Author: Spyke Raven. Can be reached at spyke_raven@yahoo.com for feedback, coffee and gift wrapped Wolverine clones.

Teaser: Someone is tempted to be unfaithful. But it is never that easy.

Rating: R, for semi-explicit sexual imagery. You read at your own risk.

Genre: Wishful thinking. What? With a title like 'Whimsy' you were expecting something else?

Archive: Of course! Fanfic Central & Kielle's place. Anywhere else, drop me a line so that I can hug you.

Notes: Whimsy; an irrational or unpredictable idea or desire. Further notes after story.

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And why do I want him?

It's not like he is particularly handsome, or even charming. Quiet to the point of sullenness at most times would about summarise it.

Oh I know that is only because he does not wish to get close enough to anyone to be able to hurt them. What's the point of being a sensitive unless you can understand these things? Still, it is irritating, the way he cuts himself off from people, then swaggers around the campus drawing all eyes -

No, that's not true. I shall be truthful. He doesn't swagger. He walks quietly. Tensely. He compacts his movements into the slightest possible space. You couldn't see his muscles move if you weren't watching - of course the problem is that half the school is always watching him. I'm always watching him. Him, with a capital H to define and separate the dangerous 'him' from the crowd of faceless 'hims'.

Dangerous my foot. He *is* dangerous, but not in the way they imagine. Their definition invests him with some mythic aura that doesn't detract from his appeal. It adds to it exponentially.

Idiots.

I hear them giggle sometimes. The younger girls get together in gaggles and laugh excitedly over Him, sharing titbits of information or rumour.

"Did you hear...?"

"Did you see?"

"I brushed next to him at lunchtime."

"He asked me to pass him the salt!"

Juveniles. I want to snort. They are so pathetically juvenile in their adolescent crushes.

I'm jealous of them. They can giggle, and laugh and moon over him together, whereas a staid old partner in a steady relationship can't afford that luxury.

I can only dream.

My partner knows what I'm thinking, of course. I'm happy he doesn't refer to it in the daylight, though it comes out at night when our limbs are entwined and he's on top of me, his voice growing harsher, pushing into me and beyond, bringing me to the verge of pain, as though he wants me to be afraid, to beg him to stop.

As if he's trying to prove that he can be hard and dangerous too.

But he loves me too much to go beyond the limits. Every night he takes me to the brink and then pulls back abruptly, breathing hard, trying to retain control. Then he loves me for an hour, two, until my body is singing with the joy of him, his hands, his lips, his tongue and teeth so loving and gentle, I could weep.

When panting and spent we collapse in a tangle of limbs, I feel my lover's hand pass over my face, outlining the features, gently caressing. I always wonder if he will speak of it now, but he hasn't. He won't - yet.

Not ever, unless I give him cause.

Unless I reveal to him the secret of my heart, which is that he not stop. That when he is at the brink, he should not draw away, he should continue past the point of no return, to punish me with his body.

If I told him that, he would know what I have tried to hide from him. That at the peak of ecstasy, the name on my lips is no longer his, so I still the cries to keep from hurting him, and not, as he imagines, to avoid disturbing our new neighbour down the hall.

I could never tell him that. It would break his heart, his strong, fragile, gentle heart. I know my lover is insecure. It's the age difference between us. Though it's less than ten years, it may as well be twenty. When we first moved in together, there were some sniggers, some vague references to cradle snatchers and Indian summers. I had anticipated that, and was slightly prepared for it, but he was not.

I grew to love him even more for his clenched fists that refused to hurt, his head that remained alert and steady when all the while I knew his eyes were darting back and forth, dying to unleash their fury on the offenders. I loved him for his self-control. I still love him for that, even though I wish it wouldn't intrude into the darkness of our bedroom.

Then again, I never wished that before He came along.

He.

The dangerous one.

Oh if He only knew how far my obsession has gone. I'm consumed with fear that he might. I avoid him during the day, barely looking at him when our schedules intersect. I dare not even speak His name in the privacy of my mind for fear of what an unbridled telepathic ability could provoke.

Sometimes I do take the risk, however, when the need is great and I cannot stand the longing anymore. Mostly when I am alone in my thought-proofed office, or as now, when my lover is in the bathroom preparing for the night. Confident that the intents and desires of the night will mask the identity of the one I am invoking, I roll the dangerous name around my tongue, feeling its texture and tasting the syllables one by one.

Ah. Sweet taste. Piquant, yet arousing.

What is this strange connection I feel between us? As though our paths are inextricably intertwined and that one step in the wrong direction could be cataclysmic.

Lust, I rationalize. My eternal need to romanticize the trivialities of life.

Still, that amazing sense of *connection * the day we first met -

I close my eyes and wonder how it would be for Him to come to me, a man whose experiences would surely make him my equal. Equality is something sorely lacking in
my current relationship. Not intellectual, of course. I know my lover combines a brilliant mind with the constant temperament of the true leader. But emotionally -

Emotionally he is still a boy. And sometimes I long for one who would be able to sense what I am feeling; the intimacy that only a telepath can bring to a relationship.

I curse myself for degenerate selfishness. I have a lover who is young, strong, and who loves me devotedly. Why should my nature demand that I sacrifice this all for a risky gamble with the dice, on the off chance that - the other - could provide so much, much more...

"Erik?"

The voice is hesitant. I turn my head and find my lover standing in the door that separates the bathroom from our bed. The light frames him becomingly as he stands with one hand on the doorframe, half-expectant, waiting to move forward.

I smile. He is the reality, here and now, a luminescent halo gracing the tumbled curls of his brow. I am foolish to desire more.

"Come to bed, love," I invite, patting the space beside me, and he complies.

As our lips meet, I allow myself to feel a pang of remorse, before the familiar sensations wash over me, pushing it away.

My lover's strong body pushes against mine, demanding in its solidity.

Yes, he is here. He is now. This is the reality.

And Xavier is a mere idle whim. Charles Xavier is a stupid, childish dream. I do not want Xavier, Xavier with his untrained mental prowess and seething mind. I do NOT want to help him train and shape the powers that even the telepathically blind can sense roiling below the surface. That, above all, would be the desire of an idiot.

It's a pity that I am still not convinced.

~ End.

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Got that? The entire tale was about Erik Lenscherr's irrational desire for Charles Xavier. I set it in a mythical past, possibly at the university where Xavier and Lenscherr first met as colleagues.
Obvious features of this mythical past:
- Xavier had the use of his legs when he first encountered Lenscherr.
- Erik is well, in a relationship with another man, who, by the way, is a figment of my imagination.
- There was a time in his life when Xavier was totally unable to control his powers, and at the point of this story, he has forced marginal control over himself, so that only other 'sensitives' can guess at what he is truly capable of. 'Normal' humans merely find that he emits a 'dangerous' vibe.
- Erik Lenscherr, being sensitive to electromagnetic fields is also highly sensitive to the neural field emanating from telepaths and perhaps that forms the basis of his attraction to Xavier. (By the way, that is a reasonable and scientific extrapolation)

Maybe that is an idea I will explore in greater depth some other time.