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burntcopperTitle : Very Slightly Tainted Angels
Author : Gunbunny
Fandom : X-Men:First Class
Pairing : Charles/Erik, various other ones
Rating : Three swear words. I feel so *ashamed*...
Word count: 4965
Summary : 1930s Berlin au. ...I may have read a bit too much Christopher Isherwood and watched Cabaret a few too many times?
Disclaimer : Not mine. Marvel's.
Feedback : I accept burnt offerings and alcohol. ta to Pete for beta-ing.
Charles Xavier gets off the train in Berlin, swallowing slightly. He's here on sabbatical, away from Oxford's stuffiness, hoping that Berlin's excitement and advances in genetics will spur his own work on. He's been stuck in a rut lately, and perhaps new faces and ideas will help. He adjusts his bags, getting himself together before his contact from the university meets him, hoping he hasn't left anything on the train, if only because having to scramble back on and having an argument with the porter would be a tad embarrassing in front of someone he's hoping to make a good impression on.
A young man in glasses comes forward once the crowd dissipates a little, holding out his hand to shake. "Doctor Xavier? I am Herr McCoy, of the engineering department."
"I was given to understand I'd be met by a Doctor Schmidt." Charles says, putting down one suitcase to take Herr McCoy's hand. "And it's not Doctor just yet."
"But not far off, I am given to understand." Herr McCoy says, flashing a grin, making him look like an excited schoolboy. "Forgive me. Herr Doctor Schmidt was called away by business in Vienna, a very exciting research opportunity."
He adjusts his glasses. "I was the only one who could get away at this time of the afternoon, as I had no classes." Charles gets a little flash, such as he can't help. He makes it a habit not to read acquaintances' minds, as it's so terribly rude, but the impressions someone has of another when talking often bleed through. He gets a flash of a serious, high foreheaded man, and... interesting. Herr McCoy does not like Dr Schmidt. Something about his manner, or perhaps something happened in the past, he can't find out unless he delves deeper, and that is very firmly not his business for such a casual meeting.
Their first stop is the university. The labs are fantastic. Herr McCoy pushes open a door to a very cluttered office. "Forgive the mess. Lab space we have plenty of, office not so much, and I am the only one with a spare desk..." He pushes some journals out of the way, making an embarrassed gesture. "Here."
"This will be quite sufficient, thank you, Herr McCoy." Charles says, putting his briefcase down. Now he looks around, cluttered is putting it mildly.
Herr McCoy glances round, looking for something under the piles of paper. "I can give you the names of some of the nearer boarding houses, and some hotels. I am sorry we are not better prepared for your arrival."
"It's quite all right, honestly." Charles reassures him. "The first day I was at Oxford, they'd lost my papers and I had to wait a week to get an office. Getting a room won't be nearly half as much trouble as that."
Herr McCoy grins in relief. "Thank you for your patience." He's managed to find two cups, and holds them up. "Tea before we take a proper tour?" He asks.
"Wonderful, thank you." Charles says. As Herr McCoy navigates the chairs and Charles' bags to get to the door, Charles asks "I was wondering - McCoy? It's not a German name."
Herr McCoy shrugs. "My grandfather. But it is Heinrich, Hank to my friends. Please, call me Hank, Herr Xavier. What is the phrase you English use? Herr McCoy is my father."
Charles grins. "You make a good point. Hank it is then."
----
There are other attractions to Berlin besides the university and its advances in the study of genetics. Which is precisely why Charles finds himself in this noisy, crowded bar in the tunnels, full of men of all shapes, sizes, and levels of eyeliner applied. He gets himself a drink and scans the crowd, looking for anyone who might spark his fancy.
A tall man with chiselled cheekbones smiles slightly at something the man he's talking to says, and notices Charles looking. He tilts his drink in acknowledgement, then sips it, holding Charles' gaze.
"I don't believe I've seen you in here before." The man observes, having drifted over to Charles when his conversation partner had turned to speak to someone else. Close up he's even more handsome.
"I-no. It's my first time in Berlin." Charles says.
"English, yes?" the man asks, curious.
"Oh, dear, is my accent that bad?" Charles picks up languages effortlessly from peoples' heads, but it's a bit hit and miss on whether he can reproduce the sounds perfectly. He once tried Welsh out of curiosity. Good lord was that a mistake, he nearly drowned in spit trying to reproduce the 'll' noise.
"No, not atrocious. But obvious." He takes another sip of his drink. "Erik."
"Charles." Charles replies, taking a sip of his own, licking his lips to catch the last of the frankly pedestrian, verging on terrible whisky they sell here. The newly introduced Erik's eyes follow the action, and Charles makes a note to maybe do it again.
Charles goes to the loo and comes back out to find Erik waiting outside the door. He flashes a grin that reveals a lot of teeth. "I thought you may have gotten lost."
"Not kidnapped?" Charles asks, letting the edge of his mouth turn up even as he uses a curious tone.
Erik raises a hand and flicks Charles' collar lazily, the fabric clearly newer and in much better condition than most of the collars on show here. "Depends. Are you worth anything?"
"To the interested buyer, maybe..."
"I'm sure I can't think of where we might find one in this crowd." Erik says, hooking his fingers under Charles' tie and pulling him closer.
---
Charles plays with the fingers resting on his stomach. Long, shapely, and very talented. Erik makes an amused sound. "What's so fascinating?"
"I like your hands." Charles replies lazily. "They're the hands of a pianist. Or an artist."
"Lucky guess." Erik cracks a grin.
"You're an artist?" Charles asks.
"A pianist." Erik corrects. "I play at one of the clubs most nights."
----
Charles encounters Raven outside the bathroom of the boarding house he's taken a room in. "Oh, damn, is there a queue? Oh, what I'd give for an ensuite like they have at the Savoy. One bathroom per room, imagine, you could soak in it as long as you wanted, bugger the people waiting to do their teeth or take a whizz." She finally stops to take a breath. "Oh, dreadfully sorry, I've been going on at you and I haven't introduced myself. Raven Darkholme."
"Ah, Charles Xavier." Charles says, adjusting his armful of towel and washbag to shake her hand. "Pleased to meet you."
