merry_gentry: From 'X-men: First Class' (Unsung Hero)
[personal profile] merry_gentry
Title: This Is Not Our Ending
Author: [personal profile] merry_gentry
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing/Characters: Alex 'Havok' Summers/Armando 'Darwin' Muñoz, very brief mentions of Charles 'Professor X' Xavier, Sean 'Banshee' Cassidy, Hank 'Beast' McCoy and Erik 'Magneto' Lensherr
Rating: 15/R
Word Count: 1,918 - according to Word
Disclaimer: Not mine...damnit!
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt on Xmen_FirstKink on LJ: Alex/Armando: Darwin comes back. Cue the angsty oh-my-god-I-thought-you-were-dead sex.. AKA a fixit fic. You're welcome. X-posted to Havok_Darwin on LJ.

Spoilers for the film. The whole film, that is although, really, if you haven't seen it yet, what have you been doing? ;)

Summary: Alex is quiet, and still, and those huge blue eyes of his are fixed on Armando and he'd feel self-conscious about it but, okay, Armando gets it. It's got to be a little freaky, someone coming back from the dead like this.

He keeps his eyes on the Professor, watches Charles smile and welcome him back and grins at the whoop of glee from Sean and the careful pat-on-the-back from Hank's paw – and, seriously, a guy goes missing for less than a month and he comes back to sheer and utter mayhem and people defected and in wheelchairs and blue fur. Armando's not even touching on the whole "Erik's gone" thing. Watching Charles – wheelchair or no – without Erik beside him is just weird. He remembers, remembers the two older men sliding into the back of his cab and moving around each other like they'd known each other for their whole lives.

He'd been a little surprised to learn that had been less than a handful of weeks at that point.

But Alex. Alex is quiet, and still, and those huge blue eyes of his are fixed on Armando and he'd feel self-conscious about it but, okay, Armando gets it. It's got to be a little freaky, someone coming back from the dead like this (although it wasn't death, not really, because he's adaptable and all but he thinks there might be a line drawn at resurrection. Piecing yourself back from fragments smaller than specks of dust, though. That's nothing to sniff at.)

Alex hasn't said two words to him in the half hour between Armando walking up the drive of Charles' goddamn, for-real, castle and now, but he hasn't taken his eyes off of Armando in all that time, hovering almost too-close like he's scared that Armando’s going to up and disappear on him again if Alex so much as blinks or puts more than five feet of space between them.

Charles looks understanding, and perhaps a little amused, and calls Hank and Sean to his side, telling Armando that they were in the middle of training, that Alex will show him around, show him to a room where he can put his stuff (not that Armando has anything but the clothes on his back; clothes, apparently, are not as adaptable as Armando himself is) and he must be hungry, there's food in the refrigerator, Alex, just make sure you wash up afterwards...

They're gone, just like that, Sean bouncing alongside Hank's smooth lope and the Professor's chair, leaving Armando alone in the entrance hall with Alex and the fading sense of amusement from the touch of Charles' mind.

"Miss me?" Armando asks, tries to aim for 'joking' and misses by a mile. He smiles and it feels a little shaky even to him, but it gets Alex to drift a little closer, to within arms distance enough so that Armando can reach, snag Alex's sleeve and reel the younger man in. Alex is shaking a little and strangely hesitant in the way his arms creep around Armando's waist until, suddenly, there's no hesitation at all and Alex is squeezing Armando tightly like a boa constrictor, face buried in the curve where Armando's shoulder meets his neck and Alex's breath is hot against him, even through two layers of clothing. Well, if Armando can adapt to breathe underwater, he can sure as hell adapt to surviving what looks to be shaping up as a pretty major hug.

Alex is still shaking, though.

They never had sex back at Division X – neither of them are stupid, and men in suits with guns are never the most progressive of people, in Armando's experience, even if it is the, what are they calling it, 'Swinging Sixties'. Besides, concrete bunker-like 'bedrooms' aren't romantic and, call him soft or girly or whatever, but Armando would like to think that there's a little more to sex than

(In his arms, Alex is calming, a little. Not enough for Armando to be able to let go and step back – he tries it, but it just makes Alex cling all the more. He runs a flat palm up and down the length of Alex's spine, feathers the fingers of his other hand through Alex's short blond hair and tries to murmur some soothing nonsense in the hope that it'll get Alex to stop acting like he's the one who's had a near-death experience.)

So, yeah. They never had sex, precisely, but there were an awful lot of hidden corners in that place, and Alex looked good, all pressed up against the wall with his lips wet and slightly swollen. Or in one of their rooms, pressed against the thin mattress and rutting like teenagers – not that that's so far off the mark, really. Armando might be in his mid-twenties, but Alex is barely twenty and still so young in all the ways that matter. Being locked up in prison can’t have done much for the kid's social life. At least, Armando really hopes it didn't, hopes that solitary kept Alex safe and never mind the people around him.

"Thought you'd..." Alex mutters, fisting his hands in the loose material of Armando's jacket.

"What?" Armando says before his brain's caught up with his mouth because he knows what Alex is thinking – had been thinking it himself, for a little while there.

Alex leans back a little, just enough that they can see each other’s face. "I thought you had...had died," he says, voice small and broken and not a little scared. He moves quickly, before Armando can say or do anything, and presses his mouth to Armando’s in a quick, chaste kiss. “Couldn't...and you..."

