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WIP Amnesty: XMFC Notorious AU
As ever, I am late, but here, have 5000 words of an XMFC no-powers AU loosely based on Notorious that I am no longer invested enough in the fandom to finish. (also Yahtzee is posting her own take on that, so I don't have to!) I'd written all the fun bits, anyway. It's a darker take on the film, so warnings for blackmail, emotionally unhealthy but consensual hate!sex, mentions of child abuse, and violence.
born in 1932
12 in 1944 // R=8 // E=14
C & R meet
14 in 1946 // R=10 // E=16
Sharon marries Marko, Charles sends Raven to boarding school
15 in 1947 // R=11 // E=17
Shaw visits Marko
18 in 1950 // R=14 // E=20
Marko gets arrested, Charles gets trust fund but loses everything else to trial
kicked out of school before grad, sends Raven to Europe
21 in 1953 // R=17 // E=23
story begins
Red Scare 1947-57
[Charles turns down Moira's job offer]
[someone tips him off to Erik's presence, and Charles follows him outside]
His partycrasher was leaning against the brick outside the door, smoking a cigarette. He quirked an eyebrow at Charles' exit from the house, his gaze drifting down the lines of his body, but said nothing. Not shy, it seemed, but not wanting to make the first move.
Charles was not very good at being coy, personally, but he was excellent at being drunken and brash. He walked up to the man and leaned in until there was just an inch of heated air between them.
“May I?” he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hair behind the man's ear, and plucked the cigarette out of his unresisting fingers. Charles wasn't a smoker, but he licked his lips and watched the man watch him, warmth settling low in his belly in anticipation. He curled his lips around the cigarette and breathed in, dragged the butt along his bottom lip and blew the smoke to the side, his eyes locked with the stranger.
Even in the low light, he could see the man's pupils dilate.
Charles didn't really like these parties, if he was honest with himself, but he'd found that being lonely with laughter and booze was preferable to being lonely all by himself. Moments like this, though, where men found him who wanted the same thing, wanted him even if they never wanted to stay – this was just for him.
“Can I suck your cock?” he said.
The man drew in a breath, sharp like he was surprised, and nodded, his gaze never leaving Charles's.
The man's hands clutched at his shoulders and Charles loved this feeling, loved the tremble of his hands and the smell of his skin, the heat of the cock in his mouth and knowing that the man wanted this like Charles did, that he was not alone.
Erik tipped his head back against the brick and caught his breath. Gott, he hadn't been expecting that – he'd almost forgotten how good it was with men.
Xavier was still kneeling at his feet, his face tilted down and away as he finished himself off, shuddering. Locks of his too-long hair fell across his eyes, and Erik brushed them back, let his fingers run through the soft strands until he was cupping the curve of his skull. Xavier leaned drunkenly into the touch, like a cat seeking affection, and sighed.
Erik froze, and pulled away.
Xavier's eyes popped open, and he stood up, tucking himself back in and zipping his trousers. He swiped the back of one hand across his red, swollen mouth and said brightly, “Right. Well. I don't suppose you're interested in continuing this somewhere with a bed?”
Erik shook his head stupidly.
“Pity,” Xavier said. “I love partycrashers.” He tilted a cheerful grin at Erik and vanished inside, leaving Erik blinking in the wake of one of the most efficient exits from a blowjob he'd ever witnessed.
He hadn't said a word the entire time.
The party noise peaked for a moment, someone shouting over the music; Erik shook himself, gathered up his things, and left around the side of the house. He had work to do.
The next day, Erik knocked on Xavier's door.
After waiting two minutes, he rolled his eyes, and knocked louder.
A shuffling sound came from within and the locks clicked back. Xavier squinted out at him, looking hungover and exhausted, but a pleased smile lit his face when he saw Erik. “Mr. Partycrasher!” he said, sounding surprised. “Please, come in, I can't bear all this sunshine.”
Erik stepped inside and closed the door. The shades were drawn, and by the half-light he could see that the room was even messier than when he'd left the night before, although the glasses had all mysteriously migrated to the kitchen. Xavier made a beeline for the bar and poured himself a drink.
“It's barely noon,” Erik observed, eyeing him critically. He was barefoot and wearing only his undershirt; his trousers from the party were clearly slept-in, wrinkled and riding indecently low on his hips without a belt, but the man acted as if it didn't even register. He'd expected Xavier to be hungover and at a disadvantage for this conversation, but Erik needed him to be coherent at minimum. “Rather early to be drinking, don't you think?”
“I think I'm still a bit drunk,” Xavier sighed. “The last of them didn't leave until seven in the morning - I'm afraid you woke me up just now.”
Erik wasn't surprised. He'd been up until almost 5 himself, and driven over as soon as he woke. He'd slept badly, and dreamt of Schmidt.
“Do you want anything?” Xavier offered, picking up his drink and turning. Erik studied his fingers on the curved glass tumbler and thought of the night before, how Xavier's hands had curled around his hips and pulled him in.
“No, thank you,” Erik said.
“By the way, I didn't catch your name last night,” Xavier added casually, as if they'd had a conversation about literature instead of a covert blowjob in the backyard. “We haven't met before, have we?”
“Erik Lensherr,” he said curtly. It was time to get this over with. “We've never met, but I believe you know someone I work with.” Xavier sat down on the couch opposite, a polite eyebrow raised. Erik drew a stack of pictures from his inner jacket pocket and said, “Her name's Moira McTaggart. I'd like you to reconsider her offer.” He laid the pictures on the table.
Xavier stared at him for a long moment, face blank with surprise. Erik stared back – his eyes were very blue in the daylight, he noted absently – until Xavier broke the gaze and looked down jerkily at the pictures. The uppermost photograph was a full-body shot of Xavier kneeling the night before as he opened his mouth to swallow Erik down; his eyes were closed dreamily, lashes dark and soft against the flush of his cheeks. His identity was unmistakeable.
Into the silence, Erik stated, “The state of Florida frowns on homosexual acts – up to seven years in prison, if I'm not mistaken.”
The sound of his voice – or possibly the nature of the threat – broke Xavier's fugue. The man rose abruptly and stalked away to the bar, where he shot back the rest of his scotch in a sharp motion. His expression was hidden, but Erik could read anger in the stiff line of his shoulders.
