Chapter Text
"What's an oxymoron?" Erik asked.
Charles had been distracted. He shook himself out of it. "Hmm?"
"It was in one of your books."
He was curious, but mainly he wanted to hear Charles talk. They were sat outside a little bar in Haifa, watching the bustle slowly die down in the piazza as the air cooled. They'd walked here after their shift ended, three or four hours ago. It was to Erik's great chagrin that he found himself totally unwilling to call it a night.
The young man straightened in his chair, pensive frown forming. The movement shifted his shirt away from his skin at the collarbone. Erik had the maddening thought that his hand would fit in the space between. "It's--er, it's a sort of a linguistic device. Usually two contrasting words or phrases. One word makes the other impossible, and vice versa. It's a paradox."
Erik blinked, and Charles' lip pursed.
"Perhaps an example? A dry rain, for instance. Or a fun disaster."
A beautiful man, Erik's brain supplied, before he dashed that nonsense out, stubbing it, like a cigarette butt. Which reminded him. He was patting his pockets down as Charles continued speaking.
"Usually it's pointing out absurdity, or hypocrisy. It's used in jokes."
Erik mouthed a silent ah. "No wonder I didn't recognize."
"You have a good sense of humor," Charles said, defensive. His perhaps-mock-affronted tone was broken into by a surprised grin. "I didn't know you smoke."
As if Erik had revealed the secret of the pyramids. Charles took every tiny scrap of Erik's private life for sacred, for whatever reason. Erik had indeed found the box, shuffled one cigarette out. He hung it out of the corner of his mouth as he responded.
"I don't," he said, and flicked his lighter. "Not habitually, at any rate. These were a gift, from someone who couldn't afford my services."
Those clever eyes rolled to the heavens. Erik lit the cigarette, puffed in cautiously, found the taste unappealing but the warmth rather enjoyable. "I might have known," said Charles, and his gaze fell back on Erik's with the full weight of implication: "You never do anything for pleasure."
Erik ignored the insinuation, but he shook the box vaguely in Charles' direction, as if that somehow defied the young man's point. Charles turned it down wordlessly, and something about that frustrated Erik in a way he couldn't articulate in any of the four or five languages he knew.
Charles took a sip from their waning drinks. Their fourth or fifth round, at the very least. His eyes darted amongst the thinning crowd, passing from face to face as if there were something happening out there that only he could understand. Oddly, Charles nodded, satisfied by whatever invisible criteria had been met.
He's not human, whispered something traitorous and pressed down in Erik's mind.
"And what services couldn't they afford?" Charles asked lightly. "I'm given to understand that in your spare time you're a Nazi hunter."
Erik must have paled, because Charles laughed, as if he found Erik very sweet and a little naïve. "Oh, please don't look at me like that, darling, I went to Oxford. Everyone I know is a spy of some description."
"Charles," Erik protested weakly.
"You can trust me to keep the secret," Charles said. "Badly kept as it is."
He did. That was the insane part of all of this. Somewhere in the last two months Charles Xavier had become his confidante. He puffed again at the cigarette in his hand, flicked away a little ash. Madness. He looked over at Charles whose face was now partially obscured by the darkening night. He was, in an odd sort of deference, not meeting Erik's gaze.
"And you, soldier boy?" Erik asked, and Charles' eyes swept back. "Are you telling stories to your Americans?"
He exhaled a half-breath of smoke, and fancied that Charles was watching his lips as he took his next drag. Or maybe it was the cigarette.
A crooked smile, and a scoff. "The Americans don't want real intelligence," Charles said. He waved a dismissive hand in the air; shirt rolled up past his forearm. Erik watched the elegant arc, forgot to breathe out. "They want stories about Russians, and they certainly don't want them from me."
Erik nodded, finally exhaling another plume. It was about what he'd expected: Charles was far too little-c communist for the Americans' liking, and his time abroad counted against him.
