Title: Blue-Eyed Devil
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: Teen
Length: ~1600 words
Content notes: Western AU. Follows cesare's For A Few Mutants More. Contains shaving kink!
Author notes: For the "borrowed title" challenge. This is borrowed from a Robert B. Parker book, part of the Cole & Hitch series.
Summary: Erik's been traveling with Charles Xavier for three weeks, and for all that Charles was the one to say you're mine, he hasn't made Erik prove it. Erik's not so sure he'd mind.



Three weeks was enough time for Erik to heal up, and enough time for him and Xavier to settle in with a routine. They'd done precious little scouting around for people "like them," as Xavier put it; more than anything, they'd stuck to Colorado Springs, and nearby, while Erik's head healed up and Xavier started making friends.

He did that, somehow. He was a likable enough fellow, for all that he dressed like he came from back East, and he talked like a man from across the water. He knew how to smile, though. And he knew how to drink. And he knew when to buy a round for somebody who was itching to make trouble.

Xavier had paid for one room in this boarding house, big enough for the two of them to share. When Erik asked pointedly about privacy, Xavier shot him one of those looks-- the kind that Erik was never sure wasn't looking right into him-- and said, "That's half what you pay for, when you're after company."

Couldn't have been looking too close, then. It was a small relief.

Still, Xavier was good enough to clear out in the mornings, leave Erik a half-hour on his own to take care of whatever needs sprang up overnight-- and they'd been springing for sure, ever since Erik's head healed enough for him to really look at the man who'd told Erik in no uncertain terms, you are most definitely mine.

Brown hair, neat beard, blue eyes, red mouth. He had small, square hands with thumb joints that stood out like they'd been sharpened. Erik had seen him with his jacket off, his collar off, and he'd seen the shape of Xavier's shoulders, firm and muscular. Hadn't seen more than that, but he'd watched Xavier getting on and off horseback; there were tight muscles under his trousers, too, strong legs that could hold him on no matter how fast they had to travel. The man could ride.

The sort of company these towns offered wasn't holding a candle to the man who came back to their room every night, smelling variously of whiskey, cigars, and rosewater.

But Erik had held onto that sort of feeling ever since he could remember. It was nothing he'd be sharing with Xavier, anyway. Xavier gave him privacy, went out to get his morning shave, and every day, by the time he got back, Erik had spent himself in one of those clean white handkerchiefs Xavier had given him and gotten up to take care of his own morning stubble. He didn't need any barber coming at him with a blade. He didn't trust anybody to hold a razor to his throat.

This morning, he was just getting settled in and going at himself nice and rough when he heard footsteps outside the door. Shit. Getting caught with his pants down-- truly down-- wasn't something had happened to him for a while. He blocked the door at the hinges and the lock while he got his trousers back on and buttoned up, feeling outside the door to see who'd come calling.

And just as fast, he let the door go. The man wasn't heeled, and he was carrying a silver-and-gold pocketwatch. Charles.

Xavier swung the door open and glanced at Erik, who'd climbed out of bed and started looking for his boots in the meantime, handkerchief wadded up on the bedcovers, unused. "You're up early."

"You're back early." Erik looked Xavier over as he sat down, arm draped over his lap as casually as he could make it. "Forgot your shave?" Xavier was still lightly stubbled, the hair on his cheeks and neck coming in with a ginger hue.

As Erik watched, Xavier reached up and scratched at his throat. "The barber's hung over this morning. Shaky hands." Xavier grimaced. "I think I'll take my chances doing it myself." He shrugged out of his jacket, undid his tie and collar, slipped his arms from his braces. His shirt came off next, and Erik realized he'd been watching too long; he went back to his boots, smoothing his trousers down over them.

"You got a razor?" Erik asked mildly. He hadn't felt one in Xavier's things lately, not since they hit Colorado Springs.

"I misplaced it. Do you mind if I borrow yours?"

"Go on ahead." Erik reached out with one hand, drew it from the wash basin over to Xavier. Still folded up and safe, it landed in Xavier's hand, and Xavier grinned ear-to-ear as he looked down at it.