“Of course, you no doubt have excellent lawyers, but the trial will be extremely public,” Erik added coolly.
Xavier glared. "You think I care? Go ahead. It's not as if I have a good name left to damage." He turned his back, roughly uncapping a decanter of scotch.
Erik raised an eyebrow.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not," he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Of course, given your family's criminal history, the government would be forced to freeze your accounts upon your arrest - including your trust fund." Xavier froze, scotch bottle in hand. Erik allowed himself a moment of satisfaction for guessing correctly. "You won't need it in prison, but I believe you're using what you don't spend on booze to pay for the education of one Raven Darkholme, at boarding school in Switzerland. Expensive, but I'm sure a pretty girl like that can find some other way to pay."
Erik wished he'd been able to dig up the connection between Xavier and Darkholme, but there hadn't been time. Too old to be an illegitimate daughter; perhaps a former lover, or a distant relative of some kind. It didn't matter. Xavier would help him now, and fear of reprisal would keep him from betraying the operation to Shaw.
"You bastard," Xavier said, back still turned. His hand was white-knuckled on the bottle. "You son of a bitch. She's never done anything wrong."
"I don't care," Erik said harshly. "I would do far worse to take down Shaw."
“You're very talented at...photography,” Xavier said, his accent curling lewdly around the word. “Excellent work, making sure your face never made it into the frame.” He tossed the photos back onto the table and walked closer. “Do your superiors, know, I wonder? Do they think you're nobly sacrificing yourself for the cause, or do they know how much you like it, the sounds you make when you're fucking another man's mouth?”
Erik rose to his feet. “Don't even think about it,” he hissed, looming over the shorter man. “No one would believe you.”
“Oh, I think there's been quite enough blackmail tonight, my friend,” said Xavier, his eyes glinting in the low light, those red lips thinned into an ugly line. “But now that you've bought my services, don't you want to check the quality of the goods? You were certainly panting for it last night, don't you want to fu--”
Erik shut him up with a kiss.
Xavier stiffened and started to pull away, but Erik slid a thigh against his groin, pressed up, and his mouth opened on a gasp. He was already half-hard. Erik pushed him back towards the sofa, half-carrying him as they rutted together, Erik's hands on his ass pulling him closer, Xavier's fingers gripping desperately at his shoulders. He bit down on the curve of his neck just below his ear, and Xavier gasped and said, “Come on, you know you want to, shut me up.”
Anger shivered over him, making his hands shake as he unzipped Xavier and pushed his trousers down his thighs. Erik shoved him down to his knees, bent over the seat of the couch, and Xavier went easily, tilted his hips up and braced his hands on the cushions.
His shirt had rucked up to show an expanse of skin at the base of his spine – soft and vulnerable. Erik raked his fingernails down the pale flesh, and slid two fingers into his ass.
He was slick inside, and Erik almost wanted to laugh – he'd found someone to fuck him last night after Erik left, was stretched and raw and still begging for it. He wanted it to hurt, and Erik could certainly oblige. He had a lifetime of experience.
He pulled himself out, shamefully hard, and thrust in – too fast, too tight, but Xavier moaned and bucked up against him anyway. Erik pressed his face between Xavier's shoulderblades and drove in again, the friction sparking all the way up his spine. He could feel the muscles of Xavier's arms flexing as he jerked himself, so Erik gripped his hips tight with both hands and fucked him harder. They fell into a rough fast rhythm, Xavier shoving back insensibly and Erik catching him, heat building higher as they gasped and cursed until Erik bent low, leaned his weight on Xavier's back and bit down hard on the curve of his shoulder, revealed by the fallen-away collar of his shirt. Xavier shuddered beneath him, his arm jerking frantically, and came, the muscles of his ass clenching and pulling at Erik's cock. Erik ground into the tight wet heat, once, twice, three times, and fell after him.
When Erik came back to himself, Xavier was panting into the couch cushions, the line of his back tight under the wreck of his shirt. He made a muffled noise of pain as Erik pulled out and scrabbled at the cushions, pushing himself upright.
“Get off, get off,” he said frantically, and Erik dropped back on his heels as Xavier ran for the bathroom. Retching sounds drifted out into the living room, and Erik felt his own stomach turn over.
Interesting. So Moira didn't know about Erik's blackmail scheme. He smiled politely at her and said, “I'm sorry our last conversation ended on such a hostile note. I hope you understand.”
She grimaced sympathetically at him and said, “I get it. I'm just glad you're willing to help us on this one after all. Shaw's a real monster. I couldn't explain very well last time – classified, you know – and Lensherr thought you'd be more receptive if the story came from him. The restrictions aren't the same, anyway, since he's technically a freelancer.”
At Charles's startled eyebrow, she explained, “He spent three years hunting Shaw on his own, until he ran into one of our operations in Argentina. We more than doubled our intelligence on Shaw when we recruited him.”
Charles hid his confusion with his best understanding expression, and Moira turned to dig through a stack of folders that rested precariously on the table behind her, still talking. “I'm surprised he managed to talk about it long enough to convince you – insanely private doesn't even begin to describe Lensherr. If I didn't have his file, I wouldn't know more than the day we started working together, when he rolled up his sleeves and I saw the tattoo.”
Charles frowned at Moira's back. What did a tattoo have to do with anything? And why was Erik so obsessed with Shaw? To fill the gap, he said vaguely, “He was reluctant to give details, but he conveyed his opinion of Shaw quite thoroughly.”
“I bet,” she said, pulling a file marked Confidential out of the stack and setting it on the table. “Anyway, now that you're on board, we can give you the official rundown.”
She flicked open the folder and a picture of Shaw stared up at him – slightly younger than when Charles knew him, mustached and smiling. Moira said, “Meet Dr. Klaus Schmidt, alias Sebastian Shaw. Born in Stuttgart, educated at Heidelburg University, worked in research before the war. He took a job at Auschwitz in 1942.”
Charles touched the edge of the photograph. With a sinking sensation in his stomach, he put the pieces together: Erik's circumcision, his implacable hatred, a tattoo on his arm. The unsettled feeling he used to get around Shaw, despite the smooth charm and educated intelligence; all the times Shaw had praised eugenics, and Charles had argued it was idiotic to try to control something they didn't understand. At the time Charles had attributed his discomfort to the way Shaw repeatedly propositioned him, all of 15 at the time, naïve and just about to escape to Harvard. God, he'd been tempted: so desperately lonely without Raven, and Shaw was charismatic and talked to him about science.... Charles swallowed bile.