After the interminable wait for the bathroom is over, Raven floats into his room in a cloud of eyeliner and film magazines, a butterfly of colour in the tea and coffee-stained rooms they board in, carrying a tray of coffee, declaring herself simply starved of English conversation.
Raven states that she never has the same hair colour two days running. "Wigs, darling. They're a marvellous invention. But enough about me, why did you leave England? You seem like you'd fit in perfectly in those dusty academic halls. You have no idea how dreary England was for the likes of me. Here I get to be myself at least some of the time." She barely pauses in her flow before exclaiming. "Oh, and you must come and see my act at the club! You'll love it, it's very avant-garde. I paint myself blue some nights."
Charles nearly splutters into his coffee. "Good lord, why?"
Raven smirks, leaning back in her chair. "Exoticism. It keeps the punters absolutely fascinated and coming back for more, darling."
----
Charles pauses at the door of the offices he's sharing with Hank. There are two voices talking about mechanics and the latest advances in machinery and applications to engines and pistons. The one excitedly jabbering at a hundred miles an hour is Hank's, and the other, more measured and calmer, is... Erik's? Charles pushes the door open, and Erik looks up. "Good afternoon, Charles. I came by to see if I could tear you away from your work for a late lunch, and found Herr McCoy."
Hank's hands are still waving, clearly having been illustrating something in the air, the light glinting off his spectacles. "Herr Lensherr has a fascinating theory on the tempering of certain alloys to compensate for heat transfer in engines, Charles, I really must study the applications -"
Charles coughs discreetly, tapping his watch. "Fascinating as this is and as much as I hate to pull you away from a good debate, Hank, but it's nearly two o'clock."
Hank blinks, caught up abruptly. "Oh, of course, I'm sorry, you probably want to get lunch with your friend -" he looks disappointed.
Charles coughs again. "Two o'clock on a *Wednesday*, Hank. I believe you have students...?"
The disappointed look flees, and Hank scrambles for papers on his desk. "Oh verdammt, you're right. Thank you, Charles, Herr Lensherr, if we could continue this debate at another time, you have the most fascinating theories I'd really like to test the applications of -"
Erik has his amused look on as he watches the swirl of paper. "Of course, Herr McCoy. It will be a pleasure." Once Hank has exited, papers trailing in his wake, Erik lets out a chuckle. "I really didn't believe someone could fit the cliché of distracted scientist so perfectly. He's an interesting young man."
"A genius." Charles says. "He's only 21 and he's been teaching since he was 19. Of course, he occasionally needs to be reminded to eat. Now where did you want to go for lunch?"
Once they've placed their order at the café, the sullen waiter bustling off, Charles turns to Erik, who's been thumbing through an engineering magazine he liberated from the bombsite that is Hank's desk. "I honestly don't understand why you don't get a job as an engineer, your understanding of mechanics is fantastic. I've not seen Hank so excited before, there's very few people who can keep up with him."
Erik gives him a pitying look as he taps the ash off his cigarette. "I'm Jewish, Charles. There are jobs I'm not allowed to take away from good Protestants, with all the factories closing. Or at least that they wouldn't hire a mediocre Protestant over a talented Jew."
"But still -" Charles protests. It's such a waste of talent, he's seen some of the people Hank works with, total dunderheads who hadn't had half the spark of keeping up with him as Erik did.
Erik waves off his protests, taking another puff on his fag. "Charles, enough. I am lucky enough to have a job in this climate. Idle fantasies will not get us anywhere."
---
Raven flings herself down at the table while Charles is trying to read the paper.
"Are you feeling all right, Raven?" He enquires, taking a careful sip of the strong coffee. Tea's a little more difficult to get here, and he'd prefer decently made coffee over badly made tea any day.
"Oh, I'm fine, I'm just trying to deal with the most exasperating situation -" She sighs, then pauses, flicking her scarf out of the way, before continuing. "- Azazel says he needs to make space for a new performer, and they of course need space to change, which means I have to get all the props and costumes moved before Tuesday, and I simply can't rely on Janos, he's the *most* disorganised person -"
Charles puts his coffee down. "Raven. Breathe."
She makes a dismissive gesture. "Very funny, you're not my elder brother, Charles, stop trying to sound like it. Darling, you simply must come and see me perform one night. It's getting terribly frustrating. You keep saying you will and you never do. It's the most delightful little club, terribly avant-garde."
"As you've said. Remind me what your act is?" Charles asks.
"I sing." She pauses. "And I'm a contortionist." She smiles. "Sometimes I even paint myself blue."
"Very avant-garde." Charles smiles.
"Oh, you must come. You'll love Angel, she's our dancer. Teensy little thing, all hair and flawless olive skin and eyes you could drown in." She fusses with her scarf, trying to get it to settle. "Besides, I believe you're already acquainted with our piano player." She grins wickedly. "You can see what darling Erik looks like with his clothes on."
Charles flushes. "We don't spend all our time fucking."
"Mmm. By the sounds of it, there's playing chess too." Charles has never heard someone make it sound so filthy. "Do come. He's simply divine when caressing piano keys. Who knows, he might even serenade you."
----
There's a poof of evil-smelling smoke, and a man dressed as a devil, complete with red skin and a tail appears through it on the stage. "Mes dames, M'sieurs... Wilkommen to our little patch of Sodom. We have sinners and saints and very slightly tainted angels ready to entertain you this evening. As for me, I am the very devil and will tempt you away from your hum-drum lives." He bows deeply, then raises his head from the bow. "Tonight, we have contortionists and dancers, a man who can summon the very air to do his bidding, and a man whose voice is so pure that not even the most trained meistersinger could rival him. So sit back, my friends, and enjoy the show..."
Everyone applauds as a spaniard gestures and objects spin across the stage, as though caught in the eddy of a tornado, the curtains and drapes rippling as they pass, the audience peering through the flickering gloom and light, trying to see the threads and how the trick is done, never mind the spectacle.
A girl with dark skin and iridescent wings attached to her back that flutter every time she moves strips slowly, the clothes seeming to just slide off, accompanied by wolf-whistles.
