando is trying to stop him sliding out of his seat, and where Alex and Hank’s background bickering has devolved into a slap fight.

Charles gives her a strained grin. “I’ll stay here and make sure no one sets fire to anything –”

“Again,” they sigh simultaneously.

 

 

***

 

 

Raven returns five hours later with a pretty, dark-skinned woman in handcuffs, and a split lip and scratches on her neck. The other woman, presumably Angel, has a bloody nose and a large, purple bruise on her jaw, but that’s not the first thing Charles notices about her.

It’s the beautiful dragonfly wings tattooed across her shoulders, curling over her biceps and down her back, and they must be doing incredible things with tattoos these days, because those wings look real. They’re black lines and iridescent flashes of colour, and they look like they’re about to peel back from Angel’s skin and sweep through the air. Charles spends several seconds in stunned admiration before Angel’s voice brings him back to the matter at hand.

“What the fuck is this?” she demands, glaring around at them all. She saves a particularly poisonous look for Raven, who just smirks back humourlessly and plants herself in front of the doorway. “What the hell am I doing here – and who the fuck are you?”

This last is to Charles, who’d been about to introduce himself and everyone else, but now stops, surprised, and a little terrified. She’s ridiculously intimidating, even to Charles, who practically grew up with Raven.

He opens his mouth and then shuts it, worried that she might punch him before he gets a word out, and Raven huffs out an impatient breath and says, “Jesus Christ, she’s like five feet tall! You cannot be afraid of her.”

When Charles gives her a slightly sheepish look, she clicks her tongue in irritation and points at him. “That’s Professor X,” she explains bluntly to Angel. “And those morons trying to hide behind him are Havok, Darwin and Beast. Oh, and Banshee, but he says you two are already acquainted?”

“Banshee, you rat bastard,” Angel snarls, and Banshee visibly quails. “I didn’t tell you about my safe-house so you could go running your mouth to the rest of the world!”

“We’re looking for Magneto,” Charles jumps in, because Banshee looks about two steps away from spontaneously combusting under Angel’s fury. “He disappeared nine days ago and –”

Angel looks like this is news to her, but shrugs and says, “Yeah, and? What, you think I’m gonna tell you where he might be? Nothing doing, daddy-o, I can keep a secret, unlike some people.” She flicks another glare at Banshee.

She refuses to say another word, and Charles gets increasingly frustrated until he sees the glitter of the handcuffs around her wrists and gets an idea.

“Very well,” he says eventually. “You won’t talk to us, I can understand that. Mystique, take the handcuffs off her and let her go, please.”

Raven looks at him sharply. “Professor –” she starts urgently, but Charles shakes his head.

“I can’t force her to talk,” he says, and then, thoughtfully, “Oh, no, I tell a lie. I could make her talk, but I won’t. I’m very sorry we wasted your time,” he says to Angel, who frowns at him like she knows he’s up to something but can’t figure out what. Charles just smiles at her innocently.

“That’s – okay?” Angel says, rubbing at her wrists as Raven removes the cuffs. “Wait, what’s happening here?”

“Well, you’re leaving and we’re about to go spend another fruitless twelve hours looking for Magneto,” Charles says, sighing heavily. “It’s really a shame that you won’t help us, though, Angel. But, of course, I respect your decision to stay silent.”

“I just wish we knew what Shaw wanted him for,” Raven says, catching on.

“Shaw?” Angel echoes, and Charles is pleased to see the flicker of apprehension on her face. “Shaw’s after him? Why didn’t you say – oh. Oh, no, I see what’s going on here.” She glares at them disgustedly. “I’m being played, aren’t I? Well, fuck me. You really are as good as they say you are.”

“Look, we really need your help,” Charles tells her earnestly. “I don’t know anything about this Shaw chap, so I don’t know how much of a danger he is to Erik – er, Magneto, I mean,” he says, hurriedly trying to cover his mistake.

Angel gives him a coolly amused look. “Relax, Professor, I’ve known the man’s real name for years. It took two hours and a forty of tequila, but I got it out of him.”

“Ah,” Charles says, because he can’t think of anything else. Also, he’s a tiny bit jealous.

“I don’t think he remembers that he told me, if that makes you feel better,” Angel says, correctly guessing how he feels about this. “Seriously, give the guy a drink and he’ll tell you anything. He’s easy like that.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Raven quips.

“Thank you, that was very helpful,” Charles replies sarcastically. To Angel, he says, “So? Will you help us?”

She looks at him thoughtfully for a long moment. “I don’t have to tell you that Magneto’s a pretty capable guy. I mean, he can take care of himself, you must know that.” When Charles nods in agreement, Angel continues with, “Then I don’t understand why you think he might be in danger. Shaw sounds like a dick, sure, but I doubt he’ll give Magneto much trouble. And on top of that,” she adds, raising her voice over Charles’ efforts to speak, “he made a point of not telling you anything. For whatever reason, Magneto doesn’t want you to know what’s going on. So why should I help you?”

For a moment, Charles thinks it’s a hypothetical question, and that she’s going to walk out on them with her point firmly made. But she’s watching him expectantly, and Charles somehow instinctively knows that she won’t take anything less than the truth from him. He’s uncomfortably aware of Raven and the boys’ stares.

“For the simplest of reasons,” Charles says very quietly. “The same reason that you’re going to check his hideouts the minute you leave here: I care about Erik a ridiculous amount,” he says, with a smile and a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “And even if he tells me it’s none of my business – well, then, at least I get an answer, and no one can say I didn’t try.”

Raven puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently; Charles says nothing but puts his hand over hers and tries to project silent gratitude towards her. Angel keeps on looking at him long after he’s stopped speaking, her head on one side and a contemplative expression on her face.

Then she stands up and starts heading towards the door. Charles scrambles after her, feeling betrayed – which is stupid, because there’d been no guarantee that she’d agree to help them, even if Charles had revealed more than he’d wanted to. He’s about to shout after her, tell her to stop, or to at least consider his offer, when she comes to a halt and he almost walks into her.

“Whoa there, Professor,” she says, steadying him with a smirk. “I like you, but not that much.”

“But – you can’t just leave,” Charles says, aware that he’s this close to begging. “Please, I –”

“Slow down, Jesus, you’ll give yourself a coronary,” Angel says, almost kindly. “And I can leave whenever I want, but that doesn’t mean I’m not coming back. I just have my own shit to do tonight – I think you know what,” she says, with a smile. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and then we can get to work.”

Charles is so grateful he darts forward and hugs her, and then panics when he realises what he’s done. Surprisingly, Angel just huffs out a laugh and says, “Oh, baby, you’re adorable, Erik never mentioned that.”

“I think we’ll keep that between ourselves, then,” Charles says, pulling away quickly in case she changes her mind and punches him.

“No, I’m telling everyone,” she replies, eyes sparkling. She looks over his shoulder to where Raven and the boys are staring at them incredulously. “Well, Professor, I guess we’re a team now. I hope your boys get their voices back soon. Oh, and blondie?” she says directly to Raven. “You’ve got a mean right hook on you. I like that in a girl. You ever get bored of hanging with these cats, you give me a call, yeah?”

To Charles’ astonishment, Raven – Raven who is usually so cool and confident, and can out-flirt Charles when she wants to – actually blushes, and stammers out, “Sure, I’ll – sure,” as Angel leaves.

“Don’t you say a word,” Raven threatens as Charles starts laughing gleefully, because this is brilliant, Charles is going to hold this over her head for ever.

 

 

***

 

 

When Angel makes her reappearance the next day, Raven is the first one to greet her, with a cup of coffee and a warmer smile than most people get from her at that time of the morning.

“You never bring me coffee,” Alex complains, when Raven leads the way to the kitchen, where everyone else is gathered.

“Guess she likes me better than you,” Angel says easily, and takes a triumphant sip from her mug. Raven flushes slightly but says nothing.

“Understandable,” Banshee says, leering at her and Raven both.

“Banshee, I swear to god,” Angel says, exasperated, “you hit on me one more time and I will shove that mug up your ass, are we clear?”

“Shut up, dude,” Armando advises, as Banshee opens his mouth to reply. “It’s too early for the emergency room, and good luck finding anyone to remove whatever she shoves up there.”

“Thank you, Armando,” Charles says, pleased that at least someone can put a stop to the inevitable bickering. “So, Angel, any news on Erik?”

“Well, last night I went to the places he usually hides out,” Angel starts, and then says that there was no sign of Erik in any of them. “He’s got like a million safe-houses, though, don’t worry,” she assures him.

She’s in the middle of telling them where these safe-houses are, and they’re just starting to decide who’s going where to check them out, when there’s a knock on the door. There’s a pause while everyone sort of stares at each other, nonplussed, and then Charles sighs and says, “I’ll get it, then, don’t everybody move at once,” and goes into the hall.

It turns out to be Moira, looking unusually pale and drawn and anxious. She seizes on Charles’ offer of coffee and gulps it down like she’s dying of thirst.

“Something wrong?” Charles inquires, re-filling her mug.

“Long night,” Moira croaks. She rubs at her face tiredly. “Double homicide two blocks from the station.” She falls into the seat Charles points her to, and looks around at them all blearily. “You could help, actually. They were in the business.”

“They were assassins?” Charles asks, frowning. Moira nods. “Who?”

“Jean Gray and Scott Summers,” Moira says. “Went by the names of Phoenix and Cyclops.”

There’s an intake of breath around the table. Charles leans back against the counter, shocked. He’d worked with Phoenix once, back when she was just starting out. Charles had been in the job about five years when he met her, she’d been a natural with those SIG handguns she’d toted around, Charles had been incredibly impressed. And Cyclops, Charles thinks, wasn’t he a sniper, Alex mentioned him once when –

Oh.

Alex.

Charles’ gaze snaps over to Alex, who’s white-faced and horrified, and remembers Scott was his brother.

“Alex?” Hank says softly, touching his hand.

Alex shakes it off, gets out of his seat, and leaves the room without a word.

“Do you –” Charles starts, as Hank hesitantly goes after Alex. He swallows. “Do you have any idea who -?”