Ironic, then, that Charles would make the perfect spy. People trusted him, implicitly, and he exuded an air of absolute harmlessness in the face of which even Erik's hyper-paranoid mind had to concede.
Plus, if Erik was right, Charles wasn't human in the same way that Erik wasn't human, and if he could keep that secret then he could damn well keep another.
"I suppose this means your friend Doctor Shomron is one of your Oxford spies," Erik said, mimicking the breezy nature of Charles' statement.
It made sense. Technically, Erik was a volunteer. Most of the staff were, and not many strictly speaking trained. One of the nurses had put it this way to him, very early on into his time at the hospital.
"All the doctors went to America," she said. "Daniel has collected the survivors with relevant experience, by which he means survivors. We are good at diagnosing each other, after all."
She'd said it with a meaningful glance at Erik and his forearm. Shomron's hospital was run on volunteers and so-called 'nurses', true enough, and the only way he could retain even these few people became apparent to Erik about a month in.
Daniel ushered him into his office, thanked Erik for his work, and pressed a wad of bills into his hands. Erik was not so proud as to refuse; nor was he concerned in the slightest where the money came from. He had come to Haifa to live (or more accurately to die) quietly.
Charles said nothing, which was confirmation enough, and twice so when Erik offered Charles the cigarette and this time long, deft fingers plucked it up. He brought it to his lips and Erik found the slight orange glow lighting up his cheekbones somehow intimate. When Charles' face dipped low, as well, his mouth turned into a perfect v, with little upturned corners. Erik had the annoying thought that his thumb might fit just as well as a cigarette, into the point of that v. Charles exhaled smoke in a breathy half-laugh.
"What?"
"Nothing," Charles said. "It's just--well, it's such a joke, isn't it? Brits are so repressed that MI-6 does more international charity on accident than the Foreign Office does on purpose."
"British charity," Erik said, downing the last of his drink. "An oxymoron."
Charles grinned wide at that, bridging a lot of the space between them at the table to clasp Erik's shoulder.
"Yes!" he said with the pride of a schoolteacher. "You've got it in one, my friend."
The young man extended his hand, tapped the cigarette all the way out of his fingers so that his middle and forefinger were holding on only to the very end of the filter. Like this he offered it back to his friend, so that Erik would have to pass his hand over Charles'.
Erik felt heat pinprick the top of his fingers from the dwindling cigarette as he took it from Charles' grasp. His whole world for a moment ended at Charles' forearm, and then came rushing back.
"You're a natural teacher," he said.
The lights at the front of the bar flickered on apologetically, and Erik could see details a little better in the night. The glow seemed only to descend as far as their table, though, leaving their legs and the piazza in interminable dark.
"Gabrielle doesn't agree," Charles said, and then looked as if he perhaps regretted bringing her into the conversation. Erik knew he did. "She wants to study law, and she's having me teach her what little I know."
Gabrielle was eager to see Charles, and Charles was--if not taken with her, at the very least he found her quite fascinating. This was the option Erik was supposed to be encouraging. It kept Charles out of his business, it kept his secrets safe. It kept his life quiet. And this black jealousy in his heart was unbecoming of a man who had once been married.
"She wants an excuse to see you more often," Erik said. "I know--"
I know the feeling.
Charles was watching him with an oddly pained expression, before it smoothed over unevenly, leaving a frown of worry.
"I know the kind of loneliness she's experiencing. You'd both do each other a world of good."
Charles pursed his lips. "It's unethical. I'm her doctor. I wish she wouldn't--stop laughing, Magnus."
"I'm sorry, it's just that--you are not her doctor, Charles. You were, I'll give you that, for about thirty minutes, two months ago. And you, talking of unethical, after all Gabrielle's been through--"
"--That's exactly why I can't--"
"--Can't what? Take her for a coffee? Because you've done that, my friend. Take her to the market, to see the sights? Buy her things? Help her study?"
