calamity__
New Member
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β₯ closed 1x1 cherik rp β₯
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- Thread starter calamity__
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calamity__
New Member
The bar was packed. Charles had been under the impression that this was one of the more...underground bars in New York, but apparently he was wrong. People lined the room from wall to wall and at every table in between. Drinks were being ordered and exchanged and downed with incredible speed, the air smelled of a popular cologne that had came out yesterday mixed with alcohol, and the atmosphere was practically cackling with pure life. His head was spinning from over stimulation as thoughts buzzed in and out of his own pysche, some his and most of them not.
he should have been here by now-
where the hell did he go? is he seriously still talking to -i wonder how many free drinks i could-
the toilet paper is so shitty-
this shit is cheap-He couldn't open his mind to everybody in the bar. That would be pure chaos and would probably give him the headaches to end all headaches as well as a fucked up head for at least a week. No, he had to be careful when there were this many people milling about. It was so easy to get caught up in the rush of everybody's hopes and dreams and thoughts and lives, but Charles had to restrain himself. He wasn't here for everybody, he was here for one person.
His job at the college had proved to be a wonderful investment. It provided him with the academic stimulation that had driven him to pursue two PhD's at Oxford, as well as a perfect distraction from his more violent tendencies. The money was good, but it wasn't a real interest of his. His mother and step-father had left him with enough money to get him through three lifetimes over as long as he wasn't an idiot with it. The job was nice, though. He played normal during the day, and sometimes when he got too bored or too restless, he went out at night and played God.
Tonight was one of those nights.
It had been almost three months since he'd last gone through his ritual. He'd been suitably distracted at the University by one of his promising students (he and Rachel had talked for hours at a time about genetics before despite the fact that he was her Biophysics Professor) and by Moira, who Charles had valiantly rescued from embarrassing herself by wondering around the campus long after the college had shut down for the night.
She'd been a wonderful woman; smarter then she looked, head-strong and stubborn, and recklessly brave. Their dates has been pleasant, albeit less exciting then Charles's usual nights out. The sex had been awful, but Charles mostly blamed himself for that one since he had known going into it that Moira was a woman. He wasn't really sure what he'd expected from that one. He hadn't killed her out of respect for her and their short-lived relationship, and that was the highest compliment he was capable of giving.
Now that they had finally broken up for good, Charles was finally free. Free to go back to how things used to be, and free to go out to his usual bar and soak up the people surrounding him, and find his unlucky companion for the night.
"Charles!"
The bartender smiled when she saw him. He pushed his way through a couple standing in the middle of the room and reciprocated her grin once he reached the bar. Her mind was light, easy to pick out among the crowd since Charles knew it so well and just as easy to read.
I was beginning to wonder if he'd ever come back. He looks as if he's put on a few pounds.
She set a glass down in front of him, already full.
"Neat whiskey?" she questioned.
"Am I that predictable?" Charles joked.
"A man likes what he likes, ain't nothing wrong with that," she said.
Charles nodded, thanked her, and then retreated back to his corner with his drink. He took small sips of the alcohol, but tonight wasn't about getting drunk. He looked more approachable when he had a drink and looked as
Nobody seemed particularly interesting. Nobody was jumping out at him. Maybe he was getting rusty after being out of practice for months on end, but there wasn't any mind that was giving off something he could be drawn to. Usually it was almost unbearably easy to pick one out from the crowd; a mind that was so distinct and loud and buzzing with life that he couldn't help but snuff it out. It wasn't fun to play with the weak-minded ones, they caved so quickly.
He methodically combed through the minds of the crowd, jumping from head-space to head-space, but nothing managed to hold onto him. He wanted, no, he needed something fun. Something new and exciting. New York was home to over 7 million people, and yet Charles couldn't find one that managed to capture his attention for more then ten seconds.
God, he was practically twitching with impatience.
countstellations
rattling bag of bones
Three days. Three days was all it took for an entire life to be uprooted, adjusted, and replaced. A divorce, moving cross-country, and finally, settling in to the choices you made. Erik wasn't a fool- The transfer to New York was a fantastic step up in his career. The cost, he thought, would only be monetary. Something the job would be able to take care of. Evidently, money was not the issue. His wife - Well, ex-wife - gave the ultimatum, but what was done had to be done. Erik was a stubborn man in nearly all respects. Not heartless, but certainly unrelenting and steadfast in his ways. Solving cases, seeking justice, his job was his life. He could take pride in the work he did and better yet, he was damn good at it. There was simply no other way to live. Besides, most mutant-related cases he'd seen from New York tended to be prettyβ¦ Intriguing. Itβs not every day you come across criminals which could and would level an entire office building. This proved to be the proverbial straw that broke their marriageβs back. The more dangerous, the more Erik felt the need to step in. It wasnβt fun, it wasnβt glamorous, but he needed to do it. It was an obligation he felt in his soul and in his blood.
The room is dim, walls still lined with boxes left packed and labeled. They would be there tomorrow, and most likely stay put for the next few weeks. Whatever was necessary was already unpacked and strewn across the desk. Sounds of the city encroach the four walls, casting its siren call to the world. While he was not the city type by any means, Erik needed to get familiar with his surroundings, and that meant going out. As chance would have it, he also needed a drink. There are a few envelopes, advanced to this address, emblazoned with legal insignias. A shining platinum ring sat on top, chill to the touch, but clearly worn.
The letter opener bent slightly in his hands.
He sighed and released his grasp, letting it fall and tumble onto the jumble of papers on his desk. Perhaps, he thinks, two drinks.
The night air welcomed him with neon lights and a crisp breeze. After wandering nearby blocks passing packed bar after packed bar, Erik decided to duck into a doorway before he could convince himself otherwise. The obnoxious cloud of spirits, cologne, and sweat pouring out from the entrance was nearly visible, though his chances of finding anything quieter were slim at best. In confident strides he approached the bartender, pushing his way through the noise and commotion.
"Vodka, please, on the rocks." he said, flashing a brief albeit friendly smile to her. She nodded and deftly poured. He took his drink and made his way to the outer edges of the tipsy masses, content nursing a drink and watching the room around him. Brief observation offered little returns. Nobody particularly interesting, though it was impossible to take in the entire room through the sea of bodies and heads. He continually scanned the crowd as people moved and more faces were revealed to him. His thoughts were calm but at the same time a mixed bag. On one hand, it was refreshing to be in a new place, on the other the unfamiliarity made Erik bristle.