Everyone cheers and gasps as a young man cracks glasses as he reaches notes most could never dream of reaching; it's really quite fascinating. In between he imitates people - the country boy easily led into marching gets people nervously tittering as he never quite says which political party the marching is part of, but no-one's going to be the first to say it.
Erik picks out tunes and provides incidental music as needed, tucked away to one side with his piano.
And then there's Raven, announced as Mystique, who tumbles and stretches into impossible shapes across the stage clad in a leotard, skin as blue as sapphires to make herself even more exotic and otherworldy. Only Charles is close enough to see the bumps on her skin aren't all sweat, the sheen isn't all glitter, and the yellow cast to her eyes isn't from the lamps.
Post-performance, Charles meets Raven backstage. "Are you quite mad? That wasn't body paint. Flaunting your differences, it's risky!" Pause as he glances around as though someone's listening through the walls. "And with how things are in Berlin at the moment -"
Raven pats him on the cheek, leaving glitter behind. "Oh, that's terribly sweet of you, Charles. I'm amazed you've actually noticed what's going on. You think we aren't all too aware? Darling, this is one of the few places we deviants can be ourselves, and the S.A. boys at least let us be as long as we're on stage."
---
Charles rubs a spot between his eyes in frustration. He's certainly making progress, but trying to reconcile his latest batch of data is difficult. And it certainly doesn't help that so many of the recent papers and opinion pieces are so bloody biased . They're looking for theories that support their ideas, not letting the data create the theories. A clatter to his left makes him look up.
Alex, one of the university's janitors, is in the middle of glaring at his bucket.
"Is something wrong, Alex?" Charles asks.
"Just this verdammt bucket." Alex bites out. "It seems to take pride in getting smaller every time I attempt to put the mop in."
"Very curious." Charles says. "Are you sure someone hasn't swapped it?"
"Between dousings?" Alex asks in disbelief. "Though I am always suspicious of Herr McCoy. I would not put it past him to use it in one of his experiments and somehow deform it."
"Never leave anything that could conceivably be used in an experiment within reach of Hank." Charles agrees, nodding. The frustration pouring off Alex, for all his politeness, is almost as distracting as his problematic data. "What else is troubling you?"
Alex sighs. "Nothing has changed since last you asked, Herr Xavier. Money. The lack of decent jobs. My brother." Alex's brother has an eye problem of some sort that Alex is terribly vague about, but renders him functionally blind due to the bandages he has to wear. And, of course, makes him ineligible for many types of work. "He clatters about the streets with no regard for his safety, and there are so many people willing to take advantage of a blind boy these days. He cannot tell who is suitable, yesterday he told me he talked for hours in a synagogue, and who knows what ideas they were putting in his head..." He pushes the bucket again moodily. "And this bucket is just one more thing."
"We'll see if we can get you a new one, hmm?" Charles says.
Alex shakes his head. "No, a new bucket will not work. Perhaps a new mop altogether. But thank you for your concern. I'll leave you to your work." He picks up the bucket and his mop and goes to the far corner of the lab to work on the mess caused by Hank's students' latest accident this morning.
----
Erik comes into the café he said he'd meet Charles for lunch in sporting an absolute shiner. "Good god, what happened?" Charles asks, calling for water and a cloth.
"Nazis. We agreed to disagree over my opinion that they look ridiculous." Erik replies, shedding his coat as he sits down.
"You actually got into an argument with one of them?" Charles asks in surprise as a waiter hands him a bowl of water and a rag, glaring suspiciously at Erik's appearance. "I thought you said they barely had enough independent thought to feed themselves, let alone carry out a conversation."
"Don't be stupid, I have no time to waste trying to reason with a brick wall." Erik says dismissively. "I ran into one of their demonstrations outside Landauer's on my way here." He waves off Charles' attempts at cleaning him up. "I'm fine, stop fussing."
"You're bleeding and dirty." Charles points out, getting round Erik's hands to dab at the cut on his forehead, wincing as Erik hisses. "Permit me to at least make you vaguely respectable. You'll frighten some of the more delicate patrons."
"Very well." Erik sighs, capitulating, then winces again as the shift in position puts pressure on one of the bruises he's clearly got under his clothes, if his face is anything to go by. Charles may not have been in many fights, but he knows that they're unlikely to only go after your face. And the Nazis rather like using their boots.
----
It's 4am-ish in the club, and the punters have all left, giggling and vaguely shocked, pleased at themselves for having experienced the risqué side of life. Laughing at the degenerates and thrilled at having been vaguely naughty about political jokes no-one would dare say or allude to besides in hushed whispers and asides in real life, and back to their comfortable, tense, oh-so-careful lives.
Armando's cleaning up behind the bar, running a cloth over the wood as Erik idly picks out a tune on the piano. Charles picks up his drink and sits down behind him, back to back, leaning his head on Erik's shoulder.
"You'll make me lose my place." Erik chuckles in a low voice.
"You're playing Peer Gynt." Charles murmurs sleepily, tipsy from the gin he's been drinking half the evening, breathing in the smell of Erik and the cigarettes he smokes that mingle in with it. "You're less likely to lose your place than on Für Elise."
"Anything but fucking Für Elise." Erik murmurs back as he plays the lilting hymn to the dawn.
"As long as it's not Chopsticks." Sean says, blowing a heavy curl out of his eyes and drawing a ring around the edge of his glass, listening to the pitch. "Two semitones lower." he says reflectively, flicking the glass next to him.
Armando eyes him as he cleans a glass. "You even think of testing that notion, Sean..." He warns.
"I know, you'll cut me off." Sean says, leaning on his hand. "Go clean glasses, Armando."
Angel leans back in her chair, batting her eyelashes outrageously. "Or you could always give me another, Armando. I've never smashed a glass."
Raven looks up from where she's painting Angel's toes. "I could use another. Couldn't you, Janos?"
"You can always use another, Raven." Azazel says, leafing through the paper where it's spread out on the table. Janos is leaning on his shoulder, mostly asleep, hair hanging over his face. "One day you'll drink us all out of business."