Charles eyed Erik with that annoyed tilt to his eyebrows which Erik privately enjoyed. The cigarette was long since done. He stubbed it out pointedly in the ashtray before looking back at Charles with a lopsided smile.
"If you can't do any of that with her, you probably shouldn't be doing it with me," he continued, just to prod a little more. "We're both survivors, after all."
"It's different, and you know it," Charles insisted, a red tint to his face. They'd both long since finished their drinks, though.
Is it?
"If you want to talk power imbalances, we're both a good, what, decade older than you?" Erik asked. He wanted to bite his tongue off, he'd stretched the metaphor far enough, he needed to stop putting himself and Gabrielle into the same category.
Love interest, Erik thought to much chagrin.
It worked to lighten Charles' upset expression, though. "You don't treat me like I'm younger."
"And you don't treat her like a patient," Erik finished, and though there might have been some gaps in his logic, his tone was conclusive.
"You're saying you approve of the match."
No.
"Of course," Erik replied, smooth as anything. He lit another cigarette to complete the picture. You're both beautiful, he didn't add.
Something about this seemed to set Charles ill at ease, though he affected to be relieved.
He's in puppy-love with you and you're pushing him to settle, some mean-spirited part of Erik's mind grumbled.
"You're thinking of the fiancé?" Erik asked instead, giving Charles the out.
Charles shook his head, and then thought better of it, taking the path Erik had given him as smoke swirled in the porch light of the bar.
"Perhaps a little," he equivocated.
Erik really was curious, but damned if he'd ask. Not when Charles never asked, even when he could see the questions burning the tip of the young man's tongue. Poor Charles trod lightly and with a staggering degree of respect where it was concerned, and Erik reciprocated. The past was strictly off-limits unless willingly offered, it was an odd unspoken arrangement in their friendship.
"What made it fall apart?" Erik asked, and only after the question had slipped out while he wasn't thinking did he flinch. He was more drunk, apparently, than he realized.
Charles looked surprised too, but by no means offended. In fact, he seemed sort of touched, and Erik realized like an ass that this arrangement existed only to protect Erik, that Charles was an open book and didn't care what parts of himself were revealed to Erik.
"I can't really explain it," Charles answered. "She just--left. Nothing but a note to go on, but one definite reason was that I--I couldn't..."
He made a vague, slightly frustrated gesture, and Erik thought Charles might switch languages so that he could better express himself, like he often did when they spoke German or French. Only, of course, this was his native language, and there wasn't going to be a word for what Charles felt himself lacking if there wasn't one in English.
"I couldn't love her," Charles finished lamely. "Not properly."
Oh. Erik wasn't quite ready for this particular admission. And yet, he suddenly felt aware of his whole body, right down to his fingertips. Now, that could be the cigarettes.
"And you're worried it'll be the same with Gabrielle?" Erik managed, mouth a little dry. He figured playing innocent was the best bet, Charles wouldn't feel the need to spell it out.
"I--I suppose so."
"Well, that's fine, then," Erik said, shifting his posture. "Gabrielle's not looking to marry you. She's looking to take you to the pictures. I hear they're doing the Gregory Peck Western in the cinema here. A few years out of date, as always."
Charles laughed. He could guess, of course, where Erik heard this scintillating piece of neighborhood news.
"Gabrielle's only mentioned it a thousand times," Charles said. "Why don't we--"
"--Oh, no you don't," Erik said, hands up. "You're not getting out this easy. You're inviting Gabrielle, and you're going without me."
They were both laughing a little. "All right, all right," Charles said.
"I'd much rather keep my head attached," Erik added. "And Gabrielle is a dangerous enemy to make."
Charles' laughter died down.
"Tell you what," Erik said. "The next picture is supposed to be Julius Caesar."
The young man perked up. He never seemed to truly slouch, but he shifted almost constantly. Energetic, Erik supposed. He wondered if, by the time Charles was Erik's age, it'd go away. He found that he hoped it wouldn't; the young man's excitement was almost medically contagious.
