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FIC: Guilty by Association - Charles/Erik, XMFC - (2/??)
Title: Guilty by Association (2/??)
Author: Regann
Pairing: Charles/Erik (XMFC)
Rating: PG-13/R
Word Count: ~5,000 for the chapter (total: 50,000+)
Warnings: discussion of murder, violence and prostitution
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; I just play with them.
Notes: Everything I know about law enforcement and investigative journalism, I learned from watching television. Don't expect any more realism here than you'd find on an episode of CSI or L&O. There is also State of Play influence in this fic as well, although you don't need to have seen it to understand anything in this fic.
Summary: While investigating the homicide of a John Doe who he suspects might've been murdered while working the streets as a prostitute, Detective Erik Lehnsherr finds an unexpected ally in a hooker named Charles who seems as determined as he to solve the case. As they become more deeply involved both with the case and each other, there's just one thing that Charles neglects to mention -- that he's really an investigative journalist, one quickly convinced that what they're dealing with is more than simple murder. cop!Erik, fake-hooker-slash-reporter!Charles, Modern AU.
Previous Parts available at LJ, DW and AO3.
Guilty by Association (Part 2)
Charles was still so sleepy as he dragged himself into his sunny kitchen the next morning that he almost didn't notice his sister sitting primly at his kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee while she flipped through a magazine.
Almost.
"Raven," he sighed as he grabbed the kettle from the stove and filled it with tap water. "What are you doing here?"
"I needed a place to crash," she explained, tossing her long, golden hair over her shoulder.
"Have you tried your home? I've heard that that's what they're for, you know," he told her as he lit the burner under the kettle, then turning to retrieve his favorite mug from the cabinet.
Raven made an inelegant sound of derision deep in her throat. "I can't. I'm avoiding him."
Charles didn't need to ask for clarification on "him." "Surely you have a girlfriend you could've stayed with?"
"You're acting like you don't even want me around," she said with a pout. "It's not even like you were here last night."
"I was here," he protested, adding a tea bag to his mug. "I just didn't get in until late."
She grinned at him. "Fun night?"
"I was working," he answered, watching the kettle as if his intense gaze could make the water heat more quickly.
"Is that what you're calling it these days?"
Charles shot her an un-amused look, running a hand through his messy hair. "I was out doing interviews, if you must know. Following up a lead I got yesterday."
"Does it have something to do with this?" Raven rifled through a stack of papers on the kitchen table and held up the printed version of the photograph Hank had emailed him the day before. "I had to turn him over, he looks dead."
"He is dead," Charles informed her as the kettle finally whistled. He gratefully poured the hot liquid over his tea bag, then added a drip of honey before heading to the refrigerator for a splash of milk. "He's a John Doe who was found murdered yesterday morning."
Raven turned the photo back over and buried it underneath Charles's collection of newspapers from the previous morning. "Why don't you ever work on happy stories?"
"Because the world doesn't reward feel-good stories about puppies and rainbows, that's why," he said, sliding into the seat next to her at the table. He took a sip from his mug and let the tea begin to work its magic. "The police don't know who killed him -- they don't even know who he is. Hank thought I might be able to find out something they couldn't."
"I can't believe you're still in contact with him," Raven told him. "You're my brother, you shouldn't be on such good terms with my ex."
"You dumped him, love, not vice versa," Charles gently reminded her. "And he was my friend long before he was your ex. Try to remember that."
Raven sighed, turning a few pages in her magazine with a little more force than necessary. Charles still wasn't sure why her relationship with Hank McCoy was such a sore spot when she had very pointedly dropped him, breaking his heart rather spectacularly, but it continued to be so, even almost a year later. Her petulant attitude, however, wasn't going to make Charles give up a good friend and an even better source of information.
"Anyway," she said, in that very American way she had of changing the subject. "What kind of interviews were you doing that had you out past midnight?"
"If you must know, I was interviewing prostitutes," he told her. "Hence the late hour."
"And you're sure this was for work?" she teased.
"Raven, my darling," he sniped back. "I don't pay for sex."
"It's true," she agreed. "But you're not against bartering with it, especially when it comes to a story."
"That was once!" he protested. "And it was also blown completely out of proportion, I can't believe you're taking his side over mine."
"I was just teasing," she promised, reaching over to give his arm a squeeze. "So what has you so hot over this story anyway?"
"What do you mean?" he asked after another swig of his tea, momentarily distracted when his eyes caught a line from his notes scattered across the table.
When he looked back at Raven, she had a soft, sweet expression on her face, the one that meant she was about to say something absurdly fond. "You can make all the noise you want about what the big guys reward and blah and blah, but I know you. There's something about this story that's got you burning. What is it?"
Charles returned the fond look. "The police think they might have the start of a serial on their hands," he admitted. "There was a young prostitute murdered less than a month ago just a few blocks from this one. They don't know who he is yet but early odds are he was also a sex worker."
"Okay, so people are out killing rent boys," Raven said. "Is that why you're hot on this? Because they were gay?"
"Their customers don't say much about their own sexuality," he informed her. "That's partly the reason, I suppose, but it's more to do with how they made their living. The papers don't care when two hookers are murdered within a month and a few blocks of each other and I doubt the police care much more than that. But they still deserve justice, Raven. They still deserve someone to tell their stories and find out what happened to them."
"Under that completely fake tough exterior, there is nothing but a bleeding heart," she laughed, but it was a kind, sympathetic sound. "Why didn't you become a social worker or a teacher or something?"
He shot her a look. "You know why."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. Him."
"I love what I do," he assured her, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze as she'd done to him.
She, however, frowned when she looked down at his hand. "Where's your ring?"
"Oh, that." Charles waved his hand around as if to dismiss her question. "It was actually something I was willing to barter for information. Hopefully, it'll work out."
"Your wedding band?" Raven asked, still incredulous.
"For a marriage that's been over far longer than the marriage itself lasted," he reminded her. "And weren't you the one who wanted me to take it off and move on?"
"I wanted you to take it off five years ago when you signed the divorce papers and Gabrielle moved back to Israel," she shot back. "It's not like this is a sign you're ready to move on."
"Not this again," he sighed. "Raven, I've moved on. I go out, I date, what more proof do you need that I've moved on?"
"Maybe if what you call moving on wasn't all a string of one- and two-night stands," she said, lifting her chin stubbornly.