“None,” Moira says apologetically. “I was hoping you could – carry out your own investigation. I need this solving before Gray’s and Summer’s … extra-curriculars get out.”

“Of course,” Charles says immediately.

“I can take care of that,” Armando offers. “I only live a block away from where Phoenix and Cyclops were hiding out, I can gather intel and speak to any witnesses from there.”

“Do it,” Charles says, as Moira nods again. “And be careful. God only knows who could have done this.”

“No,” Moira says, throwing back the rest of her coffee. “Not God.”

 

 

***

 

 

“- all I’m saying is, there’s not a lot we can do until Armando comes back and tells us what he knows –”

“So, what, I’m supposed to just sit here and twiddle my thumbs when the guy who killed my brother runs free around the fucking city?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles sighs, feeling a pang of sympathy as he looks into Alex’s furious face. “But yes, that’s exactly what we have to do.”

“That’s bullshit,” Alex spits immediately. “Bullshit, Charles, and you know it.”

“Hey,” Raven interjects. “This isn’t easy for the rest of us, Alex, but –”

“Oh, what would you know about it?” Alex bites back scornfully. “You’re here, sitting pretty with your new girlfriend, while Scott is –” His voice breaks and he looks away.

“If you think you can do better than Armando, then go ahead,” Raven says, and Charles can see her visibly reining her temper in because even she can’t be angry at someone who’s so obviously in pain. “Otherwise it’s sit tight and hope for the best, okay?”

“Whatever,” Alex mutters, and storms out of the room.

“He’ll have gone to the gun range,” Hank says quietly, when the rest of them look at each other in varying states of despair. “It’s quiet and he gets to destroy half a dozen practice dummies while he’s down there. What’s not to like?” he adds, smiling a little sadly.

“Should someone go with him?” Charles asks him, concerned.

“Give it fifteen minutes and I’ll go,” Hank answers in a quiet voice, and then adds, apologetically, “He’d probably shoot any of you guys.”

“This is stupid,” Angel speaks up, about an hour later. “Havok – Alex, whatever – is right. We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Raven sits up from where she’d been curled up in an armchair, while Charles says, “We’re not doing nothing, we’re –”

“Sitting around waiting for Darwin to come back, like we’ve been doing for the past forty-eight hours,” Angel says flatly. “I’m sorry, Professor, I call that nothing.”

“Whoever killed Phoenix and Cyclops might be targeting other assassins,” Charles says, trying to be patient. “We can’t risk losing anyone else just because you’re bored.”

“It's not boredom,” Angel protests, “I just think we could be doing more, or, you know, something. I mean, has it occurred to you that we might not actually be targets?”

“But we don’t know that for sure,” Charles says shortly.

“Exactly,” Angel says, folding her arms. “And we’re sure as hell not going to find out by hiding out here, are we?”

“Now, look –” Charles starts impatiently, but Raven cuts him off.

“She’s right,” she says quietly. When Charles goes to object, she adds, “No, Charles, she is, and so is Alex. All of us are just as good as Armando, and we all knew the risks the first time we took a job. This waiting around crap isn’t helping anyone as far as I can see.”

Charles just stares at her, feeling betrayed. He’s never been able to argue with Raven – at least, not when he’d wanted to win – so he already knows it’s probably futile to start now. But what she’s saying – what they’re all saying, either in words or in the long, pensive looks he gets from them every so often – is just ridiculous. And more than that, it’s dangerous, positively suicidal, even, and if Raven thinks he’s going to just let her go, like he let Erik –

Oh.

Wow.

To Raven’s surprise, Charles slumps back in his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s just occurred to him exactly why he’d been so eager to keep everyone at the mansion, altogether, and where any absence will soon be remarked upon. Good Lord, a psychiatrist would be able to write entire books about Charles and his issues, except Charles has a degree in psychology precisely so he can avoid that messy eventuality.

How awkward, he thinks vaguely, and contemplates hitting himself for being so … selfish, yes, that’s exactly it. Selfish. This isn’t just about him anymore, it’s not even really about Erik. It’s much bigger than either of them, and Charles, for better or worse, gets that now.

“God, I’m sorry,” he says. He’s apologising a lot lately, that’s got to earn him points with someone, surely? “You’re right, Alex is right – hell, everyone’s right except me, apparently.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure it’s a new feeling,” Raven says, puzzled by his sudden change of mind, but smiling anyway. “You should probably get used to it. I plan on being right more often.”

“Oh, good, I look forward to it,” Charles sighs, and then yelps when Raven punches him. “Alright, alright! Go, do what you do best, and get some answers. Oh, but try not to kill everyone, dear, it looks bad when you start doing it for free.”

“I make no promises,” Raven calls back over her shoulder as she leaves, with Angel in tow.

 

 

***

 

 

“Nothing.”

“As in –”

“As in, nothing, Charles. You know, zero, zilch, nada, diddly-fucking-squat.”

Raven looks so defeated that Charles hasn’t the heart to tell her ‘I told you so’. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah,” Raven agrees.

Angel throws herself onto the sofa next to Raven. “Either nobody knows a damn thing, or they’re not saying –”

“Door number two would be my guess,” Raven butts in, sounding disgruntled.

“Yeah, mine too. It’s just too convenient that no one saw two of the best assassins in the city get iced.” Angel leans her head against the back of the sofa, and adds, “It’s a load of crap, someone saw something, I just don’t know who, or what.”

Charles gazes out of the window for a few seconds, thinking. This whole situation feels wrong, somehow. The only person competent enough to kill Phoenix and Cyclops is an assassin, but the one unwritten rule among assassins is that you don’t kill your own. It’s good to have a little competition is the party line, and everyone in the business knows that if you take a fellow assassin out, you should expect to be taken out yourself very, very quickly soon after. Even the White Queen and those who deal with the ins and outs of making contracts have no truck with assassin-on-assassin contracts. It’s not a lucrative career choice, not if you’re planning on having a career, anyway.

Charles turns back to share these thoughts with Raven and Angel, but stops short when he sees the way they’re angled towards each other on the sofa. Raven is wearing a look he’s never seen before, sort of shy and pleased and uncomfortable in a good way. Angel leans in and says something so softly that Charles can’t hear it – and is glad for it, to be honest. This is far too intimate for him to be remotely interested in what they’re talking about.

He excuses himself quickly, but he’s almost positive they don’t notice.

 

 

***

 

 

He teases Raven mercilessly the next morning, though.

“Raven’s got a girlfriend,” he sing-songs as he hands her a cup of coffee.

“Oh, grow up,” she says. “What are you, five? Are you gonna say we were k-i-s-s-i-n-g, too?”

“If there was only kissing, I feel bad for you,” Charles grins.

Raven smiles slyly over the rim of her mug. “Lot more than kissing,” she says, going slightly red. “There was –”

Charles sticks his hands over his ears quickly. “I don’t want to know!” he says loudly, and waits until she pointedly mimes zipping her lips together until he removes his hands.

“You’re just jealous,” she says, kicking him under the table.

“Yes,” Charles admits, laughing self-deprecatingly. “Yes, I am. But you gave me so much shit about Erik that I feel obliged to return the favour.”

Raven raises an eyebrow. “You sound – better. Less, y’know, irrationally homicidal.”

“I had an epiphany,” Charles says, only half-joking. “No, it doesn’t matter what about, I just realised a few important things. I mean, I won’t lie – if Erik walked in here now, I’d probably punch him in the face and then climb him like a tree.” He laughs as Raven makes a disgusted face. “But until that happens, I’m just going to focus my energy on finding out who killed Phoenix and Cyclops.”

“That’s – really mature and reasonable of you,” Raven says.

“I don’t know why you have to sound so surprised when you say that,” Charles says, feigning hurt. “I’m always mature and reasonable.”

“Were you mature and reasonable when you killed the east-wing study, Charles?” Then, when Charles winces a little, she says, “Too soon?”

“A little,” Charles agrees. “But that’s okay.”

At that moment, Angel stumbles in, yawning and wearing a wifebeater and shorts that Charles knows for a fact belong to Raven. She makes her way, bleary-eyed, over to Raven and drops a kiss on Raven’s upturned mouth.

“Morning,” she says sleepily, and while Raven just sort of sits there blinking and grinning stupidly, Angel shuffles over to the coffee-pot and pours herself a cup.

“Do I have to give you the talk?” Charles asks her, unable to resist. Raven groans and puts her head in her arms.

“Which talk would that be?” Angel asks, looking slightly more alert as she takes the seat next to Raven. “Is it the sex talk? ‘Cause we could go through that, and I could tick off all the things we –” she puts a casual arm around Raven, who doesn’t lift her head, but nevertheless radiates happiness at the gesture “- did last night. Sound good?”

“Touché,” Charles says, after a brief, uncomfortable pause. “You win that round, I think.”

“Thought so,” Angel says smugly. Then she pokes Raven in the side. “You were right, he does get weird about you having sex.”

“It’s like he thinks I’m still eight years old and putting my dolls in the fire,” Raven says, sitting up and grinning across at Charles.

“Older brother privileges,” Charles says, and then, to forestall the inevitable comment, “Yes, even if I’m not your actual older brother. I feel like one, so that’s good enough for me.”

“See? I told you,” Raven says to Angel. “He can be the biggest prick on the planet, and then he goes and says really fucking ridiculous shit like that. Hard to stay mad at.”

Angel nods. “Yeah, I think I’m starting to get that. Sweet, really.” She gives Charles a long look and adds, “Cute, too. Probably hot with a gun on him. Yeah, I totally get it.”

“I, personally, don’t see it,” Raven says, smiling as Charles’s mouth drops open. “But then, I’ve known Charles since he kept wandering into walls because he was too busy reading, so. It sort of lessens the appeal, really.”

“Thanks,” Charles says, as dryly as he can. “If it’s any consolation, I still can’t see you as anything other than the girl who used to fall asleep on me while watching Christmas movies.”

“Aw,” Angel says, grinning at Raven. “That’s adorable, I want to see that. I’m kind of disappointed it’s not Christmas.”

“Stick around and you might,” Raven says, sounding a tiny bit nervous.

Even Charles is waiting with bated breath for Angel’s reply, beyond pleased for Raven when Angel smiles and says, “You know, I think I will, blondie.”