Looking to his side he saw a man idling near a corner, perhaps Erik's age, also alone. He took a swig from his glass, letting his gaze stray, but his mind lingered. It had been a long time since he had mingled in a bar outside of work. After a last glance around the bar, he turned to the stranger and raised his glass in greeting.
βMind some company?β he asked. βAt least, some coherent company?β
The room is dim, walls still lined with boxes left packed and labeled. They would be there tomorrow, and most likely stay put for the next few weeks. Whatever was necessary was already unpacked and strewn across the desk. Sounds of the city encroach the four walls, casting its siren call to the world. While he was not the city type by any means, Erik needed to get familiar with his surroundings, and that meant going out. As chance would have it, he also needed a drink. There are a few envelopes, advanced to this address, emblazoned with legal insignias. A shining platinum ring sat on top, chill to the touch, but clearly worn.
The letter opener bent slightly in his hands.
He sighed and released his grasp, letting it fall and tumble onto the jumble of papers on his desk. Perhaps, he thinks, two drinks.
The night air welcomed him with neon lights and a crisp breeze. After wandering nearby blocks passing packed bar after packed bar, Erik decided to duck into a doorway before he could convince himself otherwise. The obnoxious cloud of spirits, cologne, and sweat pouring out from the entrance was nearly visible, though his chances of finding anything quieter were slim at best. In confident strides he approached the bartender, pushing his way through the noise and commotion.
"Vodka, please, on the rocks." he said, flashing a brief albeit friendly smile to her. She nodded and deftly poured. He took his drink and made his way to the outer edges of the tipsy masses, content nursing a drink and watching the room around him. Brief observation offered little returns. Nobody particularly interesting, though it was impossible to take in the entire room through the sea of bodies and heads. He continually scanned the crowd as people moved and more faces were revealed to him. His thoughts were calm but at the same time a mixed bag. On one hand, it was refreshing to be in a new place, on the other the unfamiliarity made Erik bristle.
Looking to his side he saw a man idling near a corner, perhaps Erik's age, also alone. He took a swig from his glass, letting his gaze stray, but his mind lingered. It had been a long time since he had mingled in a bar outside of work. After a last glance around the bar, he turned to the stranger and raised his glass in greeting.
βMind some company?β he asked. βAt least, some coherent company?β
calamity__
New Member
Charles startled a bit, fingers tightening on his glass as his gaze found the entrance to the bar. A couple stumbled out hand in hand, minds slippery from alcohol, and a new man made his way inside. The man himself was handsome to be sure, tall and muscular and a walking stereotype of the men Charles tended to attract, but it wasn't his looks that made Charles do a double-take. He'd seen handsome men before, but he couldn't say he'd ever felt somebody's mind jump out at him so quickly.
The man's thoughts weren't particularly loud, especially compared to some of the other parties in the bar. They had a natural stoic quality that seemed to suit the man himself, but there was something...different. Charles couldn't put it into any words. The man's head was conflicted, uncertainty and suspicion mixed with an almost eerie calm. He was a mixed bag of contradictions as well as an almost absurd amount of stubbornness. It wasn't everyday that Charles met a mind that was naturally resistant to his telepathic capabilities, but the man was practically oozing defiance. He was a fighter, Charles could have almost guessed that from nothing but the man's demeanor.
Charles gently let his telepathy slip into the man's head, and just as quickly as he latched on, he retreated. A careful graze had garnered him a few bits of basic information, including that the man was new to New York and was a mutant. Charles had found that mutants tended to be far more perceptive of his telepathy, and with a naturally guarded head the mystery stranger was far more likely to perceive Charles's mental interference.
He smiled into his drink as he took a deeper swallow then was necessary. Lady Luck was one of Charles's oldest friends, and tonight she didn't disappoint.
He didn't move from his spot. No, with a man like this it was better to let him come to Charles. He'd approach first only if necessary, but for now, he stood in his spot and nursed his drink with silent diligence. He caught the bartender's eye as she served the stranger his drink, and she gave a small wiggle and gestured at the man. Telepathy or not, the message was clear.
Look at this one, Doc. Right up your alleyway?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles set down the drink and checked, resisting a sigh when he saw that the email was from Paige. He was pretty sure that she was incapable of reading the papers that Charles passed out during class, and he was not surprised in the slightest to find that she had emailed him to ask him what the due date on the latest paper was.
He typed out a quick response, telling her the due date and reminding her that it was in the syllabus he gave them all at the beginning of the semester as well as the paper he'd passed out not two days ago with the details of the paper. Knowing Paige, when he got to class Monday afternoon she would be waiting for him and would ask for an extra copy of both things. He was almost half convinced she lost them on purpose just to make Charles's life harder.
Once the email was dealt with, he pocketed his phone once more. The stranger had settled at the table close to Charles, and he was looking at him. Charles didn't make eye contact. He took a dainty sip of his whiskey and waited until the other man spoke to outwardly notice his presence.
He tilted his head slightly, silently inviting the man over with a playful smile.
"I wouldn't mind company if it's yours," Charles said. "Are you visiting? You don't look like a tourist, but I've been coming to this bar for years and I've never seen you before...I know that your face isn't one I would forget anytime soon."
Charles knew he wasn't just visiting, but it was always good to keep people's suspicions as low as possible.
"I'm Charles."
He extended his hand in greeting. A handshake wasn't exactly typical when meeting people at a bar, but Charles could make an exception this once. He made sure to leave off his last name as well. The man wasn't a New York native, and was the same age as Charles, so the chances that he recognized the 'Xavier' name from the grisly murder/suicide that had happened years ago were low, but Charles liked to keep the odds at zero regardless.
It hadn't been a pretty day for the Xavier name. Natives still talked about the case from time to time; poor Sharon Xavier. Murdered by her abusive husband who proceeded to hang himself, and poor Charles who had discovered the scene. He'd been eleven at the time. He'd killed his mother on accident, had lashed out with his telepathy when she'd started screaming at him for millionth time. He hadn't meant to kill her, he'd only wanted her to stop yelling.