"You can't seriously think I'm still mooning over Gabrielle?" he asked. "That was a long time ago."
"I don't think this is about Gabrielle," she admitted. "I think it's about being afraid of being hurt again. You won't invest."
Charles finished his cool tea in one great gulp, grimacing as it slid down this throat. "I need to take a shower," he stated, rising to his feet and effectively ending the conversation. From the expression on Raven's face, she recognized the tactic and didn't appreciate it. Charles ignored her, however, and headed back upstairs, half-hoping that his rudeness would mean he wouldn't be faced with his sister's pouting expression when he came back down.
The hot shower helped do what the tea hadn't been able to when combined with Raven's scintillating conversational skills and he felt much more human when he stepped out of it. He made a detour on the way to his closet to check his phone for messages; there was nothing from Ray, the pro he'd met, but there was a rather cryptic email from Hank, which wasn't entirely unexpected. Every time the young medical examiner decided to be brave enough to pass on information, he immediately regretted it and started doing everything he could to sway Charles from following up on it.
Charles shot a quick, soothing reply to Hank and made a mental note to follow up with him later. Once he was dressed, he made sure to grab his phone before he headed back downstairs, only to be greeted by the smell of cooking eggs.
"Are you cooking?" he asked Raven as he stepped back into the kitchen to find her at the stove, her hair tied back.
"Yeah," she admitted as she used a spatula to move the eggs she'd scrambled from the frying pan to a plate. "I was hoping it was enough of an apology that I wouldn't have to say it."
The little irritation he had toward her melted at her contrite expression. "All this for showing up uninvited?" he asked, watching as she added a few sausage links and toast to the plate.
"And for the moving on crack," she said, offering him the laden plate. "I'm a little bitchy this morning."
He laughed and gave her a kiss on the forehead before he took the plate from her hands. "I don't think either of us has been in top form today," he said. "Thank you for breakfast and, of course, you're forgiven."
As much as Charles wanted to jump on the bits and pieces of the story he'd gathered the day before, he enjoyed the idle chitchat he and Raven shared over breakfast, at least until he heard the grandfather clock in the living room start to chime the hour.
"I really have to go," he said, standing up from his half-finished breakfast. "I've got to stop by the office before I go out, Moira's agreed to help me and I..."
"I get it, go ahead," Raven said. "I think I'm going to hang for a little longer if you don't mind."
"Of course I don't," he assured her as he reached for his keys and double-checked that he had his phone in his pocket. "Stay as long as you like but, please, don't move my papers, all right?"
"It's a deal," she promised. "Just don't tell him where I am if you see him?"
"Deal," he promised.
Charles decided to eschew the subway for a cab to reach the office and he spent the cab ride over furiously sending off emails to various sources he'd used over the years that might have been able to help him with his current story. Finally, he was stepping out in front of the building and dashing into the first available elevator. Though "the office" wasn't technically his office, most of the reporters and support staff milling around the bullpen recognized him and some even offered greetings as he passed by. Charles didn't slow, however, not until he reached a certain hard-working auburn-haired woman who didn't even bother to look up from her screen until he tapped her on the shoulder.
"Moira," he said.
"Charles," she returned, letting her fingers stop their mad dash across her keyboard. "You said you were onto something and you needed my help?"
"Exactly that," he said.
"And he knows?" Moira asked, glancing significantly toward the office door that bore a plate proclaiming "Brian Xavier, Editor-in-Chief."
"Not yet," he told her. "I'm not sure it's going to pan out yet and you know how he feels about that. I'd like to have something a little more put together before I deal with him." He leaned in a little. "But you'll still help me, yes?"
Moira bit her lip, clearly torn. "I have my own deadlines," she warned him. "I'll help where I can but I can't make any promises, not until you have something we can take to Brian and get clearance. You understand me? I don't want to get chewed out over whatever you're chasing, Charles."
"I completely understand, love," he told her. "I swear, I'll come to you once I have something solid put together. The last thing I want to do is to get my only ally on the staff canned."
"You're lucky you're a charmer, Xavier," she joked. Then she sighed. "I'll help, but I can't start today."
Charles nodded. "How about we meet tomorrow? I'll let you know if I've made any progress."
"Done," she said. "Now clear out before your dad comes out and catches me conspiring with the enemy."
"I'm not really the enemy," he protested.
Moira just smiled and shooed him away, shaking her head a little as he took the hint and left her to whatever she was working on so intently. Charles spared one last grin in her direction before he dashed toward the elevators, hoping to make a clean break before his father caught him loitering around the office. He would've succeeded, too, except that his father was stepping off the same elevator he'd planned to take down to the lobby.
Brian Xavier favored with him a squinty-eyed look of suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
"Just popping in to say hello," he told him. "Good to see you, Dad."
"Like hell you were," his father replied. "Do you know where your sister is? She's not answering her cell."
"I'm not really at liberty to say," Charles hedged, looking longingly at the elevator as the doors closed without him behind them.
It was answer enough for his father. He nodded. "At least she's not staying without one of the friends of hers."
Charles made a show of checking his watch. "I've really got to go, Dad, I have an appointment," he said, forcing false apology into his voice. "It was good to catch up, though."
Brian mumbled something under his breath, probably something derogatory so Charles was glad he didn't catch it.
"Bye, Dad," he said, as the elevator doors finally opened again and he stepped onto it.
"Don't do anything bloody stupid," his father warned as the doors slid closed, blocking out his disapproving face. "And don't die!"
Charles grinned once the elevator was in descent, knowing that that was as close as his father came to I love you.
**
There was nothing more frustrating, Charles reflected later, than chasing a much of leads that didn't pan out, which is how he spent most of his day. By later that afternoon he still hadn't heard from any of the boys he'd spoken to on the street the night before, and his most productive conversation had been with Hank which, point of fact, hadn't been productive at all.
"Hank, Hank," he'd said, raising his voice as he spoke into his cell phone enough to draw glances from the people passing by where he loitered in the park. "Stop worrying about this. You sent me this information because you know I can help. There's no reason for all this anxiety."
"You don't know Detective Lehnsherr," Hank had replied in a low, hissing tone that meant he was whispering into the receiver. "There's a reason I've never given you anything from one of his cases before. He's scary."
"And he's made absolutely no progress on Martin Tabram's case, which is why you told me about the second murder in the first place," Charles had reminded him. He'd spared a moment to wonder if this Lehnsherr was the cop he'd met the night before when he'd been talking to Ray. "Scary or not, he's ineffectual, it seems."