She and Raven share a kiss that gets rapidly more X-rated the longer Charles sits there. He coughs loudly, grabs his Earl Grey and tries to leave as unobtrusively as possible.

His route takes him past the front door, and the doorbell goes just as he’s about to climb the stairs. Charles rolls his eyes and turns around, and pulls the door open.

It’s Moira again. Charles instantly knows something is wrong because her eyes are full of unshed tears.

“Moira, what –” he starts, but she clutches his arm tightly.

“It’s Darwin,” she says faintly. “Armando. Charles – he’s dead.”

Chapter Text

To my fellow assassins,

I am the one responsible for the murders of Jean Grey and Scott Summers, aka the assassins Phoenix and Cyclops. I also did that other kid – what was his name? Dawkins? Darmody? Whatever, yeah, I killed that little punk. Busy day, you know how it is.

Why did I kill them, I imagine you’ll ask. The truth is … I did it because I felt like it. I mean, sure, they got in my way, and all three refused to join me, even though I offered them a pretty sweet deal of murder, mayhem, and even more murder. But they declined – so I killed them.

So take note, boys and girls: I will not hesitate to remove any obstacles from my path.

Sincerely
Sebastian Shaw.

P.S: By ‘obstacles’ I mean ‘people’. And by ‘remove’ I mean ‘kill the fuck out of’. Just so we’re clear.

Ciao.

 

“Is this a joke?” Charles asks Moira incredulously.

“I don’t know what this is,” Moira replies tiredly.

Charles crumples the copy of Shaw’s note and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder.

“Is it genuine?” he says, trying to ignore the tense coil of anger sitting on his chest. It’s one thing for Shaw to have left a bloody note at the scene of Armando’s death; quite another thing entirely for Shaw to completely forget his name. Charles feels his hands curl into fists of their own accord.

“Maybe,” Moira says. “I’ve got a team working on it. You’ll know when I know.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Alex bursts out. “That’s it? You’ve got people working on it, so just sit back and relax? Seriously?”

Raven lets out a frustrated noise before Moira can form a response. “Oh, my god,” she says loudly, and jabs a pointed finger in Alex’s direction. “We’ve been through this a million times, already, Alex. What is it about staying under the radar that is so difficult for you to understand?”

“There’s a difference between staying under the radar and sitting on our asses because we’re too afraid to go out and kill that motherfucker like he deserves!”

“It’s not a question of fear, you asshole!” Raven shouts at him. “It’s about not losing another friend to that psycho – or did you miss the part where he killed Armando just because he got in the way?”

Alex’s face goes bright red, and for a second, Charles thinks he might launch himself at Raven and do something they’ll all regret.

But Alex takes a deep breath and says, through gritted teeth, “No, Raven, I did not miss that part. But maybe you missed it when he killed my goddamn brother and his girlfriend for the exact same reason. You think I don’t know how messed up Shaw is?” he adds, when Raven looks ready to keep arguing. “Of course I know, and if I didn’t before, I sure as hell do now. But hiding from a threat isn’t what we do – we go out and we kill people for money, and the thrill, and a little professional pride, but mostly to wreak other peoples’ vengeance because they can’t do it themselves. Just because it’s personal now doesn’t mean we can’t do the same for ourselves.”

It’s a nice speech, Charles will give him that. Very rousing and inspirational. Charles should have been the one to give it. Even Raven pauses before retaliating.

“And I agree with all that, Alex, honestly, I do,” she says finally, quiet and conciliatory. “If it hadn’t been for Armando –”

She breaks off there for a second. Charles feels something in his stomach clench at the look on her face and is simultaneously glad and annoyed that there are no guns in the immediate vicinity.

When she gets her composure back, Raven goes on with, “If Shaw hadn’t just murdered our friend, I’d be right behind you out the door and looking for the bastard to make him pay. But – Armando was good, Alex, he could handle anything, and Shaw just …” She trails off again. “I just don’t think any of us could handle losing another friend right now, alright?” she eventually tells Alex, who just avoids her gaze and shrugs tensely.

Catching Charles’ eyes over Alex’s shoulder, Raven adds, beseechingly, “Charles, tell him. It’s a bad idea, right?”

“Unfortunately, Raven,” Charles says, “I think I’m going to have to side with Alex on this one.”

“What?” say the stunned voices of not just Raven and Alex, but Moira, Banshee, Angel and Hank as well. They’re all staring at him like he’s just spontaneously grown another head.

Charles smiles, although it’s a little bit forced. He’s sort of ridiculously angry, in a way he hasn’t been since that night he argued with Raven and she stormed out, and it’s hard to remember all the calm, rational reasons he gave himself and the others about why they shouldn’t go out and risk their safety unnecessarily while trying to find Phoenix and Cyclops’ killer.

Because, fuck it, Armando’s dead and they know who did it. The only thing stopping any of them from catching up with Shaw and ripping the man’s prick off and shoving it down his throat is their fear that somehow, Shaw is better than them, that he might kill them all before they get the chance to do likewise. But it’s like Alex said – this is what they do. And Charles, rich, arrogant, highly-functioning sociopath that he knows he is – and proud, damnit! – would rather shoot himself before he lets a tosser like Shaw do it for him.

After he’s finished explaining this to everyone in the room, there’s a long silence.

“Fucking finally,” Alex says eventually, and Charles is gratified to see that he’s smiling for the first time since he heard about his brother.

“I am so glad you’ve changed your mind,” Hank says, speaking for the first time since receiving the news about Armando. He says it with a surprising amount of relief, and not for the first time does Charles wonder why they let him make the decisions, since they clearly never agreed with him in the first place.

“Well I’m not,” Raven says, arms folded as she glares at Charles. “So, what, I’ve just spent the past few weeks supporting your decision to play it safe for nothing?”

Charles thinks about this for a second. “Yes,” he says.

Raven brings a hand to her face, exasperated, and mutters something that sounds a lot like, “If I don’t kill him before his next birthday it’ll be a fucking miracle.” Eventually, she says, “Fine,” and she sounds pissed as hell. “I can’t say I’m not looking forward to beating the shit out of this guy, but next time, just – just make a decision you know you can stick to, alright?”

“Deal,” Charles says, glad she isn’t taking this harder.

“I guess I’ll get going then,” Moira says, getting to her feet. “I’ve got to see Armando’s family and tell them that their son is dead and that there isn’t even a goddamn body for them to bury –”

“Hold up,” Banshee says, frowning. “There’s no body?”

“No,” Moira says, looking equally pained and furious about it. “No body, but the amount of blood at the scene – I’ve got opinions from two different MEs and they both agree that losing that much blood isn’t compatible with survival.”

To everyone’s surprise, Banshee breaks out into a huge, relieved grin. “He’s alive, then,” he says confidently. When Moira goes to protest, he adds, “I don’t care what your experts say, I know Armando, okay, and if there’s no sign of a body, then he’s not dead. He’s not, I know it,” he says, when his words are met by doubtful silence.

But nobody wants to be the one to bring Banshee back to cold, harsh reality, so no one says a word to challenge him. Banshee gets a stubborn look on his face when he realises they’re essentially just humouring him, but he just huffs out a frustrated breath and slouches back in his seat rather than argue his point any further.

After Moira has gone, Charles claps his hands together. “Alright,” he says loudly. “Everybody figure out what weapon they’d most like to use on Shaw and we’ll meet back here at midnight, agreed?”

There’s a murmur of cheerful assent around the room as Charles turns to leave. As he does so, his foot brushes against the crumpled ball of paper that was Shaw’s unbelievably tasteless note, and Charles sees red.

The thing is, Charles has a temper. He usually hides it quite well, concealing it behind a combination of charm and wide-eyed idealism, and leading a double life has actually only helped him keep it buried. But when he’s stressed, or in danger – always a major concern in the life of a career assassin – it tends to burst out of him in really quite volatile ways. So losing four people, two of whom are important to Charles (and one who perhaps means more than he’d like to admit) – that’s pretty much beyond Charles’ ability to keep a handle on his temper.

And then there’s that itch under his skin, the one that has him longing for a gun in his hand and somebody to aim it at. The one that only goes away when there’s blood on the walls, and his clothes, and his hands … The shock of Erik leaving and Shaw killing other assassins has proved an efficient distraction from the need to take a contract, to go out and erase some low-life from existence, but the craving – and that’s exactly the right word, this is like an addiction, Charles is self-aware enough to recognise it as such – is back with a vengeance now that he’s decided to do something about Shaw.

He needs to sort himself out before he goes anywhere, though. He’s shaking, as much from lack of sleep and too much caffeine as from rage. If he goes after Shaw like this, he’s going to end up as little more than a bruised, bleeding, dead mess in an alley somewhere. He needs something to … take the edge off, as it were.

It takes a few seconds to pull himself together, but once he does, Charles kicks aside Shaw’s note and starts to stalk out of the room.

“Where the hell are you going?” Raven says, bewildered.

“Just popping out to put a bullet through somebody’s brain,” he says calmly, without looking back. “Won’t be long.”

 

 

***

 

 

There are dozens of contracters in the city, but the closest is the White Queen. Charles spares a second to realise this is probably a really bad idea, before he thinks, fuck it, and kicks down the door of her warehouse-slash-office-slash-base of operations.

There’s no sign of the White Queen, but her two sidekicks are there. Azazel and Riptide both look up, stunned, as Charles strides into the building.

“I want a contract,” Charles tells them. “I don’t care who, and I don’t care why, just get the White Queen in here and I can be on my way.”

Azazel glances across at Riptide, who shrugs and raises his eyebrows as if to say, “Nuh-uh. You deal with him”.

“She’s not here,” Azazel says eventually, his voice surprisingly soft for someone with a – is that a fucking sword? It is, it’s a bloody sword, what the actual fuck – in his hands. “Come back later.”

“Listen,” Charles says amiably, and raises his hand to point a gun right at Azazel’s unfortunately sun-tanned face. “I’ve had a really unpleasant couple of weeks, okay? I’ve been dumped, I’ve been shouted at by a very angry, very scary woman, and I’ve had some extremely uncomfortable revelations about my psyche. And on top of that, I’ve just lost a close friend,” he adds, moving forward so that the muzzle of his gun is just centimetres from Azazel’s forehead. “So as you can imagine, I am really not in the mood for this bullshit. Get me the White Queen, or I take out my frustration on you.”

