"Silver Engine"
Mar. 29th, 2012 07:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lifesmarvelsTitle: Silver Engine
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Erik/Charles sort-of
Genre: Alternate Universe, a little bit of crack
Rating: PG?
Warnings: None really
Word Count: ~1300
Summary: There is something strange about Charles' cars.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all copyright to these guys.
Author's note: Fill for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
au_bingo for the prompt "Auto-Racing". It's a little ridiculous that I spent an hour researching cars for this.
Charles got into racing when he was sixteen years old and followed Cain out of the house just to escape Kurt’s wrath. He’s not exactly sure why the older boy allowed him to join on the trip, but he has suspicions that his step-brother was never as unfeeling as he liked to pretend to be. And they both knew that it was either this or going back home and getting fist in the face for Charles. He’s going to be grateful to Cain for taking him with this day for the rest of his life.
It’s true that he’s not a professional driver, he never mustered enough motivation to go to any courses. To be honest, he doesn’t really know what it takes to be a professional. He just joins the races sometimes when he feels like it, and they allow him, because he’s one of the sponsors. What do they care if he’ll crash somewhere along the way?
But he doesn’t crash. He never does. He doesn’t win either, but it’s more because he doesn’t want to than because he couldn’t. It just seems unfair somehow to take the prize away from someone who works hard to get it. He has a weird feeling that his cars don’t approve of his generosity.
It’s the thing with these beautiful machines, that sometimes they appear almost sentient to Charles. Not all cars are like that and he buys only ones who are. It makes him feel less lonely, now that he’s completely alone in the mansion and with his fortune. He fancied opening a school in the house for some time, but discarded the notion. He wouldn’t be a good teacher anyway.
The first car he bought for himself was liquid orange BMW M1. It was the first of its kind ever produced and he could swear he heard it singing to him. The interior was dark blue and the dashboard light up with warm yellow light. He called her Raven. She was fast, flashy, and absolutely beautiful. She was his first companion and he loved her to bits.
The next one was Emma. He admitted to himself somewhere in his 27th year of life that he probably needs something less attention grabbing for getting around the city. That doesn’t mean it would be completely non-descript. Emma was as gorgeous as Raven, but in a different way. She was subtle, full of curves when the other girl had sharp angles. Light silver Porsche Carrera GT was something that caught the eye, but excluded a cool atmosphere that seemingly said ‘I’m better than you and I know it. Don’t even try to touch me.’ Charles was utterly charmed from the moment he laid his eyes on her.
Then came Azazel. To be honest, Charles was going to call him another women’s name, like Keira or Liv, but the car oozed testosterone. When he told it to his PA, Moira, she looked at him funny, but she wasn’t actually able to negate it. Azazel is black Lamborghini Murcielago LP640 and is the fastest car Charles owns to this day. It’s him that Charles most often takes out on races and has to floor before actual finish line so they won’t take any trophies. For some reason the car refuses to start for days after that. Moira tells him he should see a mechanic about that. He knows it’s just a harmless snit and that his boy will get out of this eventually.
Sometimes he finds Azazel mysteriously parked next to Raven, even though Charles left him on the other side of garage. In these instances he always finds the red fluff from Az’s interior on Raven’s blue leather, but he doesn’t want to think too closely about it. It kind of terrifies him frankly.
One summer when Charles turns thirty he and Moira are on the stands for the motorbike’s race. Charles never really thought about joining this category. There’s too much of the driver exposed and left to fate for his liking, but for a moment there’s some magic in the air that makes him want to join so much he can hardly wait to buy his own bike. That’s how Nascafe Shaw Speed & Custom finds itself in his garage just few days later. He calls the bike Sebastian, but somehow always ends up calling him Shaw anyway. He doesn’t actually drive it at all. There’s something wrong about the air around it.
He wins his first race three days after his 33rd birthday. The car he’s driving was a gift from Moira, who actually paid for it with his own money, but spend months choosing it so it still counts. Just like every other time, he puts his foot on the brakes when he sees the finish line and expects the machine to slow down enough to give the other drivers the time to leave Charles behind.
