Crash Landing (If This is Paradise Remix)

Down and down they go, and even once the Blackbird hits the ground, it's still not over; after the impact, they slide sideways for an age, the jet shuddering and groaning and thumping as if it means to fall to pieces all around them.

Charles holds on for dear life, gripping the arms of his chair so hard that he can barely feel his fingers by the time they come to a stop. When he dares to open his eyes, he finds that he's upside down. The floor is now the ceiling, as it were. Although he's securely harnessed into his seat, he can't help a little panicked flailing, instinct insisting he's about to fall.

Through the haze of dust and dirt clouding the air, the sun shines in through the gigantic hole in the side of the Blackbird. Through that hole, Charles makes out a few tree trunks and what appears to be a cluster of very large ferns.

Finally, he looks toward the pilot's seat to his left; looks at Erik, who's either avoiding meeting Charles' eyes or really just that interested in figuring out how to unfasten his harness while upside down.

Considering the buckles are all metal and he's using his hands, Charles assumes it's more the former than the latter.

"This is a thirty-four million dollar jet," Charles says. It may not be the kindest thing to say to someone you've just been in an accident with (even if it was their fault and both of you appear to be in one piece), and it may not be the smartest thing to say (especially to someone who latches onto such statements the way Erik does), but someone needs to say something and it's the first thing that comes into his head.

Erik doesn't even appear to have heard. Instead of snapping back, he continues fussing with his harness, and says, "Can you read my mind?"

Charles gives him an unamused look, which Erik misses by virtue of not so much as glancing in his direction. "Not while you're wearing that."

Erik pauses a moment, then reaches up—down—to remove the helmet, tucking it under his arm. "What about now?"

"...No." Well, that's alarming. Not to mention eerie; Charles has spent decades since the beach thinking of Erik with the helmet on as almost a different person than Erik without it. Bareheaded Erik is realer, more present than his counterpart, Magneto, who's colder and so much easier to misread, not to mention quicker to take offense. "I don't suppose you've learned any new shielding techniques over the last few months," he adds hopefully. "I don't suppose you're trying one of them on for size now."

"I'm not," Erik says. "I can't feel metal, either." His fingers are struggling with the buckles again, his movements awkward and jerky. It's been any number of years since Erik's bothered to do any task manually when he could use his gift instead; watching him, Charles wonders if even a doorknob would give him difficulty at this juncture. "It stopped while we were in the air."

Well, that explains how Erik went from flying more or less competently over Antarctica to...well, this. Charles knew investigating that random jungle in the middle of the snow was a bad move. Hell, he thought taking a detour to locate the South Magnetic Pole was a terrible idea in the first place. If Erik wanted to get high that badly, he should have been a little more patient while Charles was packing. Then Charles might have remembered to bring his stash. But would Erik slow down for five seconds, or bother to take any of Charles' opinions into account? Of course not. He never does. And of course he'd kept the helmet for on the entire flight so he could get away with doing whatever he felt like. Ass.

"Marvelous," Charles says. "That's marvelous. Just lovely. Well, I hope you're happy." He's about to go into an all-out rant when something behind them falls to the ground, making a clanging sound.

Charles shrieks. He's not easily frightened under normal circumstances, but when his telepathy isn't working, well...someone could have sneaked into the back of the jet while he was focusing on Erik. He would have no idea unless he actually saw them. Anyone could be there, watching, listening. Plotting. He has no way to know.

Charles glances behind him, and there doesn't appear to be anyone there. Merely a new hole in the floor-turned-ceiling, and another metal panel lying on the floor, scuffed and dented, very much the worse for wear.

As Charles turns back around, he catches Erik doing the same, looking nearly as unsettled as Charles himself. At least insofar as Charles can tell—facial expressions, body posture, gestures, tone of voice, and so on; it's all a second language to him, one he's never quite managed fluency in. He often has less trouble reading Erik without the benefit of telepathy than he does with most people, given how often Erik comes to him wearing the helmet, more or less forcing him to learn. Unfortunately, Erik also has a greater control over his face and body language than more people when he wishes, making him more opaque at times than anyone else Charles knows (with the sole exception of Mystique, perhaps).

Erik catches Charles studying him. Dryly—and laying it on so thickly Charles knows he means it to be dry—he says, "Oh, dear. I hope that didn't cost you more than a million or so."

"You'd better," Charles says, refusing to blush. It's not as though Erik could ever have been under the impression that he'd picked up the Blackbird at a yard sale. "I'm sending the Brotherhood the bill. Now, hurry up and get yourself out of your seat so you can get me out of mine." He's fully capable of unbuckling his own slightly fancier than usual seat belt, but all things considered he'd rather have Erik available to break his fall than not.

Erik rolls his eyes, but returns his attention to his harness. Several minutes later, he finally manages to free himself and drops into a crouch on the ceiling. He grimaces as he straightens up and turns around to face Charles, leaning in to begin unfastening his harness.

Charles generally refuses to kiss Erik when he can't sense his mind. Of course, that particular state of being typically indicates that Erik's wearing the helmet, and too often the rest of his battle regalia as well, which altogether makes him resemble nothing more than a color blind peacock with a penis on his head. It has a singular, astounding effect on Charles' libido, meaning it makes him forget he has one until Erik either leaves or changes outfits.

In this case, however...well, the helmet's not an issue, and Erik's in civilian clothing. Even if Charles can't sense Erik's mind, Erik's standing distractingly close now. They did just almost die.

Charles reaches out to steady himself on Erik's shoulders, which is decidedly awkward. Even more awkward is figuring out how, exactly, he should angle his lips towards Erik's—he's never kissed anyone while upside-down before.

The logistics become slightly easier once Erik catches on to what he's doing. It's decidedly strange to feel his own nose bumping against Erik's chin, and vice-versa. Even stranger, once the newness of it has worn off just enough for Charles to remember that he has no idea what Erik thinks of it, other than being fairly certain he doesn't mind, given that he's got his tongue in Charles' mouth.

Unfortunately, he's also continuing to unbuckle Charles' harness, as if not looking at what he's doing allows him to do it by rote without overthinking it. The end result of this is that after several minutes of making out, Charles falls with a startled shout, knocking both of them to the ceiling.

Thankfully, Erik breaks his fall.

It's not until Charles is in the process of rolling off of him that he realizes—

"Erik—I can feel my legs," he says, stunned. How didn't he notice this before? (Maybe hitting his knee on the ceiling had something to do with it: ow.)

"You...what?" Erik says.

"I can feel my legs," Charles says. "I can feel my legs."

Before Erik can say anything or even try to get up, Charles lunges down to kiss him, more passionately than before. He means to back off after the one, but Erik kisses him back with such gusto that they can't stop there—and anyway, not only can he feel Erik's legs, entwined as they are with Charles' own, but he can feel his erection more vividly than he has in a number of years.

There's a lot that has to be done. Charles has already started making a list; lord knows someone has to, and Erik the master strategist would probably decide running headlong into the jungle was their best plan. They need to make sure the radio still works, call for help. They need to take stock of their supplies, medical and otherwise. They need to explore the terrain around the jet so they have some idea what they're dealing with. For his part, Charles needs to figure out if he can stand, walk, run, jump—all activities he has the feeling he's going to want to be able to do in the near future, especially given that he's relatively certain he saw a Tyrannosaurus Rex out the window on the way down.

But for the moment...it's been the better part of a year since they've been together outside of a battlefield. They're alive when they probably shouldn't be, they're going to be too sore to even think about sex tomorrow, and it's not like they're going to make it to whatever exotic location Erik had in mind anyway. There's really no time like the present.