Chapter Text
The upper echelon of New York's society flows fluidly around him with a disinterested hum. They are in fancy dress - as they are often wont to be in - from long flowing elegant gowns, embellished with glistening diamonds and precious gems to tailored suits with carefully cut lines to show off the cufflinks that adorn and twinkle at the end of blazer sleeves.
Their cage is a ball room, decorated in a fusion of the old and the new. Curious twists of metal adorn the walls and the floor, some of which could be classified under the loose definition of the word art. These metallic pieces are contrasted by an assortment of arm chairs made of mahogany and plush red velvet.
High society is all about appearances; always hide your displeasure behind an agreeable countenance. The clientele are armed with fake smiles and words laced with venomous subtext, forced into socialising with one another when kept in close captivity for one evening. Charles Xavier observes the interaction from the sidelines, armed with a serving tray and canapés, as they draw circles around one another, conversing for a socially acceptable amount of time before the cycle continues on fresh victims.
Had she been alive, Charles knows Mother would be rolling in her grave at his current career choice. And he can only thank her for his lessons in social etiquette that began at an early age after being shown off on far too many occasions as the Xavier heir. The pride and joy of Mother's eye had the joy not been present in his life ever since Father died and Charles had been expected to act a certain way. As if generous donations to prestigious boarding schools all over England equates to any affection between mother and son.
Charles' ability to pull off a convincing smile, when faced with people who look down their nose at him through the eyeholes of their gilded Venetian masks, are testament to these lessons, learnt because Charles is dutiful to his parents. And it is much simpler to give Mother what she wants to save on all the lost time later when she would stir up a fuss.
Well. Mother would most definitely be displeased, Charles thinks wryly as he hands a serviette to go with the prosciutto with fennel on mini toasts.
“You are a member of the Xavier family," she would have said with a wrinkle of disgust marring her brow, "And you are my son. You should be out there mingling, not doing ... servant's work.” Her words would have slurred together, from too much drink as she waved her bottle of the hour in the air. The contents would have sloshed around on the inside and threatened the rug with the probability of new stains.
Of course, she's been dead for years, so Charles finds he cannot really give his Mother's words any weight. Especially from a Sharon Xavier that lives as a figment of his imagination. Truthfully, Charles has his doubts about his mother even recalling having ever given birth to a son to care much about his career path.
Like all young boys, Charles aspired to be just like his father.
Brian Xavier was the founder of a small toy company in New York called The Little Polar Bear. From such humble beginnings came inventions and toys that intrigued and fascinated children. Then with a stroke of fortune and luck, the name had spread like wildfire, and soon, the company became known throughout the world.
But as fate would have it, Charles was not destined to become a toy-maker.
His father died in a mysterious factory fire that swept through the workshop and the warehouses. The subsequent investigations found the tragedy had claimed five lives and it was believed to have been the work of arsonists. They were never found.
His heart-broken mother found comfort at the bottom of the bottle. She haunted the cold halls of Westchester and was never quite the same woman ever again. Charles could not fault her when she subsequently found herself in the arms of another man.
His childhood took a drastic turn for the worse when the Markos arrived into his life. His step-father, Kurt Marko, took over The Little Polar Bear like he did everything else: ruthlessly and brutally.
And then there was the matter of his new step-brother, Cain.
It had been a slip of his control when he had found out about the physical abuse that Cain had been subjected to. Charles tentatively tried to become Cain's ally and friend, but his efforts were rebuffed in the form of fists. It was a vicious cycle: Kurt would find Cain and then Cain would seek out Charles, who became very good at fleeing and hiding.
And then, when the opportunity presented itself, Charles chose to leave Westchester for Harvard.
There, at Harvard, Charles felt for the first time like he could breathe again. He applied himself to his studies: Biophysics, Psychology and Genetics which quickly and easily replaced his family. He graduated at 16 from Harvard and then pursued further study in Oxford, eager to stay away from Westchester for as long as possible.
Time flowed differently in England. Charles found his placement to be both far too short and far too long, like time dilation and time contraction were at war with one another. And then in the blink of an eye, graduation was thrust upon him, bringing his schedule of sleeping and drinking and shagging to an end.
