#puclclin

“If you’re referring to Xavier, I haven’t seen him.

 He doesn’t... We don’t... 

“Nah,” he growls, disgust curling his upper lip. His voice is like gravel. “Nah, I got better use for you.” 

Punisher strides forwards, grabbing Quinn by the upper arm to haul her upright. He isn’t gentle about it. As soon as she’s up, there’s a handgun trained on her, heavier weaponry strapped to his back. She’s not the same kind of monster as the Joker, not by a long shot - but that doesn’t absolve her. Doesn’t make her any less deserving of punishment.

“You’re gonna take me to your boyfriend. You don’t? I start tearin’ things off, and you get to bleed out in this hellhole with my face as the last thing you see.

Erik makes a noise of disgust. "I know what it means.” What does she think he is? American? His body turns to face hers, always keeping her in his direct line of sight. “Ah, yes, that should go well,” he snorts, ignoring the little thrum of pleasure that runs through him at the acknowledgment that Charles likes him best, because yes he does. “’Charles, would you be so kind as to acquire the codes to America’s nuclear arsenal for me? Danke’. Somehow, I doubt he’d comply. He doesn’t like violence. Or blackmail.”

The bat is never far from his mind; he keeps it in the corner of his vision at all times, tension curling through him, waiting for the slightest twitch of fingers to give her away. She seems... sweet, for now, at least. Unlikely to take a swing at him. Maybe.

“I doubt it. He’s rather fond of keeping the world intact,” he replies, raising an eyebrow. Talk of nuclear weapons leaves a bad taste in his mouth and an itch under his skin. Part of him remembers a surge of energy unlike any other. The rest of him shoves the memory down until his mouth tastes less like rust and ozone.

He can’t help wondering what it is about himself that makes people want to kill to protect him. Does he give off a ‘please kill someone for me’ vibe? He’s been trying so hard not to.

“That’s er, well, I appreciate the...” 

Don’t encourage her, Charles. He clears his throat, lifting a hand to try and smooth his hair back down.

Note to self: never trust anyone with the lair’s location. Especially not unhinged women with a fetish for beating people with blunt objects. He finally feels safe enough to sleep deeply in this place, and this is the price he pays. Typical.

“Harley--what are you--”

He’s not fast enough to evade the first blow to his head, and it all goes downhill from there. Magnetism is only useful when he’s coherent enough to use it, and as it turns out, Magneto reacts to a head injury the same way most people do: with swearing, staggering, and toppling to the floor. There’s metal all over his quarters, of course, but he’s too dizzy and disoriented to do much more than throw them blindly at Harley in the hopes that something stabs her. 

Harley squints at Erik, staring up at him doubtfully. Then she squints a little harder. “…But y'all have had your dicks in each other, yeah? Because, sorry to break it to ya pal, but that’s queer. Any way ya swing it.” She would know, trust her.