xmenfirstkink | round 3 overflow post

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round 3 overflow post

Round 3 Overflow Post

This post is for Round 3 fills only. We ask that when a round hits 8500 comments, fillers begin moving their fills to this post.

Format:
SUBJECT LINE -- Round #, short description of fic (ex: "Alex/Hank, lab partners")
--- Link to the prompt
--- Text of the prompt

--- Link to the fill
OR
--- Entire text of the fill

EXAMPLE:
Prompt: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=1038472#t2038174

Charles/Erik -- Charles is a bakery owner whose most frequent customer is Erik.

Fill: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=0139482#t4502942

Charles started off the morning the same way he always did...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Charles had been distant and distracted throughout the shopping trip, waking up into his usual charming, laughing self at intervals only to fall back into his funk moments later. Raven didn't know whether to be more angry or frightened. Something big was going on. Something he thought was too dangerous to tell her about.

But he can tell Erik about it, Erik who treated him like dirt and made fun of him to his pureblood friends, that's who Charles thinks he can trust. She watched Charles staring out the window as the coach rumbled up the drive toward Hogwarts. "Aren't you angry?" she burst out. "How can you not be angry at him?"

"What?"

"You play chess, you have dinner, you hang out, you keep secrets! It's like you've totally forgotten what he did to you! Charles, how can you forgive him so easily?"

"Who says I have?"

"Your actions say you have. If you two aren't bosom buddies, you're sure doing a great impression of it. Please tell me you're not sleeping with him again."

Charles's mouth dropped open. "Raven, that is really none of your business at all!"

"Oh, good, you're not. That's something anyway. But I don't understand how you can even talk to him!"

"Raven..." Charles rubbed his forehead, as if staving off a headache. "He was just a kid then, Raven."

"Oh, really? He's changed, then? He's different now?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Charles admitted.

Raven drew breath to continue, but the coach was stopping. She let the breath out as a growl of frustration, gathering up their shopping bags. Charles took the heavier ones and followed her in silence, through hallways and up staircases to her room.

She dropped her bags haphazardly on the floor and went to stoke the fire, still fuming. Behind her, she could hear Charles setting down his bags, arranging them all neatly in a corner, crossing the room to the cabinet where she kept a tumbled assortment of tea bags, coffee beans and cocoa tins. Then the movement-noises stopped, and after a moment she turned to see him standing with one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, forehead pressed to the cabinet as if he could barely hold himself up.

"You're right, of course," he said, voice strained. "But you've never -- I don't mean to throw this in your face, Raven, but you've never been in love, not yet. You don't know what it's like, to be willing to give anything to be with someone, even if it's undignified, even if it's wrong..."

Raven swallowed, looked away. "You do still love him, then." Not that she hadn't known. Anyone could see it, could see the way his eyes sparkled all the time now, when Erik was around, even when he was angry -- like they had in school, like she had thought they never, ever would again. She thought Erik had killed that.

"Of course I do. I told you ten years ago that I always would."

Yes, but I hoped you were wrong. I hoped you would find someone else, someone better.

There was a long silence before Charles spoke again.

"I think what bothers me more than anything," he said distantly, "more than... things that should bother me more, is that he never wrote to apologize. Never. He's so angry at me for breaking off contact -- why did he never write? If he loved me so bloody much, why did he never even try to get me back?" His voice broke.

Raven bit her lip. "You said, at the time, that if he wrote you'd just burn it, you wouldn't even read it."

Charles tilted his head up and laughed, joylessly, water winking at the edge of one eye. "I said that, yes. And I waited and waited, didn't I, for a letter to burn. And it never came."

Raven's throat felt too tight to swallow, too tight to breathe. This was her brother, her kind, patient, beautiful brother, in tears, and she wanted to hate Erik for making him cry -- but it wasn't Erik's fault, this time, was it.

"I have to tell you something, Charles," she said, before she could lose her nerve, before she could talk herself out of it again, and felt as lightheaded as if she were stepping off a cliff. "I won't say 'don't be angry' because you will be and you should be. But I want you to understand -- I was so scared for you, Charles, you weren't eating or sleeping or talking, you just laid there like a dead thing, you didn't even cry after the first few days, and your parents wouldn't do anything -- and then you were just starting to come back to yourself, and I was so afraid of what it would do to you. I was afraid you really would burn the letter and then regret it forever, and I was more afraid that you'd read it and go crawling right back to him. I knew just seeing it would destroy everything you'd managed to rebuild. I didn't know what to do."