"Oh, I couldn't do it alone, darling." Raven says, capping the bottle she's using and shaking it up again. "Besides, drinking alone simply smacks of being maudlin."
"And maiden aunts." Charles adds. "Definitely maiden aunts."
"Maiden aunts simply pickled in sherry. Precisely, Charles." Raven says as Charles listens to the thrum of the piano through Erik's arms and head, his thoughts twining in with the slow rise and fall of the music. Raven tosses her hair as Angel says something, blonde becoming red, blue scales flaring as they layer from pale skin into blue, looking like lighting shifts in the flickering lamps.
----
On stage, Raven is lounging against the piano, singing something dulcet by Ivor Novello while Erik plays. Azazel is talking to one of the rich patrons, who Charles has heard Raven sigh over many a time. "She's so fashionable it hurts to look at her sometimes. And her style - my god, Charles, she only ever wears white, which you'd think sounded terribly prim, but the great Marlene only wishes she could wear white like that. The way Fraulein Frost wears white you'd swear it was the most scandalous colour of all time."
Charles goes to lean on the bar to watch the performance from a viewpoint where he doesn't have to crane to see over people's heads. "What can I tempt you to this time, Herr Xavier?" Armando asks, in the middle of pouring a drink for a rather corpulent financier.
"Just a scotch this time, thank you, Armando." Charles says distractedly.
"The normal or the good stuff?" On the stage, Erik has closed his eyes for the moment, going through the chorus as though he's on automatic, or simply feeling the music more that way. It could be either, but it's a pleasing image. Charles gets startled out of his reverie by being poked in the shoulder. "Hey, man, I know your boyfriend's a sight for sore eyes, but your barman needs to take your order." Armando says, amused.
"Oh, ah, sorry." Charles says, a little flustered at being caught at being so obvious. "The normal. I don't think I'm in a state to appreciate the good stuff."
"Hey, no skin off my nose." Armando says, reaching for the bottle where it's resting against the back wall and a glass. "Least you can afford to pay for it and don't just try to wheedle it out of me. I'm just as much of a sucker for a pretty face as the next man, but the boss would get upset."
"Being that I am the next man, I think not." Azazel says, tapping his fingers on the bar.
"Azazel, that only holds water with those of us who haven't seen the way you look at that pretty illusionist or that blonde contortionist of yours." Fraulein Frost says, terribly amused in the cool way that reminds Charles of some of his mother's friends. The really successful society hostesses. Only more glamorous. She flicks her fingers in Armando's direction. "Armando, a martini, please, I'm simply gasping."
"Three olives, Fraulein Frost?"
"Mais oui. You're a dear." Armando drops the olives in and stirs it with a toothpick before sliding it across to her. She picks it up delicately by the rim, thumbing the toothpick, before turning back to Azazel. "Anyway, as I was saying, these thugs are all very flashy and amusing, but I hardly think they're a threat. Have you heard some of their plans? Simply laughable."
"True, but they're attention-grabbing thugs." Azazel says, straightening his cuffs.
Fraulein Frost makes a dismissive gesture, rings on her fingers catching in the light. "To the peasantry, maybe, but this war mongering is unpleasant to anyone with half a brain."
"The problem is how many of those without a brain take notice of what they say." Azazel says. "I direct you towards the last war and Russia."
Fraulein Frost sips her drink. "Still, a passing fad. They can't generate jobs with a nice uniform and some petty little grocers with an inferiority complex."
----
Charles and Raven stop to watch as the parade swaggers past. Raven clutches at his arm, pursing her lips. "They're horrible."
Charles would reply, but a face catches his eye and he says in shock "Good lord, is that -"
"Who?" Raven asks curiously.
"Alex." Charles replies distractedly. "He's a terribly nice boy, cleans the halls of the university. He's always going on about how society needs to change but I didn't think he'd get caught up with these people."
"Wrong sort of crowd, it appears." Raven says. "Look at the sort of crowd you and I ended up in. It's dreadful."
"I honestly thought he'd be more attracted towards the Communists..." Charles trails off, before shaking his head. "Never mind, let's get home. I don't think we should be out when it's like this."
On his way to the university after breakfast, Charles pauses by the not cleaned up yet remains of a fire in the street. He picks up one of the mostly burned texts they deemed heretical, brushing the sodden ash off the cover, before cleaning his hand with his handkerchief.
He's still carrying the text when he gets into the lab. Hank's crouched over a complicated-looking piece of industrial clockwork, soldering iron in hand, but looks up on Charles' entrance, putting it down. "Good morning, Charles." His gaze strays to what Charles is carrying. "What on earth have you got there?"
"I picked it up from the remains of a bonfire from last night." Charles says distractedly, turning it over and prizing the pages apart.
"Oh." Hank replies, shrugging and picking up the soldering iron again. "As long as it's not yours."
Charles blinks in disbelief at Hank's lack of reaction. "Hank, they're burning books! Books, of all things! This is an academic text, what kind of person burns knowledge?"
Hank looks down at his work, and says quietly. "It's not our concern."
"I saw Alex." Charles adds. "Did you know he'd joined them? I can't believe he'd do this kind of thing. He works at a university, he knows how important -" He stops, because Hank is very clearly not looking at him. He shakes his head, turning the book over again. "I wonder what you'd have said if it had been Einstein."
Hank doesn't answer him, just keeps staring at his work.
----
It's the end of Charles' sabbatical, and he's waiting at the station with Erik for the train to leave. Raven said her goodbyes this morning, declaring that she simply hated train stations and goodbyes were much better away from crowds and smoke.
Erik touches his fingers to Charles' watch, tightening the links briefly, then loosening them. "Will you come back?" He asks softly. "To visit."
"I - don't know." Charles replies. "I'll be writing my thesis soon. You could come to visit. Or to stay. It's getting more troublesome."
Erik's mouth quirks into a smile. "It's a thought." The whistle of the conductor pierces the air, followed by a bellow for all those not intending to travel to get off the train. "That would be my cue to leave."
Charles turns his hand over, gripping Erik's hand in his, thumb brushing his pulse. "Stay safe, my friend. And please do think about it."
Erik squeezes back before releasing it. "Only so long as you think about it too."
