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Chapter Text

Breaking news: police say they have arrested a suspect in the brutal murder of London businessman Sebastian Shaw. DCI Moira MacTaggert told the BBC this morning...

Moira was starting to wonder if Erik Lehnsherr spoke at all. They'd only called her in after they made sure he was precisely who he claimed to be - after all, it wasn't every day that a murder suspect walked in off the street and handed himself in - and aside from a vaguely affirmative grunt when she'd asked if he was comfortable communicating in English, he hadn't made a sound in her hearing. If he was determined to carry on with the strong and silent thing, it would certainly make the upcoming interview interesting.

Through the one-way glass, the harsh planes of his face seemed carved from graphite.

"Having a bad feeling about this," Levine muttered.

Moira elbowed him. "I told you to stop saying that. Let me handle most of the talking, we'll see how we go."

*

Lehnsherr looked from Levine to Moira and back again before his stoic face broke - and broke was the right word, because Moira had a brief impression of stone cracking - into a grin. Somehow, he looked more unsettling, not less.

"Don't I get a lawyer?"

His English was fluent, with only the slightest hint of accent, voice raw as if he really hadn't used it for days.

"If you want," Moira said cautiously. "You might be eligible for legal aid, if the case goes to trial here."

Lehnsherr's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? Am I going to be deported?"

"Honestly? You're accused of killing a British citizen on British soil. We'll fight damn hard to prosecute here."

Strangely, that seemed to satisfy him. "Hm. I don't need legal aid. Know any good lawyers?"

The last was said with an ironic twist, like a man who knew full well that he was asking turkeys to vote for Christmas.

Well, actually...

Moira prided herself on being fair. She had never been over-zealous, never coerced anyone into a confession, and the only complaints ever bought against her (back when she'd been a mere sergeant) had gone nowhere. She believed in giving everyone a decent chance.

But she wasn't stupid.

"Sure. I'll get you a directory, you can make some calls. You've got an hour, then we start with the questioning."

Having a hotshot barrister as an occasional drinking buddy was fine. Letting him make her life more complicated than it had to be was not, especially when he might end up being the difference between an open and shut case and a long, drawn-out, tabloid-bait fiasco.

Chapter Text

...Sun EXCLUSIVE! Sources close to the Shaw case have told us that alleged killer Erik Lehnsherr is having trouble finding legal representation. Lehnsherr, 36, is said to have stabbed Shaw THIRTY-SIX times...

Emma Frost was lost for words. There were entire rooms full of people - okay, lawyers - in London, New York and Oxford who'd pay good money to induce such a state in public, but sadly for them said momentous event was only witnessed by two people: the prison guard doing his best to look down her shirt, and her client.

"Well, honey, I don't know what to say to you."

Her inner Charles-voice chided her for being rude to a client. Whenever it chimed up, she pictured a miniature version of her old friend with little angel wings sitting on her shoulder, which was a great distraction when the client was being dull.

(Emma might have been rather tipsy when she came up with that one. Whatever, it helped. Her client engagement feedback scores had sky-rocketed since then. Even Charles himself hadn't minded - if it's really making you a better solicitor, sure, abuse my image all you like - although admittedly he'd been drunk off his face at the time.)

"That'd be a first."

Emma rolled her eyes. Erik Lehnsherr was good-looking, in a tall-dark-and-probably-a-serial-killer way, but that in no way made up for the attitude. "Shush, I'm talking. By my count, I've found you four different barristers, and you've scared away two, pissed off one, and sent one crying home to his mummy. What you've got to ask yourself at this point - "

Erik grinned. "What's the point of a lawyer?"

Emma blithely talked over him. Really, for an (alleged) crazed killer, he could be a kind of a brat.

" - is, what the hell do you actually want? Tell me, and I'll give it a damn good go at finding it for you. You're paying me enough."

"Someone with your brutal honesty - "

"Aw, thank you. I'm touched. Really."

This time, it was Erik who talked over her without missing a beat. And really, that was why she still hadn't killed him in his sleep. The guy might have been a criminal, but he was her kind of criminal.

