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The Genosha glided through the bright Mediterranean like a shining white arrow. Its hull was perfectly sleek and its windows polished to a glare, but as far as Charles Xavier was concerned, it was a swimming zoo. He walked through the tight crew’s corridors, the noise barely blocked from their esteemed and very, very rich guests above. He heard someone laugh loudly, and then he ducked as Kurt Wagner chucked a paper airplane-shaped towel above his head.
“Och! I’m sorry, Herr Xavier!” The man covered his mouth but failed to hide his smile.
“Sorry, we were just…” A deep voice came from behind him. Charles didn’t have to turn to know it was the young Piotr Rasputin.
“You two, report to my cabin in two hours.” He said. “You’re lucky I’m busy right now. Now, back to work!”
Both young crew members stiffened and nodded, and then Charles was walking past them and onward. He prided himself on his strong effect on people, especially his subordinates, and being able to get them back in line.
Except in one case.
He smelled the galley even before he reached it, some kind of dense planty scent. Maybe soup, maybe grilled vegetables, but with Erik Lensherr one never knew. Even when one was the chief steward, meaning he should know at all times what was happening with the resources on the ship.
Charles wasn’t coming to argue about that (today), though. He pushed inside the galley and got a hefty helping of steam in his face. Good thing he didn’t wear glasses, like Hank, who was incapacitated every time he went to talk to Erik. Through the haze, Charles spotted the chef, moving like a freight train through the shining metal of his kitchen. He was just chopping leeks with a break-neck speed when he spotted Charles.
“What is it?” He called over the noise of food frying and boiling all around them.
“What is it, Erik? Why do you assume something must be wrong if I’m coming in here, hmm? Could it be your faulty track record, Erik? Could it be?”
Erik sighed like a cranky teenager and stopped chopping, though he didn’t set the knife down. “Just tell me, Charles.”
“Fine, I’ll tell you. The soup, Erik. It had onions in it.”
“Yes…?” The chef stared at him with those ice blue eyes.
“Multiple guests requested no onions in their food. We talked about this before we set sail!”
Erik scoffed. “That gazpacho was perfect.”
“I don’t care, Erik, and neither did the guests who had to skip the course!”
“God, well, it isn’t easy keeping all these dietary restrictions in check!” Erik gestured at a large board on the wall, filled with names of foods and little crosses. “No onions, no milk for half of them but necessary for that one guy–”
“Mr. Cassidy.”
“Whatever!” Erik waved his hands. “Charles, one of them demands fresh 100% rye bread every morning!”
Charles stomped up to the counter and glared up at the chef. “I don’t care. You have to do your job.”
Erik slammed his fists on the metal surface and leaned forward. The two were now merely inches apart. “I am. It would be easier if these people weren’t so damn picky.”
“But they are.” Charles whispered, voice sickly sweet with sarcasm. “Get back to work.”
Charles could hear Erik grit his teeth and then he turned and hurried out.
“Maybe I should start making chicken and fries for every meal!!!” Erik shouted after him.
“Maybe you should!” Charles punctuated the sentence by slamming the door.
The chief steward spent the next hour and a half taking inventory of the swimming and diving gear (Kitty had apparently somehow made multiple snorkeling masks disappear) and dealing with guest-caused mishaps (‘No, Mr. Azazel, we don’t usually recommend using tanning products while sunbathing on towels’). After making sure the cocktail evening was going to go well (Scott could hopefully handle it alone by now), he got to his cabin just in time for his scheduled scolding of Peter and Kurt. By the time he sat down for the first time in hours, the Sun was already setting. He sighed and rubbed his face as he stared out the window, into the open sea. He wouldn’t trade that view for anything, but on days like these he didn’t really have the opportunity to enjoy it. He peeled himself from the chair and began treading the corridors again. He needed to talk to Captain Logan before he could start winding his day down. First thing after that was a long shower and a good, long soak for his feet.
Charles was just ruminating on these thoughts when a strange noise hit his ear. Like the sound of rushing air. Or a blowtorch. A blowtorch?!
Charles rushed down the corridor and burst into the, surprise surprise, galley.
Erik was standing by his work station, blasting some kind of dough ball with fire. Charles yelped when he saw that it had already caught fire. He grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and emptied it onto the plate and the chef. Erik tried to fight the white foam off, but soon he was standing next to a small pile of dry chemical foam, covered to his eyebrows in it.
“You ruined it!” He pointed at the unrecognisable foodstuff and grabbed a spoon to start shoveling it free.
“What are you doing burning the kitchen down at this hour?!” Chalres tried to steady his breathing.
“I was making fried ice cream, you fool!” Erik groaned when he uncovered the little dough ball, completely sogged through. “I had it under control!”
“Oh.” Charles lowered the fire extinguisher. He suddenly felt very stupid. “I-I’m sorry. I'll tell the guest their dessert will be late.”
Erik lowered his head into his hands, getting foam all over his slicked-back hair. “It wasn’t for a guest.” He sighed and gestured weakly at the ice cream. “Happy birthday, Charles.”
Charles’s eyes widened. He’d completely forgotten about his birthday, as had everyone else. Then again, almost no one else knew when his birthday was. He didn’t go about sharing that kind of information. So how did Erik know?