END
Author : Gunbunny
Fandom : X-Men:First Class
Pairing : Charles/Erik, various other ones
Rating : Three swear words. I feel so *ashamed*...
Word count: 4965
Summary : 1930s Berlin au. ...I may have read a bit too much Christopher Isherwood and watched Cabaret a few too many times?
Disclaimer : Not mine. Marvel's.
Feedback : I accept burnt offerings and alcohol. ta to Pete for beta-ing.
Charles Xavier gets off the train in Berlin, swallowing slightly. He's here on sabbatical, away from Oxford's stuffiness, hoping that Berlin's excitement and advances in genetics will spur his own work on. He's been stuck in a rut lately, and perhaps new faces and ideas will help. He adjusts his bags, getting himself together before his contact from the university meets him, hoping he hasn't left anything on the train, if only because having to scramble back on and having an argument with the porter would be a tad embarrassing in front of someone he's hoping to make a good impression on.
A young man in glasses comes forward once the crowd dissipates a little, holding out his hand to shake. "Doctor Xavier? I am Herr McCoy, of the engineering department."
"I was given to understand I'd be met by a Doctor Schmidt." Charles says, putting down one suitcase to take Herr McCoy's hand. "And it's not Doctor just yet."
"But not far off, I am given to understand." Herr McCoy says, flashing a grin, making him look like an excited schoolboy. "Forgive me. Herr Doctor Schmidt was called away by business in Vienna, a very exciting research opportunity."
He adjusts his glasses. "I was the only one who could get away at this time of the afternoon, as I had no classes." Charles gets a little flash, such as he can't help. He makes it a habit not to read acquaintances' minds, as it's so terribly rude, but the impressions someone has of another when talking often bleed through. He gets a flash of a serious, high foreheaded man, and... interesting. Herr McCoy does not like Dr Schmidt. Something about his manner, or perhaps something happened in the past, he can't find out unless he delves deeper, and that is very firmly not his business for such a casual meeting.
Their first stop is the university. The labs are fantastic. Herr McCoy pushes open a door to a very cluttered office. "Forgive the mess. Lab space we have plenty of, office not so much, and I am the only one with a spare desk..." He pushes some journals out of the way, making an embarrassed gesture. "Here."
"This will be quite sufficient, thank you, Herr McCoy." Charles says, putting his briefcase down. Now he looks around, cluttered is putting it mildly.
Herr McCoy glances round, looking for something under the piles of paper. "I can give you the names of some of the nearer boarding houses, and some hotels. I am sorry we are not better prepared for your arrival."
"It's quite all right, honestly." Charles reassures him. "The first day I was at Oxford, they'd lost my papers and I had to wait a week to get an office. Getting a room won't be nearly half as much trouble as that."
Herr McCoy grins in relief. "Thank you for your patience." He's managed to find two cups, and holds them up. "Tea before we take a proper tour?" He asks.
"Wonderful, thank you." Charles says. As Herr McCoy navigates the chairs and Charles' bags to get to the door, Charles asks "I was wondering - McCoy? It's not a German name."
Herr McCoy shrugs. "My grandfather. But it is Heinrich, Hank to my friends. Please, call me Hank, Herr Xavier. What is the phrase you English use? Herr McCoy is my father."
Charles grins. "You make a good point. Hank it is then."
----
There are other attractions to Berlin besides the university and its advances in the study of genetics. Which is precisely why Charles finds himself in this noisy, crowded bar in the tunnels, full of men of all shapes, sizes, and levels of eyeliner applied. He gets himself a drink and scans the crowd, looking for anyone who might spark his fancy.
A tall man with chiselled cheekbones smiles slightly at something the man he's talking to says, and notices Charles looking. He tilts his drink in acknowledgement, then sips it, holding Charles' gaze.
"I don't believe I've seen you in here before." The man observes, having drifted over to Charles when his conversation partner had turned to speak to someone else. Close up he's even more handsome.
"I-no. It's my first time in Berlin." Charles says.
"English, yes?" the man asks, curious.
"Oh, dear, is my accent that bad?" Charles picks up languages effortlessly from peoples' heads, but it's a bit hit and miss on whether he can reproduce the sounds perfectly. He once tried Welsh out of curiosity. Good lord was that a mistake, he nearly drowned in spit trying to reproduce the 'll' noise.
"No, not atrocious. But obvious." He takes another sip of his drink. "Erik."
"Charles." Charles replies, taking a sip of his own, licking his lips to catch the last of the frankly pedestrian, verging on terrible whisky they sell here. The newly introduced Erik's eyes follow the action, and Charles makes a note to maybe do it again.
Charles goes to the loo and comes back out to find Erik waiting outside the door. He flashes a grin that reveals a lot of teeth. "I thought you may have gotten lost."
"Not kidnapped?" Charles asks, letting the edge of his mouth turn up even as he uses a curious tone.
Erik raises a hand and flicks Charles' collar lazily, the fabric clearly newer and in much better condition than most of the collars on show here. "Depends. Are you worth anything?"
"To the interested buyer, maybe..."
"I'm sure I can't think of where we might find one in this crowd." Erik says, hooking his fingers under Charles' tie and pulling him closer.
---
Charles plays with the fingers resting on his stomach. Long, shapely, and very talented. Erik makes an amused sound. "What's so fascinating?"
"I like your hands." Charles replies lazily. "They're the hands of a pianist. Or an artist."
"Lucky guess." Erik cracks a grin.
"You're an artist?" Charles asks.
"A pianist." Erik corrects. "I play at one of the clubs most nights."
----
Charles encounters Raven outside the bathroom of the boarding house he's taken a room in. "Oh, damn, is there a queue? Oh, what I'd give for an ensuite like they have at the Savoy. One bathroom per room, imagine, you could soak in it as long as you wanted, bugger the people waiting to do their teeth or take a whizz." She finally stops to take a breath. "Oh, dreadfully sorry, I've been going on at you and I haven't introduced myself. Raven Darkholme."
"Ah, Charles Xavier." Charles says, adjusting his armful of towel and washbag to shake her hand. "Pleased to meet you."