(The little angel Charles on her shoulder shook its head sadly, which was just another reason she had to trade her conscience in for a newer model. Real Charles would have found the comment hilarious.)

" - who happens to actually listen to what I tell them and believe it."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Mr Lehnsherr, but." Emma shrugged. "You see, us lawyers are special creatures. Money can make us pay attention. It's not going to make us stupid."

"You don't know a single barrister in London who trusts their client?" Erik drawled. He almost succeeded in eliminating any hint of incredulity from his face, but he was, after all, a lay-person.

"I don't know any good ones who'd be naive enough to - hang on."

Angel Charles was glaring at her.

God, she was slow today. Too much conveyancing work really was bad for the brain. Emma vowed to buy herself a very, very expensive bottle of brandy to make it all better and sat up straighter.

"Actually, I've got an idea. Oh, I am brilliant. You'll love him, I promise. I'll set up a meeting as soon as possible, and I hope you're very happy together."

Her smile was so alarming that Erik straightened up in his plastic chair. "Thanks. I think."

"Thank me later. This is going to be fun."

Charles was going to owe her half his wine cellar for this.

Chapter Text

The first thing anyone inevitably thinks upon meeting Charles Xavier - anyone who knows of his formidable reputation, in any event - is that he's shorter than you'd expect, for a man who defends alleged murderers and terrorists with such grand passion. He comes across as sweet, almost fey; all big hand gestures, wide eyes, and an enchanting openness of manner.

He only clams up once during our interview: when I mention his father, Lord Brian Xavier, made a life peer in recognition of his scientific contributions to the defence of the realm, who was recently implicated in British nuclear testing in the Pacific in the late 1950s. The Xaviers are as posh as it's possible to be without a hereditary peerage. So how does a child born in the lap of such privilege end up as a fire-breathing civil rights lawyer?

"Fire-breathing's a bit strong, isn't it? But yes, I do see your point. I suppose I simply believe in change for the better, no matter how agonisingly slow it might be. Same as all the other people who end up doing this."

There is, of course, a bit more to it than that…

Charles wasn't religiously inclined by nature, but he was open to the possibilities of prayer if it would get him out of the mountain of case notes he had to read for his inquiry appearance next week. Fortunately, the phone rang in time to save him from actual Epiphany.

His sister always did have good timing.

"Tell me you have something about Lehnsherr."

Charles found himself smiling helplessly at the dead forests piling up on his desk. "Good afternoon, Raven. I'm fine today, how are you?"

"Oh, shut up. I'm saving you time by cutting the pleasantries. You should thank me," Raven said, clearly trying – and failing - to keep the grin out of her voice.

"Actually, it's my - " (so-called) " - lunch break, so I have a little time to talk. How's that deadline looking?"

"Looming dangerously, a little like the subject of the article might have, right before he gutted the poor defenseless middle-aged white man who the red tops were all horrifed to see killed in such a manner."

Charles paused to be impressed that she managed the entire sentence in one breath, and with perfect diction, no less. Then he considered her actual words.

"You don't cover clean-cut murder cases."

"That's right, I don't. So tell me what I'm looking at."

He'd quite like to know that himself, actually. The Shaw case was all over the news, broadsheets and tabloids both, and even high-powered attorneys were not immune to intrigue.

"What makes you think I know anything?"

"Let's see. Number one, you're Charles Xavier."

Charles' grin turned crooked. "Flattering, but hardly an explanation in itself."

"You know what I mean. Number two, you know all the good barristers Emma Frost knows."

Mostly because they were either at school together with both of them or had been introduced to one by the other. Then there were the times - far too many times, by now - when Charles violated his own no-dating-inside-the-profession rule and ended up sleeping with people who'd known Emma in the biblical sense. Or vice versa, which was somehow worse.

"And a few of the bad ones. Unfortunately, none of the sad bastards fired by our murder suspect are talking, at least not in my hearing."

"Dammit. Number three, you spend a lot of time over at the pubs down by the Inns of Court. That's where all the good gossip comes from. I'd live there if I weren't too young and female to blend in."

She was only half joking, Charles knew.

"And you have lovely hair. That's what gives you away."