Charles's face had changed at the word letter, going pale and still, progressing, moment by moment, to white and frozen. Only his eyes were alive, burning with fury and hope and relief and terror and fury--

"Give me the letter, Raven." His voice was clipped, hard, emotionless.

Raven stepped over to her sock drawer and fumbled through it with numb hands. There it was, the envelope ivory-edged with years, ink faded. She handed it to Charles, felt the subtle tremor in his hands.

"I need you to leave now, please," he said, and she went, head bowed, without a word.

Charles sat down heavily at Raven's table, stared at the pale envelope against the rich mahogany of the wood. Traced a fingertip over Erik's handwriting, barely touching. Stared down at the letter as minutes turned into hours, as the sun slowly sank outside the window. Then tucked it, still sealed, into the inside pocket of his cardigan, over his heart, and went down to dinner.

---

Erik slid into the seat next to Charles at the staff table, passing the letter to Potter into Charles's hand in the same movement. He took it without changing expression. Which expression was, Erik realized, entirely odd, haggard and dazed, almost panicky.

"Charles? Are you all right?"

"I d-don't feel very well, actually," Charles replied. "I… do believe I'll retire early."

"You should eat something," Erik said, gesturing at the heaping plates of food that had appeared before them just as he arrived.

"I'll just – take something with me –" He plucked a cheese roll from his plate and turned to go. "I'll see you later?"

"Of course."

"Here, Charles, take mine too," Raven said, holding out her own cheese roll, but Charles gave no sign of having noticed her. Erik frowned, watching Charles leave, then turned to Raven, who, he realized, also looked miserable, red-eyed and blotchy.

"Did you two have a row?" Erik asked, but Raven's answer, if she gave one, was lost as Angel Salvatore plopped into Charles's vacated seat.

"Sorry I'm late, Erik! Are we still on for tonight?"

Raven leaned around Angel's shoulder to give Erik a look of open-mouthed outrage, which was a bit rich from someone who wanted him to disappear from Charles's life entirely. Erik's only reply was a defiant glare.

"Yes, of course," he said pleasantly to Angel. "I can't stay long, though."

"First year teacher, say no more." Angel put up a hand. "Never enough hours in the day. I promise, your evenings will be slightly more your own next year. In the meantime, at least we have one night of fun coming up!"

"Yeah," Erik said, mind bouncing between Raven's glare, Charles's absence, and Angel sitting too close so that their arms brushed. "I'm sure it'll be magical."

---

"What do you think?" Angel said, opening her wardrobe with a flourish. On the backs of the double doors hung the costumes, masses of black silk and white ruffles that made Erik blink. They had a distinctly Victorian air, but artfully tattered; Angel's skirt was little more than silken rags, and Erik doubted that a real Victorian maiden would wear her corset on the outside. The male outfit was shabby enough to match, but only just.

"I think I can handle it," he said.

"You don't have to make it sound like such a hardship," Angel said, shoving him playfully. "The bathroom's through there -- go put it on, let's see how it fits." She waggled her eyebrows. "You sure me yours, I'll show you mine."

He smiled politely and retreated into the bathroom, relieved that she wasn't making some attempt at undressing him herself. It took some doing to figure out all the different layers and buttons, and at the end of it there were still a few pieces he wasn't sure what to do with, including a long cape with red lining (was he doomed to capes?) and what might have been a cravat.

"Oh, I'll help you with all that," Angel said when he stepped out of the bathroom. "But don't you carry it well! Come here, come here." She tugged him over to the mirror, but then said, "No, don't look yet, let me fix you up," and went to work on the cravat."

She had changed clothes, too, as promised, and the result was more revealing than he had expected. He caught flashes of thigh with every step, and if she sneezed, she was going to cause a scandal. Someone else, perhaps, could have carried it off gracefully, but Angel just looked like a stripper. He tried not to cringe noticeably away, and then wondered at his own negative reaction. Angel was an attractive woman, and as an adult at least, his sexual experiences had, in fact, been mostly with women. He would have expected to be experiencing at least an aesthetic enjoyment of Angel, but he wasn't.

It was two things, he decided. First, while Angel was attractive, she was not at all his type; he preferred women who were quiet, elegant, striking, witty. Like Magda. Never mind that you apparently like your men little and cute, that's not relevant here. Second, when he looked at Angel, he had a hard time dissociating the woman before him from the little girl he remembered -- a bossy little loudmouth for whom he had felt only a distant annoyance.