After the interminable wait for the bathroom is over, Raven floats into his room in a cloud of eyeliner and film magazines, a butterfly of colour in the tea and coffee-stained rooms they board in, carrying a tray of coffee, declaring herself simply starved of English conversation.
Raven states that she never has the same hair colour two days running. "Wigs, darling. They're a marvellous invention. But enough about me, why did you leave England? You seem like you'd fit in perfectly in those dusty academic halls. You have no idea how dreary England was for the likes of me. Here I get to be myself at least some of the time." She barely pauses in her flow before exclaiming. "Oh, and you must come and see my act at the club! You'll love it, it's very avant-garde. I paint myself blue some nights."
Charles nearly splutters into his coffee. "Good lord, why?"
Raven smirks, leaning back in her chair. "Exoticism. It keeps the punters absolutely fascinated and coming back for more, darling."
----
Charles pauses at the door of the offices he's sharing with Hank. There are two voices talking about mechanics and the latest advances in machinery and applications to engines and pistons. The one excitedly jabbering at a hundred miles an hour is Hank's, and the other, more measured and calmer, is... Erik's? Charles pushes the door open, and Erik looks up. "Good afternoon, Charles. I came by to see if I could tear you away from your work for a late lunch, and found Herr McCoy."
Hank's hands are still waving, clearly having been illustrating something in the air, the light glinting off his spectacles. "Herr Lensherr has a fascinating theory on the tempering of certain alloys to compensate for heat transfer in engines, Charles, I really must study the applications -"
Charles coughs discreetly, tapping his watch. "Fascinating as this is and as much as I hate to pull you away from a good debate, Hank, but it's nearly two o'clock."
Hank blinks, caught up abruptly. "Oh, of course, I'm sorry, you probably want to get lunch with your friend -" he looks disappointed.
Charles coughs again. "Two o'clock on a *Wednesday*, Hank. I believe you have students...?"
The disappointed look flees, and Hank scrambles for papers on his desk. "Oh verdammt, you're right. Thank you, Charles, Herr Lensherr, if we could continue this debate at another time, you have the most fascinating theories I'd really like to test the applications of -"
Erik has his amused look on as he watches the swirl of paper. "Of course, Herr McCoy. It will be a pleasure." Once Hank has exited, papers trailing in his wake, Erik lets out a chuckle. "I really didn't believe someone could fit the cliché of distracted scientist so perfectly. He's an interesting young man."
"A genius." Charles says. "He's only 21 and he's been teaching since he was 19. Of course, he occasionally needs to be reminded to eat. Now where did you want to go for lunch?"
Once they've placed their order at the café, the sullen waiter bustling off, Charles turns to Erik, who's been thumbing through an engineering magazine he liberated from the bombsite that is Hank's desk. "I honestly don't understand why you don't get a job as an engineer, your understanding of mechanics is fantastic. I've not seen Hank so excited before, there's very few people who can keep up with him."
Erik gives him a pitying look as he taps the ash off his cigarette. "I'm Jewish, Charles. There are jobs I'm not allowed to take away from good Protestants, with all the factories closing. Or at least that they wouldn't hire a mediocre Protestant over a talented Jew."
"But still -" Charles protests. It's such a waste of talent, he's seen some of the people Hank works with, total dunderheads who hadn't had half the spark of keeping up with him as Erik did.
Erik waves off his protests, taking another puff on his fag. "Charles, enough. I am lucky enough to have a job in this climate. Idle fantasies will not get us anywhere."
---
Raven flings herself down at the table while Charles is trying to read the paper.
"Are you feeling all right, Raven?" He enquires, taking a careful sip of the strong coffee. Tea's a little more difficult to get here, and he'd prefer decently made coffee over badly made tea any day.
"Oh, I'm fine, I'm just trying to deal with the most exasperating situation -" She sighs, then pauses, flicking her scarf out of the way, before continuing. "- Azazel says he needs to make space for a new performer, and they of course need space to change, which means I have to get all the props and costumes moved before Tuesday, and I simply can't rely on Janos, he's the *most* disorganised person -"
Charles puts his coffee down. "Raven. Breathe."
She makes a dismissive gesture. "Very funny, you're not my elder brother, Charles, stop trying to sound like it. Darling, you simply must come and see me perform one night. It's getting terribly frustrating. You keep saying you will and you never do. It's the most delightful little club, terribly avant-garde."
"As you've said. Remind me what your act is?" Charles asks.
"I sing." She pauses. "And I'm a contortionist." She smiles. "Sometimes I even paint myself blue."
"Very avant-garde." Charles smiles.
"Oh, you must come. You'll love Angel, she's our dancer. Teensy little thing, all hair and flawless olive skin and eyes you could drown in." She fusses with her scarf, trying to get it to settle. "Besides, I believe you're already acquainted with our piano player." She grins wickedly. "You can see what darling Erik looks like with his clothes on."
Charles flushes. "We don't spend all our time fucking."
"Mmm. By the sounds of it, there's playing chess too." Charles has never heard someone make it sound so filthy. "Do come. He's simply divine when caressing piano keys. Who knows, he might even serenade you."
----
There's a poof of evil-smelling smoke, and a man dressed as a devil, complete with red skin and a tail appears through it on the stage. "Mes dames, M'sieurs... Wilkommen to our little patch of Sodom. We have sinners and saints and very slightly tainted angels ready to entertain you this evening. As for me, I am the very devil and will tempt you away from your hum-drum lives." He bows deeply, then raises his head from the bow. "Tonight, we have contortionists and dancers, a man who can summon the very air to do his bidding, and a man whose voice is so pure that not even the most trained meistersinger could rival him. So sit back, my friends, and enjoy the show..."
Everyone applauds as a spaniard gestures and objects spin across the stage, as though caught in the eddy of a tornado, the curtains and drapes rippling as they pass, the audience peering through the flickering gloom and light, trying to see the threads and how the trick is done, never mind the spectacle.
A girl with dark skin and iridescent wings attached to her back that flutter every time she moves strips slowly, the clothes seeming to just slide off, accompanied by wolf-whistles.