There’s a suggestion of movement in the corner of Charles’ eye. “You know,” Riptide says icily, “you’re pretty confident for a guy with no back-up.”

He swings a baseball bat into view, gripping it like he’s moments away from taking Charles’ knees out. Charles just smiles and, before either Azazel or Riptide can register it, he’s got a second gun aimed right at Riptide’s heart.

“Whatever gave you the impression that I need back-up?” he says.

 

 

***

 

 

“Nah, you don’t want that one,” Azazel says, some time later, dismissively tossing aside the file of one Carole Steadman, the doctor who’s recently been running around the city killing off her patients. “She ain’t exactly all there, know what I mean? You go over there and threaten her with a gun, she’ll probably put it in her mouth and pull the trigger for you. Where’s the fun in that?”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Charles says dryly. Both Azazel and Riptide are a lot more personable when they’re not threatening you with grievous bodily harm, but their senses of humour are creepy at best, fucking sadistic at worst.

Riptide slides another file across the table. “This is more your style,” he tells Charles, who glances at it and recognises the name as one of those that Raven found for him not so long ago. “Hit-and-run. Guy got off because one of the jurors went running his mouth to a friend. Called the whole trial into question, and our man didn’t get so much as a warning. Killed a six-year-old girl,” Riptide adds, so indifferently that Charles feels vaguely affronted.

“I’ll take this one, then,” he says finally, taking note of the name – Lester Williams – and address. “Far be it from me to let a miscarriage of justice –”

“What the fuck,” says another voice, and Charles, Azazel and Riptide’s heads turn, as one, to where the White Queen is standing in the doorway, arms crossed and one pale eyebrow raised, “is going on here?”

“Ah,” says Azazel quietly.

“Right,” says Riptide, succinctly.

The White Queen makes her way slowly over to them. Her icy gaze flicks between Azazel and Riptide, before it lands on Charles and her other eyebrow goes up. This should be fun.

“Professor X,” she says coolly. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“The pleasure’s all mine, really,” Charles says, smiling and leaning back in his seat. “I’m just here to pick up a contract, you know how it is.”

The White Queen eyes him suspiciously for a few seconds. Then her mouth twitches in a faint smirk, and she says, loftily, “Still wearing that ridiculous mask, I see.”

Charles self-consciously reaches up and unnecessarily straightens his mask. He hasn’t worn it since Erik asked him to take it off, and now it doesn’t sit right on his face. There's probably a metaphor in that, but Charles isn't touching it with a ten-foot pole.

“One has to protect their identity,” Charles answers lightly. “We all have our own preferred methods of doing so.”

“Quite,” the White Queen replies. “Well. Have you found what you’re looking for?”

“I believe I have,” Charles says, waving Lester Williams’ file as proof. He’s rather enjoying himself. “I’ll let your flunkies fill you in on the details.”

“Oh, come on!” Riptide protests abruptly.

“Riptide –” Azazel starts placatingly, but Riptide speaks over him.

“Flunkies?” he echoes indignantly. “You know, I’ve been doing this job for years, fucking years, and all anyone remembers me for is being her –” he jerks a thumb at the White Queen, who blinks in astonishment “- goddamn lackey!”

“Oh,” Charles manages, completely taken aback. “Well, I – I do apologise, Riptide, I had no –”

“It’s insulting, actually,” Riptide continues, apparently on a roll. “And a little hurtful. I mean, is it really so much to ask for a bit of respect?”

“Is this how you both feel?” the White Queen suddenly demands, looking to Azazel, who rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably and won’t meet her eyes when he nods. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Her voice is quieter and a good deal less cold. Charles looks at her askance and realises that this would probably be a good time to leave, except this is all sort of horribly fascinating and he can’t quite tear himself away.

“Well, you know, it was just easier,” Azazel shrugs, now avoiding everyone’s gaze. “And, I mean, I don’t mind so much, dunno about Riptide –”

“Whoa, wait, hold up,” Riptide says, holding up his hands. “I wasn’t blaming you, Em … uh. Shit,” he adds, when he remembers Charles is still in the room.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Charles promises, hand on heart. The White Queen fixes him with a look that quite clearly tells Charles that he’s going to keep that promise if he wants to keep breathing.

“Uh, right,” Riptide says uncertainly, and then, to the White Queen, “No, look, this isn’t your fault. It just pisses me off when people who barely know us –” he throws a pointed look at Charles, who winces and offers a very sheepish, “Sorry”, “- start making assumptions and being really obnoxious about it.”

The White Queen is silent for a moment. Then she slowly offers her hand to Riptide.

“Alright,” she says. “Starting from now, we’re partners. All three of us,” she adds, looking over Riptide’s shoulder to where Azazel is watching her carefully. “The next time anyone calls you a flunky, or a lackey, or whatever, we’ll flip a coin to see who gets to rip their throat out. Deal?”

“Deal,” Riptide says, shaking her hand, and Azazel makes a noise of agreement. It’s all very solemn and professional, but there’s something about the way the White Queen holds both Riptide’s hand and his gaze that makes Charles feel uncomfortably like he’s intruding on something far more personal.

“Professor,” the White Queen says after a few seconds, turning to Charles with another cool smile. “If you’ve gotten what you came for, then I think we can safely say we’re done here.”

“Of course,” Charles says, getting to his feet. “’Till next time, then, Azazel, Riptide.” He gives them a wave as he makes his way to the door, and just as he’s twisting the handle, adds, “Emma.”

The White Queen laughs, though she doesn’t sound at all amused.

“That’s cute, Professor,” she calls after Charles, and then, in a decidedly less friendly tone, “I hate cute.”

Charles makes it out alive, but only just.

 

 

***

 

 

Lester Williams is tall but stocky, in his early thirties, with dirty blonde hair and a heavy-set face that not even his own mother could love. Or so his file says, and Charles casually flicks through the rest – the usual, really: absent father, working mother, an unremarkable education, a string of poorly-paid menial jobs, and a criminal record as long as Charles’ arm – while Williams sleeps.

The night is cool and dry, and Williams’ apartment is reasonably warm, so Charles can only assume some sort of sixth sense wakes the man up, some fifteen minutes later, just as Charles is stowing the file in an inside pocket.

“Ah, Mr Williams,” Charles says in a friendly voice. “Good evening.”

At the sound of Charles’ voice, Williams jerks fully awake and sits up. His hand automatically goes for the nightstand, for the gun he usually keeps there, but Charles clears his throat pointedly.

“Looking for this?” he asks, holding the now-unloaded 9mm up. “Sorry, Mr Williams – can I call you Lester? Wonderful,” Charles adds, without waiting for an answer. “I believe in taking precautions. For future reference, I’d suggest you keep it under your pillow.”

Williams’ eyes go from Charles’ face to the gun in his hand and back again, before he says, “So – so you’re not gonna kill me, then?”

Charles makes a face. “Figure of speech,” he says apologetically. “Of course I’m going to kill you.”

“But – why? What have I done to you? I don’t even know who you are!” Williams is backed up against the headboard now, hands gripping the sheets tightly.

Charles sighs. He really hates having to explain things to people he’s only going to kill anyway, but some part of him – probably his seldom-used conscience, it’s the only thing it’s good for these days – always demands he be fair about these things.

“You’ve done nothing to me, as far as I know,” Charles says eventually. “It’s about someone far more important: Rachel Miller.”

Williams frowns. “Who?”

“And that,” Charles says flatly, “was the point at which I might have spared you.” He stands up, tossing Williams’ gun to the floor and taking out his own. “Rachel Miller, the six-year-old girl you ran down several months ago while you were fleeing from a bank you’d just robbed. The girl who might have survived if you’d only stopped and called an ambulance. The girl whose family now has to live with the knowledge that you got off scot-free while they bury their daughter tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Williams says quietly. “That girl.”

“Yes, Lester, that girl. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’ll be getting on with my work.”

“No! No, wait!” Williams says, holding his hands up defensively. “I’ve got money –”

“So have I,” Charles interrupts coldly. “Possibly more than you’ve ever seen in your pathetic little life, Lester, believe me. I don’t do this for the money.”

“Well, what then? What do you want?”

“Right now, I want to see your brains splattered across the wall,” Charles tells him brightly. “At some point, that’s going to happen, you just have to choose how – the easy way, or the hard way.”

Williams appears to think about this, which is a mistake on Charles’ part, although this doesn’t become apparent until twenty seconds later, when Williams says, “Gonna have to be the hard way, then,” and leaps from the rather shabby mattress towards Charles, who doesn’t manage to pull his gun up in time.

He goes down under a hail of blows from Williams’ heavy fists; both his gun and his mask go skittering off into the corner, while Charles kicks out wildly and connects with Williams’ kneecap. He lets out a grunt of pain but doesn’t stop attempting to pummel Charles’ face into the threadbare carpet, and Charles swears out loud and grabs Williams’ wrist on the next swing and twists.

Something snaps, Charles can feel the crack of a bone under Williams’ skin, and Williams cries out and rolls away. Charles gets to his feet quickly, but not quick enough, because Williams’ strategic retreat has taken him to where Charles’ gun is, and now he’s got it in his hand, staring down the sights through streaming eyes, his injured hand cradled to his chest.

“A little advice,” he spits. “Don’t stand there threatening your mark, it only gives them time to come up with an escape plan.”

Charles laughs, more to annoy Williams than because he finds the situation funny. “Lester, my friend, did I ever tell you who I am?”

Williams thrusts the gun towards Charles face. “I don’t give a fuck,” he hisses. “You could be the goddamn President and I still wouldn’t –”

Over his shoulder, Charles sees a faint movement. The shadow of the curtains is wrong, although Charles isn’t sure why. Puzzled, but with more pressing matters on his mind, he sticks his hand out and says to Williams, “Professor X, nice to meet you.”

From here, he can see Williams’ pupils contract, which gives Charles the same warm, fuzzy feeling that a picture of kittens gives to a small child.