Kurt had been intentional. Charles's step-father hadn't been a good father, or even a good man. Charles had been all too happy to force the abusive prick to hang himself after contaminating his mother's death-scene with his fingerprints.
Charles was pretty sure the crime had gone semi-national, his parents had been a bit of a big deal in the world of the rich and powerful after all, and Charles had been painted as the poor orphaned boy who lost his father, mother, and step-father all within five years.
He thought it was fairly understandable that he'd want to put as much distance between himself and the story as possible.
The man's thoughts weren't particularly loud, especially compared to some of the other parties in the bar. They had a natural stoic quality that seemed to suit the man himself, but there was something...different. Charles couldn't put it into any words. The man's head was conflicted, uncertainty and suspicion mixed with an almost eerie calm. He was a mixed bag of contradictions as well as an almost absurd amount of stubbornness. It wasn't everyday that Charles met a mind that was naturally resistant to his telepathic capabilities, but the man was practically oozing defiance. He was a fighter, Charles could have almost guessed that from nothing but the man's demeanor.
Charles gently let his telepathy slip into the man's head, and just as quickly as he latched on, he retreated. A careful graze had garnered him a few bits of basic information, including that the man was new to New York and was a mutant. Charles had found that mutants tended to be far more perceptive of his telepathy, and with a naturally guarded head the mystery stranger was far more likely to perceive Charles's mental interference.
He smiled into his drink as he took a deeper swallow then was necessary. Lady Luck was one of Charles's oldest friends, and tonight she didn't disappoint.
He didn't move from his spot. No, with a man like this it was better to let him come to Charles. He'd approach first only if necessary, but for now, he stood in his spot and nursed his drink with silent diligence. He caught the bartender's eye as she served the stranger his drink, and she gave a small wiggle and gestured at the man. Telepathy or not, the message was clear.
Look at this one, Doc. Right up your alleyway?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles set down the drink and checked, resisting a sigh when he saw that the email was from Paige. He was pretty sure that she was incapable of reading the papers that Charles passed out during class, and he was not surprised in the slightest to find that she had emailed him to ask him what the due date on the latest paper was.
He typed out a quick response, telling her the due date and reminding her that it was in the syllabus he gave them all at the beginning of the semester as well as the paper he'd passed out not two days ago with the details of the paper. Knowing Paige, when he got to class Monday afternoon she would be waiting for him and would ask for an extra copy of both things. He was almost half convinced she lost them on purpose just to make Charles's life harder.
Once the email was dealt with, he pocketed his phone once more. The stranger had settled at the table close to Charles, and he was looking at him. Charles didn't make eye contact. He took a dainty sip of his whiskey and waited until the other man spoke to outwardly notice his presence.
He tilted his head slightly, silently inviting the man over with a playful smile.
"I wouldn't mind company if it's yours," Charles said. "Are you visiting? You don't look like a tourist, but I've been coming to this bar for years and I've never seen you before...I know that your face isn't one I would forget anytime soon."
Charles knew he wasn't just visiting, but it was always good to keep people's suspicions as low as possible.
"I'm Charles."
He extended his hand in greeting. A handshake wasn't exactly typical when meeting people at a bar, but Charles could make an exception this once. He made sure to leave off his last name as well. The man wasn't a New York native, and was the same age as Charles, so the chances that he recognized the 'Xavier' name from the grisly murder/suicide that had happened years ago were low, but Charles liked to keep the odds at zero regardless.
It hadn't been a pretty day for the Xavier name. Natives still talked about the case from time to time; poor Sharon Xavier. Murdered by her abusive husband who proceeded to hang himself, and poor Charles who had discovered the scene. He'd been eleven at the time. He'd killed his mother on accident, had lashed out with his telepathy when she'd started screaming at him for millionth time. He hadn't meant to kill her, he'd only wanted her to stop yelling.
Kurt had been intentional. Charles's step-father hadn't been a good father, or even a good man. Charles had been all too happy to force the abusive prick to hang himself after contaminating his mother's death-scene with his fingerprints.
Charles was pretty sure the crime had gone semi-national, his parents had been a bit of a big deal in the world of the rich and powerful after all, and Charles had been painted as the poor orphaned boy who lost his father, mother, and step-father all within five years.
He thought it was fairly understandable that he'd want to put as much distance between himself and the story as possible.
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countstellations
rattling bag of bones
Erik returned the smile and settled in at the table.
βNo,β he said, taking a brief sip. βIt seems Iβll be around for a while. New York isnβt high on my list of getaways, but I followed my job.β He patted his hand against his trousers, quickly drying the condensation from his glass before shaking Charlesβ hand. A muddy handshake dooms a connection before it begins.
βErik. Pleasure to meet you, Charles.β he said. A little odd, perhaps, sharing only first names, though it was all the better for Erik. A chatty, over-sharing detective might be worse than a criminal of the same caliber.
As metallokinetics go, Erik considered himself a master. This served him well when dealing with potentially dangerous people. The ability to perceive and deal with physical threats before they are acted upon was a leg up that most in his field simply did not have. It did, at times, feel almost like involuntary echolocation. Since entering, Erik had counted three handguns out on the dance floor and a plethora of pocket knives and switchblades without so much as a passing glance. With intent to pursue, he ignores the chaos of metal around him. Most are put off when he asks why they think it's alright to carry two pistols and a garrote, but he felt comfortable around Charles, thus far having found nothing of ill intent on his person.
Now that he was in close contact, Erik took a moment to look over his opposite. Charles didnβt exactly fit the environment. He figured every bar around must cater to people of all sorts, however, not just the desperately sober. With the glass of whiskey in his hand, Erik could envision the other man confined to a desk and library, focused yet carried away with matters more pressing than happy hour. But, here they both were, glasses in hand. If Erik was still a spiritual man, he might have called it fate.
Of course, he knew better than that.
His gaze returned to the crowd. He snickered at a pair flailing their limbs every which way in some vain attempt at dancing. Sweat covered their skin, glistening in the light like flakes of opal. A brief memory flashed across Erikβs mind as he watched them writhe.
The muscles in his arms flexed as he realized. What a shame for an evening like that to be tainted by the guilt he felt years later.
