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A Professional Indignity

Summary:

"If you're looking for something expensive to steal, he has a lovely crystal ashtray that's worth at least two grand."

***

[a.k.a. the fic where both Erik and Charles have broken into the same apartment for different reasons]

Notes:

*hasn't updated any of my current fics in months*
*posts a new multi-chaptered fic*

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Breaking and Entering

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

Erik Lehnsherr, former editor of NYU's Washington Square News, had prided himself on being the only person in his graduating class to be leaving university with an actual job offer at an actual, established newspaper.  It felt quite demeaning, therefore, to walk into his boss's office on his very first day to hear:

"so, you're the metal man, right?"

Erik's ears pinked.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"The kid we hired who can manipulate metal," Sebastian Shaw, editor, elaborated.  "We have a job for you."

"I should hope so," Erik replied, stiffly.

Shaw laughed.

"Heard of Kurt Marko, kid?"

"Yes," Erik replied, frowning.  He had been working towards a career in journalism since he was a high school freshman with acne and a decent work ethic.  Of course he had heard of the ex-Wall Street Republican who was planning on running for mayor next year.

"We need you to break into his apartment."

Erik raised his eyebrows.

"And do what?"

Shaw smiled.

"There have been rumours of some shady tax evasion through an off-shore account in the Bahamas," Shaw replied.  "But we haven't been able to confirm any illegal activity yet."

Erik nodded.

"Alright," he said, because professional dignity had gone out the window with the economy in 2008. 

 

 


 

 

Kurt Marko had an apartment on the first floor of a brownstone on the Upper West Side.  Unfortunately, as was the nature in such a neighbourhood, there was a doorman watching the lobby, making sure that criminals such as Erik Lehnsherr did not enter the building.

This was how Erik, twenty-two years old, having graduated from NYU with honours, spent a Monday afternoon attempting to manoeuvre his lanky body through an unlocked bedroom window.  His career advisor hadn't been lying when she'd told Erik that the business world was cruel.

With a graceless thump, Erik collapsed on the carpeted floor of what looked like Marko's bedroom.  It was pretty non-descript: dark sheets and maroon wallpaper.  Marko didn't seem to have any electronics or documents on or inside his bedside table, as far as Erik's quick rummaging could tell.  It was more likely that he kept such things in a safe.

Erik reached out into the apartment with his metal senses and discovered the presence of large, electronically locked metal box about twenty steps from the bedroom.  He moved quickly to the bedroom door, which was open, and walked out into the main living area of the apartment.  The safe was in what appeared to be Marko's study, next to some computer hardware under the desk.

Erik put a gloved hand on the safe and closed his eyes to try and mentally map the minute electronic mechanism that had locked it.

"If you're looking for something expensive to steal, he has a lovely crystal ashtray that's worth at least two grand."

Erik jumped, smacking his head painfully against the underside of the desk.

"Oh dear," he heard the voice from behind chuckle.  "Are you alright?"

With a groan, Erik twisted around to see a young brunet with a wide grin, holding what looked like a $500 bottle of Glenfiddich scotch.

Erik hadn't even finished his first day of work and he was going to get arrested.

Perhaps his fear was showing on his face, because the man laughed and said:

"Don't worry: I'm not supposed to be here either.  I won't tell if you won't tell," before attempting unsuccessfully to twist open the scotch.

"Oh," Erik said.  "Thanks."

"Do you want some scotch?" the man asked, holding out the yet-unopened bottle.  "I can't figure out how to open the blasted thing."

"Um," Erik replied.  "Sure."

He reached up and took the bottle from the man, and examined the label with an impressed eyebrow-raise.

"I know right," the man said.  "Totally worth the breaking and entering."

Erik snorted, gripped the bottle in his hands, and twisted, with a satisfying cracking sound.

"Ah!" the man exclaimed.  "Thank you so much.  Would you like some?"

Erik shook his head.

"Well, thank you anyway.  Have a good day, will you?"

And, just like that, the man waltzed out of the study, scotch in hand.

Erik reached out with his metallokinesis and felt the front door's lock slide open and shut, and the watch that the man had been wearing fading into the distance.

What the hell just happened?

Trying to force his attention back onto the actual purpose of his being in Kurt Marko's flat, Erik spent the next few minutes delicately moving the wires in the safe to their unlocked position, careful not to break anything or leave a suspiciously manipulated piece of metal that could be traced back to him.  Finally, he heard that tell-tale click, and he opened the safe door to see...