It came as no surprise to Charles when none of his family was found to be in attendance at his graduation ceremony.
In the years he had been away, the Little Polar Bear had steadily declined under Kurt’s dirty paw. Charles had inadvertently avoided all news about his father's company and his heart squeezed unpleasantly when he saw his father’s company name tarnished through Kurt’s questionable business practises.
With the ink still drying on his papers, Charles returned to Westchester, in the hopes that he could save the company from living on borrowed time. His step-father would have none of it, ignoring each and every one of Charles' ideas that could have saved the company from financial ruin.
It all proved useless when Kurt chose Cain to be his successor and implemented each of Charles' plans. Charles, dejected by his step-father's back stabbing move, leaves once again and attends Columbia University.
New York is vastly different from Oxford. Here, Charles is strangely happy, living in a small run-down apartment, close enough to campus without being charged rent that closely resembles debts owed by some small African country.
Charles likes his job, as far as part-time work goes. He retires into the kitchen for a quick breather, giving himself some time for water and to recover from all the fake smiles and social niceties. The event, with its guest list and masquerade theme, is worthy of the once vibrant halls of Westchester.
That is not to say the host's house is not also opulent. Where old tapestries and portraits of dead Xaviers adorn the walls of his old home, this one is spartan in comparison. It is modest in a way that Charles finds refreshing.
His boss's booming voice breaks Charles out of his thoughts. “For God’s sake, take that plate of sandwiches out and fix your damned vest and that mask.” Charles nods dutifully and scrambles to comply; recapping the bottle of water and smoothing away the invisible wrinkles on his vest.
The kitchen staff looks on in pity and Charles exchanges a wry smile with one before picking up the platter of sandwiches and returning to the hall with his mask pushed up the bridge of his nose.
Once on the floor again, Charles weaves between the guests and partakes in his favourite pastime of overhearing their backstabbing thoughts. There is a man standing on the side sporting a full face mask who has curiously quiet thoughts. There is a woman dressed completely in white and dripping with diamonds who is incredibly bored with the proceedings.
Looking around the room, there is probably enough glitter in the room to rival a Drag Ball. Charles has to bite down on the inside of his cheek before the thought makes him laugh.
He clears his throat awkwardly and schools his face into pleasant neutrality when and old couple approaches him. “Sandwiches, sir, madam?” The old woman asks for his recommendation and he cheerfully chirps that the smoked salmon and cucumber on white is his favourite. She nods and takes two on a napkin, giving Charles a smile before they move away.
Drifting between conversations and backstabbing thoughts, Charles finds himself on the other side of the room. He debates whether he ought to approach the man by the wall, with his arms folded defensively over his chest. Charles can imagine a frown behind the full length mask.
"Would you like a sandwich, sir?" Charles asks and holds out the platter in what he hopes is an enticing manner. "The shrimp and citrus mayonnaise on white has been very popular tonight."
The man turns his head towards him. Charles can see pale eyes from behind the mask trailing from his shoes up to his face languidly. He feels oddly violated as the man's gaze lingers and looks through him. It leaves him feeling strangely naked and exposed and Charles certainly hopes the man doesn't have x-ray vision as a mutation. Surely that is grounds for sexual harassment.
The man turns away a moment later and presumes to ignore him without a word.
How rude. A simple no would have sufficed, Charles thinks to himself and moves away. Sending his telepathy out in a covert manner, Charles wonders what kind of thoughts the man in the mask would be having. Undoubtedly pornographic in nature given the way the man had looked at him.
Indignation melts away into surprise. There are strong mental shields in place which keep his telepathy out. It is not a thing he has encountered before and Charles sends out a few more tendrils of thought in the man's direction, expecting the road block to give way and fall like a castle made of cards. But to no avail as the man looks up in slight alarm.
Charles quickly turns around, cold sweat breaking out as he breaks their mental connection with haste. His heart pounds loudly in his chest. Had he been found out? Perhaps the man in the mask is also a telepath. The thought brings with it a mix of excitement and dread as he returns to pawning off the rest of the sandwiches to others in the room.