“Oh,” Williams says weakly. “Shit.”

“Indeed,” Charles smiles, and then blinks when an incredibly sharp blade appears from nowhere to press against Williams’ neck.

“Put the gun down, and back the hell away,” says Erik.

 

 

***

 

 

Ten minutes later and Charles still can’t believe this is happening.

Williams is handcuffed to a radiator, a thin red line at his throat where Erik’s knife had broken the skin -

(“Whoops, sorry about that,” Erik had said blandly, as he’d shoved the struggling Williams to the floor. “Any deeper and you’d be bleeding out by now. Painful way to go. So I’ve heard.”).

- his face sullen. He’s quiet for now, but Charles gets the impression he’s just storing it all up and he’s going to let loose any second. Charles doesn’t think he can stand that.

Meanwhile, Erik is leaning against the wall, looking for all the world as though the past three weeks haven’t happened, as though he didn’t just leave Charles without any kind of explanation – at which point anger loosens Charles’ tongue.

“How did you know where I was?” he asks tightly.

Erik’s expression turns cagey. “I, uh,” he says, tapping his knife against his thigh nervously. “I might have been following you.” The last few words are said so quietly Charles has to strain to hear them.

“Oh,” Charles says finally, resolutely telling himself that this is not the least bit romantic, he really needs to stop reading Twilight, goddamnit.

“I heard about Darwin,” Erik adds, looking up, and something in Charles snaps.

“Don’t you – don’t you dare,” he says furiously. “If you say you’re sorry, I will tear your head off, Erik, I mean it.”

Erik opens his mouth, then closes it without a word.

Charles can’t look at him without wanting to break something, so he looks down and makes sure his gun hasn’t been damaged in the fight. In the silence, Williams lets out a snort.

“Really?” he sneers. “This is the best you can do? I’ve spent the past I-don’t-know-how-many years hearing about the great Professor X, and it turns out he’s too busy arguing with his boyfriend to finish a fucking job?”

Charles grits his teeth. “Shut up,” he says quietly.

Williams ignores him. “I mean, seriously? I’ve seen junkies and frightened teenagers more professional than you –”

“I said,” Charles says, gripping his gun with shaking hands, “shut up.”

“- wait ‘till people hear about this, you’ll never get another contract in your life –”

“Shut up!” Charles shouts, though it’s drowned out by the sound of his gun firing, and when the echoes of the shot fade away, Williams is slumped forward, mouth sagging, eyes blank. There’s a splatter of blood on the wall behind him, a glistening, dull red that matches the colour of the wound on Williams’ forehead.

Charles sucks in a breath, his heart thudding in his ears. He glances up and catches Erik’s eyes and –

The next thing he knows, he’s being shoved hard against the wall, and Erik’s mouth is on his, an impatient, greedy kiss that Charles feels all the way down to his toes. Charles’ hands hang helplessly by his sides, his gun falling to the floor with a clatter that he barely registers. Erik is pressing him into the wall, a long, hot line against him, and –

Charles slaps him. Honest-to-god, all-out bitchslaps him so hard that his hand stings with the force of it.

There’s a stunned silence. A bright red handprint colours the side of Erik’s face as they stare at each other, and Charles tries to shake some feeling back into his hand.

“Your reflexes have gotten better,” Erik says at last.

Charles is very tempted to slap him again. “I’ll show you reflexes,” he says indignantly, and hauls Erik forward into another brutal kiss.

Things are very hazy for the next few minutes, and when Charles surfaces from Erik’s mouth, he’s on his tiptoes, one leg hooked around Erik’s hip, clutching at Erik’s shirt and muttering, “You arsehole, you complete and utter wanker.” He breaks off as Erik slides a hand into his hair and tugs, baring his throat, his breath hitching when Erik sinks his teeth into his skin. “I was miserable without you, ask Raven, I wrecked another study when you didn’t come back – god, why didn’t you come back, you bastard, do you know how long you’ve been gone –” Charles lets out a soft whimper as Erik grabs his other leg and wraps it around his waist and pushes him further up the wall, “- oh, hell, tell me later, you’re going to fuck me right here –”

Erik lets out a loud groan, his head falling against Charles’ collarbone. “Did I –” he starts, and swallows hard. “Charles, did I ever tell you about my mother?”

Charles freezes in the act of unzipping his pants. “I’m sorry,” he says blankly, “I think I heard you wrong. Did you really just say –”

“My mom, yeah,” Erik says, and there’s a barely-there smile at the corners of his mouth that drives away the sarcastic retort Charles had been about to utter.

“Okay,” Charles says slowly instead. He unwinds his legs from around Erik’s waist and takes a steadying breath. “Okay, I think we’ve skipped a few vital steps here – really fun, sexy steps, I’ll have you know – and it’s been a very long day for me. So I think the best solution is to go home and get really drunk.”

He gently pushes Erik away and kneels down to retrieve his gun. When he straightens up, Erik is watching him with a shuttered expression on his face. Charles starts to leave, stopping at the door to call back, “That was an invitation, by the way.”

Charles suspects, when he and Erik leave the building together, that they both have matching, unbelievably stupid grins on their faces.

Charles is absolutely okay with that.

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Charles thinks, it probably wasn’t the best idea to use the mansion’s front door.

He realises his mistake when Raven and the rest come wandering into the entrance hall to greet him, stopping short when they see Erik in tow. Charles doesn’t think he’s ever heard such an awkward silence.

To everyone’s complete lack of surprise, Banshee is the first to break it.

“Well, fuck me,” he says, irritated. “We spend days looking for the jerk and he just waltzes in through the fucking front door!”

“Banshee, you little stoner,” Erik says, with equal measures of exasperation and fondness. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping these guys look for you,” Banshee explains sourly. “Not that I was much use, since you never tell me a fucking thing, you paranoid bastard.”

“Yeah, if you’re waiting for an apology –” Erik starts, and then Raven stalks forward wordlessly and punches him in the stomach.

“Raven!” Charles protests, as Erik doubles up in agony.

“Don’t you start with me, Charles Xavier!” Raven snaps at him. “That’s the least of what he deserves.”

Charles is about to protest further, but Erik straightens up, taking deep, calming breaths. “It’s fine,” he says hoarsely.

“It is not fine!” Raven snaps back. “You’d better have a really fucking good explanation, Erik, or I swear to god I will kill you in your sleep, don’t think I won’t –”

“Enough,” Charles says sharply. If Erik has an explanation, Charles is going to be the first to hear it.

Raven spins around, probably ready to rip Charles a new one for interrupting her tirade, but whatever she sees on his face pulls her up short.

“Oh, fucking – whatever,” she mutters under her breath, and storms out of the room. Charles winces when he hears a door slam shut behind her; he’s really going to pay for that one later.

“Okay,” Angel pipes up brightly. “Erik, it was great to see you, but a round of angry sex with my name on it just walked out of the room. Catch you later.”

“Really?” Erik calls after her incredulously.

Angel turns around, so that she’s walking backwards as she speaks. “Hey, she’s hot and she can kill you with her pinkie,” she grins. “I think she’s kind of perfect.”

“When did that happen?” Erik says in an undertone, as Angel turns around again and exits the room.

“About ten minutes after Angel turned up,” Charles replies. He very carefully doesn’t mention why Angel had to turn up in the first place. “Raven was quite taken with the way she threatened everybody with dismemberment.”

Erik snorts. “She does that,” he says dryly.

“She said she learned it from you,” Charles tells him, smiling. “Imagine my surprise.”

Erik just laughs, and Charles turns to Alex and Hank, who alone of everyone else haven’t uttered a word yet.

“Is there something I can help you boys with?” Charles asks them, silently hoping the answer is no.

“Oh, no,” Alex says, waving a vague hand. “We were just here to watch Raven kick Erik’s ass.”

“I would literally pay to see that,” Hank chimes in, nodding.

“It’d be awesome,” Alex agrees. “Shame it didn’t pan out.” He looks thoughtful for a few seconds, and then adds, “Well, there’s always tomorrow, right?”

“Tomorrow is probably better, yeah,” Hank tells him. “He and Charles have a lot to talk about, kinda hard to do that through a broken nose and cracked ribs.”

“You think Raven’d go for the nose?” Alex asks him curiously.

“Sure,” Hank replies, as they start to walk away. “You know Raven, she goes for maximum pain and humiliation. Erik walking around with a broken nose – s’pretty humiliating, right? And we all know cracked ribs hurt like hell.”

“I still say she’ll go for the balls – she’s fucking brutal, man.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Guess we’ll find out tomorrow …”

Charles turns to Erik to see his reaction to this; he’s unashamedly amused to see Erik looking highly discomfited. Before he can say anything – reassurance or dire warnings, whichever comes first – there’s the sound of a throat being cleared, and they both turn to see Banshee scowling at them.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” he says sourly, when he sees their expressions. “What, do I disappear when no-one’s looking at me? Jesus.”

“Sorry, Banshee,” Charles says.

“And that’s another thing, stop calling me Banshee, it’s Sean, okay. I mean, Banshee’s an awesome name, don’t get me wrong -” Charles and Erik carefully avoid each other's gaze, “- but it’s not my real one.”

“Alright, Sean, then,” Charles amends, doing his best to hide his impatience. “Is there something you wanted or …?”

“What? Oh,” Sean says sheepishly. “No. Uh, that was pretty much it, really. Although you,” he adds, stabbing a finger at Erik, “you suck, you are the worst friend ever, okay, but I’m really glad you’re not dead or whatever, so. Yeah."

Sean nods at Erik once, very seriously, and then turns and slouches off, humming tunelessly to himself.

Charles watches him go, bemused. “Well,” he says, and completely fails to finish that sentence. “Drink?” he asks Erik instead.

“God yes,” Erik says.

***

“So,” Charles says, handing Erik a tumbler of scotch. “Your mother.”

Erik makes a face. “Yeah. Not the best time to bring it up, I know.”

“What, when you were just about to fuck me through a wall?” Charles asks archly, because he just can’t resist it. “I can’t imagine why you’d think that was a bad time.”

