browngirl | Handiwork (X-Men: First Class, PG-13 for violence)

As ever I'm ridiculously busy, so here's a ficlet till I can post something longer.

Title: Handiwork
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Rating: PG-13 with warnings.
Pairing: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr
Summary: If Charles hadn't called Erik off there would've been hell to pay, and yet...
Content Advisory: Violence, [temporary] UST (established relationship implied).
All Thanks To:

igrockspock for throwing the fabulous A Picture is Worth 1000 Words Commentfic Meme, and

ceitfianna for the image that inspired me.
Disclaimer: This fanwork has been created for pleasure only and not for profit.

Later, Charles will think that if he'd been more alert, less tired and less tipsy, he could have prevented the entire incident, that he wouldn't have to carry its disturbing afterimages in his mind.

But he isn't, at this moment. He's strolling down the cool streets of Washington, loose-limbed and cheerful from a jaunt to a nearby bar, a chess set tucked beneath his arm and Erik's knuckles brushing his every other step. It's been a long, full, deeply pleasant day, and Charles is looking forward to sinking into their hotel bed beneath Erik's warm solidity and spending the night even more pleasantly yet.

Which is why, distracted by the swing of Erik's arms and the length of his stride, lulled by the warm slosh of accomplishment and alcohol, Charles pays no attention to the people streaming past them until an intent mind brushes his -- back pocket two fingers there it is -- as a man brushes by him, heading across their path towards the nearby alley. Charles turns, reaching out for the hand he felt whisking into and out of his back pocket, fumbling through his own addled mind for the best trick for the situation, and the man behind him -- nondescript jacket and shoes and cap, same height or a little shorter, striving to be forgettable -- glances up with widening eyes just as alarm flares in Erik like a grease fire. Charles grabs at the man's cuff, missing badly, and the man's hand comes up, plants onto Charles's chest and shoves him so he crashes backwards into Erik. Charles feels the man tense into motion even as Erik's arms come up around him, catching him, firm hands bracing him as they watch the man dart away.

"I'm all right," Charles gasps before Erik can give the query voice, and Erik squeezes his shoulders as he pushes Charles back up onto his feet, radiating a burst of stern purpose as he lets go to sprint after the pickpocket. For a moment all Charles can do is watch Erik's long legs pump, the symmetrical bounce of his strides, until he senses the fury bleeding into Erik's determination, staining it with violence. "Erik!" he shouts, forcing his own legs to move just as Erik vanishes around the corner and the pickpocket's mind blazes with incredulous fear.

Fear and then a spike of pain as Charles hears a yell ahead of him, another and another more desperate cry. He fumbles forward with his mind -- he could freeze Erik, he could freeze them both, he could never do that to Erik, he--

-- he stumbles around the corner and almost drops his box in shock as the pickpocket's shout cuts off on a gasp, as the man's body jackknifes over Erik's vicious knee. He's not even using his power, just beating the man down with his natural strength and combat knowledge, and a beating it is indeed as the pickpocket flails a desperate fist and Erik grabs it, twists it behind his back, punches him in the side and and rams his face into the nearby wall.

Charles's mouth is parched dry, stuck shut until he can pry it open. "Erik!" he shouts at the top of his lungs, of his mind. A flinch echoes down the line of Erik's back, and he drops the man but kicks him as he falls. He bounces terribly limply off Erik's foot, but to all conflicted shame that's not what Charles finds himself focused on.

What he sees is Erik, barely breathing hard, jaw set and eyes shining with a hectic light under the sweep of hair fallen across half his forehead. Charles sees Erik, deadly and beautiful as a bloody-beaked hawk as he turns and holds out the billfold in one long-fingered hand. "I believe this is yours," he says, and his low hot voice goes straight through Charles, setting off vibrations in chest and gut and lower still.

Charles swallows hard, shoves the chess set at Erik and makes himself drop to one knee to check on the pickpocket, who's sprawled moaning across the pavement, face purple with scrapes, semiconscious mind too jumbled with stunned agonies to retain Erik's name. Charles sways a little as he looks up, resting his elbow on his knee to steady himself, and Erik's eyes are very dark as he meets Charles's gaze, as he tucks the box under his arm and pushes his other hand into his hair, sweeping it back up his forehead into place.

Charles's mouth waters, despite his shaken dismay. He tries to disapprove of the violence steaming off every inch of Erik rather than thinking on how those strong hands would feel on his skin. "He needs a hospital," he tells Erik, trying for severity, but his voice sounds small in his own ears, half drowned out by the tide of his blood.

"You're welcome," Erik says, mouth drawn out in a smirk, and offers his hand, its knuckles slightly bruised. Charles can feel them stinging a little, how Erik barely notices the familiar discomfort. He tilts himself back just enough for balance, presses his fingers to his temple and finds the nearest police officer -- turn right, three blocks, the alley behind the graystone building, and there's a thief whose victim fought back, he needs medical attention.

Then Charles lays his hand in Erik's, feeling a thrill of heat from his fingers to his toes as Erik folds their hands together and pulls him up, the quiet dark swirl of Erik's sardonic amusement as he breathes evenly to damp his adrenaline rush and leads Charles -- innocent Charles, Erik is thinking -- from the alley. Charles has thrown a punch or two in his life, but he can't fairly challenge Erik's assessment; he should say something about the unnecessary brutality, but every sideways glance makes his pulse throb that much harder.

When they emerge into the streetlights, Erik lets go of Charles and passes over his belongings. "Thank you," Charles manages to say as he tucks the billfold away and the chess set under his arm again, everything back to normal except for the battered man behind them and both their hammering heartbeats. "I --"

"Are you really so shocked, Charles?" Erik asks, looking ahead, thinking the rest. You know what I am, you know what I can do, he attacked you, what would you have me do?

Do I indeed so horrify you?

"No," Charles stammers, half horrified at himself that it's not, 'Yes', but the truth is what it is, is all he can say as Erik turns those pale eyes back to him. "No, you were --" and it's not the word his conscience would have him say, but it's the word in his heart, " -- magnificent."

Erik's eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth curls at the edges, and he looks again up the street, but he doesn't turn away, curving his hand under Charles's elbow. Feeling those hard fingers tighten precisely around his bicep, Charles listens to the policeman's dismayed discovery of the beaten pickpocket and remembers seeing the man go down under Erik's onslaught, sensing his pain and fear as Erik pummeled him. If Charles hadn't called Erik off there would've been hell to pay, and yet his heart races and he can hardly walk without embarrassing himself; he might wish it were with wariness, it might even be tinged with fear, but under Erik's hand Charles knows the true reason for the surge in his blood.