“We hadn't connected the Shaw identity with Schmidt until Lensherr showed up, but we had quite a bit of information on Kurt Marko, including Shaw's visit in 1947.”
[blah blah exposition]
Why hadn't Erik just told him this? Charles would have helped, if he'd known the truth.
[so basically my idea was that once Charles finds out what Shaw was, he actually wholesale commits to the mission with very little regard for himself (see: characters with low self-esteem and martyr complexes, my epic love of them) – but Erik doesn't know that, so he doesn't trust Charles but falls for him anyway and hates himself for it. And so goes their incredibly fucked up romance, a la the film]
Pocketknife
Erik doesn't like Edith Piaf
1952: The Hershey-Chase experiment proves the genetic information of phages (and all other organisms) to be DNA
1953: Watson & Crick (Apr paper), Barbara McClintock's paper on “controlling elements”
“I used to be quite good at forging my mother's handwriting,” Charles said lightly. “She was too drunk to notice the checks were missing, and our accountant was very discreet – even from his employer. I think everyone assumed Raven was her illegitimate daughter and very politely didn't bring it up.”
[at the racetrack]
His cuffs slid back as he raised the field glasses, and Erik caught a flash of ugly purple-black bruising
“Don't look so shocked, Erik,” Charles said. “I've dealt with it before.”
“What do you mean?” Erik said, startled.
“My wicked stepfather, of course,” Charles said. His voice was light but his fingers were white-knuckled on the binoculars.
At Erik's silence, he lowered the glasses but didn't look over. “Oh, was that not in his CIA file?” He laughed bitterly. “Rich men get away with so much in the privacy of their homes. I just assumed no one cared.”
“No,” he said defiantly. “Hangover.”
“Drinking again, are you?” Erik said scornfully.
Charles tried a smirk and felt it turn ugly on his face, but Erik didn't even turn to look. “It sort of... lightens my chores,” he said.
Erik cupped a hand gently around his jaw. “Charles,” he said, “you have to wake up.”
Charles turned his face into Erik's palm, seeking affection even in sleep – just as he had since the beginning, when Erik had been too blind to see.
“Raven?” he murmured, and Erik's heart broke a little.
“It's Erik,” he said, sweeping a thumb across Charles's cheek, across the freckles he knew so well and had never touched. “Charles, we have to leave now. You're very sick.”
Charles dragged his eyes open. His pupils were dilated, his gaze terrifyingly vague. “Oh,” he rasped, blinking rapidly, “I'd hoped it was a nightmare.”
He finally focused on Erik, fear tightening the corners of his beautiful mouth as awareness set in, and said, frantic, “Erik, you have to get out of here, they know I'm spying on them. They're poisoning me – some kind of yellow powder, crystalline maybe, I don't know. I can't walk on my own.”
“I'll get you out of here,” Erik promised, stripping out of his jacket and laying it over Charles, rolling up his sleeves. “I tried to call Moira for backup, but the phone's disconnected. I have a car outside, if you can get down the stairs.”
“I don't think I- Erik. You should go. I know where they've been doing the tests, you have to tell them – the Mantiquiera Mountains, there's a town, Maria da something. It's too risky if you take me, they could shut the whole thing down, Shaw could escape-”
Erik gripped him by the shoulders and shook him. “I'm not leaving you behind,” he growled, and kissed him hard, lifting him off the pillows into it. One of Charles's hands slid, shaking, into his hair, and he moaned into the kiss.
“Erik, Erik,” Charles said breathlessly, breaking away and peppering the line of his jaw with clumsy kisses. “Oh, god, I thought you hated me, I hated myself, please, do you mean it?”
Erik buried his face in the too-hot curve of Charles's neck and nodded. Fingers carded through his hair, still trembling unnaturally – Charles was so sick, and Erik had almost not come at all. He would have died thinking of Erik that way. The idea made him ache.
He leaned back and rested their foreheads together carefully, supporting Charles's head when he had trouble keeping it upright. “I never hated you, Charles,” he whispered into the breath of space between them. “I hated what I was doing to you. I knew what Shaw was, better than anyone, and I still....” He faltered, swallowed back bile. “How can you ever forgive me for that?”
“My choice, not yours, Erik,” Charles murmured against his lips. “I already have.”
The hand in his hair slid down to cup the back of his neck, warm and sweet, and for a moment, despite the danger, he wanted to stay forever.
“I thought you looked familiar at the party, 'Mr. Eisenhardt'” said a voice from the door, and ice slid down Erik's spine. “If it isn't little Erik Lensherr.”
Erik lowered Charles back down onto the bed, and said, without turning. “Mr. Shaw. Or should I say, Dr. Schmidt?” Charles clutched at Erik's jacket, drawing it up to his neck in instinctive fear, and Erik hated himself all over again for leaving Charles in Shaw's grasp for so long. He turned and glared.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Shaw said, his voice velvet with courtesy, belied by the revolver in his hand and the ugly curl of his lip. “All grown up and working for the CIA, how wonderful. But I see you still have that little weakness for the people you love.”
Rage boiled up in Erik's throat and only the press of Charles's leg against his hip let him swallow it down, his hands fisting in the sheets. Shaw had the upper hand, but Erik was not defenseless this time; he had to wait for an opportunity.
Shaw moved away from the door, shutting it behind him. “As touching as this reunion is, I really think Emma should join the party now, don't you?” He reached for the phone, lying on a table five feet away from the bed, his gun never wavering.
Erik tensed. It was now or never, he just needed a moment – but if he was shot then Charles was dead, too....
Charles's fingers brushed over his, and with a desperate pang, he opened his hand to Charles for what was probably the last time– and Charles slipped the pocketknife from his jacket into the palm of his hand.
Shaw picked up the phone, pressed it to his ear– and frowned, glancing away.
Erik flicked open his knife, and dove for the gun.
His left hand slid under the hammer just as Shaw fired, metal cutting into his skin, and the lance of pain drove his hand with the knife even harder into Shaw's throat. Shaw spasmed, the gun tumbling from his grip. Erik twisted the knife, blood gushing over his hands in an arterial flood, and watched the life flee from Shaw's eyes.