No, there was another reason, trumping all others. She wasn't Charles. He had dated many women who were not Charles, of course, but only when Charles was far away, lost to him, a painful memory he tried not to prod at. With Charles here... no one else could truly capture his attention.

"There!" Angel stepped back, grinning, and presented Erik with his reflection.

Erik was surprised to see that he cut a rather dashing figure. The red-pinstripe waistcoat emphasized all the right places, and the cape lent him a wholly undeserved drama that, like the long lacy cuffs, felt both ridiculous and secretly exciting. Despite himself, Erik grinned.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Angel pressed a walking-stick into his hand, and stood on tiptoe to drop a top hat onto his head.

"Is that really necessary?"

"Yes," Angel firmly. "Now try that smile again. You look like Jack the Ripper. Excellent! Now let's look at this fit -- the waistcoat is perfect -- well, maybe a tuck there -- and yep, yep, the trousers are too short, let me measure..." She dropped to her knees, skirts and all, and whipped out a tiny tape-measure.

"So, um," Erik said, looking awkwardly down at the top of her head, "how did you end up teaching here? You must be the youngest member of the faculty."

"I sure am! Professor Shaw got me in. When my Quidditch career tanked--"

"Quidditch career?" Erik blurted.

"Oh, that's right, it was after you graduated. I was Slytherin Seeker for a few years. Couldn't make it in the big time, though." She sounded resigned. "Professor Shaw had been having some problems with the flying instructor here, anyway, said he wanted someone he could trust to follow orders, so... It was win-win."

"I didn't know you and Shaw were close."

"He was there for me when I needed him -- my last few years of school were tough. It's so refreshing to finally have a headmaster who's willing to face reality and try to keep the Muggle-borns under control." She said this so matter-of-factly, with more exasperation than malice, that it took Erik a moment to fully realize what she'd said. He must have stiffened, because she looked up at him in surprise. "Did I shock you? Sebastian said you were trustworthy, that you were on our side..."

"Um. I didn't realize you... felt so strongly..."

"I didn't give it a great deal of thought, I guess, until those last couple years of school. My, um... my father's side of the family are Muggles -- he's a wizard, though, it's just them -- and there was some... unpleasantness. Got myself disowned for being a freak. I was pretty upset about it, but Professor Shaw was a lot of help. Showed me that I didn't belong with them anyway, and that there was nothing wrong with that. I understand now, you can't let those people get to you. Their opinions don't matter."

"Because we're better than them," Erik ventured.

"Exactly!" Angel beamed and squeezed his hands for a moment. "I knew you understood."

He did understand, of course he did. Angel was better than the Muggles who rejected her and ought never to forget it. Her other option was, what, to crawl belly-up to her Muggle relatives and beg their forgiveness for having magic? Never.

And yet, somehow the thought was… disturbing, the thought of Shaw filling a devastated teenage girl's moldable mind with the idea that she was better, stronger, more worthy, by virtue of a single genetic quirk... a devastated girl or a lonely German orphan... Shaw could have told them anything, that was the kicker, anything that made them feel less broken, and they would have swallowed it whole, true or not. Just because someone desperately wanted to believe something didn't make it true.

What would Charles have told him, he wondered suddenly. If it somehow been Professor Xavier, rather than Professor Shaw, who brought him to Hogwarts... Probably would have given him some claptrap about forgiving your enemies and loving yourself. And maybe it would have made a fool out of Erik, as Shaw believed, a soft stupid useless fool. But it might have made him into someone kind enough, good enough, for Charles to love. That might be worth being a fool.

"You didn't really notice me in school, did you?" Angel was saying wistfully, measuring his arms now. "Of course, I must have seemed like a baby to you, and you always had the most glamorous girls on your arm -- Raven Darkholme, Primrose Parkinson, Clara Clearwater... But I guess none of them worked out in the end? Goodness knows Raven doesn't seem in a hurry to pick you back up."

Erik snorted. "Only if she could then drop me off a roof."

