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Professor Charles Xavier answered the door on Tony's second round of knocking, wearing the abstracted expression that he usually assumed whenever he was interrupted in the middle of work, and murmured, "Oh hello, you're early, please make yourself at home," before drifting dreamily back in the direction of his study.
Tony hid a grin, locked the door, and followed Charles through Logan's tiny flat into the attached tiny flat beyond, which had been converted into a facsimile of an office that looked as though it belonged in some stately, old English University rather than in the rougher edges of Brooklyn, and settled into the only other chair that wasn't piled up with books. Charles didn't seem to notice, having already sunk back behind reams of printouts, absorbed in a bubble of happy academia.
"You're home alone, Professor?" Tony asked, after a while when he had begun to fidget; even his lecturers in MIT had told him that he had an overly healthy threshold of boredom.
"Mm?" Charles peered up over the stacks of papers, brilliant blue eyes distant, then he blinked a little and pushed his elegantly tooled black fountain pen behind an ear. "Oh. Oh yes. Logan will be back soon, I think." Charles smiled gently as he said this, and Tony stifled a sigh.
His father Howard Stark had once told him that the world held only two types of people, the haves, and the have-nots, and even at the tender age of twelve Tony could see that this was an entirely simplistic way of categorizing humanity. He preferred to think of people as those who were worth a damn, those who weren't, and those who didn't give a damn; and it was a bloody shame that Charles Xavier, who was fully in the first category, seemed so attached to someone who was in the third.
Tony had to admit that ten years was a very long time to hold a torch for someone, especially when that someone tended to laughingly rebuff you at every turn, especially when that special someone was attached at the hip to someone infamous for murder and mayhem, but the Starks had never traditionally been easy-way-out people.
"How's the research going, Professor?"
"I think I'm on the verge of a breakthrough," Charles told him happily, bent over a printout with a ruler, "I had a most illuminating discussion with Matthew - that's the Professor of Evolutionary Biology in Oxford - the other day. Quite illuminating."
Charles had, under the secret and extremely wealthy influence of the Starks, been appointed to a Professorship at Oxford, and Tony heard that he now lectured there on occasion but held a research chair. Stark-funded, of course, because Howard Stark always remembered his debts and Tony Stark, after the unfortunate car crash that had orphaned him, continued to have ulterior motives. Not that Charles seemed really aware of the same, oblivious to anything save his research and Logan.
Inwardly, Tony sighed. He had met Charles when he had inadvertently changed the world, when he had been fourteen-going-on-fifteen and had come up with the suppression devices. Within less than ten years, he had changed the world again, this time for Charles, and the Professor hadn't, well-
"You're on the cover of TIME again," Charles said then, vaguely gesturing at something edged in red that was draped over the top of a teetering pile of thick books. "Due to the, mm, the StarkTech equalization bracers."
"It's a good photo," Tony tried, encouragingly, but Charles merely beamed at him before going back to his work. The pair of matte black 'bracers', more like thin wristbands than anything else, sat next to the pile of books that the TIME magazine was balanced on, Tony noted sourly. "Have you tried them on?"
"I don't need them at home," Charles told him, as though that was obvious, and Tony had to stifle another sigh. He'd made those bracers to free people like Charles, Subs that had made accidentally disastrous imprints. It cancelled out the specific synapse charges that caused the biological behavioral impulses caused by imprinting, with the nice side effect of possibly preventing non-imprinted Subs from imprinting in the first place, and Tony had been rather proud of it. "Sometimes I wear it outside, but not often. Even if I do see Erik, which is rather rare nowadays, I've already learned how to handle matters. Sorry," Charles apologized, as Tony's face fell. "It's very useful for other people. No doubt. I hear that you might be getting a Nobel for it. Congratulations."
Well, of course. When Tony had been that stupid fourteen-going-on-fifteen year old boy, Charles had just separated from his Dom, and still he had faced him down, for Tony's sake. And peace and equality and suchlike, of course, but to a lonely fourteen-going-on-fifteen-year-old, it had made a lasting impression.
"I thought that it might help you," Tony prompted. After a lifetime of accumulating awards for his work, one extra shiny award made little difference to him, however prestigious. "I mean, you could go and live in Oxford again if you wanted to. Or Westchester."
"And why would I want to do that?" Charles glanced up at him, puzzled.
"Well," Tony hedged, on shakier ground now, trying not to eye the set of military-issue dog tags that Charles always wore, incongruously, over his well-cut shirts, "You wouldn't need Logan anymore, would you?"