The only time he allows himself to look in the man's direction is after his platter had been emptied and finds that the man had been joined by a woman dressed in white. They are looking in his direction and the woman has an oddly calculating look about her. Charles turns around again, biting down on his lip in thought, only stopping when he recognises a mind in the crowd that he hoped never to encounter again.
"Charles."
The voice stops him in his tracks. With nothing more to it, Charles straightens up and nods to his step-father with a smile that does not quite reach his eyes.
“Kurt.”
Kurt stands in front of him, feet spread wide and wearing an unflattering shade of purple. His hair is slicked back to the point where Charles wonders when the last time Kurt had washed his hair. Time certainly treated the bastard well, Charles thinks viciously as he tries not to stare at the man's bulging waistline.
His step-father smiles unpleasantly, baring yellow-stained teeth in Charles' direction.“Heh. I thought it was you, scampering around the room like a starving rat looking for food scraps. I never thought I would run into you here, boy,” Kurt says, throwing his arms out wide for effect and nearly smacking a lady in blue with the back of his hand. Kurt ignores her aghast gasp and launches into a spiel of how the merger will be the best thing to happen to the Little Polar Bear since Brian’s death.
“Congratulations,” Charles says through gritted teeth, words laced bitterly with contempt. How dare this man say an ill word about his father. He tries not to glean how much money Kurt must have lost in order to prompt the merger in the first place. With his temper fraying, Charles gives a half-bow and says, “If you will please excuse me, sir, I have to get back to my job,” before he beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen.
The speeches start soon after, with Charles keeping careful tabs on his step-father in order to elude him for the rest of the evening. This is an easy enough feat when Kurt spends the duration on the makeshift stage looking immensely pleased with himself.
He pauses long enough between offering drinks to look at the man currently addressing to the room. His name is Erik Lehnsherr and the CEO of a German toy company by the name of Das Spielwarengeschäft mit der Maus; a delightful name to mean The Toy Store with the Mouse, evident from the logo.
The man has a nice voice and he commands attention like a general with his army. Charles has never seen another man look so divine, dressed in a charcoal grey suit and a simple Venetian mask. The get up ought to be illegal in several states in Charles' humble opinion.
He has heard and read many things about Erik Lehnsherr, who is the current face of the toy-making industry. A veritable genius when it comes to circuit design and new inventions that amuse both the young and the old. The stir that Das Spielwarengeschäft mit der Maus causes rivals that of the Little Polar Bear's heyday.
The curious thing about Erik Lehnsherr is that no one has managed to ever get a glimpse of the man's face. Despite all the talented fans on Tumblr and other niche online communities splicing together and photoshopping bits of what he ought to hypothetically look like, Charles has never found a complete and undoctored photograph of the CEO.
Charles is pulled unceremoniously from his thoughts when he feels his body lurch. In the few seconds between falling, his mind helpfully registers that he is indeed going to renew his acquaintanceship with the ground. The Persian rug gets a thorough dousing in champagne and there is the sound of a number of glasses shattering. The platter rolls away and hides behind one of the metal sculptures, where it finally stops, like the ballerina it is not, with a clatter.
He is on his hands and knees, hiding his red face behind the curtain of his hair as he hastily moves to clean up the mess he has caused.
"Tsk tsk, Charlie. You have always been a klutz. God knows how you've managed to keep this job."
It is one of those moments in life where you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Charles freezes at the shadow that has been cast over him.
There is a snigger. "Oh, oops. I guess you won't be at this particular job for long."
"Cain." Of all the places to be and people to serve, he just had to run into the Markos. Charles should have known his step-brother would also be in attendance. The bad apple, after all, does not fall far from the tree. His insides are twisting together, from the embarrassment and the shame and the anger, as he picks up the broken shards around him with his fingers in the faint hope that it will get him away from the public scrutiny Charles suddenly finds himself under.