βWhat is it?β he asked abruptly. βYou said youβve been coming for years. What keeps you, of all people, coming back here? The love of the dance?β He nodded his head toward the couple who had, apparently, attracted the attention of another patron who began twirling around them like a top gone haywire. Erik tore his eyes away. That was enough. With any luck he would be leaving this bar a person extra. Not eager to seem disinterested, he met Charlesβ gaze and held it.
βNo,β he said, taking a brief sip. βIt seems Iβll be around for a while. New York isnβt high on my list of getaways, but I followed my job.β He patted his hand against his trousers, quickly drying the condensation from his glass before shaking Charlesβ hand. A muddy handshake dooms a connection before it begins.
βErik. Pleasure to meet you, Charles.β he said. A little odd, perhaps, sharing only first names, though it was all the better for Erik. A chatty, over-sharing detective might be worse than a criminal of the same caliber.
As metallokinetics go, Erik considered himself a master. This served him well when dealing with potentially dangerous people. The ability to perceive and deal with physical threats before they are acted upon was a leg up that most in his field simply did not have. It did, at times, feel almost like involuntary echolocation. Since entering, Erik had counted three handguns out on the dance floor and a plethora of pocket knives and switchblades without so much as a passing glance. With intent to pursue, he ignores the chaos of metal around him. Most are put off when he asks why they think it's alright to carry two pistols and a garrote, but he felt comfortable around Charles, thus far having found nothing of ill intent on his person.
Now that he was in close contact, Erik took a moment to look over his opposite. Charles didnβt exactly fit the environment. He figured every bar around must cater to people of all sorts, however, not just the desperately sober. With the glass of whiskey in his hand, Erik could envision the other man confined to a desk and library, focused yet carried away with matters more pressing than happy hour. But, here they both were, glasses in hand. If Erik was still a spiritual man, he might have called it fate.
Of course, he knew better than that.
His gaze returned to the crowd. He snickered at a pair flailing their limbs every which way in some vain attempt at dancing. Sweat covered their skin, glistening in the light like flakes of opal. A brief memory flashed across Erikβs mind as he watched them writhe.
The room is spinningβNo, Erik is spinning. His arms high above his head, he looks up to see he is carrying a woman dressed in all white. The exquisite drapery lined with delicate strands of silver hangs off her legs and hugs her center, a silhouette Erik would know anywhere. The spinning slows, and his arms gently lower her to the ground. Magdaβs smile is plastered across her face, she screams and laughs in delight as they move together. This was his wedding day. Goaded on by alcohol, their small reception danced and drank for hours upon hours into the night.
The muscles in his arms flexed as he realized. What a shame for an evening like that to be tainted by the guilt he felt years later.
βWhat is it?β he asked abruptly. βYou said youβve been coming for years. What keeps you, of all people, coming back here? The love of the dance?β He nodded his head toward the couple who had, apparently, attracted the attention of another patron who began twirling around them like a top gone haywire. Erik tore his eyes away. That was enough. With any luck he would be leaving this bar a person extra. Not eager to seem disinterested, he met Charlesβ gaze and held it.
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calamity__
New Member
"A job transfer to New York?" Charles chuckled. "Either you're somebody important or somebody really hates you."
New York was where careers came when they either had one foot in the grave already or were ready to skyrocket to the top. What was the old saying? If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. This city had an odd way of making or breaking you, and Charles sincerely hoped that it would make the stranger into something great.
A careful brush against the other man's mind. The conversation hadn't evoked any particularly strong feelings of resentment or anger or sadness, which meant Charles was going to go out on a limb and say the man had been sent here as a promotion.
"Erik, the pleasure is all mine," Charles said with a smile.
A firm handshake. Good. Charles's father had always told him that a handshake was your first and best way to initially gauge a person. Charles's mother (before his father died and before she started drinking and before she remarried and before she took out all her frustrations with life on him) had instilled upon him, the importance of a strong hand and a good grip. It was, according to his parents, the best way to make a good impression in high society. While Charles wouldn't exactly call this bar high society, the lesson remained with him nonetheless.
Thoughts and emotions gently lapped at the edges of Charles's telepathy, nudging against his subconscious. It was near impossible to turn telepathy off completely, and Charles had given up trying to curb his mutation long ago; so , even while he focused on Erik, he found the other people in the bar all demanded his attention as well.
He took a pause in studying Erik, sipped at his drink, and allowed himself a moment to indulge at the thoughts intruding on the edges of his mind. Happiness and excitement were the primary moods in the air, slicked back with a drunken haze that Charles quite enjoyed. The feeling in the bar was so intense, held by so many, that Charles couldn't hide his own smile as the emotions of those around him filled his head-space. Underlying currents of sadness and anger and confusion were there as well, but they were nearly drowned out by the overwhelmingly happy mood of the bar.
The woman on the other side of the bar was thinking about asking for the bartenders number (a bad idea since Charles knew the bartender in question was happily married). There was a couple on their first date a few feet away on the dance floor. Another, older, regular was sitting a few feet away and kept thinking, very loudly, about how hot one of the men sitting at the bar looked.
It was almost intoxicating, drinking in other people's senses and thoughts and lives for himself, but he was only really interested in one person tonight. Charles carefully edged his telepathy away, put up some flimsy walls to hold off passing thoughts, and allowed his full attention to refocus on Erik.
The man was frustratingly hard to read. Usually Charles could skim people's thoughts almost subconsciously, they would just float by and land in Charles's head, but almost nothing came from Erik. He was a locked box, but Charles had always liked a challenge.
Then-a spike. Hard guilt suddenly appeared, and Charles knew that wasn't his own emotions. What could Erik be thinking about, in the middle of a bar, that could cause a sudden and intense guilt to arise? And then-it faded. Gone as quickly as it came and replaced with the linger of a sadness that most people never even bothered to acknowledge, so faint that Charles barely picked it up himself.
Erik became more interesting as the minutes passed. Charles would be damned to let him go.
"Dancing?" Charles outright laughed that time and shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm rubbish, my sister got all the dancer genes ."
A fact that had amused his father and frustrated his mother to no end, especially at fancy events when Charles would be forced to waltz and would end up stepping on his partners feet more times then he could keep track of.
"I just stopped in one day after work because I needed a drink and knew I didn't have any whiskey at my place, and the service was good and the whiskey was good and, most importantly, the people never bothered me. This place is also the best spot I've uncovered for people watching. It has a way of attracting some strange humans." Humans, not people, because there was a distinction. Humans, not mutants, like Charles. He was curious to see how perceptive Erik was; see if he would pick up on small clues.