"He's not like that," Hank had said. "He tries. Not like some of them. He's not ignoring this case just because they were prostitutes, not like some around here. He and Detective Muñoz are the good guys."
"Then they deserve my help," Charles had argued. "Anything I uncover, anything that makes the papers, it'll help them. If they're the good guys you say, we're all after the same thing."
"I don't know, Charles," Hank had sighed. "I just don't want to get heat over this."
"I'll be discreet," he'd promised. "I'll never tell anyone that you're my source, you know that."
There had been an uncomfortable silence before the inevitable "How's Raven?" inquiry had detoured them away from murder victims and the thorny ethical dilemma of leaking information about an open police investigation to a freelance reporter and onto depressing topic of Hank's continued pining over Charles's sister, still going strong after a year. Charles tried not to get into the middle of it but he couldn't help but feel bad for Hank who had moved to New York solely because it had brought him closer to Raven, only for the relationship to end within a few months of his relocation.
After he'd calmed down the moping medical examiner, Charles had spent some time at the library, printing off anything he could find that had been written about the Tabram case. It was, as he'd lamented to Raven and Hank, precious little because people just didn't care. Because Tabram had been living on the street, selling his body to support the drug habit he'd fallen into before he was even old enough to drink, most people tended to soothe themselves with the notion that he had deserved his tragic end. That sort of attitude was the exact thing that infuriated Charles the most, especially when he saw it in his colleagues or in law enforcement officers. Everyone deserved justice and turning such derision onto someone who had already suffered so much made Charles blood boil. Raven had been right when she noted there was something about the cases that had gotten his attention and that had been it.
By dinner time, Charles had to face that he hadn't achieved very much and he was left to wait until the next day when he could bounce ideas off Moira or sooner if one of his inquiries turned up someone willing to talk. That left him wired from the adrenaline he got when he was on a new story, but without a real direction to pursue. So he decided to visit a bar he liked, one that was close enough to where Ray worked that if he got a message, he could make it to their designated meeting spot without too much delay. Years before, his favorite little spot would've smelled like smoke, but the slightly stale bite of recycled air was welcoming enough. Charles greeted the bartender, ordered a pint and settled himself at the bar to finish it, until he was distracted by a very lopsided game of pool between two other patrons. After the one man lost rather dismally, he couldn't stop the impulse to offer himself up as the winner's next opponent, which was how he spent the next hour of his time and two rounds of his alcohol.
He and his opponent had just racked up for another game when Charles felt the press of eyes on his back as strongly as if it were a touch. He hadn't noticed anyone earlier that would be watching him with such force so he leaned against the pool table while his opponent lined up his shot and casually scanned the line of the bar and the tables huddled nearby for a sign of his admirer. And he found the culprit, sitting half the bar away, nursing his own beer. Charles thought he looked vaguely familiar -- attractive, lean, with intense eyes and an overall air of a brooder about him -- but it took Charles a moment to realize it was the detective he'd met on the street the night before, the one he had a hunch was the Detective Lehnsherr that Hank was feared so much. When their gazes finally met, Charles offered a quick smile and a small salute with his pool stick before he broke off the staring match and went back to his game.
He was lining up his own shot a few minutes later when he noticed someone -- Lehnsherr -- approach.
It didn't look like the cop was going to speak; he seemed content to lean against the bar with his beer, watching.
Charles took his shot and sank a ball in the left corner pocket before he spoke. "Good evening, Detective," he said, flicking his eyes over at Lehnsherr for a second before he returned his attention to the game.
"Not Officer?" Lehnsherr asked, a low tease in his lightly accented voice.
"Of course not," he replied, leaning down to line up his stick with the cue ball. "Don't think I've forgotten our little meeting last night, Detective Lehnsherr."
Lehnsherr raised an eyebrow. "I didn't mention that last night."
Charles couldn't stop the grin he felt spread over his face. "Yes, well, you're rather popular, yes? I spoke to a few friends and it wasn't hard to put a name to the face."
The detective looked as if he wanted to say something, but his gaze cut toward the man Charles was playing pool against. Charles took the hint, and held out his pool stick toward the man. "I think I'm going to call it a night," he said in apology. "Thanks for the game, though."
The man returned his thanks and wandered off in search of a new opponent while Charles grabbed his beer and caught Lehnsherr's eye. "It seems like you're in the mood for a chat, I thought I'd make it a bit more cozy."
Lehnsherr didn't reply immediately but he took an empty seat at the bar and Charles followed, sliding into the one next to him. Once Charles was settled, the detective spoke again. "Who filled you in?"
Charles shrugged. "Friends, here and there."
"Lexi?" he asked. "Or maybe Amber?"
"Do names really matter?" Charles asked with another grin. He wasn't certain who Lexi and Amber were, but they certainly weren't Hank, which was all that mattered. He'd meant it when he'd said he'd protect his friend from the supposedly frightening Detective Lehnsherr. Not that Charles found him particularly frightening -- attractive, yes, and a little rough, but wholly appealing. It wouldn't be a chore to talk over a few drinks and figure out if the detective knew something about the cases that Hank hadn't known to pass on.
"I find they make things easier," the detective said. "What's yours?"
"Charles," he answered. "What about you? I'm fairly certain 'detective' isn't your given name."
"Erik," he said in return. "You're not the only one who remembers our meeting last night."
"There's nothing worse than being forgettable," Charles told him.
The detective -- Lehnsherr -- Erik snorted at that, trying to hide his amusement behind his glass. "I'm betting it's not a problem you have."
"I've been told I make an impression, yes," he agreed, still smiling.
"You do," the detective nodded. "In fact you left me with the impression last night that you knew more than you were letting on when I asked."
"It's to be an interrogation, is it?" Charles asked with a laugh, genuinely amused by the synchronicity. It seemed they had the same thing in mind. "We'll need something stronger for that." He motioned for the bartender's attention and then signaled for two doubles, mouthing "Scotch" at the man's inquiring head tilt.
"Nothing so formal," Erik said, watching as the bartender delivered the alcohol Charles had requested, one for him and the other for the detective. He picked it up and tasted it. "Just a friendly chat."
"That's what you say now," Charles said, enjoying the smooth burn of his drink. "And I could say the same of you. You haven't been very forthright about what you know."