Pointless to dwell, at any rate. Erik gave Charles a year here, at the most. Shomron, perhaps five. Nobody was staying in this country that didn't have to.
"I'll go see that one with you," Erik said, punctuating in the air with the cigarette to Charles' earnestly pleased expression.
"I quite like Marlon Brando, I think," Charles said. "The one he did about the paraplegic veteran was surprisingly good, you know. I believe they banned it in England for being, er, accurate."
A drunken question, from two weeks prior. Charles to Erik: Has anyone ever told you that you bear quite a striking resemblance to Marlon Brando?
Erik had laughed, and heartily, which was a rare thing for him. Because, no, Charles, nobody'd ever told a white-haired Jewish man he looked like Marlon fucking Brando, but all Charles did was laugh as well, and if his hand curled just a little at the base of Erik's neck they both affected not to notice.
Time stretched on, neither felt particularly as though they had to say anything but one should really by now have made to get up. God, they'd been at this for five hours, as long as one of Erik's shifts, and yet he was loathe to go home to his empty apartment and tinker.
Oh, which reminded him.
"I don't do any intelligence work, or any bounties. I haven't in a long time, at least. The, ah, the services that my neighbor couldn't afford--I repair machinery," Erik said. It wasn't as good as Charles' confession, but it was something.
Charles took it with that same awed expression, a little unsmiling this time. "Like you do at the hospital."
Erik nodded. That was skirting a little too close to the secret, but nevermind.
"I just didn't want you thinking I was on a street corner, or any of your fanciful nonsense," Erik said, to which Charles laughed again.
"You'd be living much more lavishly if you were," Charles said, and laughed conspiratorially again. "Hell, you could keep the advertising the same. Erik Magnus Lehnsherr: good with his hands."
Erik couldn't help an exhale of smoke that might count as a laugh, and an eyeroll which only served to set Charles off once more.
"I told you you have a sense of humor," Charles said.
"You try so hard to make me laugh," Erik said. "It'd be rude to ignore you every time."
Charles grinned ear-to-ear. It was particularly charming. Indeed, Erik felt rather like someone had put him under some spell: his mind wouldn't stop forecasting. When he closed his eyes to blink, he imagined in vivid detail the action of bridging what little space existed between them. The physical sensation of pressing his lips to skin, of pressing one body to another, was almost real. A compulsion to, the next time Charles laughed, lean in and kiss his half-open mouth.
"I'm quite drunk," Erik said finally. Images of Charles' skin, his arms, his collarbone, kept rising to the top of his head.
"As am I," Charles said. "That, or there was something funny in those cigarettes."
"An exciting prospect," Erik murmured. "I think I'd rather like to take drugs with you, Charles."
"It'd explain why you're bothering to laugh at any of my hideously predictable jokes."
"I don't find your jokes predictable," Erik said, frowning. "I don't think anything about you is predictable, Charles."
"You don't?"
"You must know I--" Erik stopped himself. "I'm far too drunk."
"I suppose we'd better make our way back home," Charles said.
Erik nodded, a little heartsick at the prospect of calling it a night, and Charles rose swaying slightly. Erik wanted to rise behind him, hold him steady, keep him warm, and instead Charles turned to him and offered him a hand up and Erik took it. Even though he didn't trust Charles to stand steady, he took Charles' hand, and if they fell so be it.
He'll be the death of me, Erik thought.
His mind unbidden again swirled with alcohol, conjuring up not only images and sensations this time but sounds. Noises Charles had made in vastly different connotations. Breathy, smoke filled laughs from earlier tonight, a grit-teeth sound of exertion, the scandalized way Charles said only his middle name, sometimes. And hadn't Charles called him darling, in that Transatlantic purr?
Tonight, he'd go to sleep and it would all turn endlessly in his mind, torturously.
But what a way to go.