Angel laughed. "Can't say I'm sorry for it, myself. Raven's all right – half-bloods can go either way, you know, and she spends so much time with Muggle-borns, it's surprising she turned out so well – but I do have to wonder about her taste in men. Trade you in for that beanpole Hank McCoy – he's cute, I guess, in a gawky kind of way, not my cup of tea at all. Turn a bit, like that, thanks…" She was measuring the circumference of his hips now, which was, he suspected – since the trousers fit fine in the waist – solely for her own amusement. "Not that he asked her to the ball, you understand, too shy for that, even though she'd have said yes in a heartbeat. No, he keeps mum and poor Raven's stuck going with her brother again. Which is sort of a laugh even if they weren't more-or-less related, because it's so screamingly obvious about Charles."

Erik felt his teeth clench. "What's obvious?"

"That he's queer as a nine-bob note! Ugh, listen to me using a Muggle-ism – but don't tell me you haven't picked up on that, the amount of time you two spend together – which, by the way, I understand, even if Professor Shaw doesn't. The man's good company, witty and charming and all. It must be hard for you to find people who can stand up to you in conversation. A crying shame he's so verrrry Muggle-born, it’s like it leaks out of his pores. Which Shaw has a theory about, actually -- has he told you this? He says more Muggles and Muggle-borns come out, well... like Charles... as a... how did he put it? Something about the universe trying to protect itself by not letting Muggle-borns reproduce. I don't know, it didn't actually make much sense to me. I've known wizards who were like that, too, after all. And you know what? I think he's wrong." She nodded to herself, chin defiant but eyes nervous. Disagreeing with Shaw, Erik theorized, was not something she did frequently. "I think Charles is a great guy and a great teacher, Muggle-born or not, and it's a shame he won't have kids because he'd be a great father. You must think so, too, right? I mean, you're friends with him, right?"

Erik didn't answer. He wasn't sure he could speak right now without snarling.

"Right," Angel said nervously. "Um. Well, at least poor Moira finally caught on – she'd been mooning over him for years, you know, which is a little weird since she's older, but apparently that's just how she rolls because Sean Cassidy's even younger than Charles." She stepped behind Erik, possibly out of self-defense, and measured the width of his shoulders. "Cassidy's a pureblood, though, so it's hard to get behind that idea. I mean, it's not like Moira's even subtle about being Muggle-born, you'd think she was proud of it, I hear she begged to be allowed to teach Muggle Studies – blegh, you couldn't pay me enough. Here, hold still, I can just pin this... Cassidy doesn't seem to care, though, which I guess makes sense – his mother was a Weasley, if you can't tell with that hair, and they're not exactly notorious for guarding the bloodline. Okay, almost ready. Just need our masks!"

She rummaged in the wardrobe for a moment, then returned with two masquerade half-masks, both black with swirling white ornamentation. One was shaped like a pair of butterfly wings; Angel pressed that one to her face and handed the other to Erik. He followed suit, and felt a brief tingle of magic as the mask sealed to his skin.

"I'll get all the alterations done tonight," Angel said, "but it's mostly pinned into place now, so you should have a pretty good idea how it'll look." She stepped up to Erik's side, put her arm through his, and gave a satisfied sigh. "There! Don't we just go together perfectly?"

No, Erik thought. I don't think we do.

---

Charles forced down the cheese roll and chased it with some tea, trying not to notice the crinkle of the letter in his pocket every time he moved, the weight of it against his chest. There was a more urgent letter to be dealt with now.

Erik had done well, overall, with the letter to Harry Potter; Charles corrected the spelling of one word, tweaked a phrase in the last paragraph, signed his name beneath Erik's, and it was done. Before he could overthink it, he carried it straight to the Owlery and sent it off.

It was still nagging at his mind that he hadn't noticed Dolly Dursley's induction into the Potter Pack. What else had he not noticed? Rather than return to his empty quarters -- or worse, return to find Erik waiting in his quarters -- coward, Xavier -- he made his way to the Ravenclaw common room. Dinnertime was over by now, and his prefects were always happy to fill him in on the gossip.

The Ravenclaw common room was in chaos. Two teams of boys -- half of them without shirts on -- were batting something like a tiny perpetual explosion back and forth, shouting and running, trampling furniture, homework, and smaller students, while a third-year girl, levitating at the ceiling (apparently against her will) screamed for help. A group of first-years had a terrified house-elf cornered under a table and were trying to give it clothes.

"Everybody stop," Charles snapped, amplifying his voice with a twitch of his wand.

The room fell silent, one boy toppling over and breaking a chair as he tried to freeze in his tracks.

"Hi, Professor X," Dominique Weasley said in a tiny, sheepish voice. Her hair was frazzled and her eyes looked shadowed and sleepless.. Poor 'Minique, she had doubtless tried her best to keep things under control in his mental absence.