Raven laughed. "I bet - no, in fact, I know - that's what you tell all the girls."

"A few of the boys, too," Charles said mildly. "But not all of them take it as a compliment."

"Aw, they're just scared. Anyway. My point being: you do that revolting boys' club business called networking disturbingly well when you feel like it. And I know you're interested in the Shaw case."

Charles sighed. "You might be right about that."

"Ha! I'm always right. You could never resist anything that smells like grandstanding and a potential miscarriage of justice."

The hell of it was that Raven was spot on. Charles was old enough to own his foibles, and he'd long since decided that there were worse ones than wanting to save the world.

"As of right now, it's also none of my business. I've not been asked."

Raven snorted. "Since when did you need an invitation?"

Charles had been about to deny it - he wasn't sure how, but he was a trained advocate, he'd think of something - when his cellphone began playing incredibly obnoxious Euro-pop. Normally, he'd at least spare a thought for finally getting around to changing that fucking ring-tone, but in the circumstances...Charles grinned.

(When he pulled that particular expression on in the court room, it was known to made opposing counsel flinch.)

"Raven, I'm going to have to call you back. Don't complain, it's Emma."

"Oooh. Tell me all about it over dinner?"

"Make it drinks and you have yourself a deal. Haven't got time for a proper dinner today."

"Workaholic."

"Look who's talking."

Raven hung up without saying goodbye, as was her habit, at least on days when they would see each other later. It was their way of pretending that they still spent most of their time together - that they still had that kind of time to themselves at all.

A few deep breaths, and he was ready for the next caller.

"Good afternoon, Emma."

"Hello, Charles," Emma said warmly. Very warmly, for her, which could go either way.

"I know that voice."

"Yes, you do. You owe me."

Charles bit back a laugh with great effort. "Undoubtedly. But in this specific instance, what am I being billed for?"

Emma allowed quite a long dramatic pause.

"I know you like the hopeless cases. How would you like the ultimate hopeless case, with a side of media feeding frenzy, wrapped up in a tall, dark and possibly crazy man who believes he's doing the right thing?"

"Intriguing," Charles said, already plotting possible avenues of inquiry in his head. "Tell me more."

Chapter Text

...Lehnsherr's solicitor, Emma Frost of Frost Leland Wyngarde, was forced to vigorously deny rumours that he had insisted on representing himself...

Erik stared down at the print-out a frighteningly excited Emma had handed him before she left their last meeting.

'He doesn't really do business cards, or I'd give you one of those instead. Upside, you get a picture.'

The black and white photo of Charles Xavier next to the list of qualifications showed a surprisingly young man with carefully styled hair just long enough to hold a hint of curl and a small, precise smile that showed only a hint of teeth. He looked like someone people trusted easily, which never boded well in Erik's experience.

The door to the visiting room rattled open, and Xavier stepped through it, wearing the same smile he had on the photo, suit trousers and a black waistcoat over a blue shirt, everything ironed out and neat. He stopped just outside Erik's personal space and held out a hand.

Erik stared. They'd let him see Frost and the other lawyers without the artifice of glass walls and left him uncuffed - you cooperate, we all have an easier time, MacTaggert had said, with something that could have been a smile if she let it - but this was the first time someone had walked right up to him and wanted a handshake. And no wonder. The cuts on his lower arms had barely scabbed over. The big one on his shoulder was still an angry red, its edge visible with his collar open. He hadn't been bothering to shave regularly.

Xavier tilted his head, his smile growing into something real and sharp-edged. "Charles Xavier. Nice to meet you."

Mechnically, Erik took his hand - soft skin, pen calluses, warm - and shook it. It was jarring to realise that he hadn't touched another person since -

Well, since his cellmate had tried to start shit that first night, but surely that didn't count.

"Erik Lehnsherr. Do you say that to everyone you meet in prison?"

"Yes, actually," Xavier said. His eyes were very bright, even in the bad light. "I don't believe in letting the setting dictate my level of civility."

Very precise diction, the same sort of posh accent all his lawyers seemed to speak in, but somehow Xavier still sounded like a real person. Maybe it was the hint of irony, practically inviting a comeback.