He ignores it when blood spots the broken pieces of crystal, keeping his head firmly down. It is one thing for the Markos to bully him at Westchester but entirely another thing to ruin, not only his part-time job, but also the most important speech of the evening. Charles might as well walk out the door since there is not a chance he is not fired.
A hand descends out of nowhere and lands upon his forearm lightly, the grip unforgiving yet gentle.
“Come with me, sugar.” It comes out more of a command than a suggestion. There is a light pressure on the small of his back and Charles finds himself ushered out of the room, the platter held loosely in his grasp.
The woman in white from earlier leads him into the kitchen where the man with the mask who refused his sandwiches is waiting.
"Let me take care of this for you," the woman says as she tugs the platter of damaged champagne flutes out of his hand. She disappears without another word.
Charles looks awkwardly down at his fingers, starting a little only when the man begins to speak. “Take a seat here," he says, "And let me take a look at your fingers.” Charles allows himself to be eased onto a kitchen stool and watches as the man pulls out a first aid kit from somewhere.
He watches as the man takes out a pair of tweezers. “Keep yourself distracted as I remove the slivers,” instructs the man.
It is like someone has given Charles permission to tell his entire life’s story to all those in the kitchen that would hear it. “I totally bollocksed that up. Completely. D-didn’t I?" Charles asks with a stutter, "I d-didn’t mean to- I can’t even begin to think of the damage I did to that rug. My boss is going to fire me, skin me and kill me - and probably not necessarily in that order, but close to something like it.
“I’ll probably then starve," Charles continues, "I need this job to afford more than just Shin Ramyun, you know? I wish my boss had told me who would be at this function. If I had known it was a merger that relates to The Little Polar Bear I probably would have refused him. Did you know that was my step-father and step-brother out there? They absolutely hate me. Of course, no one else here know that we are related.”
The man says nothing throughout his tirade. All of his attention is focused solely on Charles’ finger. “You know, you didn’t have to do this,” Charles mumbles, watching as his right fingers waver in the air with the effort it takes to keep them still whilst held in the man's grasp. His fingers are long and like a pianist's, although there are several scars on the back of his hand that Charles can see, and rough calluses brush against his skin.
"I can look after myself," Charles says to an unconvinced audience.
“And I am sure you do a very good job at that. Now be a good boy and say thank you,” the man says as he bandages up the finger. There’s a hint of smile behind those words that causes Charles’ face to flare up.
His boss, a lumpy little man called Mr Brown, storms into the kitchen before Charles can ask for the man's name. Mr Brown's face is red and splotchy with a slightly wild and crazed look in his eye. Charles swallows the lump in his throat and pulls his hand free as he struggles to his feet. "Please, let me explain-"
"Xavier, you're fired! Now, get out of my kitchen! Get out of my sight!"
"It was an accident!" Charles pleads, "Please, Mr Brown. Please give me another chance."
Mr Brown will have none of it, shaking his head. "I want you gone! I will not have you tarnishing my service because of your accidents. Out, Xavier!"
Charles finds himself shaking, whether from shock or something else he cannot quite place. His shoulders slump and lets his breath out in a stutter. The savings in his bank account will probably tide him over for a month or two, but finding a new job requires time and that is a particular commodity he just did not have.
"I would be sorely disappointed if you fired one of your more competent staff members, Mr Brown," the masked man speaks as he straightens up from a crouch, drawing himself to his full height, "Someone tripped him on purpose and I saw it happen."
Mr Brown frowns and squints up at him, demanding, “And who the devil are you? And why do you care what I do with my staff?”
“I am the man paying you for your services rendered tonight and I do have sizeable connections to corporations that do a number of functions that may require catering. I do wish I can tell them of how excellent I found your service,” the man says.
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Oh, not at all," the man says with a smile, a grin that displays many straight white teeth. "Blackmail implies that I am committing a crime and making threats for some sort of personal gain. Now, as I see it, I do not have anything to gain from you firing this man, which is your loss.”
Mr Brown stares at the man, an uncertain expression on his face. The men engage in a staring contest before Mr Brown breaks eye contact and subsides with a grumble. "You should thank this man for saving your ass. Next time, it's grass." His boss doesn't stay long enough to hear any of Charles' words of gratitude.