"I'm also a college professor, and I have yet to run into one of my students here, so that is a wonderful bonus. What about you, Erik? You said you were for work, where do you work? Are you a secret government spy scouting out the best bars in New York?" Charles asked with a conspiratorial smirk.
New York was where careers came when they either had one foot in the grave already or were ready to skyrocket to the top. What was the old saying? If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. This city had an odd way of making or breaking you, and Charles sincerely hoped that it would make the stranger into something great.
A careful brush against the other man's mind. The conversation hadn't evoked any particularly strong feelings of resentment or anger or sadness, which meant Charles was going to go out on a limb and say the man had been sent here as a promotion.
"Erik, the pleasure is all mine," Charles said with a smile.
A firm handshake. Good. Charles's father had always told him that a handshake was your first and best way to initially gauge a person. Charles's mother (before his father died and before she started drinking and before she remarried and before she took out all her frustrations with life on him) had instilled upon him, the importance of a strong hand and a good grip. It was, according to his parents, the best way to make a good impression in high society. While Charles wouldn't exactly call this bar high society, the lesson remained with him nonetheless.
Thoughts and emotions gently lapped at the edges of Charles's telepathy, nudging against his subconscious. It was near impossible to turn telepathy off completely, and Charles had given up trying to curb his mutation long ago; so , even while he focused on Erik, he found the other people in the bar all demanded his attention as well.
He took a pause in studying Erik, sipped at his drink, and allowed himself a moment to indulge at the thoughts intruding on the edges of his mind. Happiness and excitement were the primary moods in the air, slicked back with a drunken haze that Charles quite enjoyed. The feeling in the bar was so intense, held by so many, that Charles couldn't hide his own smile as the emotions of those around him filled his head-space. Underlying currents of sadness and anger and confusion were there as well, but they were nearly drowned out by the overwhelmingly happy mood of the bar.
The woman on the other side of the bar was thinking about asking for the bartenders number (a bad idea since Charles knew the bartender in question was happily married). There was a couple on their first date a few feet away on the dance floor. Another, older, regular was sitting a few feet away and kept thinking, very loudly, about how hot one of the men sitting at the bar looked.
It was almost intoxicating, drinking in other people's senses and thoughts and lives for himself, but he was only really interested in one person tonight. Charles carefully edged his telepathy away, put up some flimsy walls to hold off passing thoughts, and allowed his full attention to refocus on Erik.
The man was frustratingly hard to read. Usually Charles could skim people's thoughts almost subconsciously, they would just float by and land in Charles's head, but almost nothing came from Erik. He was a locked box, but Charles had always liked a challenge.
Then-a spike. Hard guilt suddenly appeared, and Charles knew that wasn't his own emotions. What could Erik be thinking about, in the middle of a bar, that could cause a sudden and intense guilt to arise? And then-it faded. Gone as quickly as it came and replaced with the linger of a sadness that most people never even bothered to acknowledge, so faint that Charles barely picked it up himself.
Erik became more interesting as the minutes passed. Charles would be damned to let him go.
"Dancing?" Charles outright laughed that time and shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm rubbish, my sister got all the dancer genes ."
A fact that had amused his father and frustrated his mother to no end, especially at fancy events when Charles would be forced to waltz and would end up stepping on his partners feet more times then he could keep track of.
"I just stopped in one day after work because I needed a drink and knew I didn't have any whiskey at my place, and the service was good and the whiskey was good and, most importantly, the people never bothered me. This place is also the best spot I've uncovered for people watching. It has a way of attracting some strange humans." Humans, not people, because there was a distinction. Humans, not mutants, like Charles. He was curious to see how perceptive Erik was; see if he would pick up on small clues.
"I'm also a college professor, and I have yet to run into one of my students here, so that is a wonderful bonus. What about you, Erik? You said you were for work, where do you work? Are you a secret government spy scouting out the best bars in New York?" Charles asked with a conspiratorial smirk.
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countstellations
rattling bag of bones
Erik couldnβt suppress his laughter. He knew very well the implications of being sent to New York, having had a few coworkers thrust onto the same path. For the most part, Erik was confident his name wouldnβt show up in the job seeking columns (or the obituaries) for a long time.
βHealthy mix of both, I suppose.β A pause. βLeaning toward the latter.β He shrugged it off, taking another hearty drink. It felt comfortable, though a smidgen shocking, chatting it up with Charles. The two seemed to be of similar mindsets, at least as far as he could tell, and the other man wasnβt anywhere near hard to look at. He watched as Charles seemed to take in the room. As a regular, Erik was sure there were faces around that he recognized. Should they continue engaging, he found it all the more advantageous that Charles knew his way around at least one of the cityβs bustling bars. It wasnβt as if he was a lost puppy, suddenly aware of how to function in a new place. No, Erik had been βnewβ places all throughout his life and felt well-equipped to handle it. Nothing beats a native, though, to get you where you needed to go and with who you needed to talk to.
βIβm surprised, I took you for a man light on his feet.β he said, lips curled into a smirk. He nodded along as Charles delved into conversation, taking a few more sips to then realize his glass was nearing empty. The glass clinked lightly against the table as he set it down. Getting drunk, while it would be interesting, was probably not the best idea tonight. Best to take it slow, buy the next round, and let the alcohol simmer in the meantime.
Humans. An interesting use of the word, earning an inquisitive raise of an eyebrow. Being a mutant himself, as well as specializing in mutant-related cases, Erik was familiar with this sort of distinction. He felt no shame around his mutation, though βdonβt ask, donβt tellβ as a personal rule had benefited him in the past.
βAh, human watching, then. I understand.β He winked. If his line of thinking was correct, and it usually was, Charles was intelligent enough not to out himself but say just enough to make the connection to someone of similar genetics.
This presented a small dilemmaβShould he be forthcoming in his occupation? There werenβt many mutant-specific investigators in the states, thanks to early anti-mutant sentiment within law enforcement, so a quick search for that would probably reveal more about him than Erik would like. Keeping private
wasn't just part of the job description, it was in Erik's blood. In his earlier days, there had been frustratingly complex interference with investigations simply because people, human and mutant alike, knew who he was and why he was there. Now he knew the key to this job was to keep a generally low profile outside of investigations, to not set off any alarms when trying to get information.