The only problem is the brakes don’t want to work. He’s not ashamed to admit that he panics. Being in the car moving at this speed he would need a miracle to get out of the eventual crash alive. He closes his eyes and readies himself for inevitable. It’s just that when he passes the astonished face of the judge, winning the race, the car stops on its own. He has a moment to think ‘What the fuck.’ before his door opens and the faces of judges and press people alike swarm into his vision. He plasters a smile on his face and gets out, carefully not thinking about what just happened.
He has the car towed to his garage, opting to drive in the passenger seat of Moira’s old, trusty corvette. The thing is he suspected something is unusual about this car from the start of the race. His McLaren SLR 722 was by no means the fastest one on track today. It didn’t stop it from actually moving the fastest. Charles had to hardly touch the steering wheel before they turned. It was like the car was moving by itself.
In the evening, after he had enough whisky to brave it, he goes down to the garage and walks a little unsteadily to his newest car. He moves his hand over the silver paintjob, admiring the array of curves and angles alike. There’s no question about the fact that the machine is beautiful, maybe the most beautiful one in his possession yet. It’s also even more terrifying than Shaw is.
He gets in and relaxes into leather of the seat, closing his eyes. There’s no possibility he imagine what happened today, right? It’s just impossible. He doesn’t notice when he falls asleep, but he can swear he can feel the seat mold to his frame, making him more comfortable than he probably would be in his bed upstairs.
He dreams about a man. That man is tall and thin, with broad shoulders and tapered waist. His face is all angles, but with softness there that calls to something deep in Charles. When he turns, the smile he has for Charles is all teeth and sharpness, but somehow he knows it doesn’t mean any danger. The arms closing around him are warm and strong, and the voice whispering into his ear is rough but purring, like a well-oiled engine. The man’s eyes are steely grey.
When he wakes up it’s to pounding in his ears and absolute surety that something completely bizarre just happened. He sucks in a breath and moves his hand over beige dashboard, the color bringing to mind the silky strands of the man’s hair. The chuckle that escapes him has some hysterical edge to it, but he feels entirely entitled to it.
“Well then. Hello Erik.” He says, feeling the name sinking into the car around him. “I think we’re going to be good friends.”
He has no idea what just happened, but if that means he’s going to gain some more companionship than that of unfeeling machines, he’s going to take it.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Erik/Charles sort-of
Genre: Alternate Universe, a little bit of crack
Rating: PG?
Warnings: None really
Word Count: ~1300
Summary: There is something strange about Charles' cars.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all copyright to these guys.
Author's note: Fill for
au_bingo for the prompt "Auto-Racing". It's a little ridiculous that I spent an hour researching cars for this.Charles got into racing when he was sixteen years old and followed Cain out of the house just to escape Kurt’s wrath. He’s not exactly sure why the older boy allowed him to join on the trip, but he has suspicions that his step-brother was never as unfeeling as he liked to pretend to be. And they both knew that it was either this or going back home and getting fist in the face for Charles. He’s going to be grateful to Cain for taking him with this day for the rest of his life.
It’s true that he’s not a professional driver, he never mustered enough motivation to go to any courses. To be honest, he doesn’t really know what it takes to be a professional. He just joins the races sometimes when he feels like it, and they allow him, because he’s one of the sponsors. What do they care if he’ll crash somewhere along the way?
But he doesn’t crash. He never does. He doesn’t win either, but it’s more because he doesn’t want to than because he couldn’t. It just seems unfair somehow to take the prize away from someone who works hard to get it. He has a weird feeling that his cars don’t approve of his generosity.
It’s the thing with these beautiful machines, that sometimes they appear almost sentient to Charles. Not all cars are like that and he buys only ones who are. It makes him feel less lonely, now that he’s completely alone in the mansion and with his fortune. He fancied opening a school in the house for some time, but discarded the notion. He wouldn’t be a good teacher anyway.
The first car he bought for himself was liquid orange BMW M1. It was the first of its kind ever produced and he could swear he heard it singing to him. The interior was dark blue and the dashboard light up with warm yellow light. He called her Raven. She was fast, flashy, and absolutely beautiful. She was his first companion and he loved her to bits.