"Spoken like a man who's never been in jail," Erik said dryly, only too happy to oblige.

"Want to bet?"

Xavier smirked, and hid it poorly by throwing himself into a loose sprawl in his designated plastic chair. Erik followed suit a bit more carefully on the other side of the desk - those chairs were not designed for people over 5'8.

"Let me guess, drunk and disorderly conduct?"

Xavier shook his head. "Not even close. Well, Erik - do you mind if I call you Erik? And please call me Charles, I hate formality. Erik, has Emma discussed my terms of engagement with you?"

"You're quite expensive, Charles," Erik said evenly, resting his elbows on the desk and leaning forward.

Charles' smile widened a bit more. "I'm worth it. And I don't charge those who can't pay."

The last idealist in the City, Emma had said. You two will get along splendidly. Or kill each other. Either way, I win.

Erik still wasn't sure which it might end up being.

"How well does that work for you?"

Charles shrugged. "Honestly? If I didn't have a trust fund, it wouldn't. But enough about me. What can I do for you?"

It was a very lawyerly phrase, that last. He'd heard it enough times by now to know what to say if he wanted to speed up the weeding process.

Erik looked Charles in the eye. "I killed Sebastian Shaw. I had very good reasons."

No glance at the guard posted just outside, no look up at the security camera. Charles simply held his gaze and nodded.

"Of course you did. Erik, I believe you."

Erik's next breath came a little easier. "Just like that?"

"Erik Lehnsherr, age 36, born in Hamburg, Germany," Charles said quietly. He looked at Erik, still and steady and like he could know everything, if he just looked long enough. "Educated at the very prestigious Technische Universität München where you graduated ten years ago with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. Your father passed away when you were ten years old and your mother died two years later. You are adamant that Sebastian Shaw was directly responsible for the latter. Stop me if I make a mistake at any point."

"No. You're right about all of that," Erik said. His mouth was dry. He still wasn't sure which of Emma's scenarios were more likely, only that he couldn't let Charles leave.

Charles smiled again and spread his hands on the desk. "So you see, Erik. My trust has to be earned too. When I say that I believe you, I really do mean it."

"You're hired," Erik said.

Some part of him expected a response - perhaps the inverse of the other barristers' reactions when they'd been rejected - and was left oddly disappointed when Charles simply nodded.

"Thank you. Let's talk about bail. You're not a flight risk, as far as I can see - "

Erik laughed. "You don't think I'd run?"

"You turned yourself in, and you obviously had a reason for doing so. No, I don't think you'd run."

"Try convincing a judge of that," Erik said harshly. Everything he'd been told pointed to bail being impossible - although he was starting to see that the concept was very probably alien to Charles, who grinned, uncrossed his legs, and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm very, very good at convincing people. You're sitting here talking to me, aren't you?"

Chapter Text

Firm Profile
Frost Leland Wyngarde

Emma Frost, Harry Leland and Jason Wyngarde left Slaughter and May a year ago to found their own boutique firm, attracting some of the best young talent in the country with a combination of interesting work and a very competitive pay scheme. Clients range from telecom start-ups to media-friendly plaintiffs and defendants in high-stakes criminal cases.

In the case of the latter, Frost Leland Wyngarde has benefitted from a working partnership with newly minted QC Charles Xavier, himself something of a magnet for publicity...

What Angel missed about working at Trinity Chambers:
- The very swanky parties;
- Jean Grey's razor-sharp wit and dreadful temper at precisely 9 in the morning;
- Friendly secretarial staff; and
- sort of, kind of, in a strange, unnerving way: Charles Xavier, simultaneously the best and worst boss any rookie clerk could have.

What she didn't miss at all:
- Chancery Lane. Every little thing about the place, especially at this time in the morning.

Still, errands were errands, and she was nowhere near secure enough - as an employee, a fellow legal professional, a fellow human being (although she had her doubts about Emma's credentials in that area) - to start questioning Emma Frost. So here she was, back where she'd started down the road to gainful legal employment, Anna the long-suffering receptionist waving her straight through with a practiced smile.

