"Yes, and Summers's job is toast, never fear. Oh my god. You actually -- you actually expect me to shoot at you. Right here. You really have no idea..." Charles kept his grip on the gun secure, though his skin wanted to flinch away from it.
Erik's grin had faded. "Come on now, Charles, don't act like it's going to bite you. It's just an object."
"Yes. Yes, that is exactly the point, it is just an object and it only does what a gun is supposed to do."
"Naturally," Erik said warily. "And I'm not aiming it at any of the students, Charles, do you think I'm an idiot?"
"Augh, who am I talking to, you're from a culture that hands out wands capable of lethal spells at the age of eleven, you simply don't understand -- Erik, to kill someone with magic requires intent, all the lethal spells are powered by your own determination to kill this person, you can't do it on accident. Right? You following me? That's why it's perfectly safe to throw the words 'Avada Kedavra!' around right and left, it's not going to do a thing unless you mean it, right? Guns are not like that."
Erik reached to take the gun back, and Charles tightened his grip on it -- no, he couldn't let Erik carry this around, so devoid of the wariness Muggles instinctively treated guns with, what if a child got hold of it, some pureblood child who didn't even know what it was --
"Erik, a bullet won't care if you meant to fire it or not, it fires anyway," he said, and Erik was trying to pry it from his hand now, Charles pulled it closer, and oh struggling over a gun was not not not a wise thing, "and you could kill someone, Erik, you could hurt yourself or me or one of the children without ever meaning to--"
"Charles, you're pointing it at yourself, even I know better than that!"
"I'm not," though he knew it might look that way, and Erik's hands were panicky now, scrabbling --
"Stop it, stop it, just be still!" Charles forced himself to do likewise, and they stood there, rather more tangled together than he'd realized because he was half-turned away and Erik had tried to pull him back. Neither of them was breathing evenly and the gun was cold against Charles's stomach. "Erik," he said, very calmly, when he could, "I'm not giving this back to you, because you don't know how to handle it, and I can't be sure you'd give it the proper respect. I'm going to unload it, disassemble it if I can, and hide it in my room until I can decide what to do about it and you and Alex bloody Summers. That is what's going to happen. Now let me go."
Erik let his arms drop, slowly, but didn't step back. "Charles," he said, breath against Charles's hair, "I wouldn't let anything happen. I would never let you be hurt."
Charles sighed, resting his head against Erik's collar. The letter in his pocket crinkled at the movement. "I know you wouldn't, my friend. I know."
FILL: The Better Men (18h/30ish)
"Yes, and Summers's job is toast, never fear. Oh my god. You actually -- you actually expect me to shoot at you. Right here. You really have no idea..." Charles kept his grip on the gun secure, though his skin wanted to flinch away from it.
Erik's grin had faded. "Come on now, Charles, don't act like it's going to bite you. It's just an object."
"Yes. Yes, that is exactly the point, it is just an object and it only does what a gun is supposed to do."
"Naturally," Erik said warily. "And I'm not aiming it at any of the students, Charles, do you think I'm an idiot?"
"Augh, who am I talking to, you're from a culture that hands out wands capable of lethal spells at the age of eleven, you simply don't understand -- Erik, to kill someone with magic requires intent, all the lethal spells are powered by your own determination to kill this person, you can't do it on accident. Right? You following me? That's why it's perfectly safe to throw the words 'Avada Kedavra!' around right and left, it's not going to do a thing unless you mean it, right? Guns are not like that."
Erik reached to take the gun back, and Charles tightened his grip on it -- no, he couldn't let Erik carry this around, so devoid of the wariness Muggles instinctively treated guns with, what if a child got hold of it, some pureblood child who didn't even know what it was --
"Erik, a bullet won't care if you meant to fire it or not, it fires anyway," he said, and Erik was trying to pry it from his hand now, Charles pulled it closer, and oh struggling over a gun was not not not a wise thing, "and you could kill someone, Erik, you could hurt yourself or me or one of the children without ever meaning to--"
"Charles, you're pointing it at yourself, even I know better than that!"
"I'm not," though he knew it might look that way, and Erik's hands were panicky now, scrabbling --
"Stop it, stop it, just be still!" Charles forced himself to do likewise, and they stood there, rather more tangled together than he'd realized because he was half-turned away and Erik had tried to pull him back. Neither of them was breathing evenly and the gun was cold against Charles's stomach. "Erik," he said, very calmly, when he could, "I'm not giving this back to you, because you don't know how to handle it, and I can't be sure you'd give it the proper respect. I'm going to unload it, disassemble it if I can, and hide it in my room until I can decide what to do about it and you and Alex bloody Summers. That is what's going to happen. Now let me go."
Erik let his arms drop, slowly, but didn't step back. "Charles," he said, breath against Charles's hair, "I wouldn't let anything happen. I would never let you be hurt."
Charles sighed, resting his head against Erik's collar. The letter in his pocket crinkled at the movement. "I know you wouldn't, my friend. I know."
***