That shouldn't have come out edged, and Tony straightened, in case of a rebuke, but Charles merely smiled gently at him, and in a way, that was worse. "Oh, Tony."
He hated that tone. It was the one that Charles assumed whenever Tony had Incidents, such as the time he had accidentally, really accidentally, set fire to part of Raven's hair, or had made a few minor and secret adjustments to Scott's glasses that had, maybe, sort of, contributed to the giant gaping charred hole that now made up part of the Westchester mansion's southern wing's ceiling.
"Need is perhaps not... a precise word." Worse, Charles was now assuming the distant, teacherish tone that he used whenever he lectured. "More accurately, Logan, with much patience, I might add, taught me how not to... 'need', and as a result, taught me how to 'want'. And for that, I owe him a very considerable debt. That aside," Charles added, as Tony opened his mouth, "I've grown very fond of him."
Tony watched, a little depressed, as Charles' pale cheeks colored a little at the statement. He'd heard of what had been done to Charles by his imprinted Dom, mostly from Raven and the others, if in a vague brushwork, but it had been enough to make him... wary. And the moment that Charles had one day, just offhand, mentioned brightly how Tony was a Sub, and my goodness, did he have to use such language, was it a shock, oh dear, et cetera, Tony had... Tony had been afraid.
If he had to admit it, the bracers weren't all for Charles' benefit. Tony was wearing an identical pair, just beneath the cuffs of his sleeves, and he was being careful. Imprinting sounded like legal slavery to him, and worse - whoever Tony imprinted on would legally then also own the Stark empire. So he'd been careful, and he'd made the bracers, and he'd done his best to 'correct' his 'habits', partly by pestering Charles about it and partly by observing Fury (recommended by Charles). The rest of it was merely a matter of keeping the bracers on and learning to be guarded among others, at all times.
It was lonely, maybe, but sometimes, particularly at three in the morning, Tony would wake up with the sound of slithering metal lodged in his hindbrain, and the afterimage of Charles collapsing onto his knees, catatonic with shock from the effort of defiance. That had scared then-Tony more than the knowledge of a possible impending death; at fourteen-going-on-fifteen, dying was a rather abstract concept, something that happened to other people in movies.
Charles was chattering on, something about his research, Tony's outburst forgotten, and Tony sunk into the sea of the highly technical and moderately understandable with relief. Charles had a seemingly untapped patience for personal insult; perhaps that was why Tony's adolescent infatuation had never really gone away. Whenever he mouthed off to Charles, the Professor would merely smile at him, as though indulging a child. It was both frustrating and endearing.
"...and how have you been keeping, Tony?" Charles finished.
Mind kicked into gear, Tony mumbled some rote items about Stark Industries and director's meetings, then settled into a brief outline of the projects that he was currently working on, only for Charles to gently interrupt, "I meant yourself, Tony."
Tony knew only a very small number of people who had no interest whatsoever in his family empire or Tony's StarkTech work, and save maybe for Logan, he treasured each of them with the fervid possessiveness of a collector. "I'm fine."
"You've made other friends your age, in the University?" Charles asked, in the vague, near-paternal way that he did whenever asking Tony about his personal life.
"Of course," Tony lied, even as he wondered, not for the first time, how he could possibly edge Charles out of the Tony-is-a-child mindset. Run around in his birthday suit, perhaps. Although, knowing Charles, he'd probably only get a raised eyebrow and another one of the regrettable 'Oh, Tony's.
Charles sighed, clearly inured to Tony's poker face, and stopped writing. "There really isn't any reason that you have to be lonely, Tony."
Tony winced. This was heading quickly into uncomfortably paternal territory. "I'm not lonely. Why would I be lonely? I'm the CEO of Stark Industries. I have to beat people off with a stick."
"Well," Charles wrinkled his nose at the figure of speech, and Tony was saved from extrapolation when the door to Logan's flat opened, and Logan padded through, silent, sniffing automatically at the room before glancing over in their direction, then he closed the door, and waited.
Over the years, Logan seemed to have grudgingly ceded some ground under Charles' relentlessly gentle attempts to improve his wardrobe, and although he was technically still dressed in a flannel shirt, a ten-gallon hat, and breeches, at least the colors coordinated and the hat seemed tailor-made.
"Oh. You." Logan grunted, in Logan's version of Charles' usual reaction to Tony's existence, but he made no move to approach the office, instead walking over to the kitchenette to drink a glass of water.