Everyone cheers and gasps as a young man cracks glasses as he reaches notes most could never dream of reaching; it's really quite fascinating. In between he imitates people - the country boy easily led into marching gets people nervously tittering as he never quite says which political party the marching is part of, but no-one's going to be the first to say it.
Erik picks out tunes and provides incidental music as needed, tucked away to one side with his piano.
And then there's Raven, announced as Mystique, who tumbles and stretches into impossible shapes across the stage clad in a leotard, skin as blue as sapphires to make herself even more exotic and otherworldy. Only Charles is close enough to see the bumps on her skin aren't all sweat, the sheen isn't all glitter, and the yellow cast to her eyes isn't from the lamps.
Post-performance, Charles meets Raven backstage. "Are you quite mad? That wasn't body paint. Flaunting your differences, it's risky!" Pause as he glances around as though someone's listening through the walls. "And with how things are in Berlin at the moment -"
Raven pats him on the cheek, leaving glitter behind. "Oh, that's terribly sweet of you, Charles. I'm amazed you've actually noticed what's going on. You think we aren't all too aware? Darling, this is one of the few places we deviants can be ourselves, and the S.A. boys at least let us be as long as we're on stage."
---
Charles rubs a spot between his eyes in frustration. He's certainly making progress, but trying to reconcile his latest batch of data is difficult. And it certainly doesn't help that so many of the recent papers and opinion pieces are so bloody biased . They're looking for theories that support their ideas, not letting the data create the theories. A clatter to his left makes him look up.
Alex, one of the university's janitors, is in the middle of glaring at his bucket.
"Is something wrong, Alex?" Charles asks.
"Just this verdammt bucket." Alex bites out. "It seems to take pride in getting smaller every time I attempt to put the mop in."
"Very curious." Charles says. "Are you sure someone hasn't swapped it?"
"Between dousings?" Alex asks in disbelief. "Though I am always suspicious of Herr McCoy. I would not put it past him to use it in one of his experiments and somehow deform it."
"Never leave anything that could conceivably be used in an experiment within reach of Hank." Charles agrees, nodding. The frustration pouring off Alex, for all his politeness, is almost as distracting as his problematic data. "What else is troubling you?"
Alex sighs. "Nothing has changed since last you asked, Herr Xavier. Money. The lack of decent jobs. My brother." Alex's brother has an eye problem of some sort that Alex is terribly vague about, but renders him functionally blind due to the bandages he has to wear. And, of course, makes him ineligible for many types of work. "He clatters about the streets with no regard for his safety, and there are so many people willing to take advantage of a blind boy these days. He cannot tell who is suitable, yesterday he told me he talked for hours in a synagogue, and who knows what ideas they were putting in his head..." He pushes the bucket again moodily. "And this bucket is just one more thing."
"We'll see if we can get you a new one, hmm?" Charles says.
Alex shakes his head. "No, a new bucket will not work. Perhaps a new mop altogether. But thank you for your concern. I'll leave you to your work." He picks up the bucket and his mop and goes to the far corner of the lab to work on the mess caused by Hank's students' latest accident this morning.
----
Erik comes into the café he said he'd meet Charles for lunch in sporting an absolute shiner. "Good god, what happened?" Charles asks, calling for water and a cloth.
"Nazis. We agreed to disagree over my opinion that they look ridiculous." Erik replies, shedding his coat as he sits down.
"You actually got into an argument with one of them?" Charles asks in surprise as a waiter hands him a bowl of water and a rag, glaring suspiciously at Erik's appearance. "I thought you said they barely had enough independent thought to feed themselves, let alone carry out a conversation."
"Don't be stupid, I have no time to waste trying to reason with a brick wall." Erik says dismissively. "I ran into one of their demonstrations outside Landauer's on my way here." He waves off Charles' attempts at cleaning him up. "I'm fine, stop fussing."
"You're bleeding and dirty." Charles points out, getting round Erik's hands to dab at the cut on his forehead, wincing as Erik hisses. "Permit me to at least make you vaguely respectable. You'll frighten some of the more delicate patrons."
"Very well." Erik sighs, capitulating, then winces again as the shift in position puts pressure on one of the bruises he's clearly got under his clothes, if his face is anything to go by. Charles may not have been in many fights, but he knows that they're unlikely to only go after your face. And the Nazis rather like using their boots.
----
It's 4am-ish in the club, and the punters have all left, giggling and vaguely shocked, pleased at themselves for having experienced the risqué side of life. Laughing at the degenerates and thrilled at having been vaguely naughty about political jokes no-one would dare say or allude to besides in hushed whispers and asides in real life, and back to their comfortable, tense, oh-so-careful lives.
Armando's cleaning up behind the bar, running a cloth over the wood as Erik idly picks out a tune on the piano. Charles picks up his drink and sits down behind him, back to back, leaning his head on Erik's shoulder.
"You'll make me lose my place." Erik chuckles in a low voice.
"You're playing Peer Gynt." Charles murmurs sleepily, tipsy from the gin he's been drinking half the evening, breathing in the smell of Erik and the cigarettes he smokes that mingle in with it. "You're less likely to lose your place than on Für Elise."
"Anything but fucking Für Elise." Erik murmurs back as he plays the lilting hymn to the dawn.
"As long as it's not Chopsticks." Sean says, blowing a heavy curl out of his eyes and drawing a ring around the edge of his glass, listening to the pitch. "Two semitones lower." he says reflectively, flicking the glass next to him.
Armando eyes him as he cleans a glass. "You even think of testing that notion, Sean..." He warns.
"I know, you'll cut me off." Sean says, leaning on his hand. "Go clean glasses, Armando."
Angel leans back in her chair, batting her eyelashes outrageously. "Or you could always give me another, Armando. I've never smashed a glass."
Raven looks up from where she's painting Angel's toes. "I could use another. Couldn't you, Janos?"
"You can always use another, Raven." Azazel says, leafing through the paper where it's spread out on the table. Janos is leaning on his shoulder, mostly asleep, hair hanging over his face. "One day you'll drink us all out of business."
"Oh, I couldn't do it alone, darling." Raven says, capping the bottle she's using and shaking it up again. "Besides, drinking alone simply smacks of being maudlin."