Erik favored him with something approximately a grin, although it showed a few too many teeth. "Asking questions is my job," he said.
"Oh, mine, too," Charles reminded him.
"I think you're asking different questions," Erik told him.
Charles finished his drink, and ordered another round for both of them. "I'd say better ones."
That earned him another snort of amusement. "I bet."
Charles turned a little on the stool for a better view of the detective, where he sat hunched over his drink. "I'm honestly willing to chat about any mundane topic you'd like. We could trade stories about our childhoods, for example."
"Really? Our childhoods?"
"Are you going to tell me about the case you're working?"
"No."
"Then, certainly, childhood is a safe enough topic," Charles stated. It wasn't his best investigative technique, but waiting a source out and plying them with alcohol had had its successes in the past and he didn't mind spending a few hours with Detective Lehnsherr. "I'll even go first."
Erik looked torn between walking away and giving in to Charles's conversational gambit. Charles gave him another smile and watched as resignation settled over the cop's features. "So you're British?"
"You wouldn't believe American as apple pie?" Charles teased.
"Not hardly," he said, finishing his second drink.
Charles quickly signaled for another round. "My parents liked to travel," he explained with a shrug. "And what about you? I don't think I'm the only one here with an accent."
"Touché," Erik said, lifting his glass in a subtle mockery of a toast. The other hand, the one closest to Charles rested against the bar, one finger tapping against it in what he took as a nervous habit. "My mother and I emigrated from East Germany back in the '80s."
"Defected?" Charles asked, although he was relatively sure of the answer.
The finger tapping sped up, drawing Charles's eyes back to the long fingers. "She was a pianist."
That information, plus his name, clicked in Charles's head. "Edie Lehnsherr," he said. At the detective's surprised look, he added, "I'm not completely uncivilized."
"Yes."
"Do you play?" Charles heard himself asking. He couldn't stop himself from running a finger down the line of Erik's hand, letting his own linger over Erik's to still the idle tapping. "You have the hands for it."
Charles hadn't realized how close he'd leaned in until he looked up and saw that Erik's face wasn't very far from his own, his pale eyes watching Charles as if they were searching for something. He could've ignored the flutter he felt from that intense inspection but he didn't really see the need, not when he was pleasantly buzzed and very interested. He had a feeling that there was a lot he could learn from Erik Lehnsherr, only some of which had to do with the story he was working.
Erik held his gaze for a moment, alcohol-scented breath hot against Charles's cheek before the detective pulled back, muttering something that sounded a lot like, "I'm not drunk enough for this."
It sounded like capitulation or perhaps a challenge; Charles was good with both. He settled on his stool, but remained leaning in, head resting on his hand, elbow propped up on the bar. "Well that's something we can change, isn't it?" he said, laughter lurking in voice. "Bartender!"
The next hour -- or so -- passed in a pleasant, hazy blur of inane conversation that Charles couldn't help but enjoy. It started off as a cat-and-mouse game of unimportant, anonymous details, each waiting for the other to slip, but it eventually slurred into something more openly flirtatious and less about strategic coyness, so much so that Charles went whole quarters-of-an-hour without even a thought of the murders he was supposed to be gleaning information about. Not that he said much about himself beyond the bare minimum, more deflection than anything, whenever Erik turned the questioning on him. Thankfully, the detective didn't seem in the mood to press for details and Charles was allowed to remain a man of mysterious means and occupation, which suited him fine.
As much as he'd like the look of Erik when they'd first met, Charles was quickly starting to like Erik -- the sly humor under the flinty exterior, the subtle upward curve of his real smile, the way his pale blue eyes trailed down to Charles's mouth every so often before he guiltily caught himself. Charles wasn't exactly sure how many drinks it had taken, but he eventually reached a point where whatever inhibitions he might've had about propositioning a potential source was the only faintest of concerns in the back of his mind, especially when the arm he draped over Erik's shoulder was allowed to remain there without a hint of reproach.
"Do you know what would make this chat even cozier?" Charles asked, as if hours of conversation hadn't passed since the point was first raised.
"What?" Erik asked, running a finger along the rim of his empty glass.
"If we went somewhere cozier to have it," Charles suggested. "I think Ken there is getting a bit tired of us."
Erik's eyebrow rose at the invitation and Charles decided it was a very nice look on him, not that he'd found a look that wasn't nice on the detective that evening. "Are you seriously inviting me back to your place?"
Charles was inebriated but he wasn't so far gone that he didn't remember the squatter he had back at his brownstone. "Hmm, mine is a little occupied, I'm afraid," he told him. "But I wouldn't be averse to visiting yours."
It was the first time since the hard liquor had started flowing that Erik looked conflicted. Charles waited him out, but had prepared himself for the coming rebuff when Erik finally answered. "All right."
"Just all right?" Charles laughed, sliding off the bar stool to steady himself on his feet. "How flattering."
"Charles." It was the first time Erik had addressed him by his name all evening, which he did as he reached out and wrapped those long fingers Charles had so admired around his wrist. "It's just..."
Charles tugged his bound wrist -- not to get away but to bring Erik to his feet as well. The detective stumbled a little in the attempt, but he came to his feet, pressed close where they stood between the bar stools. "None of that, darling. Come on."
The cool air of the late night helped clear Charles's head up enough to realize that even if his detective friend had drove to reach the bar, neither of them were in any shape to drive. "We'll have to get a cab," he said aloud. When he didn't receive an immediate reply, he glanced over at Erik, concerned. His companion was looking a little lost, as if he couldn't quite believe or understand what was happening.
"I haven't misread this, have I?" Charles asked. "The last few hours have been a prelude to something that ends in your bed, yes? If I'm wrong, there are no hard feelings."
Charles was almost entirely certain he wasn't wrong; a man didn't stare at his mouth the way Erik had for the last hour if he wasn't thinking about the indecent things he could do with it, but it never hurt to be absolutely sure.
Suddenly, Erik looked determined instead of lost, a change Charles appreciated, especially when it led to Erik's mouth against his, demanding entrance with his insistent tongue. Charles didn't protest, pulling him closer by the lapels of his coat as Erik's hand skimmed beneath Charles's to press against the curve of his spine just above the waistband of his slacks.
"I'm going to take that as a no," Charles said when Erik finally gave him a chance to breath. He knew he was panting a little, a terribly triumphant grin on his face, as Erik nodded. "Now, let's see about that taxi."