“Yeah, alright, my timing sucks,” Erik admits, rolling his eyes. “But look, there are things I want - things I need to say to you, to explain, and it's - it's kind of a long story, so." He breaks off, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable and awkward and tense. "Just, I know I don't deserve it but - please, just listen. Then you can - shoot me in the face, or kick me out, or whatever, okay?" He looks at Charles intently, on the verge of desperation.

Charles takes a drink. “Okay,” he says after a pause.

Erik looks relieved that Charles isn’t going to drag this out. “Alright,” he says decisively. He opens his mouth again, and nothing comes out. After a few minutes of this, Charles takes pity on him.

“You don’t have to tell me about your mother,” he says gently.

“No, I know,” Erik says, and his mouth turns up at the corners as he looks across the sofa at Charles. “I think that’s why I want to.”

Charles takes a deep breath at this, and holds Erik’s gaze for what feels like the longest ten seconds of his life. Then Erik looks away, and stands up and starts pacing restlessly over the library floor.

“My mom was an assassin,” he says suddenly, and then the whole story comes tumbling out.

***

“... Shaw made her kill my father as slowly and as painfully as possible,” Erik finishes hoarsely, staring down at his hands clasped together tightly in his lap. “And he made me watch every single second of it just because he could.”

There’s a long, awful silence that Charles can’t bring himself to break.

“Then he killed her,” Erik goes on, trying for a detached, level tone and missing by a million miles. “He killed my mom and took me on as some kind of pet project, something he could play with and mold in his image, like he was some kind of mad genius instead of the sadistic son of a bitch he really is.”

“I’m so sorry,” Charles says after a while. The thought of a younger Erik in the hands of that psycho makes him want to do a lot of damage to a lot of things, chiefly among them, Shaw’s face. “Erik, I -”

He breaks off because, really, what else is there to say? Shaw was a piece of shit when he was just Armando’s murderer; knowing what he’s done to Erik and his family is horrendous and awful, but the only real surprise is that it took him so long.

“This was hers,” Erik says after a while, and removes the unremarkable-looking knife from his pocket. "Shaw let me keep it, I don't know why. It's the only thing I have left of them." He turns it over and over in his hands restlessly, before his fingers tighten around the handle and he adds, almost pleasantly, “I’m going to slit his goddamn throat with it.”

After a pause, Charles clasps his hands together and leans forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. "Alright,” he says. “What do you need from me?

Erik looks up sharply. "What?"

"Shaw needs to die," Charles says, as matter-of-factly as he can, "and you need to kill him. I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen, so what do you need?”

Erik stares at him so long and so intensely that Charles has the urge to start fidgeting under the scrutiny, and then Erik breaks out into this huge, beaming smile and Charles feels his breath catch. There really are no words for the beauty of that smile, although for some reason Charles has got the theme from Jaws stuck in his head, especially when Erik strolls over to him and reaches down to tangle their fingers together and his smile takes on a particularly wicked edge.

"Okay, new plan," he says brightly. "We find Shaw and tear him apart – after you take me upstairs and we fuck our way through the next twelve hours."

"What was the old plan?" Charles asks weakly, rising to his feet when Erik tugs on his hands.

"You wouldn't be interested in the old plan," Erik assures him, gesturing for Charles to lead the way.

"I wouldn't?"

"Nope. It basically involved me taking Shaw down on my own. There was absolutely no sex involved."

Charles pauses at the top of the stairs and glances at Erik. "Do you want to take him down on your own?"

Erik smiles again. He lifts their still-joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of Charles’. Charles resolutely does not swoon.

"No," Erik says softly. "No, I want us to do it together. You, me, and - what the hell, the kids can come too."

There is so much honesty and affection in the words that any lingering resentment Charles might be feeling just melts away in the face of it. He hooks a finger in the collar of Erik's turtleneck and pulls him in.

“When you find Shaw and utterly destroy him,” he says, whisper-soft, “I promise you I'll be right there with you."

At this, Erik surges forward. “I think that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he says into Charles’ mouth.

The kiss that follows is fast and brutal and a little bit mean, and Charles melts into it because he truly thought he’d lost this, lost Erik, and the idea leaves him clutching at Erik tightly.

“I hope you know I’ll kill you if you ever leave me again,” Charles threatens between kisses.

Erik backs him up against the nearest wall, mouth a red-hot brand against Charles’ jawline. “I should think so,” he murmurs into Charles’ skin, and Charles lets out a soft gasp at the scrap of stubble. “I’d do exactly the same.”

He gets a leg between Charles and pushes up, and Charles can’t decide if it’s that or Erik’s words that drive the moan from him. He’s not even entirely sure he cares, just glad he gets to run his hands over Erik, convince himself that this is real, that it’s not the product of loneliness and an overactive imagination.

“We should move this to the bedroom,” Charles says helplessly, but doesn’t budge from where Erik has him pinned. "I’m sure the kids have enough mental scars without adding hearing us having sex to the collection.”

“But it’s so far away,” Erik complains, his hands glued to Charles’ hips, where he’s encouraging Charles’ shameless grinding into his thigh. “And you’re right here, Charles, I don’t think we’ll make it.”

“Oh, god,” Charles says breathlessly. His head thunks back against the wall as Erik presses into him, his cock hard even through several layers of fabric. Then he pulls himself together. “No, no,” he insists, pushing at Erik even though his brain is yelling at him that this is a stupid plan. “We need to move, alright, because if you keep doing that, I won't last twelve hours."

"See," Erik says, "I know you think that's supposed to be an incentive to get me into bed, but it actually just makes me want to stay right where we are.”

Charles kisses him, partly to shut him up, but mostly just because he can, and then he curves his hand around the back of Erik’s neck and presses their foreheads together, breathing harder than he has any right to, considering they’re just standing still.

“Come to bed with me, Erik,” he says softly. “Please.”

Slowly, and with wide, dark eyes, Erik nods. Charles smiles and presses his thumb briefly over Erik's pulse-point. Erik lets out a shuddery breath and his pulse jumps, and Charles considers abandoning his resolve and letting Erik fuck him there and then.

Instead, he leans in to bite at Erik's lip, before pulling away to lead the way to the bedroom, where he strips out of his clothes in less than twenty seconds. He stretches out across the bed, patting the mattress invitingly when he sees that Erik is standing just inside the door, watching him with his head tilted to one side, a fond smile on his face.

"If you stand there much longer, I'll start without you," Charles warns him, and half-jokingly runs a hand up the inside of his thigh.

Erik raises an eyebrow and pushes off the door. He stalks his way over to the bed in a way that makes Charles’ stomach lurch with anticipation, and buries his hand in Charles' hair, tilting his head back firmly.

"Go ahead," Erik says. "You know I like to watch."

"You –" Charles breathes, and then swallows hard. "I was joking."

"Too bad." Erik considers him speculatively for a few seconds, running his fingers through Charles' hair. "Charles, do you remember the night I – left?"

The pause before the end of that sentence makes Charles turn away, but Erik just gently turns his head back and searches out his gaze without saying anything.

"I'm trying not to," Charles says eventually, reluctantly keeping eye contact.

Erik nods like he'd expected this. "Well, do you remember the conversation we had in the gym before that?”

Charles frowns. "What conver – oh," he says, eyes widening in realisation. "You mean –?"

He stops, because the idea of fucking Erik is just as appealing as before, and even thinking about it pretty much disconnects all higher brain functions.

"Are you … are you speechless?" Erik says, peering down at him curiously. He breaks out into a decidedly filthy smirk and adds, "Holy fuck, you are. I can't decide if that's hilarious or hot as hell."

Apparently, he decides on a combination of both, because he starts laughing – giggling, Charles thinks uncharitably, feeling his face go hot – but he crowds Charles against the pillows and pins him down in exactly the way Charles likes.

“Oh, shut up,” Charles manages to gasp out, rocking up into Erik’s still-clothed body. “You are absolutely terrible, Erik, I don’t even know why –”

He stops as Erik kicks off his shoes and then straddles Charles’ hips, ripping off his turtleneck and throwing it … somewhere, like Charles even cares where Erik’s clothes are going so long as they’re coming off.

"Sorry, you were saying?" Erik says brightly.

Charles rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable,” he says, with overwhelming fondness.

Erik clutches at his chest in an exaggerated fashion, as though Charles has deeply wounded him. "That really hurts my feelings.”

“Does it?” Charles says dryly, making as if to move off the bed. “Maybe it would be best if we just forgot this whole thing and went to sleep, then.”

“Well, now, I didn’t say that,” Erik says quickly, putting a hand on Charles’ chest to keep him from going anywhere.

Then he leans back experimentally, all of his weight pressing down deliciously on Charles' cock. Charles gasps, his hand darting out to grab Erik's wrist, nails digging into skin.

Erik lets out a breath. "There we go," he murmurs, half to himself, and that is the absolute last straw.

Charles flips them, landing with one knee between Erik's. Erik lets out a startled noise but Charles ignores it and instead swiftly undoes Erik's pants, yanking them off and tossing them over his shoulder.

"If you wanted to be on top, Charles, all you had to do was ask," Erik says, amused, folding his arms under his head like he hasn’t got a care in the world.

And because deep down Charles is still feeling bruised and scraped raw by the events of the last few weeks, he says, "Oh, I'm sorry, how terribly rude of me," and when Erik just continues to grin up at him, he adds, with almost vicious politeness, "May I fuck you, Erik? Can I slick you up and get you ready for my cock? Can I fuck you until we both come, and then just – keep going? Can I hold you down and fuck you so s l o w l y –" Charles draws the word out as he presses a hand to the front of Erik's boxers "– it'll drive you mad? Should I tie your hands so you can't even touch yourself, until you're so desperate to come you'll do anything? Do you think I could make you beg, Erik?"

This last is whispered directly into Erik's ear, before Charles smacks a kiss on his cheek and then starts to move southwards.

Erik swallows audibly. "Yes," he says on a hastily drawn breath. “To all of the above, but especially that last one.”

“I’m rather fond of that one myself,” Charles admits, before busying himself with trying to remove Erik’s underwear with his teeth.

Erik laughs somewhat breathlessly and lets his head drop back onto the pillow. “Knock yourself out, babe.”