He let the body fall, and stared down at it for a moment, completely blank. The wave of satisfaction he'd expected never came – just an overwhelming tiredness and fear, desperate fear for Charles. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket automatically, and started cleaning off his hands and the knife.
“We have to go, now,” he said, turning to Charles, who was struggling upright in the bed.
“Erik, your shirt,” Charles said quietly, eyes wide. Erik looked down. He'd cleaned his hands, but his front and sleeves were soaked in red. “We'll never make it like that. Shaw's clothes might fit you – there, in the dresser.”
Numbly, Erik unbuttoned his shirt, ducking into the bathroom and tossing it into the tub, followed by his undershirt, wiping himself off with the fabric that wasn't soaked. He scrubbed his hands and face in the sink, dried the splatter off his trousers, and left the towel red on the floor, but his skin was clean enough to pass scrutiny. Grabbing the first shirt he could find in the drawers, he threw it on. It buttoned, barely: too tight across the chest and shoulders, too loose in the waist, but passable.
Tucking the shirt into his trousers, he crossed back to Charles, who had pulled on Erik's jacket and was teetering on the edge of the bed, clearly too dizzy to lean down for his houseshoes. Erik knelt and slid them gently onto his feet, brushing his fingers over the fine bones of his ankle. Between the jacket and the dark color of the pajamas, Charles wasn't completely unpresentable at first glance. They just had to make it down the stairs.
He pulled Charles to his feet and half-carried him to the door, urgency reasserting itself through the numb haze. “Come on, darling,” he said softly into Charles's ear. “Just down the stairs, my car's waiting outside.” Charles clutched at Erik for balance as they crossed the landing, hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt. He leaned more and more of his weight on Erik as they went down the stairs, moving agonizingly slow for silence.
On the fifth step from the bottom, the door to the salon opened, and Dr. Frankel came out. He gasped, “Charles! My god, is he alright?”
“Much worse, I'm afraid,” Erik said smoothly, nervous sweat prickling down his back. “I'm taking him to the hospital.”
“Surely Sebastian should take him,” Dr. Frankel said, frowning at the seeming impropriety. Footsteps from inside the salon signaled the approach of more curious guests, and Erik cursed silently – fucking Nazis and their love of civilization, even when it was just a veneer layered over their savagery. He kept moving towards the door, Charles nearly limp against him now. “Mr. Shaw is upstairs, phoning ahead to the doctors,” he lied. “I offered to drive them both, since my car is already out front.”
This seemed to satisfy the doctor, who nodded at the butler. The door swung open solicitously under his hand, and they were out into the open air. He heard one of the other guests ask, “Sebastian is phoning ahead? Emma, I thought you said the phone was disconnected-”
The door swung shut and Erik picked up Charles and raced down the steps, heaving him into the passenger side and climbing over the bench seat to settle behind the wheel. A shout came from the house as he turned the ignition, and he slammed his foot down on the gas. Shots rang out and he ducked as the back windshield shattered, then they were away, racing down the long curve of the driveway and out on the road.
Charles curled into him, pressing his face into Erik's shoulder. He was shivering, though his skin was burning hot through the fabric of Erik's stolen shirt. Erik pulled him closer and prayed he had not come too late.
He called in from the first gas station they passed, almost twenty minutes later. Moira answered, and though she was furious when he told her how long it'd been since he escaped the house and blown the investigation, she started barking out orders to unseen people, arranging roadblocks and agents at the airport and train stations.
“There's more, McTaggart,” he said, and told her about the town in the mountains. She cursed in sheer predatory glee.
“Lensherr, I could kiss you. We'll find it and get agents to the area right away,” she said, papers crackling loudly in the background – maps, he'd wager. Smart woman. “Tell Charles I'll kiss him– oh shit, Erik, is Charles okay? Did you get him out?”
“His cover's been blown for awhile,” he said grimly. “He says they were poisoning him – at least a week and a half, I'd guess, he was already looking ill the last time we met. I'm taking him to the hospital now.”
“Oh my god,” she said. “Go, go, I've got all I need! I'll tell the hospital you're on your way in.” She hung up on him, and he felt an unprecedented wave of fondness for her as he ran back to the car.
[...and Raven shows up at some point]
“No, Charles,” Raven said sharply. “I have spent eight years pretending and letting you protect me because I was scared and too young, but I'm an adult now. I have an education and I know who I am, and now it's my turn.”
Charles lifted his hand and delicately wiped a tear from her face. Softly, he said, “Raven, you mustn't feel like you have an obligation. That was never what I wanted.”
“Don't be stupid,” Raven sniffed, capturing his hand and holding it to her cheek. “Of course I don't owe you anything. I'm your sister.”
Charles twined his fingers with hers and held on tight, unable to speak.
She stayed with him like that until he fell asleep.
Erik startled awake at the sound of the door clicking shut, and his hand was halfway to his gun before he recognized Raven Darkholme.
“Miss Darkholme,” he said. “Is Charles asleep?”
“Yeah,” she said, dropping into the seat beside him. He straightened, rolling his shoulders covertly to work out the stiffness. She pinned him with a look, traces of tears on her cheeks and the red rims of her eyes.
“So, what did Charles tell you about me?”
Erik dropped his gaze from hers. There was still blood on his shoes, he noticed with a dull shock.
“Not much,” he said finally. Charles had somehow forgiven him for the blackmail, but she would not. He couldn't, himself. “I knew you were important to him, but not why. He calls you his sister, but there's no record of Sharon Xavier having another child.”
“We're not related. But he is my brother,” she said fiercely, glaring at him like he was going to disagree. “He's the only family that matters.”