"Hello, sweetheart," he sighed. "You four, let the poor house-elf go. Immediately. Yes, I know, internalized oppression, et cetera, we'll talk about it later. You boys, put your clothes back on.. What is that thing?" The tiny explosion, dropped on the floor, was beginning to singe the carpet. "Wait, don't even tell me, it came from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes? I'm shocked. Whoever owns that abomination, douse it or lock it away or whatever will keep it out of my sight and away from flammable materials. Clarissa, darling, don't cry, I'm going to get you down."

With some semblance of order restored, he set the boys to setting the room to rights, while he fixed the chair and a few other bits of damaged furniture with a quick Reparo.

"I really tried to stop them, Professor," Dominique said meekly.

"I'm sure you did, sweetheart, don't worry about it. I know I haven't been around as much as you're accustomed to."

"Well, of course things have been... you know, demanding. With Imogen Cox and everything."

"Yes, well, I have a duty to the living students as well. Come on, 'Minique, tell me all the news. How are things with your... goodness, what is Dolly to you? Cousin of a cousin..."

"We've declared her an honorary Weasley cousin, probationary status," Dominique said, "We call her Probie," and proceeded to follow him throughout Ravenclaw Tower, chattering about everything he could possibly want to know about the Potter Pack and the Ravenclaws as he inspected the dormitories, patting heads and kissing the occasional skinned knee, both figurative and literal. He could feel his mind filing away details of what he saw and heard, to be properly catalogued and interpreted during a long-overdue Divination session. He should have time for that in the morning.

"And that's about everything, really," Dominique said at last. By this time they were sitting on a couch in the restored common room, with three students making up a board game as they went along at the table behind them, and the traumatized house-elf still trying to build up the fire with shaking hands. "What about you, Prof?"

"Me? Oh, you know, all manner of official... unpleasantness. Inevitable, when there's a student death."

"You seem to have made a new friend this year," Dominique said, perhaps a little teasingly.

Charles forbade himself to blush, but could feel his ears warming anyway. "I suppose you mean Eri – Professor Lehnsherr."

"Mm-hmm. Also known as Professor LandShark, Meanest Teeth in All Britain."

"He's not mean, not really. Um, is he?"

"Sometimes," Dominique said drily, "especially if you're stupid. He's getting better, though." She raised an eyebrow. "Almost like he had a mellowing influence or something."

"I try," Charles admitted.

"Well, try harder. Exams will be here before you know it and we need him all happy and relaxed by then."

Charles cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. Looking forward to the Halloween masquerade? Do you have your costume ready?"

Dominique smiled wolfishly and consented to the change in topic. The conversation became more enjoyable, and by the time Charles made his way back to his own rooms, it was almost possible to forget the weight of the letter over his heart.

---

Dawn, in Charles's experience, was the best time for a Divination reverie. He rolled out of bed, paused only to rinse his mouth and throw on his slippers, then opened the window wide to the chilly October sunrise and assumed lotus position on the floor in front of it.

He tried to keep his mind from fully waking, without actually going to back to sleep. The idea was to listen to his subconscious, to let it 'connect the dots' of information he'd acquired both consciously and not, and form it into a picture he might never have otherwise seen. He focused on slow, even breathing, kept his spine straight, and let the words, worries, and sensory impressions of the last few days tumble unimpeded through his mind.

Read the letter, his mind urged him, you should read Erik's letter right now, but he pushed past that. He wasn't deep enough in, yet, to trust what his mind told him.

At the end of ten minutes, he realized one of his Ravenclaws (poking at her plate -- face thinner since start of term -- grades dropping -- faint smell of vomit when she spoke, not enough to notice at the time) was developing an eating disorder. He would take her to Madam Pomfrey. She would know what to do.

At fifteen minutes, he realized two of his seventh-years were romantically involved and trying to hide it (longing looks -- excuses to touch -- how very familiar, but why -- she's Muggleborn, oh dear, his grandmother was a Black). Perhaps he should stay out of it but he probably wouldn't.

At twenty-five minutes, something began to build, delicately, tiny 'dots' that faded if he looked directly at them -- like faint stars -- star chart -- piled papers -- drowning, men drowning in a bottle -- star chart -- wand, important -- ink on parchment -- lines, swirls, notations -- star chart -- October -- WAND --

A knock at the door shattered his concentration, and Charles suddenly re-inhabited his gasping, shivering body. What idiot had opened the window?