"Come in and have a chat with Tony, Logan," Charles invited, and that was another weird thing about Charles and Logan - Logan had set up a series of Rules that both he and the Professor adhered to, strictly. Tony had heard about the list of Rules from Raven, and had thought them rather unnecessary, especially now that Charles had long stopped flinching at the sound of German words spoken in a male voice, but each to their own, he supposed. Perhaps they were necessary for a non-imprinted couple.
"All right." Logan never entered Charles' study unless Charles gave him a reason to do so; only now did he stride into the room, and around the table until he was standing beside Charles, where he waited, with the patience of a man who knew that he had all the time in the world.
Charles carefully set down his pen, and rose from the chair, leaning over; the kiss was not so much a display of affection as a casual brush, worn practiced with time, and a small part of Tony was envious. A larger part was jealous, but it was an old ache, and Tony had long learned how to smirk and drawl, "You took your time, old man."
Logan snorted, one big arm curled around the small of Charles' back, then with his usual, brusque disregard for small talk, stated, "Charlie here tells me that you're... lonely."
The last word was drawn-out, and even as Logan's expression remained impassive, the scowl that should have been was palpable. Where Charles seemed to retain a wide streak of near-paternal obsessiveness with emotions and well-being, Logan tended to hold no truck with it all; Tony had once heard him bluntly advising Rogue, who had at that point been upset by something that some boy had said to her, to 'knee' the 'scumbag' the next time in the privates. Out of earshot of Charles, if Tony recalled.
Charles winced, even as Tony leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. "Do I look lonely to you?"
Unimpressed, Logan observed, "You still look like a skinny brat with far more money than sense, bub, but you ain't half bad. This could work for a bit until you find someone."
"Sorry, what?" Tony blinked, trying to parse the rest of Logan's sentence, and then to his shock, Charles smiled at him and tugged out of Logan's embrace, walking over and leaning down and... their first kiss wasn't like anything that Tony had ever planned or imagined: lips closed, Charles firm, Tony absolutely fucking stunned.
"This," Charles murmured, when he pulled back, his soft hands set over Tony's arms, over the armrests of the chair, and Tony's mouth opened and closed like a fish, still astonished.
"What... what, really?" Tony asked, incredulous, even as Logan came up silently behind Charles and ran a palm up his spine, until his thumb was pressed lightly over the dog tags' chain against Charles' neck. Charles stiffened, then he relaxed, with a low sigh, his eyes going dazed, the flush climbing in his cheeks.
"It was his idea," Logan noted, and his voice was growing rougher now, the burr in it more pronounced.
"And you don't mind?"
Logan shrugged. "It was his idea," he repeated, as if that explained everything, then he added, as Tony struggled to come to terms with the sudden and rather clinical manifestation of his innermost desires, "But we ain't moving past second base if you're wearing them bracers."
Charles blinked owlishly, as if from far away, then he frowned. "Logan." His voice was whispery-soft, a query, rather than a rebuke.
"This is about trust, Charlie. You learned that." Logan's thumb edged further down, over the vein in Charles' throat, and Charles sighed again, slower this time, lower, his brilliant blue eyes half-lidded with pleasure. Tony squirmed, his pants growing uncomfortable, his gaze fixed on Logan. "You won't imprint on me, kid. But this doesn't work without trust. You wanna walk away, there won't be hurt feelings. Even if you agree, if it gets too much, later, and you wanna walk, that's fine."
Tony stared, wide-eyed, at Logan, then at Charles, whose back was arched now, his lush red lips parted, gaze unfocused, then he swallowed, hard, and forced his hands to relax from their white-knuckled grip on the armrests. Even with the bracers on, his heart was beginning to pound. Logan's obsessive compliance with his word was just as famous as his capacity for violence, after all, and... and Charles was gorgeous.
And as to Logan - deep down, Tony had always wondered how it would feel, with a Dom, without the bracers. He'd been careful, before he'd come up with the idea for the bracers, and as much as Logan couldn't imprint, the rebellious part of Tony that had mouthed off to a man fully capable of killing him with a thought, when he had still been fourteen-going-on-fifteen, still recoiled from the very idea, of being controlled, being helpless.
But this was Charles' idea. Charles wanted to try it.
Slowly, Tony exhaled, then he pulled back his left sleeve, his fingers going for the hidden catch under his wrist, even as Logan's gaze steadily darkened and Charles leaned forward, further, to press those gorgeous red lips against the pulse at Tony's neck.