End of Part 2.
Author: Regann
Pairing: Charles/Erik (XMFC)
Rating: PG-13/R
Word Count: ~5,000 for the chapter (total: 50,000+)
Warnings: discussion of murder, violence and prostitution
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; I just play with them.
Notes: Everything I know about law enforcement and investigative journalism, I learned from watching television. Don't expect any more realism here than you'd find on an episode of CSI or L&O. There is also State of Play influence in this fic as well, although you don't need to have seen it to understand anything in this fic.
Summary: While investigating the homicide of a John Doe who he suspects might've been murdered while working the streets as a prostitute, Detective Erik Lehnsherr finds an unexpected ally in a hooker named Charles who seems as determined as he to solve the case. As they become more deeply involved both with the case and each other, there's just one thing that Charles neglects to mention -- that he's really an investigative journalist, one quickly convinced that what they're dealing with is more than simple murder. cop!Erik, fake-hooker-slash-reporter!Charles, Modern AU.
Previous Parts available at LJ, DW and AO3.
Guilty by Association (Part 2)
Charles was still so sleepy as he dragged himself into his sunny kitchen the next morning that he almost didn't notice his sister sitting primly at his kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee while she flipped through a magazine.
Almost.
"Raven," he sighed as he grabbed the kettle from the stove and filled it with tap water. "What are you doing here?"
"I needed a place to crash," she explained, tossing her long, golden hair over her shoulder.
"Have you tried your home? I've heard that that's what they're for, you know," he told her as he lit the burner under the kettle, then turning to retrieve his favorite mug from the cabinet.
Raven made an inelegant sound of derision deep in her throat. "I can't. I'm avoiding him."
Charles didn't need to ask for clarification on "him." "Surely you have a girlfriend you could've stayed with?"
"You're acting like you don't even want me around," she said with a pout. "It's not even like you were here last night."
"I was here," he protested, adding a tea bag to his mug. "I just didn't get in until late."
She grinned at him. "Fun night?"
"I was working," he answered, watching the kettle as if his intense gaze could make the water heat more quickly.
"Is that what you're calling it these days?"
Charles shot her an un-amused look, running a hand through his messy hair. "I was out doing interviews, if you must know. Following up a lead I got yesterday."
"Does it have something to do with this?" Raven rifled through a stack of papers on the kitchen table and held up the printed version of the photograph Hank had emailed him the day before. "I had to turn him over, he looks dead."
"He is dead," Charles informed her as the kettle finally whistled. He gratefully poured the hot liquid over his tea bag, then added a drip of honey before heading to the refrigerator for a splash of milk. "He's a John Doe who was found murdered yesterday morning."
Raven turned the photo back over and buried it underneath Charles's collection of newspapers from the previous morning. "Why don't you ever work on happy stories?"
"Because the world doesn't reward feel-good stories about puppies and rainbows, that's why," he said, sliding into the seat next to her at the table. He took a sip from his mug and let the tea begin to work its magic. "The police don't know who killed him -- they don't even know who he is. Hank thought I might be able to find out something they couldn't."
"I can't believe you're still in contact with him," Raven told him. "You're my brother, you shouldn't be on such good terms with my ex."
"You dumped him, love, not vice versa," Charles gently reminded her. "And he was my friend long before he was your ex. Try to remember that."
Raven sighed, turning a few pages in her magazine with a little more force than necessary. Charles still wasn't sure why her relationship with Hank McCoy was such a sore spot when she had very pointedly dropped him, breaking his heart rather spectacularly, but it continued to be so, even almost a year later. Her petulant attitude, however, wasn't going to make Charles give up a good friend and an even better source of information.
"Anyway," she said, in that very American way she had of changing the subject. "What kind of interviews were you doing that had you out past midnight?"
"If you must know, I was interviewing prostitutes," he told her. "Hence the late hour."
"And you're sure this was for work?" she teased.
"Raven, my darling," he sniped back. "I don't pay for sex."
"It's true," she agreed. "But you're not against bartering with it, especially when it comes to a story."
"That was once!" he protested. "And it was also blown completely out of proportion, I can't believe you're taking his side over mine."
"I was just teasing," she promised, reaching over to give his arm a squeeze. "So what has you so hot over this story anyway?"
"What do you mean?" he asked after another swig of his tea, momentarily distracted when his eyes caught a line from his notes scattered across the table.
When he looked back at Raven, she had a soft, sweet expression on her face, the one that meant she was about to say something absurdly fond. "You can make all the noise you want about what the big guys reward and blah and blah, but I know you. There's something about this story that's got you burning. What is it?"
Charles returned the fond look. "The police think they might have the start of a serial on their hands," he admitted. "There was a young prostitute murdered less than a month ago just a few blocks from this one. They don't know who he is yet but early odds are he was also a sex worker."
"Okay, so people are out killing rent boys," Raven said. "Is that why you're hot on this? Because they were gay?"
"Their customers don't say much about their own sexuality," he informed her. "That's partly the reason, I suppose, but it's more to do with how they made their living. The papers don't care when two hookers are murdered within a month and a few blocks of each other and I doubt the police care much more than that. But they still deserve justice, Raven. They still deserve someone to tell their stories and find out what happened to them."
"Under that completely fake tough exterior, there is nothing but a bleeding heart," she laughed, but it was a kind, sympathetic sound. "Why didn't you become a social worker or a teacher or something?"
He shot her a look. "You know why."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. Him."
"I love what I do," he assured her, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze as she'd done to him.
She, however, frowned when she looked down at his hand. "Where's your ring?"
"Oh, that." Charles waved his hand around as if to dismiss her question. "It was actually something I was willing to barter for information. Hopefully, it'll work out."
"Your wedding band?" Raven asked, still incredulous.
"For a marriage that's been over far longer than the marriage itself lasted," he reminded her. "And weren't you the one who wanted me to take it off and move on?"
"I wanted you to take it off five years ago when you signed the divorce papers and Gabrielle moved back to Israel," she shot back. "It's not like this is a sign you're ready to move on."
"Not this again," he sighed. "Raven, I've moved on. I go out, I date, what more proof do you need that I've moved on?"
"Maybe if what you call moving on wasn't all a string of one- and two-night stands," she said, lifting her chin stubbornly.
"You can't seriously think I'm still mooning over Gabrielle?" he asked. "That was a long time ago."