She found Jean's office exactly as it had been the last time she'd stood outside its open door, impeccably neat and coldly professional, not a hint of personality in the workspace.

Jean herself was seated on the sofa beside a very striking dark-skinned woman, who Angel had pegged as a fellow legal professional within about 10 seconds. Something about the comfort with which she inhabited the space, and a certain layer of gloss that all young, successful lawyers had. And speaking of gloss.

As usual, Jean looked like she'd stepped off the pages of Expensive Fashion for the White Collar Woman, not a hair out of place. The professional, distancing smile she wore for work only widened into something jagged and real when she looked up at the knock and spotted Angel.

"Hey, look who's here. Take a seat. Do you want coffee?"

Much as it pained her to say no - and that was another thing she missed about Trinity, the space-age coffee machine -

"I'm over my intake allocation for the day, but thanks. Looking good, Jean."

Jean's smile widened at her teasing tone. "Thank you. What brings you here, Miss Salvadore?"

"Oh, you know, espionage, sabotage, the usual," Angel said airily.

Jean snapped her fingers. "I knew it. Ororo, this is Angel Salvadore, she's Emma Frost's new junior. Angel, Ororo Monroe. She's new to the firm, just finished her pupillage."

"Nice to meet you," Ororo said. Her voice was soft, but Angel could easily imagine it growing in authority and volume, ringing through a courtroom if need be. She held out her hand and got the firm, no-nonsense shake she expected.

"You too." Angel paused, looked Ororo over. "Are you working with Mr Xavier?"

"Mostly, yes."

Ororo's smile was very familiar.

The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them. Which wasn't a great habit for a lawyer - and this was exactly why litigation wasn't for her.

"How's the honeymoon period coming along?"

Ororo looked politely confounded, even more so when Jean started to snicker. "I beg you pardon?"

"Angel did her summer clerkship here."

"Yeah, so I know Mr Xavier takes a little getting used to." What the hell. It was nothing Jean hadn't heard out of her before, anyway. "I spent half my time here wondering if he was secretly a robot programmed to destroy the world."

Ororo made an impressive attempt at a poker face. "I can't say I've had that impression so far."

"Yet."

[3 years ago]

"Angel, dear, would you like to sit in on a negotiation today?"

She didn't hesitate. "Yeah, of course. I'd love to."

"All right. Read this and tell me what we're doing here."

Charles' note-taking was notoriously incomprehensible, but the file he'd handed her had been cleaned up and typed out by his secretary, and she only needed a few minutes to grasp the basics.

"Client is Mr and Mrs Munoz, and they've got a conditional agreement to sell their business. The buyers - the Nelsons - are trying to wiggle out of the deal." Angel frowned. "This is - really simple. I thought you didn't do civil."

Charles nodded. "Not unless there are special interests involved, that's right."

Which was just playing dirty pool. There was no way she could let that go without asking.

"The special interest here being?"

"Good. Never be afraid to ask one more question, Angel." Charles beamed at her across his enormous desk, all but radiating unnervingly sincere pleasure. "As for your last, the clients' son, Armando, is one of my best students at King's College. He's had to drop down to part-time because of all this trouble."

Angel snorted. Un-fucking-believable. "Man, Mr Xavier, you are way too nice to be a lawyer."

Charles actually ducked his head, which was unspeakably creepy, and not just because she felt a strange urge to smile back at him. "Mmm, I could stand to hear that a bit more. Thank you. Carry on."

"Our clients really need the sale to proceed. Their main problem is the supplier condition, which the Nelsons claim hasn't been satisfied, and they want to cancel on that basis. Counsel for the Nelsons is...Andrew Winter from MacMillian Chambers."

"Hmm."

"Problem?" Angel asked quickly. All traces of the playful indolence of a moment before had left Charles' face. He went quiet, eyes fixed on the single page fact summary, which made her paranoid enough to scan her copy again, just to make sure she hadn't missed anything embarrassing.

When she looked up, he was smiling again. "I've never dealt with him, but he has a certain reputation. Negotiation can either be poker or chess, Angel. I much prefer chess. Mr Winter is supposed to be quite good at poker. Watch closely, this should be interesting."