“We look enough alike that people believed Charles when he told them so, but the truth is, my parents.... I was abandoned, during the war. I was so hungry, and I broke into the kitchen of the mansion and Charles found me there. Most kids would have called for help, but he just....” She shrugged helplessly. “Took care of me. Told me I could stay, if I wanted. He came up with this whole ridiculous charade with telegrams and convinced the staff that his mother had sent me to live there. We only had two years like that before she remarried, and Charles sent me off to boarding school on stolen money so her new husband wouldn't find out.” She picked at her nails, a nervous tick that Erik could see the bloody tracks of all over her fingers. “Two years there, and another three years in Boston, before the trial and packing me off to Switzerland. I fought him on that, but he was so scared for me. Begged me to go
“We didn't have a lot of time together, really. Two years at the mansion, two more in Boston. Lots of letters in between.”
born in 1932
12 in 1944 // R=8 // E=14
C & R meet
14 in 1946 // R=10 // E=16
Sharon marries Marko, Charles sends Raven to boarding school
15 in 1947 // R=11 // E=17
Shaw visits Marko
18 in 1950 // R=14 // E=20
Marko gets arrested, Charles gets trust fund but loses everything else to trial
kicked out of school before grad, sends Raven to Europe
21 in 1953 // R=17 // E=23
story begins
Red Scare 1947-57
[Charles turns down Moira's job offer]
[someone tips him off to Erik's presence, and Charles follows him outside]
His partycrasher was leaning against the brick outside the door, smoking a cigarette. He quirked an eyebrow at Charles' exit from the house, his gaze drifting down the lines of his body, but said nothing. Not shy, it seemed, but not wanting to make the first move.
Charles was not very good at being coy, personally, but he was excellent at being drunken and brash. He walked up to the man and leaned in until there was just an inch of heated air between them.
“May I?” he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hair behind the man's ear, and plucked the cigarette out of his unresisting fingers. Charles wasn't a smoker, but he licked his lips and watched the man watch him, warmth settling low in his belly in anticipation. He curled his lips around the cigarette and breathed in, dragged the butt along his bottom lip and blew the smoke to the side, his eyes locked with the stranger.
Even in the low light, he could see the man's pupils dilate.
Charles didn't really like these parties, if he was honest with himself, but he'd found that being lonely with laughter and booze was preferable to being lonely all by himself. Moments like this, though, where men found him who wanted the same thing, wanted him even if they never wanted to stay – this was just for him.
“Can I suck your cock?” he said.
The man drew in a breath, sharp like he was surprised, and nodded, his gaze never leaving Charles's.
The man's hands clutched at his shoulders and Charles loved this feeling, loved the tremble of his hands and the smell of his skin, the heat of the cock in his mouth and knowing that the man wanted this like Charles did, that he was not alone.
Erik tipped his head back against the brick and caught his breath. Gott, he hadn't been expecting that – he'd almost forgotten how good it was with men.
Xavier was still kneeling at his feet, his face tilted down and away as he finished himself off, shuddering. Locks of his too-long hair fell across his eyes, and Erik brushed them back, let his fingers run through the soft strands until he was cupping the curve of his skull. Xavier leaned drunkenly into the touch, like a cat seeking affection, and sighed.
Erik froze, and pulled away.
Xavier's eyes popped open, and he stood up, tucking himself back in and zipping his trousers. He swiped the back of one hand across his red, swollen mouth and said brightly, “Right. Well. I don't suppose you're interested in continuing this somewhere with a bed?”
Erik shook his head stupidly.
“Pity,” Xavier said. “I love partycrashers.” He tilted a cheerful grin at Erik and vanished inside, leaving Erik blinking in the wake of one of the most efficient exits from a blowjob he'd ever witnessed.
He hadn't said a word the entire time.
The party noise peaked for a moment, someone shouting over the music; Erik shook himself, gathered up his things, and left around the side of the house. He had work to do.
The next day, Erik knocked on Xavier's door.
After waiting two minutes, he rolled his eyes, and knocked louder.
A shuffling sound came from within and the locks clicked back. Xavier squinted out at him, looking hungover and exhausted, but a pleased smile lit his face when he saw Erik. “Mr. Partycrasher!” he said, sounding surprised. “Please, come in, I can't bear all this sunshine.”
Erik stepped inside and closed the door. The shades were drawn, and by the half-light he could see that the room was even messier than when he'd left the night before, although the glasses had all mysteriously migrated to the kitchen. Xavier made a beeline for the bar and poured himself a drink.
“It's barely noon,” Erik observed, eyeing him critically. He was barefoot and wearing only his undershirt; his trousers from the party were clearly slept-in, wrinkled and riding indecently low on his hips without a belt, but the man acted as if it didn't even register. He'd expected Xavier to be hungover and at a disadvantage for this conversation, but Erik needed him to be coherent at minimum. “Rather early to be drinking, don't you think?”
“I think I'm still a bit drunk,” Xavier sighed. “The last of them didn't leave until seven in the morning - I'm afraid you woke me up just now.”
Erik wasn't surprised. He'd been up until almost 5 himself, and driven over as soon as he woke. He'd slept badly, and dreamt of Schmidt.
“Do you want anything?” Xavier offered, picking up his drink and turning. Erik studied his fingers on the curved glass tumbler and thought of the night before, how Xavier's hands had curled around his hips and pulled him in.
“No, thank you,” Erik said.
“By the way, I didn't catch your name last night,” Xavier added casually, as if they'd had a conversation about literature instead of a covert blowjob in the backyard. “We haven't met before, have we?”
“Erik Lensherr,” he said curtly. It was time to get this over with. “We've never met, but I believe you know someone I work with.” Xavier sat down on the couch opposite, a polite eyebrow raised. Erik drew a stack of pictures from his inner jacket pocket and said, “Her name's Moira McTaggart. I'd like you to reconsider her offer.” He laid the pictures on the table.
Xavier stared at him for a long moment, face blank with surprise. Erik stared back – his eyes were very blue in the daylight, he noted absently – until Xavier broke the gaze and looked down jerkily at the pictures. The uppermost photograph was a full-body shot of Xavier kneeling the night before as he opened his mouth to swallow Erik down; his eyes were closed dreamily, lashes dark and soft against the flush of his cheeks. His identity was unmistakeable.
Into the silence, Erik stated, “The state of Florida frowns on homosexual acts – up to seven years in prison, if I'm not mistaken.”
The sound of his voice – or possibly the nature of the threat – broke Xavier's fugue. The man rose abruptly and stalked away to the bar, where he shot back the rest of his scotch in a sharp motion. His expression was hidden, but Erik could read anger in the stiff line of his shoulders.
“Of course, you no doubt have excellent lawyers, but the trial will be extremely public,” Erik added coolly.
Xavier glared. "You think I care? Go ahead. It's not as if I have a good name left to damage." He turned his back, roughly uncapping a decanter of scotch.