"I don't think this is about Gabrielle," she admitted. "I think it's about being afraid of being hurt again. You won't invest."
Charles finished his cool tea in one great gulp, grimacing as it slid down this throat. "I need to take a shower," he stated, rising to his feet and effectively ending the conversation. From the expression on Raven's face, she recognized the tactic and didn't appreciate it. Charles ignored her, however, and headed back upstairs, half-hoping that his rudeness would mean he wouldn't be faced with his sister's pouting expression when he came back down.
The hot shower helped do what the tea hadn't been able to when combined with Raven's scintillating conversational skills and he felt much more human when he stepped out of it. He made a detour on the way to his closet to check his phone for messages; there was nothing from Ray, the pro he'd met, but there was a rather cryptic email from Hank, which wasn't entirely unexpected. Every time the young medical examiner decided to be brave enough to pass on information, he immediately regretted it and started doing everything he could to sway Charles from following up on it.
Charles shot a quick, soothing reply to Hank and made a mental note to follow up with him later. Once he was dressed, he made sure to grab his phone before he headed back downstairs, only to be greeted by the smell of cooking eggs.
"Are you cooking?" he asked Raven as he stepped back into the kitchen to find her at the stove, her hair tied back.
"Yeah," she admitted as she used a spatula to move the eggs she'd scrambled from the frying pan to a plate. "I was hoping it was enough of an apology that I wouldn't have to say it."
The little irritation he had toward her melted at her contrite expression. "All this for showing up uninvited?" he asked, watching as she added a few sausage links and toast to the plate.
"And for the moving on crack," she said, offering him the laden plate. "I'm a little bitchy this morning."
He laughed and gave her a kiss on the forehead before he took the plate from her hands. "I don't think either of us has been in top form today," he said. "Thank you for breakfast and, of course, you're forgiven."
As much as Charles wanted to jump on the bits and pieces of the story he'd gathered the day before, he enjoyed the idle chitchat he and Raven shared over breakfast, at least until he heard the grandfather clock in the living room start to chime the hour.
"I really have to go," he said, standing up from his half-finished breakfast. "I've got to stop by the office before I go out, Moira's agreed to help me and I..."
"I get it, go ahead," Raven said. "I think I'm going to hang for a little longer if you don't mind."
"Of course I don't," he assured her as he reached for his keys and double-checked that he had his phone in his pocket. "Stay as long as you like but, please, don't move my papers, all right?"
"It's a deal," she promised. "Just don't tell him where I am if you see him?"
"Deal," he promised.
Charles decided to eschew the subway for a cab to reach the office and he spent the cab ride over furiously sending off emails to various sources he'd used over the years that might have been able to help him with his current story. Finally, he was stepping out in front of the building and dashing into the first available elevator. Though "the office" wasn't technically his office, most of the reporters and support staff milling around the bullpen recognized him and some even offered greetings as he passed by. Charles didn't slow, however, not until he reached a certain hard-working auburn-haired woman who didn't even bother to look up from her screen until he tapped her on the shoulder.
"Moira," he said.
"Charles," she returned, letting her fingers stop their mad dash across her keyboard. "You said you were onto something and you needed my help?"
"Exactly that," he said.
"And he knows?" Moira asked, glancing significantly toward the office door that bore a plate proclaiming "Brian Xavier, Editor-in-Chief."
"Not yet," he told her. "I'm not sure it's going to pan out yet and you know how he feels about that. I'd like to have something a little more put together before I deal with him." He leaned in a little. "But you'll still help me, yes?"
Moira bit her lip, clearly torn. "I have my own deadlines," she warned him. "I'll help where I can but I can't make any promises, not until you have something we can take to Brian and get clearance. You understand me? I don't want to get chewed out over whatever you're chasing, Charles."
"I completely understand, love," he told her. "I swear, I'll come to you once I have something solid put together. The last thing I want to do is to get my only ally on the staff canned."
"You're lucky you're a charmer, Xavier," she joked. Then she sighed. "I'll help, but I can't start today."
Charles nodded. "How about we meet tomorrow? I'll let you know if I've made any progress."
"Done," she said. "Now clear out before your dad comes out and catches me conspiring with the enemy."
"I'm not really the enemy," he protested.
Moira just smiled and shooed him away, shaking her head a little as he took the hint and left her to whatever she was working on so intently. Charles spared one last grin in her direction before he dashed toward the elevators, hoping to make a clean break before his father caught him loitering around the office. He would've succeeded, too, except that his father was stepping off the same elevator he'd planned to take down to the lobby.
Brian Xavier favored with him a squinty-eyed look of suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
"Just popping in to say hello," he told him. "Good to see you, Dad."
"Like hell you were," his father replied. "Do you know where your sister is? She's not answering her cell."
"I'm not really at liberty to say," Charles hedged, looking longingly at the elevator as the doors closed without him behind them.
It was answer enough for his father. He nodded. "At least she's not staying without one of the friends of hers."
Charles made a show of checking his watch. "I've really got to go, Dad, I have an appointment," he said, forcing false apology into his voice. "It was good to catch up, though."
Brian mumbled something under his breath, probably something derogatory so Charles was glad he didn't catch it.
"Bye, Dad," he said, as the elevator doors finally opened again and he stepped onto it.
"Don't do anything bloody stupid," his father warned as the doors slid closed, blocking out his disapproving face. "And don't die!"
Charles grinned once the elevator was in descent, knowing that that was as close as his father came to I love you.
**
There was nothing more frustrating, Charles reflected later, than chasing a much of leads that didn't pan out, which is how he spent most of his day. By later that afternoon he still hadn't heard from any of the boys he'd spoken to on the street the night before, and his most productive conversation had been with Hank which, point of fact, hadn't been productive at all.
"Hank, Hank," he'd said, raising his voice as he spoke into his cell phone enough to draw glances from the people passing by where he loitered in the park. "Stop worrying about this. You sent me this information because you know I can help. There's no reason for all this anxiety."
"You don't know Detective Lehnsherr," Hank had replied in a low, hissing tone that meant he was whispering into the receiver. "There's a reason I've never given you anything from one of his cases before. He's scary."
"And he's made absolutely no progress on Martin Tabram's case, which is why you told me about the second murder in the first place," Charles had reminded him. He'd spared a moment to wonder if this Lehnsherr was the cop he'd met the night before when he'd been talking to Ray. "Scary or not, he's ineffectual, it seems."