He had only just met this man, but he certainly didnβt seem the criminal type, nothing like what usually ends up on his desk. If anything, Erik could see himself chasing after someone who had committed an offense against Charles. For godβs sake, he was a professor at the collegiate level, Erik doubted that he had time outside of work to do anything besides coming here. He considered his options for a moment, concealing his hesitation by finishing off his drink.
βNo, certainly not government. Besides,β he said. βIβm sure theyβve already got plenty of scouts around here for that.β He paused briefly. βIβm a criminal investigator. Iβm the one who takes the cases thatβ¦ Well, that most humans donβt particularly care about.β
With that, he nodded to Charlesβ glass. βCare for another? Iβm buying.β he offered. It was an easy way out of the topic, but Erik had never been one to discourage taking the easy way out.
βHealthy mix of both, I suppose.β A pause. βLeaning toward the latter.β He shrugged it off, taking another hearty drink. It felt comfortable, though a smidgen shocking, chatting it up with Charles. The two seemed to be of similar mindsets, at least as far as he could tell, and the other man wasnβt anywhere near hard to look at. He watched as Charles seemed to take in the room. As a regular, Erik was sure there were faces around that he recognized. Should they continue engaging, he found it all the more advantageous that Charles knew his way around at least one of the cityβs bustling bars. It wasnβt as if he was a lost puppy, suddenly aware of how to function in a new place. No, Erik had been βnewβ places all throughout his life and felt well-equipped to handle it. Nothing beats a native, though, to get you where you needed to go and with who you needed to talk to.
βIβm surprised, I took you for a man light on his feet.β he said, lips curled into a smirk. He nodded along as Charles delved into conversation, taking a few more sips to then realize his glass was nearing empty. The glass clinked lightly against the table as he set it down. Getting drunk, while it would be interesting, was probably not the best idea tonight. Best to take it slow, buy the next round, and let the alcohol simmer in the meantime.
Humans. An interesting use of the word, earning an inquisitive raise of an eyebrow. Being a mutant himself, as well as specializing in mutant-related cases, Erik was familiar with this sort of distinction. He felt no shame around his mutation, though βdonβt ask, donβt tellβ as a personal rule had benefited him in the past.
βAh, human watching, then. I understand.β He winked. If his line of thinking was correct, and it usually was, Charles was intelligent enough not to out himself but say just enough to make the connection to someone of similar genetics.
This presented a small dilemmaβShould he be forthcoming in his occupation? There werenβt many mutant-specific investigators in the states, thanks to early anti-mutant sentiment within law enforcement, so a quick search for that would probably reveal more about him than Erik would like. Keeping private
wasn't just part of the job description, it was in Erik's blood. In his earlier days, there had been frustratingly complex interference with investigations simply because people, human and mutant alike, knew who he was and why he was there. Now he knew the key to this job was to keep a generally low profile outside of investigations, to not set off any alarms when trying to get information.He had only just met this man, but he certainly didnβt seem the criminal type, nothing like what usually ends up on his desk. If anything, Erik could see himself chasing after someone who had committed an offense against Charles. For godβs sake, he was a professor at the collegiate level, Erik doubted that he had time outside of work to do anything besides coming here. He considered his options for a moment, concealing his hesitation by finishing off his drink.
βNo, certainly not government. Besides,β he said. βIβm sure theyβve already got plenty of scouts around here for that.β He paused briefly. βIβm a criminal investigator. Iβm the one who takes the cases thatβ¦ Well, that most humans donβt particularly care about.β
With that, he nodded to Charlesβ glass. βCare for another? Iβm buying.β he offered. It was an easy way out of the topic, but Erik had never been one to discourage taking the easy way out.
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calamity__
New Member
Charles found it was best for him to simply allude to being a mutant. Outright stating it usually created more problems then it solved; telepath's weren't exactly celebrated or welcomed even among mutant crowds. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Erik away, so he was content to use specific language and leave everything else vague.
Charles was, frankly, just happy that Erik had picked up on his clue.
He hid his smile and faint blush at Erik's wink behind another tentative sip of whiskey, also allowing Erik extra time to think about his response to Charles's question.
"Ah." Charles nodded in understanding. "You're a spearhead for justice for the forgotten. It must be terribly dangerous; you have to be an incredibly brave man Erik." Coming from any other mouth it might have sounded condescending, or even testing, but Charles had long founded his nature lent itself to complete sincerity with even the most ridiculous of comments.
It was incredibly brave, but it was also...well... it would also put a huge wrinkle into things. He'd dealt with criminal investigators before, one of which was one of his close friends, so Charles didn't see it becoming much of a problem. Except, there was something about it. Why did that sound familiar?
Yeah, we're getting this new hotshot investigator in from out West. It's got everybody in a fuckin' tizzy. He's supposed to be damn good at his job, specializes in mutant crime, and apparently he's a pretty powerful mutant to boot. Something about controlling metal; it's all in the file that I'll get around to at some point. Don't look at me like that, Chuck, I will. He's supposed to be here next week and hopefully he'll start getting a halfway decent lead on some of the assholes running around on the streets.
Charles was suddenly regretting not looking at the file that Logan had had laying on his desk.
This majorly complicated things. Killing Erik suddenly became a much more daunting task, and now any sort of indication of malicious intent from Charles might as well be a signature on his arrest warrant. If Erik was half as good as Logan had made him out to be, Charles was playing with fire. Dangerous, undeniably hot, and alluring fire. He couldn't resist even if he wanted to.
Charles glanced down at his drink, mind still racing a million miles a minute as he scrambled to adjust his plans to accommodate the new information. It was a little under halfway full.
Charles raised the glass, downed the rest of the whiskey, and handed it off to Erik. It wasn't made for chugging, but Charles had had plenty of experience from his college days. A couple of mouthfuls of whiskey was nothing compared to the cheap alcohol he'd chugged in alarmingly large quantities.
"Normally I don't let strangers give me free drinks, but I can make an exception for you." Charles handed Erik the empty glass with an appreciative smile. "Thank you."