Charles turns to the masked man. "Thank you so much, sir." He open his mouth and finds himself unable to find the next right words. "If there is anything I can do to repay you, please tell me. I will do my utmost to fulfil it." The man pauses, looking back at him in consideration for a minute before he answers.
"Go out on a date with me."
This man certainly doesn’t mince words. Charles finds his eyebrows creeping upwards and his jaw moving in the opposite direction as blood floods all the space in between. It is not quite what he had in mind when he said request, but definitely one he would not mind fulfilling. "I-if that is what you want."
“Very good.” The man holds out his hand. "Give me your phone."
Charles obediently fishes it out from his pocket without a word, handing over an archaic Nokia from the last millennium. The man presses a few buttons and then a ringtone that sounds oddly like Rolf Harris’ Two Little Boys chimes from his pocket.
"I'll call you next week, with a time and place," the man says, offering the phone back. Charles, still feeling a little dumbstruck, blinks and feels the weight of his phone drop into his palm. Their fingers touch briefly.
"Good. If you'll excuse me then, Charles." The man offers a bow and then disappears out the kitchen door.
Charles looks down at the phone in his hand and presses the down button impatiently through his (short) contact list. There’s a new entry under the name of 'Erik' and Charles finds himself wondering what the hell just happened.
* * *
By the end of the night, Erik is struck by a certain kind of tiredness that he swears he can feel right down to his bones. The last of the guests have finally been corralled and herded out, as politely as possible, and the house is plunged into silence once more. He finds he likes it this way.
He had not expected the evening to go as planned, rarely anything ever does, and Erik finds himself grinning when recalling the events of saving a waiter his job from asshole bosses and then getting a date out of it at the end of the day. His plan of being an unapproachable member of the household had not been any sort of hardship (Emma, his secretary, could attest to that) which is why his adoptive little sister and most talented metamorph handles all of his public speeches.
Speak of the devil and they shall appear, Erik thinks wryly as he watches Raven collapses onto the couch next to him. She looks decidedly more comfortable in her own skin.
"Where the hell were you earlier when I was giving your speech?" Raven asks with a glower on her face. The television is playing a ridiculous show about high functioning sociopaths and retired army doctors and neither of them are paying much attention to the screen.
Erik shrugs in answer.
"Oh, come on, brother dearest. Did someone catch your eye and you decided to let your, metaphorically speaking, hair down? Was he cute? Oh! I bet it was that cute waiter guy you were ogling all night long," she teases and nudges his thigh with her foot.
"Did you ask him out?"
He levels a look in her direction and takes a moment to wonder if Emma told her. "How did you know?" Erik asks slowly, wondering if it was a women's intuition thing or perhaps he is doomed to be surrounded by females who always seem to know what he is up to without ever doing anything.
Raven grins. "Shut up! You asked him out? I never thought you'd ever ask anyone out."
Erik scowls at her. He tamps down the urge to roll his eyes immaturely. "If you had stressed any more words in that sentence, I'm certain you'd burst into a cloud of exclamation marks."
"You are hilarious, brother." She shifts on the couch and hugs a cushion to her chest, looking at him with a certain kind of expectancy. "You must tell me everything before I deploy the puppy dog eyes on you."
It is shameful that Erik's track record against Raven's puppy dog eyes is not in his favour. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, careful not to jostle the simple Venetian mask he wears at home. "Do you remember how I told you about a boy I once met during summer?"
Raven sits up suddenly, a frown quickly taking over her face. "The plushie on your bedside table used to be his because you traded away your shark for it at some beach resort long ago. You mean to say he actually exists?" she asks, tilting her head to the side. "I always thought you were pulling my leg. Wait. He's the waiter guy and you asked him out, like on a date?"
Erik lets out a wry huff of laughter, affirming, "It turns out he's the waiter guy and I might have done it whilst saving his job."