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he snarled, when the knock sounded again before he could get to the door. He didn't have the presence of mind, yet, to wonder who it was and if he should be alarmed.

It was Erik. And he was grinning.

"Get dressed, Charles, come outside with me," he said. "Good heavens, what idiot opened your window? It's freezing out there."

"What? What do you want?" His voice sounded slurred, his brain felt slurred, he was sure it wasn't good for him to be knocked out of trance like that.

Erik chuckled and mussed his hair. "Get some coffee and put on something warm. I need you to help me with something."

Charles turned away and began fumbling with his teapot, muttering about help you, help you right out the window, laugh at your splattered corpse. Erik laughed again, shut the window and tucked a blanket around Charles's shoulders.

"Did you read the letter?"

"What?" Charles whirled, feeling the blood drain from his face.

Erik jerked back, frowned. "The letter, Charles. To Potter?"

"Right." Charles sagged a bit, tried not to pant. "Of course. Yes, it was fine, I sent it off already. Corrected your spelling a bit."

Erik looked at him strangely, but ventured a smile. "I would expect nothing less."

The sun was only just up when Charles found himself out on the grounds, on a hillside out of any clear view from the castle, with Erik handing him a gun.

He blinked down at it. It felt cold, and heavy, and quite solid. Probably not a hallucination. .22 caliber, some part of his mind catalogued automatically. Kimber Rimfire. Good hunting pistol.

"Erik," he said flatly. "What. The. Devil."

"I borrowed it from Summers. I have some ideas, Charles, on how to use magic to deflect bullets. Of course there's only one way to test them. I know you know how to shoot -- you used to complain about your dad taking you hunting -- so if you could just aim a little to the side of me, so I don't actually die if this doesn't work--"

"Erik. What the devil -- this is a school, Erik, there are children--" Charles could barely breathe. "You brought a loaded gun into a school?"

"It was already here. Technically."

"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."

***

vggrgjhdwuuygbjjkvrf all the feels hhhhhh I love this fic so muhuhuhuccccch

!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wow! This was a wonderful update. So much happening here. I actually yelled when Charles was interrupted in his meditation. It's a very interesting turn you have taken with the whole Divination thing. I'm looking forward to reading more of it. Already waiting for the next update.

Thank you! I'm glad you like the Divination thing -- I felt like there had to be a way to make the subject actually relevant and useful to the non-Gifted, and that Charles would be the one to find it.

Also, I love your icon. That is the most perfect fic-comment icon ever.

I can't wait for Charles to read the letter. And, *eyes "30ish"* sounds good!

I'm not promising thirty, we are definitely coming up on the end sequence and if it's shorter, it's shorter, but I know myself and how my stories tend to spiral out of control in terms of length, so...

Charles and this letter. He's still trying to come to terms with its existence before he can even think about actually reading it. I'm as eager for him to open it as you are! I promise, it will happen!

I just read the whole story up to here, and it is absolutely amazing!

Charles, read the letter! And tell Erik about the wand! And keep that gun away from him! But do have long talks about feelings with him that lead to lots of making out and also hot lovin'!

Erik, continue on your path of becoming less of a moron! And don't get killed by Shaw! And don't get consumed by hatred, either! There's Charles to love and make out with!

Shaw? Die die die die die die die! Or be imprisoned in Azkaban forever and ever and ever! You bastard.

I am really excited for the next part of this.

Your comment is made of truth and beauty. It should be cross-stitched onto a silver cloth with golden thread and framed in a museum.

That is all.

Aw, thanks! I'd stitch it myself but I don't have any silver cloth.

Yay! So happy to see more of this.

Kudos to everything. Seriously, this fic of reviving nostalgic true romance for Charles/Erik is also reviving my happy memories of reading HP for the first time...

Mine, too, actually! The process of writing this has made me excited about the HP universe all over again. I'm very happy to hear it's having a similar effect for others!

HOW DID CHARLES NOT DIE OF CURIOSITY??? READ THE BLOODY LETTER, CHARLES!!! I NEED TO KNOW WHAT'S IN IT!!!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

round 3 overflow post

FILL: The Better Men (18a/30ish)

FILL: The Better Men (18b/30ish)

FILL: The Better Men (18c/30ish)

FILL: The Better Men (18d/30ish)

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FILL: The Better Men (18h/30ish)

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