Babe? Charles thinks with a bemused smile, but then Erik yanks him back in for a kiss and the thought is lost. They stay like that for a while; Charles loses track of time in the slide of their mouths and the press of Erik’s body against his, and it’s not until he’s steadily grinding into the cradle of Erik’s hips that he remembers his goal.

He gropes in the nightstand blindly, unwilling to move away long enough to look for the lube properly. He happens upon it by happy accident, and then Erik does something so magnificently lewd with his tongue that Charles drops it on the bed somewhere and proceeds to forget about it until Erik presses it back into his hands an indeterminate number of minutes later.

"You'll be needing this," he says, all smug and superior, and that's when Charles knows he's totally fucked, because it just turns him on more.

Still, he can’t let that one go unanswered.

He snatches the lube out of Erik's hand. "You can describe how to exsanguinate a man in under twenty minutes in gory detail, but you can't ask me to fuck you no matter how much you want it." He tuts sadly. "I think someone needs to sort out their priorities."

While he talks, he coats his fingers generously in lube, and then reaches down between their bodies to spread Erik open.

"There's nothing wrong with -" Erik starts, but then Charles gently presses the tip of his finger against his hole and he gasps instead, hands coming up to clutch at Charles' arms.

"That was cheating," he breathes eventually, trying to glare, but it melts into a distracted expression when Charles slowly pushes his finger in before pulling back out in one smooth movement.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," Charles says, pressing a consoling kiss to Erik’s left knee, "but I think there's been enough talking for now, don't you?"

He pushes in another finger just as Erik opens his mouth to speak, and then there's nothing but the sound of their breathing and the steady thump of Charles' heartbeat as he works Erik open with a stubborn kind of patience he didn't even know he was capable of.

Eventually Erik is a desperate, wrecked mess underneath him, about three seconds away from outright begging, flushed and panting and moaning as he grinds down on Charles' fingers like he can't get them deep enough. Charles is hanging onto said patience only by sheer force of will, gripping Erik's thigh with his free hand hard enough to bruise, and sucking up marks on Erik's neck because he likes the way it makes Erik curse and shudder and say Charles' name in a broken whimper.

In what feels like simultaneously the shortest and longest ten minutes of his life, Charles withdraws his fingers and grabs for the lube again. Erik makes a noise of complaint and shoves his head back into the pillows in frustration.

"Oh, come on," he pants. It sounds like he's aiming for exasperated but he barely manages irritated. "Will you just fuck me already? I'm dying, here."

"If you’re dying, I may be doing it wrong,” Charles says, gently patting Erik's knee with his free hand, half in apology and half as consolation for dragging this out as long as possible.

Then he dumps more lube on his hand and goes back to fingering Erik open again. His little finger catches once on the rim of Erik's hole and Erik makes this weird, gasping hiccup and his fingers twitch where they’re clenching the sheets in a death-grip.

"Fuck," he says to the ceiling. "That's it, I'm ready, I'm so ready, come on -"

But Charles just keeps at it, adding more lube until Erik's so wet that Charles is just going to slide right in - and okay, yeah, maybe Erik has a point.

Meanwhile, Erik is bitching up a storm as he fucks Charles' fingers. "... fuck's sake, just do it already, do we even need this much fucking lube -"

"Only if you'd like to be able to walk tomorrow," Charles says absently, because he has so many plans for tonight and he's only going to get to do half of them, and he can't decide if that's a good thing or not.

Erik lets out another breathless laugh. "Don't tease me, baby," he tells Charles, raising his head to throw him an exaggerated leer.

Charles can’t help the snort that escapes. "That was terrible, oh my god, I'm so embarrassed for you."

"Whatever, you love it."

"No," Charles corrects, still laughing helplessly. "No, I love you. Your sophomoric attempts at seduction, however, I can take or leave. Preferably leave, a long way away."

He leans in to press a kiss to Erik's collarbone again, sucking up a mark that's still going to be there tomorrow, which Charles likes in this really base, primal wa - holy shit, what did he just say?

Erik's staring at him in shock, although Charles can't bring himself to actually look back so it's entirely possible that he's wrong about that.

"Did you just -" Erik says, and then stops.

Charles withdraws his fingers a second time and absent-mindedly wipes them off on Erik's thigh. Erik makes a vaguely indignant noise and grabs his wrist. Charles does look up then, and yes, Erik looks just as shocked as he suspected, but he also looks ...

Well, really fucking thrilled, to put it bluntly.

So when Erik says, "Charles," in this slow, hesitant voice, like he thinks Charles is going to run and jump headfirst out of the window, Charles gathers his courage and looks him in the eye.

"Yes," he says, as firmly as he can, which isn't very. "Um." And then he quickly adds, "Obviously you don't have to say it back, I just thought you should know -"

He's cut off by Erik launching himself halfway down the bed, crashing their mouths together and kissing Charles like he's trying to crawl inside him.

"You idiot," he mumbles, in between kisses. "I know."

And before Charles can work himself into righteous indignation at that, Erik’s long legs are wrapping themselves around Charles’ waist and he’s slowly, so slowly, working himself onto Charles’ cock, and whatever words Charles might have had get stuck in his throat.

When coherency regains its grip on his brain, Charles is clinging to Erik so hard that bruises are a certainty rather than just a tantalising possibility, and he's making raw, broken noises that he'll probably be really embarrassed about later but couldn’t give a shit about in the moment.

“You would say it first,” Erik mumbles into his ear, ankles digging into the backs of Charles’ thighs to urge him on. “I had this great plan – I was going to swoop in and save you, explain my tragic past and make sweet, tender love to you all night. And then I was going to look you dead in the eye and say it,” he says, biting his lip on a groan. “And now it’s all ruined.”

“Ruined,” Charles agrees absently, peeling one hand away from Erik’s hip and curling it around his neck instead, leaning in to kiss him messily. “If you said it now it would just be a complete contrivance.”

“Exactly,” Erik nods, gasping as Charles evidently nails his prostate. “Totally – ah, fuck – totally forced.”

Charles nods wildly, almost convinced he doesn’t need to hear it, but - “Say it anyway,” he blurts out before he realises he’s going to.

Erik laughs so hard that Charles can literally feel it in his cock, the tight, hot clenches of Erik’s body around him that make him go briefly cross-eyed.

“Fuck, I love you,” Erik breathes, pressing their foreheads together so it’s like the words are being pushed into Charles’ mouth, adding in a rushed whisper, “Charles Xavier, you are the world’s biggest dumbass and I love you so much I can barely stand it.”

“Oh, shit,” Charles says, strangled, hauling one of Erik’s legs further up so he can slide in deeper.

It’s over almost embarrassingly quickly after that, especially once Erik gets a hand around his cock and and starts frantically jerking it. It takes all of Charles’ willpower to wait until Erik shudders and goes tight around him with a long groan, coming messily in thick ropes over their stomachs - then he buries his face in the space between Erik’s neck and shoulder, fucks into him one final time and comes so hard he thinks he might have blacked out.

After a minute - or an hour, or a day - he pulls back and sets about unsticking their bodies as gently as possible. Erik is precisely no help, but he’s wearing a dazed, happy look that Charles figures he’s entitled to feel smug about so he doesn’t complain.

Once they’re reasonably clean and tidy, Charles disposes of the washcloth and then rejoins Erik in bed, curling into his side and propping his chin on Erik’s chest.

“Not that I’m not immensely flattered,” Charles says, after a few minutes of Erik gently carding through his hair with that same dreamy expression of bliss on his face, “but I’m starting to worry I’ve done some permanent damage. Have I thoroughly ruined you for anyone else? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Erik snorts and gives him a single exaggerated blink. “Your dick is amazing,” he says, then ruins it by rolling his eyes. “But I was actually thinking - in about an hour, we’re going to do all of that again,” he says, gesturing between the two of them. “And you’re going to eat me out first.”

Charles opens his mouth. Then he closes it. Various comments cross his mind, like oh shit and are you kidding? and jesus christ I will die, but eventually he goes with a careful, “I don’t hear a please in there.”

“Do you need one?” Erik asks with a sly grin, as he hauls Charles up the bed to kiss him. “I seem to remember something about you making me beg.”

“There were extenuating circumstances - ” Charles starts, but then gives up when Erik shoves his tongue in his mouth.

“Extenuating - oh my god,” Erik says, pulling away to laugh in his face. “You nerd, you’ve got a permanent engraved invitation! I’ll tattoo it on my ass or something later, would you just -”

“Alright, alright,” Charles says, holding his hands up in surrender. “But if we’re doing this again in an hour - very ambitious, by the way -”

“Thank you.”

“- then I’m going to need at least twenty minutes to rest, and it wouldn’t hurt to rehydrate either,” Charles finishes dryly. He’s very aware, in that way you are once you hit thirty and your body starts its inevitable slide downwards, of the cramp threatening to claim his thighs and the way his mouth feels dry and cottony.

“I agree to your terms,” Erik says around a yawn. “But only if I get to be the little spoon.”

“Granted,” Charles says, obligingly lifting his arm so Erik can turn and move until his back is pressed against Charles’s chest.

And between one breath and the next, they’re asleep.

***

They’re rudely awoken the next morning by a knock on the door.

“Charles, you dick, wake the hell up!” Raven calls through the wood. She’s clearly learnt her lesson about walking into people’s bedrooms unannounced. Charles would be pleased about this, except he’s trying to fucking sleep.

“Go away,” he groans, rolling over and shoving his face into the pillow. This brings him flush against Erik, which is, all things considered, a much better state of affairs, and Charles makes a happy sound as he curls around Erik.

“If I have to come in there,” Raven says threateningly, “so help me god, I will haul your naked ass out of there with my bare hands.”

“That’s quite an image,” Erik comments sleepily, hand resting on Charles’ hip.

“Your support is overwhelming,” Charles tells him dryly. To Raven he adds, “What do you want, Raven?”

“Me? I don’t want anything except to kick your boyfriend’s ass, but I guess that can wait until after breakfast.”

“Why wait?” Erik replies, breaking out into a grin when he hears Raven curse loudly on the other side of the door. “I’d like to work up an appetite.”