"He's not like that," Hank had said. "He tries. Not like some of them. He's not ignoring this case just because they were prostitutes, not like some around here. He and Detective Muñoz are the good guys."
"Then they deserve my help," Charles had argued. "Anything I uncover, anything that makes the papers, it'll help them. If they're the good guys you say, we're all after the same thing."
"I don't know, Charles," Hank had sighed. "I just don't want to get heat over this."
"I'll be discreet," he'd promised. "I'll never tell anyone that you're my source, you know that."
There had been an uncomfortable silence before the inevitable "How's Raven?" inquiry had detoured them away from murder victims and the thorny ethical dilemma of leaking information about an open police investigation to a freelance reporter and onto depressing topic of Hank's continued pining over Charles's sister, still going strong after a year. Charles tried not to get into the middle of it but he couldn't help but feel bad for Hank who had moved to New York solely because it had brought him closer to Raven, only for the relationship to end within a few months of his relocation.
After he'd calmed down the moping medical examiner, Charles had spent some time at the library, printing off anything he could find that had been written about the Tabram case. It was, as he'd lamented to Raven and Hank, precious little because people just didn't care. Because Tabram had been living on the street, selling his body to support the drug habit he'd fallen into before he was even old enough to drink, most people tended to soothe themselves with the notion that he had deserved his tragic end. That sort of attitude was the exact thing that infuriated Charles the most, especially when he saw it in his colleagues or in law enforcement officers. Everyone deserved justice and turning such derision onto someone who had already suffered so much made Charles blood boil. Raven had been right when she noted there was something about the cases that had gotten his attention and that had been it.
By dinner time, Charles had to face that he hadn't achieved very much and he was left to wait until the next day when he could bounce ideas off Moira or sooner if one of his inquiries turned up someone willing to talk. That left him wired from the adrenaline he got when he was on a new story, but without a real direction to pursue. So he decided to visit a bar he liked, one that was close enough to where Ray worked that if he got a message, he could make it to their designated meeting spot without too much delay. Years before, his favorite little spot would've smelled like smoke, but the slightly stale bite of recycled air was welcoming enough. Charles greeted the bartender, ordered a pint and settled himself at the bar to finish it, until he was distracted by a very lopsided game of pool between two other patrons. After the one man lost rather dismally, he couldn't stop the impulse to offer himself up as the winner's next opponent, which was how he spent the next hour of his time and two rounds of his alcohol.
He and his opponent had just racked up for another game when Charles felt the press of eyes on his back as strongly as if it were a touch. He hadn't noticed anyone earlier that would be watching him with such force so he leaned against the pool table while his opponent lined up his shot and casually scanned the line of the bar and the tables huddled nearby for a sign of his admirer. And he found the culprit, sitting half the bar away, nursing his own beer. Charles thought he looked vaguely familiar -- attractive, lean, with intense eyes and an overall air of a brooder about him -- but it took Charles a moment to realize it was the detective he'd met on the street the night before, the one he had a hunch was the Detective Lehnsherr that Hank was feared so much. When their gazes finally met, Charles offered a quick smile and a small salute with his pool stick before he broke off the staring match and went back to his game.
He was lining up his own shot a few minutes later when he noticed someone -- Lehnsherr -- approach.
It didn't look like the cop was going to speak; he seemed content to lean against the bar with his beer, watching.
Charles took his shot and sank a ball in the left corner pocket before he spoke. "Good evening, Detective," he said, flicking his eyes over at Lehnsherr for a second before he returned his attention to the game.
"Not Officer?" Lehnsherr asked, a low tease in his lightly accented voice.
"Of course not," he replied, leaning down to line up his stick with the cue ball. "Don't think I've forgotten our little meeting last night, Detective Lehnsherr."
Lehnsherr raised an eyebrow. "I didn't mention that last night."
Charles couldn't stop the grin he felt spread over his face. "Yes, well, you're rather popular, yes? I spoke to a few friends and it wasn't hard to put a name to the face."
The detective looked as if he wanted to say something, but his gaze cut toward the man Charles was playing pool against. Charles took the hint, and held out his pool stick toward the man. "I think I'm going to call it a night," he said in apology. "Thanks for the game, though."
The man returned his thanks and wandered off in search of a new opponent while Charles grabbed his beer and caught Lehnsherr's eye. "It seems like you're in the mood for a chat, I thought I'd make it a bit more cozy."
Lehnsherr didn't reply immediately but he took an empty seat at the bar and Charles followed, sliding into the one next to him. Once Charles was settled, the detective spoke again. "Who filled you in?"
Charles shrugged. "Friends, here and there."
"Lexi?" he asked. "Or maybe Amber?"
"Do names really matter?" Charles asked with another grin. He wasn't certain who Lexi and Amber were, but they certainly weren't Hank, which was all that mattered. He'd meant it when he'd said he'd protect his friend from the supposedly frightening Detective Lehnsherr. Not that Charles found him particularly frightening -- attractive, yes, and a little rough, but wholly appealing. It wouldn't be a chore to talk over a few drinks and figure out if the detective knew something about the cases that Hank hadn't known to pass on.
"I find they make things easier," the detective said. "What's yours?"
"Charles," he answered. "What about you? I'm fairly certain 'detective' isn't your given name."
"Erik," he said in return. "You're not the only one who remembers our meeting last night."
"There's nothing worse than being forgettable," Charles told him.
The detective -- Lehnsherr -- Erik snorted at that, trying to hide his amusement behind his glass. "I'm betting it's not a problem you have."
"I've been told I make an impression, yes," he agreed, still smiling.
"You do," the detective nodded. "In fact you left me with the impression last night that you knew more than you were letting on when I asked."
"It's to be an interrogation, is it?" Charles asked with a laugh, genuinely amused by the synchronicity. It seemed they had the same thing in mind. "We'll need something stronger for that." He motioned for the bartender's attention and then signaled for two doubles, mouthing "Scotch" at the man's inquiring head tilt.
"Nothing so formal," Erik said, watching as the bartender delivered the alcohol Charles had requested, one for him and the other for the detective. He picked it up and tasted it. "Just a friendly chat."
"That's what you say now," Charles said, enjoying the smooth burn of his drink. "And I could say the same of you. You haven't been very forthright about what you know."