He was content to let the topic drop, or at least be put in pause. He needed time to gather his thoughts, plan something out more meticulously. This wouldn't, couldn't, be like Charles's usual hit and runs of seduce and kill. He felt he'd unwittingly entered into a great game of chess, except he finally had an opponent who he hoped would present a challenge. If nothing else, this would be downright fun.
countstellations
rattling bag of bones
βBrave?β Erik nearly scoffed at that. βTry bull-headed.β It did take some amount of bravery, he supposed, to do his job. But that wasnβt the most important factor. Erikβs stubborn nature lent itself well to difficult investigations and, sometimes, cold cases. Determination, discretion, and obstinance is what landed him in New York.
Erik took the now-empty glass and turned his back to Charles with a weighty exhale. He navigated the short distance to the bar, dropping the glasses to the table and quickly ordering another round. The bartender glanced over Erikβs shoulder, probably to Charles, then handed back two full glasses, one dark and one light. Erik could appreciate a man with a love for dark liquor.
Though just a few meters away, the distance between himself and the table felt longer than ever as another group piles through the doorway. Erik suddenly found himself swarmed by young, intoxicated patrons, the tallest of which appeared almost completely covered in what must be the gaudiest coat Erik had ever seen. It clinked and rattled, seemingly a latticework of shattered metal fragments, and light danced off of its planes like an anthropomorphic disco ball. For just a moment, Erik was stunned. His skin felt charged with electricity, his fingertips tingled with power. The figure turned and some fractal of light hit Erikβs eye, making him squint and continue back to Charles. It wasn't often Erik felt stunned, but he'd never been met with an inanimate garment that was so loud.
βHere we are,β he said, sliding the new glass of whiskey to his companion. βLooks as if Dada is back in style. I
think youβd look lovely in that.β He motioned to the man in that long, silver coat, though it was likely Charles had already spotted it. A coat like that was hard to miss, even in this overcrowded bar. He raised his drink, the glass tinkling against Charlesβ in a quiet toast. Erik was quiet for a moment, his thoughts returning to their normal, even pace.
βIf you donβt mind my prying,β he began, careful to choose his words. βWhat is- What do you teach?β Erik wanted to ask about Charlesβ mutation, but he knew this wasnβt the place. He wasnβt sure, really, where the place was, but certainly not surrounded by strangers at various levels of sobriety. Erik had never been told explicitly to keep his powers to himself, but as a child it was unspoken. Growing up in a rural, small town, gossip spread quickly even between neighbors. If Erik had met any mutants in his youth, he didnβt know it. The world had progressed since then, but not enough. His profession was proof enough of that. Regardless, Charles' initial hint-dropping told Erik all that he
needed to know. This, certainly, was not the place.
Erik took the now-empty glass and turned his back to Charles with a weighty exhale. He navigated the short distance to the bar, dropping the glasses to the table and quickly ordering another round. The bartender glanced over Erikβs shoulder, probably to Charles, then handed back two full glasses, one dark and one light. Erik could appreciate a man with a love for dark liquor.
Though just a few meters away, the distance between himself and the table felt longer than ever as another group piles through the doorway. Erik suddenly found himself swarmed by young, intoxicated patrons, the tallest of which appeared almost completely covered in what must be the gaudiest coat Erik had ever seen. It clinked and rattled, seemingly a latticework of shattered metal fragments, and light danced off of its planes like an anthropomorphic disco ball. For just a moment, Erik was stunned. His skin felt charged with electricity, his fingertips tingled with power. The figure turned and some fractal of light hit Erikβs eye, making him squint and continue back to Charles. It wasn't often Erik felt stunned, but he'd never been met with an inanimate garment that was so loud.
βHere we are,β he said, sliding the new glass of whiskey to his companion. βLooks as if Dada is back in style. I
think youβd look lovely in that.β He motioned to the man in that long, silver coat, though it was likely Charles had already spotted it. A coat like that was hard to miss, even in this overcrowded bar. He raised his drink, the glass tinkling against Charlesβ in a quiet toast. Erik was quiet for a moment, his thoughts returning to their normal, even pace.βIf you donβt mind my prying,β he began, careful to choose his words. βWhat is- What do you teach?β Erik wanted to ask about Charlesβ mutation, but he knew this wasnβt the place. He wasnβt sure, really, where the place was, but certainly not surrounded by strangers at various levels of sobriety. Erik had never been told explicitly to keep his powers to himself, but as a child it was unspoken. Growing up in a rural, small town, gossip spread quickly even between neighbors. If Erik had met any mutants in his youth, he didnβt know it. The world had progressed since then, but not enough. His profession was proof enough of that. Regardless, Charles' initial hint-dropping told Erik all that he
needed to know. This, certainly, was not the place.
calamity__
New Member
Charles caught Clara's eyes and thoughts from behind the bar. You caught a good one tonight.
He gave her a small thumbs up as she passed off the refilled drinks to Erik once more.
More people continued to flood the bar; for every one person that left it felt as if three more filled their place. The newest group that happened to catch Erik up in their sudden appearance was just yet another small crowd to fill the already cramped space. They were all young, barely legally allowed to drink, and all of them were already on some kind of substance. All of their minds were coated with the noticeable feel of drugs, Three with marijuana, one with LSD, and one with something so strong that Charles almost got a contact high just from reading their thoughts. Cocaine? Heroin? He honestly couldn't tell and didn't want to read long enough to figure it out.
As more and more people continued to pile into the bar, the buzz in his head began to grow from comfortable background noise and was tiptoeing dangerously near overwhelming. So many people, all with so many thoughts, in one crowded space was a telepath's worst nightmare. A small crowd was good. Charles could handle a small crowd, and they acted like a white noise machine for his telepathy, allowing it to be soothed while he remained focused on whatever he was doing. A big crowd was a ticking time bomb.
He reached into his pants pocket, bypassed his cellphone, and instead grabbed the bottle of pills he always carried with him. The medication should be able to buy Charles another half an hour of staying at the bar without loosing his ability to think properly. He thanked Erik again once he returned with their drinks. Charles tapped two Excedrin out into his palm, accepted Erik's toast with a smile, and made quick work of swallowing them down with a splash of whiskey. Technically speaking, alcohol and his extra-strong migraine medicine weren't supposed to mix, but he'd never had a problem with it before. As long as he didn't drink in excess, he figured he'd be fine.