Erik raised an eyebrow.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not," he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Of course, given your family's criminal history, the government would be forced to freeze your accounts upon your arrest - including your trust fund." Xavier froze, scotch bottle in hand. Erik allowed himself a moment of satisfaction for guessing correctly. "You won't need it in prison, but I believe you're using what you don't spend on booze to pay for the education of one Raven Darkholme, at boarding school in Switzerland. Expensive, but I'm sure a pretty girl like that can find some other way to pay."
Erik wished he'd been able to dig up the connection between Xavier and Darkholme, but there hadn't been time. Too old to be an illegitimate daughter; perhaps a former lover, or a distant relative of some kind. It didn't matter. Xavier would help him now, and fear of reprisal would keep him from betraying the operation to Shaw.
"You bastard," Xavier said, back still turned. His hand was white-knuckled on the bottle. "You son of a bitch. She's never done anything wrong."
"I don't care," Erik said harshly. "I would do far worse to take down Shaw."
“You're very talented at...photography,” Xavier said, his accent curling lewdly around the word. “Excellent work, making sure your face never made it into the frame.” He tossed the photos back onto the table and walked closer. “Do your superiors, know, I wonder? Do they think you're nobly sacrificing yourself for the cause, or do they know how much you like it, the sounds you make when you're fucking another man's mouth?”
Erik rose to his feet. “Don't even think about it,” he hissed, looming over the shorter man. “No one would believe you.”
“Oh, I think there's been quite enough blackmail tonight, my friend,” said Xavier, his eyes glinting in the low light, those red lips thinned into an ugly line. “But now that you've bought my services, don't you want to check the quality of the goods? You were certainly panting for it last night, don't you want to fu--”
Erik shut him up with a kiss.
Xavier stiffened and started to pull away, but Erik slid a thigh against his groin, pressed up, and his mouth opened on a gasp. He was already half-hard. Erik pushed him back towards the sofa, half-carrying him as they rutted together, Erik's hands on his ass pulling him closer, Xavier's fingers gripping desperately at his shoulders. He bit down on the curve of his neck just below his ear, and Xavier gasped and said, “Come on, you know you want to, shut me up.”
Anger shivered over him, making his hands shake as he unzipped Xavier and pushed his trousers down his thighs. Erik shoved him down to his knees, bent over the seat of the couch, and Xavier went easily, tilted his hips up and braced his hands on the cushions.
His shirt had rucked up to show an expanse of skin at the base of his spine – soft and vulnerable. Erik raked his fingernails down the pale flesh, and slid two fingers into his ass.
He was slick inside, and Erik almost wanted to laugh – he'd found someone to fuck him last night after Erik left, was stretched and raw and still begging for it. He wanted it to hurt, and Erik could certainly oblige. He had a lifetime of experience.
He pulled himself out, shamefully hard, and thrust in – too fast, too tight, but Xavier moaned and bucked up against him anyway. Erik pressed his face between Xavier's shoulderblades and drove in again, the friction sparking all the way up his spine. He could feel the muscles of Xavier's arms flexing as he jerked himself, so Erik gripped his hips tight with both hands and fucked him harder. They fell into a rough fast rhythm, Xavier shoving back insensibly and Erik catching him, heat building higher as they gasped and cursed until Erik bent low, leaned his weight on Xavier's back and bit down hard on the curve of his shoulder, revealed by the fallen-away collar of his shirt. Xavier shuddered beneath him, his arm jerking frantically, and came, the muscles of his ass clenching and pulling at Erik's cock. Erik ground into the tight wet heat, once, twice, three times, and fell after him.
When Erik came back to himself, Xavier was panting into the couch cushions, the line of his back tight under the wreck of his shirt. He made a muffled noise of pain as Erik pulled out and scrabbled at the cushions, pushing himself upright.
“Get off, get off,” he said frantically, and Erik dropped back on his heels as Xavier ran for the bathroom. Retching sounds drifted out into the living room, and Erik felt his own stomach turn over.
Interesting. So Moira didn't know about Erik's blackmail scheme. He smiled politely at her and said, “I'm sorry our last conversation ended on such a hostile note. I hope you understand.”
She grimaced sympathetically at him and said, “I get it. I'm just glad you're willing to help us on this one after all. Shaw's a real monster. I couldn't explain very well last time – classified, you know – and Lensherr thought you'd be more receptive if the story came from him. The restrictions aren't the same, anyway, since he's technically a freelancer.”
At Charles's startled eyebrow, she explained, “He spent three years hunting Shaw on his own, until he ran into one of our operations in Argentina. We more than doubled our intelligence on Shaw when we recruited him.”
Charles hid his confusion with his best understanding expression, and Moira turned to dig through a stack of folders that rested precariously on the table behind her, still talking. “I'm surprised he managed to talk about it long enough to convince you – insanely private doesn't even begin to describe Lensherr. If I didn't have his file, I wouldn't know more than the day we started working together, when he rolled up his sleeves and I saw the tattoo.”
Charles frowned at Moira's back. What did a tattoo have to do with anything? And why was Erik so obsessed with Shaw? To fill the gap, he said vaguely, “He was reluctant to give details, but he conveyed his opinion of Shaw quite thoroughly.”
“I bet,” she said, pulling a file marked Confidential out of the stack and setting it on the table. “Anyway, now that you're on board, we can give you the official rundown.”
She flicked open the folder and a picture of Shaw stared up at him – slightly younger than when Charles knew him, mustached and smiling. Moira said, “Meet Dr. Klaus Schmidt, alias Sebastian Shaw. Born in Stuttgart, educated at Heidelburg University, worked in research before the war. He took a job at Auschwitz in 1942.”
Charles touched the edge of the photograph. With a sinking sensation in his stomach, he put the pieces together: Erik's circumcision, his implacable hatred, a tattoo on his arm. The unsettled feeling he used to get around Shaw, despite the smooth charm and educated intelligence; all the times Shaw had praised eugenics, and Charles had argued it was idiotic to try to control something they didn't understand. At the time Charles had attributed his discomfort to the way Shaw repeatedly propositioned him, all of 15 at the time, naïve and just about to escape to Harvard. God, he'd been tempted: so desperately lonely without Raven, and Shaw was charismatic and talked to him about science.... Charles swallowed bile.