Erik favored him with something approximately a grin, although it showed a few too many teeth. "Asking questions is my job," he said.
"Oh, mine, too," Charles reminded him.
"I think you're asking different questions," Erik told him.
Charles finished his drink, and ordered another round for both of them. "I'd say better ones."
That earned him another snort of amusement. "I bet."
Charles turned a little on the stool for a better view of the detective, where he sat hunched over his drink. "I'm honestly willing to chat about any mundane topic you'd like. We could trade stories about our childhoods, for example."
"Really? Our childhoods?"
"Are you going to tell me about the case you're working?"
"No."
"Then, certainly, childhood is a safe enough topic," Charles stated. It wasn't his best investigative technique, but waiting a source out and plying them with alcohol had had its successes in the past and he didn't mind spending a few hours with Detective Lehnsherr. "I'll even go first."
Erik looked torn between walking away and giving in to Charles's conversational gambit. Charles gave him another smile and watched as resignation settled over the cop's features. "So you're British?"
"You wouldn't believe American as apple pie?" Charles teased.
"Not hardly," he said, finishing his second drink.
Charles quickly signaled for another round. "My parents liked to travel," he explained with a shrug. "And what about you? I don't think I'm the only one here with an accent."
"Touché," Erik said, lifting his glass in a subtle mockery of a toast. The other hand, the one closest to Charles rested against the bar, one finger tapping against it in what he took as a nervous habit. "My mother and I emigrated from East Germany back in the '80s."
"Defected?" Charles asked, although he was relatively sure of the answer.
The finger tapping sped up, drawing Charles's eyes back to the long fingers. "She was a pianist."
That information, plus his name, clicked in Charles's head. "Edie Lehnsherr," he said. At the detective's surprised look, he added, "I'm not completely uncivilized."
"Yes."
"Do you play?" Charles heard himself asking. He couldn't stop himself from running a finger down the line of Erik's hand, letting his own linger over Erik's to still the idle tapping. "You have the hands for it."
Charles hadn't realized how close he'd leaned in until he looked up and saw that Erik's face wasn't very far from his own, his pale eyes watching Charles as if they were searching for something. He could've ignored the flutter he felt from that intense inspection but he didn't really see the need, not when he was pleasantly buzzed and very interested. He had a feeling that there was a lot he could learn from Erik Lehnsherr, only some of which had to do with the story he was working.
Erik held his gaze for a moment, alcohol-scented breath hot against Charles's cheek before the detective pulled back, muttering something that sounded a lot like, "I'm not drunk enough for this."
It sounded like capitulation or perhaps a challenge; Charles was good with both. He settled on his stool, but remained leaning in, head resting on his hand, elbow propped up on the bar. "Well that's something we can change, isn't it?" he said, laughter lurking in voice. "Bartender!"
The next hour -- or so -- passed in a pleasant, hazy blur of inane conversation that Charles couldn't help but enjoy. It started off as a cat-and-mouse game of unimportant, anonymous details, each waiting for the other to slip, but it eventually slurred into something more openly flirtatious and less about strategic coyness, so much so that Charles went whole quarters-of-an-hour without even a thought of the murders he was supposed to be gleaning information about. Not that he said much about himself beyond the bare minimum, more deflection than anything, whenever Erik turned the questioning on him. Thankfully, the detective didn't seem in the mood to press for details and Charles was allowed to remain a man of mysterious means and occupation, which suited him fine.
As much as he'd like the look of Erik when they'd first met, Charles was quickly starting to like Erik -- the sly humor under the flinty exterior, the subtle upward curve of his real smile, the way his pale blue eyes trailed down to Charles's mouth every so often before he guiltily caught himself. Charles wasn't exactly sure how many drinks it had taken, but he eventually reached a point where whatever inhibitions he might've had about propositioning a potential source was the only faintest of concerns in the back of his mind, especially when the arm he draped over Erik's shoulder was allowed to remain there without a hint of reproach.
"Do you know what would make this chat even cozier?" Charles asked, as if hours of conversation hadn't passed since the point was first raised.
"What?" Erik asked, running a finger along the rim of his empty glass.
"If we went somewhere cozier to have it," Charles suggested. "I think Ken there is getting a bit tired of us."
Erik's eyebrow rose at the invitation and Charles decided it was a very nice look on him, not that he'd found a look that wasn't nice on the detective that evening. "Are you seriously inviting me back to your place?"
Charles was inebriated but he wasn't so far gone that he didn't remember the squatter he had back at his brownstone. "Hmm, mine is a little occupied, I'm afraid," he told him. "But I wouldn't be averse to visiting yours."
It was the first time since the hard liquor had started flowing that Erik looked conflicted. Charles waited him out, but had prepared himself for the coming rebuff when Erik finally answered. "All right."
"Just all right?" Charles laughed, sliding off the bar stool to steady himself on his feet. "How flattering."
"Charles." It was the first time Erik had addressed him by his name all evening, which he did as he reached out and wrapped those long fingers Charles had so admired around his wrist. "It's just..."
Charles tugged his bound wrist -- not to get away but to bring Erik to his feet as well. The detective stumbled a little in the attempt, but he came to his feet, pressed close where they stood between the bar stools. "None of that, darling. Come on."
The cool air of the late night helped clear Charles's head up enough to realize that even if his detective friend had drove to reach the bar, neither of them were in any shape to drive. "We'll have to get a cab," he said aloud. When he didn't receive an immediate reply, he glanced over at Erik, concerned. His companion was looking a little lost, as if he couldn't quite believe or understand what was happening.
"I haven't misread this, have I?" Charles asked. "The last few hours have been a prelude to something that ends in your bed, yes? If I'm wrong, there are no hard feelings."
Charles was almost entirely certain he wasn't wrong; a man didn't stare at his mouth the way Erik had for the last hour if he wasn't thinking about the indecent things he could do with it, but it never hurt to be absolutely sure.
Suddenly, Erik looked determined instead of lost, a change Charles appreciated, especially when it led to Erik's mouth against his, demanding entrance with his insistent tongue. Charles didn't protest, pulling him closer by the lapels of his coat as Erik's hand skimmed beneath Charles's to press against the curve of his spine just above the waistband of his slacks.
"I'm going to take that as a no," Charles said when Erik finally gave him a chance to breath. He knew he was panting a little, a terribly triumphant grin on his face, as Erik nodded. "Now, let's see about that taxi."
End of Part 2.