"That is a bit much, even for me." Charles glanced over at the coat in question, unsurprised to find it belonged to the man who's min had been so laced that Charles was finding it difficult to even get a comprehensive read on him. "But I appreciate the vote of confidence."
Nice to know Erik had at least some sense of humor. Charles returned the pill bottle to his pocket before giving Erik his full attention, unsurprised to find that the other man wanted more information.
"I'm a biophysics professor; but, my first PhD is in genetics, and I'm afraid that is where my heart really is. My dissertation focused specifically on genetic mutations, big and small. You for example." Charles smiled conspiratorially. "Take your hair. The MC1R gene mutating on chromosome 16 is what caused the lovely shade of auburn hair you have. It's a mutation. It's, as I used to say in my college days, a very groovy mutation. Genetics are, truly, fascinating. We went from being single celled organisms on the ocean floor to being the dominant lifeform on this planet, and now we're witnessing a new evolutionary phenomena of genetic supernatural abilities. It's the beginning of a new age of genetically superior people."
Whoops. Charles knew he was oversharing a bit, but he couldn't help himself. There was a reason he had three separate PhD's. He loved knowledge, and he certainly couldn't pass the opportunity to gush to another mutant about his fondness for genetics.
"It's all very exciting to a nerd such as myself, and it's probably why nobody would hire me to be a genetics professor. Employers would take one look at my paper, throw a mutant sympathizer stamp on it, and toss it in the trash," Charles said.
It was truly a miracle that Charles had even been able to publish some of the papers he had. Genetics wasn't exactly a controversial subject, but his study of genetics was. Mutants were typically thought of as something society needn't acknowledge, and academic journals often pulled away from publishing papers focused on mutants for that exact reason. Luckily, Charles happened to be extremely persuasive when he wanted to be.
"It's not the most glamorous job in the world, teaching a science that most students don't give a rats ass about, but it suits me. I've never been one for adventure and excitement and running around the city. I would much prefer to leave that to people like you, who are far more capable then I could ever hope to be," he finished.
His head was starting to hurt. Charles could feel the beginning signs that a migraine was headed his direction as the thoughts coming in and out of his head in the background began to grow in volume, vying for his attention. Drunken thoughts tended to be a lout louder and far more obnoxious then sober thoughts, and there were certainly plenty of drunken thoughts to go around tonight. Jesus, he was going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow morning, medication or not.
He gave her a small thumbs up as she passed off the refilled drinks to Erik once more.
More people continued to flood the bar; for every one person that left it felt as if three more filled their place. The newest group that happened to catch Erik up in their sudden appearance was just yet another small crowd to fill the already cramped space. They were all young, barely legally allowed to drink, and all of them were already on some kind of substance. All of their minds were coated with the noticeable feel of drugs, Three with marijuana, one with LSD, and one with something so strong that Charles almost got a contact high just from reading their thoughts. Cocaine? Heroin? He honestly couldn't tell and didn't want to read long enough to figure it out.
As more and more people continued to pile into the bar, the buzz in his head began to grow from comfortable background noise and was tiptoeing dangerously near overwhelming. So many people, all with so many thoughts, in one crowded space was a telepath's worst nightmare. A small crowd was good. Charles could handle a small crowd, and they acted like a white noise machine for his telepathy, allowing it to be soothed while he remained focused on whatever he was doing. A big crowd was a ticking time bomb.
He reached into his pants pocket, bypassed his cellphone, and instead grabbed the bottle of pills he always carried with him. The medication should be able to buy Charles another half an hour of staying at the bar without loosing his ability to think properly. He thanked Erik again once he returned with their drinks. Charles tapped two Excedrin out into his palm, accepted Erik's toast with a smile, and made quick work of swallowing them down with a splash of whiskey. Technically speaking, alcohol and his extra-strong migraine medicine weren't supposed to mix, but he'd never had a problem with it before. As long as he didn't drink in excess, he figured he'd be fine.
"That is a bit much, even for me." Charles glanced over at the coat in question, unsurprised to find it belonged to the man who's min had been so laced that Charles was finding it difficult to even get a comprehensive read on him. "But I appreciate the vote of confidence."
Nice to know Erik had at least some sense of humor. Charles returned the pill bottle to his pocket before giving Erik his full attention, unsurprised to find that the other man wanted more information.
"I'm a biophysics professor; but, my first PhD is in genetics, and I'm afraid that is where my heart really is. My dissertation focused specifically on genetic mutations, big and small. You for example." Charles smiled conspiratorially. "Take your hair. The MC1R gene mutating on chromosome 16 is what caused the lovely shade of auburn hair you have. It's a mutation. It's, as I used to say in my college days, a very groovy mutation. Genetics are, truly, fascinating. We went from being single celled organisms on the ocean floor to being the dominant lifeform on this planet, and now we're witnessing a new evolutionary phenomena of genetic supernatural abilities. It's the beginning of a new age of genetically superior people."
Whoops. Charles knew he was oversharing a bit, but he couldn't help himself. There was a reason he had three separate PhD's. He loved knowledge, and he certainly couldn't pass the opportunity to gush to another mutant about his fondness for genetics.
"It's all very exciting to a nerd such as myself, and it's probably why nobody would hire me to be a genetics professor. Employers would take one look at my paper, throw a mutant sympathizer stamp on it, and toss it in the trash," Charles said.
It was truly a miracle that Charles had even been able to publish some of the papers he had. Genetics wasn't exactly a controversial subject, but his study of genetics was. Mutants were typically thought of as something society needn't acknowledge, and academic journals often pulled away from publishing papers focused on mutants for that exact reason. Luckily, Charles happened to be extremely persuasive when he wanted to be.
"It's not the most glamorous job in the world, teaching a science that most students don't give a rats ass about, but it suits me. I've never been one for adventure and excitement and running around the city. I would much prefer to leave that to people like you, who are far more capable then I could ever hope to be," he finished.
His head was starting to hurt. Charles could feel the beginning signs that a migraine was headed his direction as the thoughts coming in and out of his head in the background began to grow in volume, vying for his attention. Drunken thoughts tended to be a lout louder and far more obnoxious then sober thoughts, and there were certainly plenty of drunken thoughts to go around tonight. Jesus, he was going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow morning, medication or not.
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