#grilling fork as his weapon and a grill cover for a shield

[danceswithdarkspawn]

final battle at Denerim but Eran makes a dad joke every time he opens his mouth

[checkmate-cherik]

Because this prompt by @cherik-inspiration is too good not to attempt:

Erik set his laptop down on the counter and began pulling out ingredients.

He’d gone shopping specially for today. His coworkers were coming over for the holidays; it wasn’t for Christmas, though Azazel was a new Christian, and it wasn’t for Hannukah, though Erik was still Jewish. It was just that they were all tired of the “holiday cheer”, hated their families (if they had any), and needed a place to gather and complain without anyone calling the cops.

Erik finished setting out his ingredients and clicked ‘play’ on the Youtube video.

“Hello, everyone!” Erik adjusted the volume on his laptop, making it a little louder, and gazed at the cheerful blue eyes and ruddy-mouthed smile of the man in the video. “It’s Charles again, and I have a new recipe to try. Here to help me is my sister Raven.” Erik shook his head a little, as he always did when Raven, the pretty blond woman, slid into view and smiled shyly at the camera. “We’re going to make a cake our great-grandmother wrote down. It turned out pretty delicious when we first tried it. Don’t forget that you can adjust the flavor however you like. Alright, let’s get to it!”

Erik followed the instructions faithfully, using his powers to move and mix things while he kept his intense gaze on the video. He’d already made this cake several times, but he wanted to get it exactly right. It had always turned out well, so he was fairly sure he could make it correctly… But he liked having the instructions in front of him. He liked hearing instructions, rather than having to read them.

No. He’ll admit it. He liked watching and hearing Charles.

Charles--or ProfessorXavier, if you went by his channel name--didn’t just cook and bake. He did educational videos, too, that were actually quite popular. But while it was soothing to listen to him lecture about English classics and biology and genetics and how mutants weren’t any different than non-mutants, it was his cooking show that really drew Erik in. The way he smiled, the way he spoke… he was comfortable in the kitchen as he never was in front of his smartboard. Not that he wasn’t comfortable lecturing as well, but he always seemed slightly stiffer than he was in his kitchen.

Erik absently dropped a handful of semi-sweet chocolate chips into the batter, watching Charles’ graceful hands do the same while Raven held the bowl. Erik’s bowl--like all his kitchen utensils and paraphernalia--was metal, and therefore did not slip as the metal whisk briskly worked the batter.

When the batter was poured, Erik paused the video to pick up the cake pan and slide it into the oven. The oven was electric, so he was wary of using his powers on it. Then he turned back to the video, turning it on and feeling a small smile tilt the corners of his mouth as Charles laughed at something Raven said. His laugh was rich and deeper than expected, and it made Erik less annoyed.

He watched the video to the end, watching them make icing, Raven making pretty patterns and Charles botching a simple squiggle. Then came the tasting. Raven scrunched her nose, and Charles rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Too sweet,” Raven said.

“Just right,” Charles replied smugly. Then he smiled at the camera. “And that’s all folks! See you next week!”

Erik clicked the searchbar and typed in ProfessorXavier stuffing recipe. Many videos popped up, but he selected the top one and gathered ingredients while Charles went through his usual cheerful greeting.

Raven did not help with this one. It was just Charles, his voice soothing as he explained his process. Erik set his knives to chopping and slowly shredded day-old homemade bread with his fingers, as Charles had done. The bread was Erik’s mother’s recipe. He would never do any other, not even Charles’.

Charles smiled at the camera and Erik smiled too.

Azazel was the first to arrive, just appearing to lounge on Erik’s sofa, tucking his linked hands behind his head. Erik didn’t even notice him at first, too busy leaning on the kitchen island and watching the newest cooking video (a “fake lasagna” made with ravioli instead of noodles). When he did, he jabbed pause and slapped the laptop shut. Azazel smirked.

“More of that charming professor?” Azazel asked, his accent barely changed despite his many years stateside.

“No,” Erik replied stiffly, going to check on the stuffing. It was done; time to let it cool. “When are the others coming?”

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Azazel drawled, making himself more comfortable.

“Good.”

Emma and Angel, the newest addition to the group, arrived together. Emma had a key to Erik’s apartment and waltzed right in, Angel following a little more slowly. The former set a covered dish of assorted cooked chicken (grilled, fried, and baked) down on the dining table, since Erik didn’t eat ham, and the latter two bottles of Michigan cherry wine.