“We hadn't connected the Shaw identity with Schmidt until Lensherr showed up, but we had quite a bit of information on Kurt Marko, including Shaw's visit in 1947.”
[blah blah exposition]
Why hadn't Erik just told him this? Charles would have helped, if he'd known the truth.
[so basically my idea was that once Charles finds out what Shaw was, he actually wholesale commits to the mission with very little regard for himself (see: characters with low self-esteem and martyr complexes, my epic love of them) – but Erik doesn't know that, so he doesn't trust Charles but falls for him anyway and hates himself for it. And so goes their incredibly fucked up romance, a la the film]
Pocketknife
Erik doesn't like Edith Piaf
1952: The Hershey-Chase experiment proves the genetic information of phages (and all other organisms) to be DNA
1953: Watson & Crick (Apr paper), Barbara McClintock's paper on “controlling elements”
“I used to be quite good at forging my mother's handwriting,” Charles said lightly. “She was too drunk to notice the checks were missing, and our accountant was very discreet – even from his employer. I think everyone assumed Raven was her illegitimate daughter and very politely didn't bring it up.”
[at the racetrack]
His cuffs slid back as he raised the field glasses, and Erik caught a flash of ugly purple-black bruising
“Don't look so shocked, Erik,” Charles said. “I've dealt with it before.”
“What do you mean?” Erik said, startled.
“My wicked stepfather, of course,” Charles said. His voice was light but his fingers were white-knuckled on the binoculars.
At Erik's silence, he lowered the glasses but didn't look over. “Oh, was that not in his CIA file?” He laughed bitterly. “Rich men get away with so much in the privacy of their homes. I just assumed no one cared.”
“No,” he said defiantly. “Hangover.”
“Drinking again, are you?” Erik said scornfully.
Charles tried a smirk and felt it turn ugly on his face, but Erik didn't even turn to look. “It sort of... lightens my chores,” he said.
Erik cupped a hand gently around his jaw. “Charles,” he said, “you have to wake up.”
Charles turned his face into Erik's palm, seeking affection even in sleep – just as he had since the beginning, when Erik had been too blind to see.
“Raven?” he murmured, and Erik's heart broke a little.
“It's Erik,” he said, sweeping a thumb across Charles's cheek, across the freckles he knew so well and had never touched. “Charles, we have to leave now. You're very sick.”
Charles dragged his eyes open. His pupils were dilated, his gaze terrifyingly vague. “Oh,” he rasped, blinking rapidly, “I'd hoped it was a nightmare.”
He finally focused on Erik, fear tightening the corners of his beautiful mouth as awareness set in, and said, frantic, “Erik, you have to get out of here, they know I'm spying on them. They're poisoning me – some kind of yellow powder, crystalline maybe, I don't know. I can't walk on my own.”
“I'll get you out of here,” Erik promised, stripping out of his jacket and laying it over Charles, rolling up his sleeves. “I tried to call Moira for backup, but the phone's disconnected. I have a car outside, if you can get down the stairs.”
“I don't think I- Erik. You should go. I know where they've been doing the tests, you have to tell them – the Mantiquiera Mountains, there's a town, Maria da something. It's too risky if you take me, they could shut the whole thing down, Shaw could escape-”
Erik gripped him by the shoulders and shook him. “I'm not leaving you behind,” he growled, and kissed him hard, lifting him off the pillows into it. One of Charles's hands slid, shaking, into his hair, and he moaned into the kiss.
“Erik, Erik,” Charles said breathlessly, breaking away and peppering the line of his jaw with clumsy kisses. “Oh, god, I thought you hated me, I hated myself, please, do you mean it?”
Erik buried his face in the too-hot curve of Charles's neck and nodded. Fingers carded through his hair, still trembling unnaturally – Charles was so sick, and Erik had almost not come at all. He would have died thinking of Erik that way. The idea made him ache.
He leaned back and rested their foreheads together carefully, supporting Charles's head when he had trouble keeping it upright. “I never hated you, Charles,” he whispered into the breath of space between them. “I hated what I was doing to you. I knew what Shaw was, better than anyone, and I still....” He faltered, swallowed back bile. “How can you ever forgive me for that?”
“My choice, not yours, Erik,” Charles murmured against his lips. “I already have.”
The hand in his hair slid down to cup the back of his neck, warm and sweet, and for a moment, despite the danger, he wanted to stay forever.
“I thought you looked familiar at the party, 'Mr. Eisenhardt'” said a voice from the door, and ice slid down Erik's spine. “If it isn't little Erik Lensherr.”
Erik lowered Charles back down onto the bed, and said, without turning. “Mr. Shaw. Or should I say, Dr. Schmidt?” Charles clutched at Erik's jacket, drawing it up to his neck in instinctive fear, and Erik hated himself all over again for leaving Charles in Shaw's grasp for so long. He turned and glared.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Shaw said, his voice velvet with courtesy, belied by the revolver in his hand and the ugly curl of his lip. “All grown up and working for the CIA, how wonderful. But I see you still have that little weakness for the people you love.”
Rage boiled up in Erik's throat and only the press of Charles's leg against his hip let him swallow it down, his hands fisting in the sheets. Shaw had the upper hand, but Erik was not defenseless this time; he had to wait for an opportunity.
Shaw moved away from the door, shutting it behind him. “As touching as this reunion is, I really think Emma should join the party now, don't you?” He reached for the phone, lying on a table five feet away from the bed, his gun never wavering.
Erik tensed. It was now or never, he just needed a moment – but if he was shot then Charles was dead, too....
Charles's fingers brushed over his, and with a desperate pang, he opened his hand to Charles for what was probably the last time– and Charles slipped the pocketknife from his jacket into the palm of his hand.
Shaw picked up the phone, pressed it to his ear– and frowned, glancing away.
Erik flicked open his knife, and dove for the gun.
His left hand slid under the hammer just as Shaw fired, metal cutting into his skin, and the lance of pain drove his hand with the knife even harder into Shaw's throat. Shaw spasmed, the gun tumbling from his grip. Erik twisted the knife, blood gushing over his hands in an arterial flood, and watched the life flee from Shaw's eyes.
He let the body fall, and stared down at it for a moment, completely blank. The wave of satisfaction he'd expected never came – just an overwhelming tiredness and fear, desperate fear for Charles. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket automatically, and started cleaning off his hands and the knife.