*

Ten minutes later, Angel found herself inclined to agree with his assessment.

"I'm here on behalf of the Nelsons. Nice place you've got here, Xavier."

Andrew Winter looked just like half the lawyers in the City - edging close to middle age, white, sharply dressed, generous undertones of well-fed smugness in the way he carried himself. Next to him, Charles seemed like an ingénue, the kind of soft that made people roll their eyes.

"Thank you. I'm authorized to act on behalf of Mr and Mrs Munoz. This is Angel Salvadore, who will be assisting me today. I hope you don't mind?"

Winter nodded sharply. "That's fine. Let's get this over with."

"As you wish," Charles said, smiling, and went so far as to pull Winter's chair out for him.

Winter looked at the office chair like it was poisonous to the touch, but he sat without a fuss. "With all due respect, I don't even know why I'm here. My clients don't have to settle, and they're not going to. I very much doubt that you could say anything to change my mind."

Charles tilted his head a few degrees to the left, like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. His lips curled up at the corners. "Please, allow me to at least try."

Winter shrugged and opened his file folder. "Sure, go ahead. We all get paid by the hour. An unsatisfied condition isn't going to magically disappear."

"Are you sure about that?"

Rookie or not, Angel had good instincts. They were telling her to duck for cover.

"Yes, I am. Give it up. Slash the purchase price by fifty thousand and try again."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Charles said, gentle as a doctor telling someone they had a terminal illness. "Your client considered the condition in question satisfied only a week ago. The courts will agree with that assessment."

Winter's eyes narrowed. "Who said anything about the courts? My understanding is that your clients are desperate to sell. Make mine an offer."

"I'm sorry," Charles said, very sincerely. "We cannot vary the price."

"Well, then. The deal's off. It was nice meeting you, Xavier."

Angel had sat in on a couple of negotiations before, mostly amiable affairs with a roomful of lawyers chugging coffee and taking frequent smoke breaks, hours and hours of meticulously working out fine details. This was...not that.

For a moment, it seemed like Charles was going to let Winter leave, and Angel spared a moment to wonder if the idiot knew how lucky he was.

"Excuse me, Mr Winter?"

Or maybe not.

Charles tapped two fingers against his temple, his smile never wavering. "Perhaps you haven't thought through the consequences of repudiation. As soon as you step outside, I'll file for summary judgment and take everything your client's got, and on top of all that they'd be buying me a new bike with the costs incurred. Do sit down."

Winter went unnaturally still. When he unfroze, it was with short, jerky movements, and he sat without another word.

[present day]

"Here's the deal with Mr Xavier: he smiles when he's being a sweetheart, and he smiles when he's fucking your shit up. When you learn to tell which is which, that's when the honeymoon period is over. I had a much easier time working with him after I figured that out."

Ororo grinned. "I can see why Ms Frost likes you. You're very perceptive."

"Gotta be. No public schools or Oxbridge on my CV," Angel said. A lot of things about the legal profession made no sense, and most of those didn't work in her favour. There was no denying that she'd been lucky with employers who were willing to overlook a less spectacular resume in favour of practical ability.

It was those exceptions to the general rule who made the whole package worth it.

Fortunately for her weekly maudlin sap quota, Ororo's phone went off.

"Dammit, I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Angel."

She meant it, too. What was it about Trinity that attracted actual human beings instead of lawyerbots? "Likewise. Watch your back around here," Angel said, sketching a salute in her general direction.

Jean's body language changed completely as soon as the door closed behind Ororo, finally relaxing into something that might occur naturally in a human being. "Okay, now we've finished scaring the fresh meat, tell me what you came for."

Angel checked that the blinds were drawn before opening her bag. "I'm just dropping off the documentation for Lehnsherr. And this...is Shaw's autopsy report."

Jean raised her eyebrows. "One day, I'm going to find out how your boss does that."

"Ask your boss," Angel shrugged. "I'm sure he knows. Emma told me to make final arrangements to hand Lehnsherr over completely."

"Okay. Sure. I think Charles wants you guys to keep working on this, though. We're going to need Frost Leland Wyngarde expertise."

Something about the way Jean had phrased it - "That's never a good thing for the client."