Armando's heart feels like it's seizing in his chest.

"Christ, Alex," he says, holding on tight and he knew, fucking knew, that hunting Charles and the guys down was a good idea, but he hadn't thought much beyond that, beyond getting in the door, metaphorically speaking. Now, with Alex pressed up close and starting to loosen a little from the stiff-backed, close-mouthed stance he'd had since Armando had been spotted walking up the driveway, Armando knows more than anything that he made the right decision.

Alex is mouthing at the line of Armando's jaw, soft kisses interspersed with little nips, and they're in the entrance hall, Armando's mind screams at him, probably loud enough to alert the Professor and the last thing they need is a witness to, well. Whatever happens next.

"Hey, hey. C'mon, Alex. Upstairs, yeah?"

Alex pulls away, and his eyes look a little frantic. "Yeah, okay, just..." He lets Armando go, but not completely, links their fingers together and pulls Armando along by his hand towards the sweeping staircase.

"Seriously, this place is insane," Armando mutters, staring up at the ornate ceiling above him, at the elaborately carved wooden banister.

"Tour later," Alex says, his voice still a little harsh and desperate sounding to Armando's ears and Armando squeezes his hand a little just to see Alex look back at him.

Alex's room is on the first floor, fairly near the staircase. Good, because Armando's this close to pressing Alex up against the wall and continuing what they started down by the front door. It's a plain room – a double bed, a wardrobe, chest of drawers and a desk, but Armando supposes he can look at the furniture later. Much later, he amends, because Alex pulls him towards the bed and down on it once they get there, pushing Armando flat and pressing in close.

"Are you smelling me?" Armando asks, wondering if he looks as bemused as he feels.

Alex shrugs, shakes his head, then nods. "You don't smell...dead. You..."

"Didn't die," Armando says, quietly, wrapping his arms around Alex and pulling him in close enough to kiss. "Takes a lot to get rid of me, apparently."

"Good," Alex says fiercely, like he'd been planning on taking the issue up with someone if Armando was planning on actually dying any time soon.

"What is going on in that head of yours?" Armando mutters, searching those big blue eyes for something that isn't desperation or pain.

"You're not allowed to die," Alex says.

"Right, okay, yes," Armando says, quickly because Alex is moving, now, sliding a legs between Armando's and blanketing him with his body.


"Clothes off," Armando orders, because this is his only set, stolen from a laundry line when he wound up naked and in one piece and in the middle of rural Wisconsin, of all places, and he's determined to keep them at least a little while longer. He has no intentions of wandering the Professor's mansion naked.

Alex is all hands, clinging and desperate and touching skin as much as possible and later they're going to have to talk about this because it's clear that there's a lot more going on than 'welcome home' sex. Not that Armando's opposed to 'welcome home' sex, of course (it's nice to be appreciated, after all) but Alex clearly has some deep seated issues about things with words like 'abandonment' and 'alone'.

Alex's hips are tiny – slim and perfectly shaped for Armando to wrap his hands around. It makes it easer to haul Alex in closer, their pants undone and shirts abandoned and hopelessly frantic rutting against each other.

Armando really hopes Charles isn't listening in too closely.

Alex's breath hitches out a sob and Armando closes his eyes tightly, bites at Alex's mouth and demands entrance for a kiss. There's not enough room between them to get a hand down to help out, but Armando crooks up a leg a little and Alex whines in the back of his throat as Armando himself gasps at the change of angle.

"More," Alex says – gasps, really, into the crook of Armando’s neck.

"Yes, yes, c'mon," because, oh, they're so nearly there, this frantic, desperate rush gaining momentum until it feels like they're balancing on the edge of cliff with a long drop beneath them and breathing each other's air, they're that close, all frenzied mouthing at each other's mouths and quick, careless kisses until Alex cries out and shudders and falls and Armando follows like it's natural and perfect and right.

After, Alex doesn't leave, doesn't move away even a little, but stays curls up with Armando on the bed. Their shirts are somewhere on the floor, probably, their pants are most likely irrevocably ruined and they still have their shoes on. Alex is calming, now, his breathing becoming a little more even.

"Seriously," he murmurs, nudging at Armando until they're both comfortable, "never again, okay? I don't think I could take it a second time."

"Yeah, okay," Armando says, staring up at the ceiling above them. He runs a hand over Alex's head, ruffling the short hair.

"It's one thing to be a hero, another to get yourself killed doing it."

Armando grins, moves a little until he can see Alex's face, his eyes. "It's not like I knew it was going to happen."

"Yeah, well, I'm just saying," Alex says, all tough-guy like he hadn’t just been, they hadn't just been…

"Come here," Armando says, leaning in a little to press his mouth to Alex's. It's gentler, this time, less desperate.

"You're moving in here," Alex says when Armando pulls back. He sounds a little sleepy, and Armando yawns a bit. "Where I can...can keep an eye on you."

"I'm twenty-five, Alex. Think I can pretty much look after myself."

Alex murmurs something, already snuggling in and closing his eyes. It sounds an awful lot like 'that's what you think', but Armando's ignoring it on the basis of he's exhausted and it's just easier to let Alex think he's won, really.

"Yeah, okay," he mutters, already half-asleep himself.

My fic masterlist is here.

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