"And maiden aunts." Charles adds. "Definitely maiden aunts."
"Maiden aunts simply pickled in sherry. Precisely, Charles." Raven says as Charles listens to the thrum of the piano through Erik's arms and head, his thoughts twining in with the slow rise and fall of the music. Raven tosses her hair as Angel says something, blonde becoming red, blue scales flaring as they layer from pale skin into blue, looking like lighting shifts in the flickering lamps.
----
On stage, Raven is lounging against the piano, singing something dulcet by Ivor Novello while Erik plays. Azazel is talking to one of the rich patrons, who Charles has heard Raven sigh over many a time. "She's so fashionable it hurts to look at her sometimes. And her style - my god, Charles, she only ever wears white, which you'd think sounded terribly prim, but the great Marlene only wishes she could wear white like that. The way Fraulein Frost wears white you'd swear it was the most scandalous colour of all time."
Charles goes to lean on the bar to watch the performance from a viewpoint where he doesn't have to crane to see over people's heads. "What can I tempt you to this time, Herr Xavier?" Armando asks, in the middle of pouring a drink for a rather corpulent financier.
"Just a scotch this time, thank you, Armando." Charles says distractedly.
"The normal or the good stuff?" On the stage, Erik has closed his eyes for the moment, going through the chorus as though he's on automatic, or simply feeling the music more that way. It could be either, but it's a pleasing image. Charles gets startled out of his reverie by being poked in the shoulder. "Hey, man, I know your boyfriend's a sight for sore eyes, but your barman needs to take your order." Armando says, amused.
"Oh, ah, sorry." Charles says, a little flustered at being caught at being so obvious. "The normal. I don't think I'm in a state to appreciate the good stuff."
"Hey, no skin off my nose." Armando says, reaching for the bottle where it's resting against the back wall and a glass. "Least you can afford to pay for it and don't just try to wheedle it out of me. I'm just as much of a sucker for a pretty face as the next man, but the boss would get upset."
"Being that I am the next man, I think not." Azazel says, tapping his fingers on the bar.
"Azazel, that only holds water with those of us who haven't seen the way you look at that pretty illusionist or that blonde contortionist of yours." Fraulein Frost says, terribly amused in the cool way that reminds Charles of some of his mother's friends. The really successful society hostesses. Only more glamorous. She flicks her fingers in Armando's direction. "Armando, a martini, please, I'm simply gasping."
"Three olives, Fraulein Frost?"
"Mais oui. You're a dear." Armando drops the olives in and stirs it with a toothpick before sliding it across to her. She picks it up delicately by the rim, thumbing the toothpick, before turning back to Azazel. "Anyway, as I was saying, these thugs are all very flashy and amusing, but I hardly think they're a threat. Have you heard some of their plans? Simply laughable."
"True, but they're attention-grabbing thugs." Azazel says, straightening his cuffs.
Fraulein Frost makes a dismissive gesture, rings on her fingers catching in the light. "To the peasantry, maybe, but this war mongering is unpleasant to anyone with half a brain."
"The problem is how many of those without a brain take notice of what they say." Azazel says. "I direct you towards the last war and Russia."
Fraulein Frost sips her drink. "Still, a passing fad. They can't generate jobs with a nice uniform and some petty little grocers with an inferiority complex."
----
Charles and Raven stop to watch as the parade swaggers past. Raven clutches at his arm, pursing her lips. "They're horrible."
Charles would reply, but a face catches his eye and he says in shock "Good lord, is that -"
"Who?" Raven asks curiously.
"Alex." Charles replies distractedly. "He's a terribly nice boy, cleans the halls of the university. He's always going on about how society needs to change but I didn't think he'd get caught up with these people."
"Wrong sort of crowd, it appears." Raven says. "Look at the sort of crowd you and I ended up in. It's dreadful."
"I honestly thought he'd be more attracted towards the Communists..." Charles trails off, before shaking his head. "Never mind, let's get home. I don't think we should be out when it's like this."
On his way to the university after breakfast, Charles pauses by the not cleaned up yet remains of a fire in the street. He picks up one of the mostly burned texts they deemed heretical, brushing the sodden ash off the cover, before cleaning his hand with his handkerchief.
He's still carrying the text when he gets into the lab. Hank's crouched over a complicated-looking piece of industrial clockwork, soldering iron in hand, but looks up on Charles' entrance, putting it down. "Good morning, Charles." His gaze strays to what Charles is carrying. "What on earth have you got there?"
"I picked it up from the remains of a bonfire from last night." Charles says distractedly, turning it over and prizing the pages apart.
"Oh." Hank replies, shrugging and picking up the soldering iron again. "As long as it's not yours."
Charles blinks in disbelief at Hank's lack of reaction. "Hank, they're burning books! Books, of all things! This is an academic text, what kind of person burns knowledge?"
Hank looks down at his work, and says quietly. "It's not our concern."
"I saw Alex." Charles adds. "Did you know he'd joined them? I can't believe he'd do this kind of thing. He works at a university, he knows how important -" He stops, because Hank is very clearly not looking at him. He shakes his head, turning the book over again. "I wonder what you'd have said if it had been Einstein."
Hank doesn't answer him, just keeps staring at his work.
----
It's the end of Charles' sabbatical, and he's waiting at the station with Erik for the train to leave. Raven said her goodbyes this morning, declaring that she simply hated train stations and goodbyes were much better away from crowds and smoke.
Erik touches his fingers to Charles' watch, tightening the links briefly, then loosening them. "Will you come back?" He asks softly. "To visit."
"I - don't know." Charles replies. "I'll be writing my thesis soon. You could come to visit. Or to stay. It's getting more troublesome."
Erik's mouth quirks into a smile. "It's a thought." The whistle of the conductor pierces the air, followed by a bellow for all those not intending to travel to get off the train. "That would be my cue to leave."
Charles turns his hand over, gripping Erik's hand in his, thumb brushing his pulse. "Stay safe, my friend. And please do think about it."
Erik squeezes back before releasing it. "Only so long as you think about it too."
END