“Budge up,” Emma ordered Azazel, and he glared but sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. “Thanks, ‘Zel.” Emma sat primly on the middle cushion as Azazel scooted over to the side, and patted the empty cushion beside her. Angel sat, gazing around with interest.

Erik’s flat didn’t seem very personal unless you knew him. Everything was stark black and white, and shades of grey and silver. The furniture was comfortable and clean, the floors honey-colored wood or white tile. He had some medieval weapons on the walls, all of which he knew how to use, and all polished and sharpened to mirror-brightness. In his bedroom he had four bookshelves stuffed with books; out in the living room, only two bookshelves, holding a paltry assortment, but proudly displaying various metal sculptures he’d made himself. They didn’t look like anything; they weren’t supposed to. He’d just liked the shapes. In his office he had more books, and a glass and brushed steel desk upon which sat his Mac and precious iPad Pro. He was a Mac person in his personal life, though he liked PCs for work. And the kitchen was a wonderland of metal.

The less said about the state of his bathroom the better.

Janos arrived with the salad, since he was a vegetarian. It was excellent salad, none of the disgusting bitter leaves or the empty white bits of iceberg lettuce. There were walnuts and cherries on it, too.

Azazel said grace over his meal while everyone else tucked in. No one minded about what the others did; religion was too trivial to the atheists, too important to the spiritual, to be mocked, belittled, or scorned. Everyone pretended not to hear as Erik muttered in Yiddish around his first mouthful of bread, knowing it was his own version of grace and he did not like it when people said anything about it.

After everyone had a few bites in them, the Great Complaining began.

Emma kicked it off. “Shaw is disgusting,” she snorted, picking at her chicken.

“What’d he do this time?” Erik grunted.

“Grabbed my butt. Again. Then told me to get him some ice. Honestly, I’m the secretary, not the maid.”

Angel nibbled a walnut and looked uncomfortable. Erik met her eyes. “What’d he do?” he repeated, this time to her.

“Threatened my friends,” she murmured, lowering her gaze, “Because I wouldn’t let him grope my boobs.”

Emma wrapped her arm around Angel’s shoulders. “He won’t hurt them,” she assured her younger friend confidently. “He hasn’t done anything himself in years.”

“And there are ways of lying to him,” Azazel added, sticking his forked tongue out at Angel, which always made her feel better. She had said it reminded her of her older brother, who’d been distinctly snake-looking when he came into his powers.

They complained about Shaw, then they moved on to their coworkers. Emma was The Secretary of whom all the administrative staff were terrified, Janos was the bodyguard and in charge of transport, and Azazel was the one who did all the arm-breaking and throat-slitting. Erik made sure everything balanced; the company, the personal life, and the mob connections. Angel was Emma’s new assistant, and swiftly proving herself among the underlings as one to be wary of. Her temper was quiet, but damn, it was fierce. And if you weren’t nice to her or didn’t do something she told you to… well, enjoy life with half a left foot when she delicately spit acid on it.

Shaw was growing very fond of Angel, despite Emma’s best efforts to shield her.

After dinner, Erik brought out the cake. Azazel jeered at him about where he learned to bake, but shut up when Erik said coldly, “I guess you don’t get any.” Everyone who’d ever tried anything he’d baked said it was The Best and did everything in their power to convince him to make more for them. Azazel included.

Janos got vegan cupcakes because Erik respected his dietary restrictions. The others were happy with cake.

They sat around and drank wine until it was gone. Angel got giggly and tipsy, so Azazel took her home, returning in three minutes with the announcement, “She’s asleep now.”

“Poor kid,” Emma murmured, running her finger along the rim of the glass. “You know, she told me she stopped talking to her friends when she joined the company? Except her friend Raven. They talk on the phone every night.”

Raven? Erik frowned and undid his shirt’s top button. He was too warm. But it surely couldn’t be Raven from the videos. No, that was just too much of a coincidence. He dismissed the notion. Surely there were plenty of other people named Raven. And Emma hadn’t even said if Angel’s Raven was female or otherwise.

Erik kicked them all out at midnight and collapsed into bed. He dreamed of cherry-red lips and laughing blue eyes.