Jean just smiled. "You learn fast."

Chapter Text

...sources inside the Crown Prosecution Service insist that the Shaw case will be handled by Senior Crown Prosecutor James Howlett, contrary to prior reports which had indicated that Prosecutor Cameron O'Donnell was to be placed in charge. Howlett became known for his efficiency and brusque manner following the Tottenham Ripper case...

[two days ago]

"Two glasses of Highland, please."

See, this was why Logan never stuck around Chancery Lane pubs for long. Cheap liquor seemed less enticing when weighed up against the risk of running into annoyingly mouthy defence lawyers.

"I can't talk to you out here," he muttered, in a last ditch attempt at salvaging the evening. Which was a miserable failure, if the way Charles' grin had widened was any indication.

"Sure you can, if you're not interested in picking up the Lehnsherr case."

Logan would be impressed by Charles' ability to ignore the strongest go away vibes in the world if he hadn't seen him do the same when people (Logan) actually told him to fuck off.

"O'Donnell's handling it."

"His first big case. Tell him congratulations from me," Charles said, so sweet butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Logan briefly wished for heat vision. "I doubt he wants to hear from you ever again after McDonald."

Their drinks arrived at that point, which bought him a few blissful moments of silence. Whatever else was wrong with Charles - and there was a lot, in Logan's not so humble opinion - at least he had his priorities straight when it came to really good Scotch.

Alas, their truce didn't last long. "All part of the job. He should know that by now."

Logan snorted. "Come on, Chuck. You destroyed him in open court. That leaves a sting."

"Happens to the best of us," Charles said dismissively. "I hope you guys are looking into the neo-Nazi angle, by the way."

"Lehnsherr? Isn't he Jewish?" Logan said, before he realized he hadn't been willing to engage.

Fuck.

"Yes, he is - Jewish, I mean. But this goes to the victim's - "

Charles snapped his mouth shut and took a long drink.

"Go on."

"No, I've said too much already," Charles said, and anyone other than Logan and possibly that Frost witch would have taken his self-deprecating smile at face value, as someone embarrassed to have said too much.

Logan knew better.

Fucking hell, why did it have to be neo-Nazis? And Charles knew he could never resist.

"Goddamn you. You wanted me on this, you should have just asked."

"You know I couldn't do that," Charles said quietly.

The last time he'd heard those words, in that tone, they'd both been living different lives. Charles had looked at him like this then, too, with perfect, unwavering confidence and absolute conviction.

"Are you going to change the world too, Logan? Are you?"

Logan took a long swallow of his Scotch to chase the bitter memories away.

[present day]

His phone rang at 8PM.

"Busy, Logan?"

"Always got time for you, Chuck," Logan said sardonically. "What's up?"

"I'm going to be representing Erik Lehnsherr. Which you probably know already, but I thought I'd call. Professional courtesy and all that."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Sure. What do you actually want?"

"Logan."

"What?"

Charles' dramatic, long-suffering sigh carried beautifully through the mic. "I wanted to talk about bail."

Logan couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, and couldn't stop for what felt like a good minute.

"Are you kidding me?"

They were far too used to each other. Charles didn't even pause. "There is no flight risk. My client handed himself in and is cooperating fully with the investigation."

"Is that gonna change now you're on the scene?"

"Would I do that to you or Moira?"

Logan had to suppress the urge to laugh again. "Fuck yeah, if you felt like it. Give me some peace of mind here, Chuck. Lehnsherr has seriously dodgy connections all over Western Europe. You don't want this to get kicked up to Serious Crime."

"You try it, and it'll be on the front page of the Herald tomorrow morning," Charles said flatly. "Come on, Logan. Remember why you left the Serious Crime crowd. Let's not waste time pretending here."

And that, that was why working with Charles wasn't so bad, despite the risk of getting metaphorically buggered in open court. He pulled no punches and left nothing unsaid when it counted.

"Make me an offer."

"Travel restricted to the greater London area. No house arrest - I'll put him up in my flat if you'll accept me as a guarantor."

"Who better?" Logan said archly.

The crazy thing was, he kind of meant it.