"Wait, wait. Shit like this doesn't just happen outside of movies or fanfiction." Raven taps her chin thoughtfully as she brings her knees up to her chest. "Do you know if he is the Charles? Your Charles?"
Erik sighs and turns his attention back to the television. "I don't. What do I do? What if he doesn't want this and I pressured him into this because he feels obligated to do so after I saved his job?"
"You're panicking. Stop panicking. Irene is never going to believe this. Emma must be having a field day with this," Raven says gleefully. She casts the cushion aside in favour of snuggling in against his side which Erik allows as he throws an arm around her shoulders.
"Never fear, brother dearest, for I shall help you woo your beloved. Anyway, it's only one date."
Erik frowns down at her. “I am not sure if that was meant to sound convincing or if you were making a prediction there. If it does turn out that this Charles is my Charles, I hope to make it to more than just one date.”
Her hand pats his knee in a manner which Erik considers to be condescending. "Shut up, Erik. You may have just met your One True Love - take note of the capitals in my voice - and you better believe that I will never allow anything to come between you and him. Charles better be prepared and take responsibility if he ever breaks your heart. I’m going to give one hell of a Little Sister talk.”
“Please, don’t.”
Raven slaps his knee this time. "Don't ruin this for me, Erik. I've been waiting quite some time for this moment."
* * *
It is true what they say about New York City being the city that never sleeps; Charles can personally attest to the accuracy of that particular statement to the point that he wishes he could perhaps own a TARDIS to call his very own someday. He is often late for appointments and typically arrives by the skin of his teeth to everything.
That always puzzles him is everyone's amazement over his non-existent time management skills.
Quite often on campus, Charles is seen dashing from place to place, waving hello and goodbye simultaneously to anyone that stops him. Very infrequently does he get to enjoy a few words of conversation before he has to go. All of the sprinting he does makes for very beautiful calves.
Time, what is time? Charles asks himself one night as he lies in bed waiting for sleep to take him. He has not had a decent shag since first semester, when he naively thought that there would be a semblance of a healthy sexual life between part-time work and studying. How very wrong he turns out to be. Looking after his cell cultures and watching them divide is the closest thing Charles gets to action these days.
But that is the life of a post-graduate student and so, Charles carries on working a lot, studying moderately, trolls the internet more than he sleeps.
Outside of the usual emails, cat videos and catching up with news that he uses his laptop for, Charles likes going on one forum reserved for toy enthusiasts.
The site was founded by other toy collectors and hobbyists like him. He had the fortuity to stumble upon it when looking for news of how the The Little Polar Bear was faring and he had ended up spending hours he could ill afford to use frivolously deep in conversation with some guy. They racked up several hundred posts easily between them.
It had been for the greater good, Charles had convinced himself, as he looked down at the tin plane in his hands, paint peeling off the edges and no longer working as it should. The toy belonged to a little boy Charles had befriended at the soup kitchen he volunteered at on Sundays. He could not help but to assure his young friend that he would do his utmost to fix the loose wiring. And it would do Father's memory some justice if he could see his only son helping out children in need.
The problem had seemed straightforward at first, until Charles realised he didn't have a backup plan if soldering it back into place did not work. Thankfully, the guy had given Charles his Skype username, in the case that Charles may need his help. (Really, who called themselves der_haifisch? Then again, Charles' own handle was not the most creative). Under der_haifisch's tutelage and MacGyver-like solutions, the plane had been fixed.
Their friendship had spawned from the occasional Skype chat to more frequent messages over WhatsApp.
Charles doesn't bother to log onto Skype as soon as he returns home, choosing to fling all his clothes onto the hamper and collapse onto his bed.
He is not expecting der_haifisch to be awake at such a late hour, by Charles' clock anyway, and he quickly taps a message on WhatsApp before throwing himself into the shower. It will be some small miracle if he does not fall asleep from exhaustion and drown.
groovy_oxfordian
You won’t believe the day I had today. Work was absolutely crazy and then, get this, a guy asked me out. We’ll see how that goes. Sorry to have missed you today : ( Absolutely buggered from work, so I'm going to fling myself into bed. 2:42 AM