“We have to go, now,” he said, turning to Charles, who was struggling upright in the bed.
“Erik, your shirt,” Charles said quietly, eyes wide. Erik looked down. He'd cleaned his hands, but his front and sleeves were soaked in red. “We'll never make it like that. Shaw's clothes might fit you – there, in the dresser.”
Numbly, Erik unbuttoned his shirt, ducking into the bathroom and tossing it into the tub, followed by his undershirt, wiping himself off with the fabric that wasn't soaked. He scrubbed his hands and face in the sink, dried the splatter off his trousers, and left the towel red on the floor, but his skin was clean enough to pass scrutiny. Grabbing the first shirt he could find in the drawers, he threw it on. It buttoned, barely: too tight across the chest and shoulders, too loose in the waist, but passable.
Tucking the shirt into his trousers, he crossed back to Charles, who had pulled on Erik's jacket and was teetering on the edge of the bed, clearly too dizzy to lean down for his houseshoes. Erik knelt and slid them gently onto his feet, brushing his fingers over the fine bones of his ankle. Between the jacket and the dark color of the pajamas, Charles wasn't completely unpresentable at first glance. They just had to make it down the stairs.
He pulled Charles to his feet and half-carried him to the door, urgency reasserting itself through the numb haze. “Come on, darling,” he said softly into Charles's ear. “Just down the stairs, my car's waiting outside.” Charles clutched at Erik for balance as they crossed the landing, hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt. He leaned more and more of his weight on Erik as they went down the stairs, moving agonizingly slow for silence.
On the fifth step from the bottom, the door to the salon opened, and Dr. Frankel came out. He gasped, “Charles! My god, is he alright?”
“Much worse, I'm afraid,” Erik said smoothly, nervous sweat prickling down his back. “I'm taking him to the hospital.”
“Surely Sebastian should take him,” Dr. Frankel said, frowning at the seeming impropriety. Footsteps from inside the salon signaled the approach of more curious guests, and Erik cursed silently – fucking Nazis and their love of civilization, even when it was just a veneer layered over their savagery. He kept moving towards the door, Charles nearly limp against him now. “Mr. Shaw is upstairs, phoning ahead to the doctors,” he lied. “I offered to drive them both, since my car is already out front.”
This seemed to satisfy the doctor, who nodded at the butler. The door swung open solicitously under his hand, and they were out into the open air. He heard one of the other guests ask, “Sebastian is phoning ahead? Emma, I thought you said the phone was disconnected-”
The door swung shut and Erik picked up Charles and raced down the steps, heaving him into the passenger side and climbing over the bench seat to settle behind the wheel. A shout came from the house as he turned the ignition, and he slammed his foot down on the gas. Shots rang out and he ducked as the back windshield shattered, then they were away, racing down the long curve of the driveway and out on the road.
Charles curled into him, pressing his face into Erik's shoulder. He was shivering, though his skin was burning hot through the fabric of Erik's stolen shirt. Erik pulled him closer and prayed he had not come too late.
He called in from the first gas station they passed, almost twenty minutes later. Moira answered, and though she was furious when he told her how long it'd been since he escaped the house and blown the investigation, she started barking out orders to unseen people, arranging roadblocks and agents at the airport and train stations.
“There's more, McTaggart,” he said, and told her about the town in the mountains. She cursed in sheer predatory glee.
“Lensherr, I could kiss you. We'll find it and get agents to the area right away,” she said, papers crackling loudly in the background – maps, he'd wager. Smart woman. “Tell Charles I'll kiss him– oh shit, Erik, is Charles okay? Did you get him out?”
“His cover's been blown for awhile,” he said grimly. “He says they were poisoning him – at least a week and a half, I'd guess, he was already looking ill the last time we met. I'm taking him to the hospital now.”
“Oh my god,” she said. “Go, go, I've got all I need! I'll tell the hospital you're on your way in.” She hung up on him, and he felt an unprecedented wave of fondness for her as he ran back to the car.
[...and Raven shows up at some point]
“No, Charles,” Raven said sharply. “I have spent eight years pretending and letting you protect me because I was scared and too young, but I'm an adult now. I have an education and I know who I am, and now it's my turn.”
Charles lifted his hand and delicately wiped a tear from her face. Softly, he said, “Raven, you mustn't feel like you have an obligation. That was never what I wanted.”
“Don't be stupid,” Raven sniffed, capturing his hand and holding it to her cheek. “Of course I don't owe you anything. I'm your sister.”
Charles twined his fingers with hers and held on tight, unable to speak.
She stayed with him like that until he fell asleep.
Erik startled awake at the sound of the door clicking shut, and his hand was halfway to his gun before he recognized Raven Darkholme.
“Miss Darkholme,” he said. “Is Charles asleep?”
“Yeah,” she said, dropping into the seat beside him. He straightened, rolling his shoulders covertly to work out the stiffness. She pinned him with a look, traces of tears on her cheeks and the red rims of her eyes.
“So, what did Charles tell you about me?”
Erik dropped his gaze from hers. There was still blood on his shoes, he noticed with a dull shock.
“Not much,” he said finally. Charles had somehow forgiven him for the blackmail, but she would not. He couldn't, himself. “I knew you were important to him, but not why. He calls you his sister, but there's no record of Sharon Xavier having another child.”
“We're not related. But he is my brother,” she said fiercely, glaring at him like he was going to disagree. “He's the only family that matters.”
“We look enough alike that people believed Charles when he told them so, but the truth is, my parents.... I was abandoned, during the war. I was so hungry, and I broke into the kitchen of the mansion and Charles found me there. Most kids would have called for help, but he just....” She shrugged helplessly. “Took care of me. Told me I could stay, if I wanted. He came up with this whole ridiculous charade with telegrams and convinced the staff that his mother had sent me to live there. We only had two years like that before she remarried, and Charles sent me off to boarding school on stolen money so her new husband wouldn't find out.” She picked at her nails, a nervous tick that Erik could see the bloody tracks of all over her fingers. “Two years there, and another three years in Boston, before the trial and packing me off to Switzerland. I fought him on that, but he was so scared for me. Begged me to go
“We didn't have a lot of time together, really. Two years at the mansion, two more in Boston. Lots of letters in between.”