Erik had never met anybody who liked party tricks as much as Xavier did. The more useful part of what Erik could do, his flawless aim and deadly shooting, Xavier didn't give a damn about, seemed like. He was never inclined to get into a gunfight if he could help it. But lift a razor and hand it over, or flip a coin without touching it, and Xavier would give out all the pretty red smiles Erik could want. Erik was never going to understand this man.

"Thank you," Xavier said softly, heading for the mirror and the wash basin, pushing up the sleeves on his undershirt as he lathered up a little bit of Erik's shaving soap.

He was just getting started when Erik frowned, holding the blade away from Xavier's face. "You're going to cut yourself like that."

"I assure you, I do know how to shave," Xavier said, looking over at Erik, one eyebrow raised. "Just because I like having it done for me doesn't mean I can't..."

"Blade's not sharp enough," Erik said, coming over. Xavier was already looking around for a strop, as if Erik bothered to own such a thing. He pulled the razor from Xavier's hand and smoothed his thumb down the length of it, honing the blade and getting the edge as smooth and sharp as he could.

Xavier was smiling all over again, though now his face was coated in white lather, smelling of bay rum. Smelling of Erik, a bit. Erik swallowed, his hold on the blade tensing.

"Have you always done it like that? Sharpened your razor, I mean."

"My other knives too," Erik said. Even to his own ears, he sounded hoarse.

"Marvelous." Xavier held out his hand. "Thank you very much, Mr. Lehnsherr."

Erik didn't hand the blade over. He looked at the mirror-- dusty and small, hardly useful at all. Erik had been shaving his own beard for years, did it almost more by feel than by look. He looked at Xavier again, and shook his head.

"I can see better than you can, with that," he said, nodding at the mirror.

"Probably true." Xavier's eyebrow went up again.

"I'm not a barber." Erik shrugged. "But I wouldn't charge you two bits, neither."

He was never going to be able to shave Xavier if Xavier kept smiling like that. "Free shave?" Xavier asked, voice low, going straight to the heart of Erik-- lower, curling soft at the pit of his belly, making him wish again that he'd had a few more minutes before Xavier came back this morning. "I'm not fool enough to turn that down."

"Have a seat over--" Erik nodded to the chair nearest the window. Xavier sat down, tilted his head back. Erik steadied himself with a breath.

You are most definitely mine. Xavier hadn't pushed that, hadn't made Erik prove it. Made sense, really; they were still in a large enough town that he could get company from the whores at the saloon. It wasn't like they'd been out on the trail together, nothing but the stars to see it if Xavier wanted to stake a claim. He'd have asked already, maybe. Made a hint or reached out for something. Looked a little too long, the way Erik tried so hard not to.

But here he was, letting Erik draw a steel blade down his throat, giving Erik time and nearness and metal, metal that he moved over Xavier's skin again and again. He was getting to know every inch of Xavier's throat, by sight and by feel, the metal teaching him just what Xavier felt like at his neck, his cheeks... Erik's hand was gentle as he cupped Xavier's jaw and turned him this way and that, looking for any stray hairs he'd missed.

Xavier had long since closed his eyes, but now he turned his face into Erik's touch, let Erik's hand curve against his cheek. Erik swallowed, sending the razor away, dropping it off on the wash stand.

It was on the tip of his tongue, now. Charles...

Xavier looked up at him. "You can if you'd like," he said softly. When Erik's eyes went wide, he added, "You can call me by my given name. Charles. If you'd like."

Of course it was that, just that. Of course that was what he was inviting Erik to do. Erik drew back and strode back over to his bed, wiping his hand clean with that handkerchief he hadn't gotten the opportunity to use, the one he'd probably end up using the minute Xavier left their room again. "Maybe we're better off not," he said gruffly. "I'm done. You can wash up."

"You did a fine job," Xavier said. Erik could hear water splashing, and then the rustle of clothes as Xavier got dressed again. "Better than any barber I've known since I left New York." He came closer-- steps slow on the floorboards-- and Erik held himself rigid as Xavier put a hand on his shoulder. "Some other time, perhaps..."

"If the barber's passed out drunk, feel free to ask." Erik looked back over his shoulder. "Are we looking for somebody today?"

"A young lady named Grey. Her parents live just outside town."

Erik nodded. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be ready to go."