“Um, thank you.” He felt even dumber. Running away and leaving Erik alone with this pitiful mess seemed impolite, so Charles slowly walked closer to the workstation. He swept some of the foam aside and smiled at Erik. “How did you come to the idea of fried ice cream?”
Erik sighed and lifted his head, looking Charles in the eyes. “To be honest, it was the quickest thing I could think of. And I knew you liked the gin we have on board, so I thought I’d use that.”
“That seems… nice.”
“I’m glad you at least like the idea of it.”
Charles couldn’t stop feeling like an ass. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”
Erik smirked slightly. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. Bring out the gin. We can have a little of it, our shifts are over.”
“Are they?”
“Yep.” Charles nodded and Erik left the room, grinning.
The chef came back with a bottle of Charles’s favourite gin, unopened.
“Ohoho, you've been saving that for me, have you?” Charles asked, opening a cupboard and taking out two glasses.
“Yes. I usually use cheaper booze for recipes. This,” he shook the bottle, “is the good stuff.”
“That it is.” Said Charles as he poured a hefty serving for each of them. He lifted the bottle as he did, letting the gin pour from high up without spilling a drop. Erik clapped and took his glass.
“Well then. To your health, Charles Xavier.”
“To my health.” Charles said. “To a unremarkable voyage from now on.” And he downed the gin. “Uf. So good for my health. Give me another one, chef Erik.”
Erik laughed and poured him some more. “Any birthday wishes, birthday boy?”
“Well, less hassle from now on.” He shot Erik a knowing look.
“Oh, come on. Forget about work now.” Erik leaned forward, dangling the glass in his hand. “Something about you.”
Charles tapped the glass against his lips. It took him a couple seconds to think of anything that had nothing to do with the ship. Maybe he really was too focused on his job. “Hmm. Well, getting laid once in a while might be nice.”
“Haha, you’re telling me being a sailor doesn’t get you plenty of that?”
“Oh, no, that isn’t the problem.” Charles shook his head. “It’s just, I’m so busy that I never really get that far. ‘I’m so sorry darling, I know we just took your clothes off, but I really have to go, I’m leaving the continent tomorrow.’”
Erik laughed again and leaned over the workstation, and suddenly he was so close and the smell of the gin on his breath mingled with the alcohol building in Charles’s head and wow, his tolerance must have really gone down.
And before he knew it, Charles was looking into Erik’s eyes and imagining all sorts of things. After all, the chef was tall and strong, and those blue eyes…
He downed the last of his gin. Might as well make bad decisions with a large amount of plausible deniability in his bloodstream. “Mm, scratch that. I know what I’m wishing for.”
Erik lifted an eyebrow. “You do?” Charles could nearly feel the chef’s thoughts, as misty and dangerous as his.
“Yes.” And so he leaned forward, and Erik’s hand was on his neck, and they swept the glasses aside and didn’t matter anymore that the workstation was covered in extinguishing foam and that the guests were right above them, because it was Charles’s birthday and he deserved a celebration.
—
An indeterminate amount of time later (no windows in the galley), they were both leaning on the workstation, breathing deeply, their uniforms ruffled.
“Happy birthday.” Erik whispered into the space between them, adjusted his collar, looked at the mess they left behind and teetered out. Charles realised he forgot to ask the chef when his birthday was. Well. He’ll just have to go talk to him some other time.
Sitting in the empty galley alone, Charles had a couple minutes to collect his thoughts. He pressed his back against the workstation, against the cold metal. He came here to fix one problem, and is going to leave with so many more. Managing Erik’s temper is hard normally, workplace relationships often get messy (just take Scott and Jean), and the guests must never know, hell, the crew must never know, and…
Charles found himself thinking of all these excuses like moths circling a truth, the unavoidable truth that he liked Erik and what they just did felt good. He decided to go to sleep with that feeling in his gut, and so he got up and walked out the door, and then nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted a pair of eyes in the dark. “Jesus!”
The eyes blinked and a dark shape moved into the light, the shape of Logan.
“Captain…! What are you–”
“Sorry I spooked you, bub. I’ve been waiting for that report for nearly an hour. You think you got it down now?”
Charles gulped. He’d entirely forgotten about his daily report to Captain Logan.
“Yes, sure.” He listed off the day’s happenings, leaving a crucial one out. Logan nodded along as usual, eventually pulling out a cigar and starting to chew on it. Something told Charles that he was doing it to hide a smirk.
“Alright.” The Captain clapped his hands together when Charles was done. “Good work, Chuck.” Charles winced at the ridiculous nickname the Captain insisted on. “Go rest up.”
Charles nodded and started in the direction of his cabin, but then he stopped in his tracks. He turned to see, to his horror, Logan leaning on the doorframe and looking inside the galley. He noticed the chief steward watching him and grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll get someone to clean this up.”
Charles tried to mumble something about a misunderstanding, but Logan waved him off.
“‘S alright. You tested the fire extinguisher. Was about time.” He then added barely above a whisper: “And I won myself a little bet with Seaney.”
Charles blushed hard but decided to pretend he didn't hear a word as he hurried off.