Nothing.

Oh no wait, there was one piece of paper on the floor of the safe.

Erik reached into the safe and picked up the sole item that Marko had locked in the box in his office: a signed photograph of George W. Bush with a note thanking Marko for donating to his presidential campaign.  Erik stared at the photograph for a moment, before shoving it roughly back in the safe and slamming the door shut.

Goddamn Republicans!

 

 


 

 

 

Two hours later, Erik Lehnsherr walked back into the office with his metaphorical tail between his legs.  He was not looking forward to having to tell his new boss that he had failed to find any incriminating evidence against Marko, and they probably didn't have a story.

It was just when Erik had raised his hand to knock against Shaw's office door that a man literally appeared right next to him and said, "wait!"

Erik flinched.  What was it with people and sneaking up on him today?

He turned around to look at the man, who seemed to have bright red skin, in addition to his frankly disquieting teleportation ability.

"What is it?" Erik asked gruffly.

"Charles Xavier is sitting in the break room," the man said.  "He wants to see you."

"Wait.  Charles Xavier, Kurt Marko's stepson?" Erik replied, his heart pounding.

"The very same," said the man.  "I wouldn't want to keep him waiting."

Erik nodded, before walking across to the break room, wondering if he could ask the teleporting man to break him out of jail if it came down to it.

 

 


 

 

 

Erik entered the break room, expecting a bratty kid with two lawyers and a self-important scheme of blackmail.  He couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved by the reality.

The man from Marko's apartment was sitting on one of the plastic chairs by the vending machines and smiling at Erik with the most terrifying amusement.

"Uh," Erik said, intelligently.

"Hi," said the man, who was apparently Charles Xavier. 

"Hi," Erik said back.  "How did you find me?"

Charles Xavier looked like he was about to laugh.

"Why don't you take a seat, Erik?" Charles Xavier said, pulling out a chair.  "And please just call me Charles."

Erik took a seat, warily.

"Are you-"

"A telepath, yes," Charles said.  "I won't try to read your mind without your permission.  I can't make any promises about surface thoughts though."

Erik coughed.

"I was actually going to ask if you were going to call the police," he said.  "But I suppose that's comforting too."

Charles laughed at that.

"Oh please," he said, good-naturedly.  "If anyone's getting arrested today, it ought to be Marko."

"You know something?" Erik asked, his posture suddenly improving.

Charles tapped the side of his freckled nose.

"Let's say, I know how one can know something," he said, cryptically.

"Because you're a telepath?" Erik asked, frowning.

"Because I know where exactly Marko keeps his papers, and it's not in his apartment."

Erik narrowed his eyes.

"Why should I believe you?" he asked.   "And you still haven't told me how you found me.  Or why, for that matter."

Charles nodded calmly.

"I understand," he replied, his voice hard with sincerity.  "I learnt your name from gleaning it from the surface of your mind, and I thought I'd recognised it from somewhere.  I looked you up and found your work on the Washington Square News, which I used to read as an undergraduate.  It wasn't too hard to find out where you'd started work and to figure out why you were in his apartment in the first place.  As for why I'd want to get involved, I absolutely detest Marko and would dearly love for him to go to jail before his campaign starts picking up steam."

"Wait," Erik said.  "If you've already finished undergraduate school, how old are you?"

Charles grinned.

"Twenty-one today, actually.  I left high school at sixteen."

"Happy birthday," Erik said awkwardly.  "So, is that why you broke into his apartment for a bottle of scotch?"

"Yes," Charles replied, his voice becoming a bit distant.  "Before my father died, he promised me that he'd open a twenty-one year-old bottle of scotch on my twenty-first birthday with me.  A bit of a funny promise to make to a six year-old, wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess," Erik said, not really sure what to say.

Then,

"I'm glad you took his scotch."

"Me too," Charles said.  "I didn't really like it though.  I much prefer the taste of cheap beer.  Is that bad?"

Erik shrugged.

"Maybe you'll grow into it," he said, with the condescending faux-wisdom of someone older than twenty-two.

"Maybe," Charles said, unconvinced.  "So, anyway, will you help me?"

"Help you with what?" Erik asked.

"Marko is holding a black-tie dinner party at our estate in Westchester tonight.  I shall need your help to break into his reinforced steel office cabinet to find the accounts."

Erik raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"I don't really think this is the kind of party I can just crash," he pointed out.

"I agree," Charles said, with a serious nod.  "Which is why you're coming as my evening arm-candy."