The next one was Emma. He admitted to himself somewhere in his 27th year of life that he probably needs something less attention grabbing for getting around the city. That doesn’t mean it would be completely non-descript. Emma was as gorgeous as Raven, but in a different way. She was subtle, full of curves when the other girl had sharp angles. Light silver Porsche Carrera GT was something that caught the eye, but excluded a cool atmosphere that seemingly said ‘I’m better than you and I know it. Don’t even try to touch me.’ Charles was utterly charmed from the moment he laid his eyes on her.
Then came Azazel. To be honest, Charles was going to call him another women’s name, like Keira or Liv, but the car oozed testosterone. When he told it to his PA, Moira, she looked at him funny, but she wasn’t actually able to negate it. Azazel is black Lamborghini Murcielago LP640 and is the fastest car Charles owns to this day. It’s him that Charles most often takes out on races and has to floor before actual finish line so they won’t take any trophies. For some reason the car refuses to start for days after that. Moira tells him he should see a mechanic about that. He knows it’s just a harmless snit and that his boy will get out of this eventually.
Sometimes he finds Azazel mysteriously parked next to Raven, even though Charles left him on the other side of garage. In these instances he always finds the red fluff from Az’s interior on Raven’s blue leather, but he doesn’t want to think too closely about it. It kind of terrifies him frankly.
One summer when Charles turns thirty he and Moira are on the stands for the motorbike’s race. Charles never really thought about joining this category. There’s too much of the driver exposed and left to fate for his liking, but for a moment there’s some magic in the air that makes him want to join so much he can hardly wait to buy his own bike. That’s how Nascafe Shaw Speed & Custom finds itself in his garage just few days later. He calls the bike Sebastian, but somehow always ends up calling him Shaw anyway. He doesn’t actually drive it at all. There’s something wrong about the air around it.
He wins his first race three days after his 33rd birthday. The car he’s driving was a gift from Moira, who actually paid for it with his own money, but spend months choosing it so it still counts. Just like every other time, he puts his foot on the brakes when he sees the finish line and expects the machine to slow down enough to give the other drivers the time to leave Charles behind.
The only problem is the brakes don’t want to work. He’s not ashamed to admit that he panics. Being in the car moving at this speed he would need a miracle to get out of the eventual crash alive. He closes his eyes and readies himself for inevitable. It’s just that when he passes the astonished face of the judge, winning the race, the car stops on its own. He has a moment to think ‘What the fuck.’ before his door opens and the faces of judges and press people alike swarm into his vision. He plasters a smile on his face and gets out, carefully not thinking about what just happened.
He has the car towed to his garage, opting to drive in the passenger seat of Moira’s old, trusty corvette. The thing is he suspected something is unusual about this car from the start of the race. His McLaren SLR 722 was by no means the fastest one on track today. It didn’t stop it from actually moving the fastest. Charles had to hardly touch the steering wheel before they turned. It was like the car was moving by itself.
In the evening, after he had enough whisky to brave it, he goes down to the garage and walks a little unsteadily to his newest car. He moves his hand over the silver paintjob, admiring the array of curves and angles alike. There’s no question about the fact that the machine is beautiful, maybe the most beautiful one in his possession yet. It’s also even more terrifying than Shaw is.
He gets in and relaxes into leather of the seat, closing his eyes. There’s no possibility he imagine what happened today, right? It’s just impossible. He doesn’t notice when he falls asleep, but he can swear he can feel the seat mold to his frame, making him more comfortable than he probably would be in his bed upstairs.
He dreams about a man. That man is tall and thin, with broad shoulders and tapered waist. His face is all angles, but with softness there that calls to something deep in Charles. When he turns, the smile he has for Charles is all teeth and sharpness, but somehow he knows it doesn’t mean any danger. The arms closing around him are warm and strong, and the voice whispering into his ear is rough but purring, like a well-oiled engine. The man’s eyes are steely grey.
When he wakes up it’s to pounding in his ears and absolute surety that something completely bizarre just happened. He sucks in a breath and moves his hand over beige dashboard, the color bringing to mind the silky strands of the man’s hair. The chuckle that escapes him has some hysterical edge to it, but he feels entirely entitled to it.
“Well then. Hello Erik.” He says, feeling the name sinking into the car around him. “I think we’re going to be good friends.”
He has no idea what just happened, but if that means he’s going to gain some more companionship than that of unfeeling machines, he’s going to take it.