“Motherfucker,” they hear Raven mutter, and then, “I will fucking end you, Magneto, count on it. Charles, Moira’s in the library, put some goddamn pants on and get down here.”

And she storms off. When her footsteps have faded away, Charles presses a kiss to Erik’s shoulder and says, “You know, I think she missed you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Erik says. “It’ll be a shame to kick her ass.”

Charles gives him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “We both know she could beat you with her hands tied.”

Erik opens his mouth and then pauses. “True,” he admits finally.

Charles pats his hand consolingly. “Don’t worry, dear. She’s not much of a one for weapons, you’ve probably got her beat there.”

“‛Dear’?” Erik echoes, raising an eyebrow.

Charles flushes. “Ah, I … um …”

Laughing, Erik presses him flat against the pillows, kissing him slowly and more sweetly than Charles had expected.

“You’re adorable,” Erik says eventually. “How do you just say shit like that?”

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” Charles asks, resigned. He supposes he should just be glad Raven never heard.

“The last person who called me dear was my grandmother and I was eight years old," Erik says, thumb stroking over Charles' jaw. "So no, you're never going to live it down, and I reserve the right to mock you endlessly for it."

“Noted.” Charles sighs and pushes back the covers. “Come on,” he says, hunting out a pair of pants. “Best not keep Moira waiting.”

There’s a suspicious lack of comment from Erik, but Charles chooses to ignore it. He focuses instead on trying not to look like he’s just spent the past twelve hours in bed having enthusiastic reunion sex. Moira will see straight through him, of course, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“I fail to see why you insist on running around after some –” Erik’s mouth curls in distaste, “- cop.”

“Well, firstly,” Charles says, stepping into his shoes, “Moira is a close friend, regardless of her profession. Secondly, for her to come here unannounced must mean she has information – information, I might add, that could get us one step closer to Shaw.” He leans against one of the bedposts and looks directly at Erik as he continues, frankly, “And thirdly, she’s not just a cop, she is the cop, and she can show up at my home any damn time she likes.”

He feels like he’s pushing his luck, rounding on Erik so soon after his return, but Charles cares about Moira, owes a lot of his success in the business to her, and would probably have ended up in jail by now if it hadn’t been for her tacit intervention back in the early days, when Charles had no fucking clue what he was doing.

Erik looks at him for a few minutes, his face blank and inscrutable like only he can be. Then he nods to himself, as though coming to a decision, and starts getting dressed.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s see what the cop wants, then.”

Charles narrows his eyes. “That was easy,” he says warily, and then, “Too easy. Am I going to regret this?”

Erik pulls on his turtleneck and then leans over to kiss Charles on the cheek. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says airily.

Then he smirks.

“Dear,” he adds, slapping Charles on the arse on their way out the door.

Oh, Charles has a bad feeling about this.

***

Charles makes it about three steps into the library before something hits him hard in the chest.

He glances down to see his mask lying on the floor at his feet, and then looks up into Moira's furious eyes.

"Ah," he manages. "Moira, my dear -"

"So you just call anybody that, huh?" Erik wonders out loud. "I really don't know how I feel about that."

"Not helping," Charles hisses at him.

"It amazes me that you thought I would," Erik says with a sharp grin.

Charles manfully ignores this, turning his attention back to Moira instead. "Listen, Moira, I -"

Moira glares at him. "I don't want excuses or apologies, Charles, I just want you to tell me that it won't happen again." She lets out a frustrated sound, and adds, "Now I have to threaten a perfectly harmless young woman with unemployment, or worse, so that your secret stays safe, and -"

"And who says Charles owes anyone an apology?" Erik says, in this deadly calm voice that makes Charles feel simultaneously alarmed and aroused. God, he's a terrible person.

Moira stares at him like he's crazy. Charles can't actually argue that one.

"I do," she bites out eventually. "And when you put your entire career on the line just so he can keep his ass out of jail, well then maybe you get a say in it too."

"I beg your pardon?" Erik slowly gets to his feet, all six-feet-plus of him towering over Moira. She glares up at him, unimpressed.

"Do not try to intimidate me," she says coldly. "Do not."

Erik gives her a grim smile. "I won't try, Commissioner."

"Okay," Charles interjects hastily. "I really don't think -"

"No," Moira agrees, still glaring at Erik. "You didn't think. Not with your brain, at least. And now I've got to clean up your mess. Tell me, Charles, when you agreed to work for me, what was the one rule?"

"Moira, I -"

"Charles! One rule - what was it?"

Charles sighs and stares at the floor. "Don't make a mess," he recites, aware that he sounds like a sullen teenager but unable to stop himself.

"Don't make a mess," Moira repeats pointedly. "Now, I don't know about you guys, but I'd say leaving evidence behind at a crime scene - evidence that could incriminate a lot of people besides yourself - constitutes a pretty big fucking mess, wouldn't you?"

"I don't think you give a shit about Charles incriminating himself," Erik says, before Charles can say a word. "I think you're too concerned with how much this could incriminate you."

"Oh, well done, Magneto!" Moira says, clapping her hands sarcastically. "And I thought Charles was the genius."

"Moira, really, that's -" Charles starts, helplessly, but both she and Erik wave him into silence.

They're squaring up to each other in the middle of the room, Erik balanced on the balls of his feet, Moira clenching her hands like she wants to wrap them around Erik's neck.

Charles throws up his hands in exasperation and sits down heavily in the nearest chair. They can fight it out amongst themselves, he's done trying to play mediator.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Erik demands.

"Don't be a moron. Think about it for a second!" Moira retorts with an angry gesture. "If word gets out that I've got assassins on my payroll, what do you think will happen to me? I'll be out on my ass before I can blink – well, if I don’t end up assassinated first.” She smacks her fist into the palm of her other hand for emphasis. Possibly she'd wanted to smash it into Erik's face, but thought better of it. "And what do you think will happen to Charles? To you? You're a necessary evil, both of you, and I'll keep your secrets, but I won't hesitate to sell you out if it'll save me."

Charles starts at that, surprised and not a little betrayed. Erik snarls and takes a threatening step forward .

"You backstabbing, two-faced -" he starts to say, hands reaching for the knife he never goes anywhere without. He pulls up short, though, when Moira stands her ground, deliberately pushing aside her jacket to reveal a black leather holster.

"I see you've got a knife," she says, voice dangerously soft. "Well, I've got a gun - let's see who the quicker draw is, shall we?"

"Holy shit, that's hot," says another voice

The three of them wheel around to find Raven and the others crowded in the doorway. Sean is the one who spoke, and he's staring open-mouthed at Moira like's never seen her before.

"I was on my way to the kitchen when I heard you guys shouting," Raven says, seeing the look on Charles' face.

"The rest of us are just too nosy to pass this domestic argument by," Angel adds, peering over Raven's shoulder, and Sean, Alex and Hank all nod their agreement.

"There's no domestic argument," Charles protests, but it's weak.

"No, there's not, because I'm leaving," Moira says, and straightens her jacket. "I'll be in touch if I get any more info on Shaw, Charles. In the meantime, try not to fuck up a good thing, okay?"

"I resent that," Charles says mildly. He probably deserved it, in all honesty, but he's not going to admit it.

"Do you," she replies, without mirth, not even bothering to make it a question. "I resent being dragged out of bed at three in the morning because some dumbass and his boyfriend don't understand the meaning of the word discretion, but you don't see me complaining about it, do you?"

"Uh, actually -" Hank begins helpfully, and then wilts under the intensity of Moira's glare. "Oh, you were being ironic, sorry," he finishes, trying to melt into the background without making any sudden movements.

"Well, if that's all," Moira says, rolling her eyes and turning to leave.

Sean steps forward so fast he's almost a blur. "Hey, Commissioner," he drawls, and Charles almost groans. This can only end with Sean wearing his intestines as a tie.

Moira gives him a flat look. "What."

"You're looking good this fine morning," Sean says, in a voice he probably thinks is seductive but just sounds sort of ... sticky.

"Oh, good. I was worried," Moira says icily.

Sean either doesn't notice or doesn't care, but everyone else has frozen in shock. Even Erik is watching the scene with his mouth half-open, although as Charles watches he starts to smirk, perhaps wishing he'd subjected Moira to Sean before now, if only for the possibility of seeing blood.

"I mean, you look good whatever time it is," Sean goes on, still in that same voice. "Not that that has any bearing on anything, I'm sure you'd be just as awesome whatever you looked like -"

"Are you for real?" Moira says, looking askance at the others. "Is he for real?"

As one, they all shrug, and she turns back to Sean, still nonplussed.

"Sure," he says, then waggles his eyebrows at her. Oh good god, he's going to die, Charles thinks, unable to stop watching. "Wanna see how real I am?"

There's a long, long silence. Then -

"Hit on me again and I will have you arrested," Moira snaps at him, finally losing patience. Charles almost thanks her profusely before he remembers that they're not exactly on the best of terms right now.

Far from being put off, Sean just grins. "Oh, hey, yeah," he says brightly. "You're a cop. That means you have handcuffs, right?"

Raven coughs loudly, and Charles tries to make surreptitious stop talking now faces at him, but Sean just barrels on like Moira isn't coming up with a dozen different places to hide the body right in front of him.

"You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut," Moira says at last.

Sean's grin gets impossibly wider. "You should definitely teach me," he says.

Moira just stares at him for a second. Then, to Charles' considerable surprise, she laughs.

"Yeah, kid, maybe I'll pencil you in," she says. Charles is expecting her to sound sarcastic and she is, but she also sounds ... flirty, which is just bizarre.

"Great!" Sean enthuses, apparently oblivious to the sarcasm. In the background, Raven shakes her head in disbelief, Angel is trying to hide her laughter in Raven's shoulder, and Alex and Hank look like they're torn between cheering him on and planning his funeral.

"Right," Moira says, like she's not entirely sure Sean is being serious.

"How does next Thursday sound?" Sean asks, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

Moira gives him a look. "Hm," is all she says, and sweeps out of the room without a backward glance, although Charles is sure he saw her smile.

There's a few seconds of silence and then Raven says distantly, "She'll eat you alive."

Sean lets out a dreamy sigh. "God, I hope so.”