Title: Another Day, Another Dick
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Wordcount: 676
Rating: G
Characters: Charles Xavier
Notes: vaguely Noir, for Genre
Summary: some guy wants an investigator


Xavier has his feet up on the cheap and shiny desk with the electric fan going full blast, but he's nothing approaching comfortable. He swivels slightly, tipping back his head and angling his throat into the tepid stream. It doesn't help much. His assistant tells him that he pouts; he guesses he must be doing that now, but Erik's off paying bills while the cash lasts so there's no one to smirk at him.

The number and arrangement of minds about the building shifts and Xavier expands his awareness down to the street. He rents a third floor walk-up for reasons other than the low rent; the time it takes to toil up the steep stairway has been extremely welcome more than once. A bit of discrete mental observation in the lobby followed by a long climb prevents many surprises.

This new mind is indeed seeking out C.F. Xavier, Private Investigator, happily for commercial rather than nefarious purpose. At length the footsteps shift from slow and labored to light and relieved as the unfamiliar mind moves out of the stairwell into the hallway. When they halt at the door Xavier sighs and rights himself, resettles the knot of his tie, though rebuttoning his top shirt button is a step too far, and feels for his Luger, grumbling at the necessity but what can he do if Erik's not around?

There’s a perfunctory tap on the pebbled glass and a man enters: medium height, medium build, grey suit, grey fedora, grey mind. Xavier shakes his head. Someone is pushing forgettable all the way into memorable but he lets it pass and rises, offering his right hand. He shoots left, after all. “C.F. Xavier. What can I do for you?”

The man’s grip is annoyingly limp, and Xavier retrieves his hand with relief, wondering idly if it signifies about the guy’s dick.

“I’m looking for a private eye to check up on a cheating dame.”

Huh. Maybe he’s onto something.

“Not my wife, you understand. But Ella’s tough to keep an eye on, blends in real well, and my pal suggested that I hire a telepath. I’ve got a photo here...” The man slides his hand towards his breast pocket, clearly expecting to be stopped.

Xavier maintains his benign half-smile and does not roll his eyes. He accepts the proffered photograph; a woman is leaning against a brick wall, smiling and smoking a cigarette. He blinks. It’s the oddest thing, the way her hair fans out against the wall, odder that he can’t quite tell the difference. Her dress, too, seems to shade into the brick. Her mutation is fascinating, entrancing, utterly beautiful. And useful, too. Erik will... Xavier schools his reaction but when he looks up he catches the tail end of an offensive smirk. He smiles sweetly, saving his attempt at Erik’s chilling grin until he’s got the money in hand. He hasn’t quite got it down yet, anyway. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Rosenheimer. And where does this lovely lady live? Work? Spend her time? Are you aware of any other mutations she may have? Oh, and I’ll need that grand, the one in your belt, not the five hundred you slipped behind Ella’s picture. Thank you. Have you decided whether to answer my questions or insist that I prove telepathy? You’ll answer? Very good.”

* * *

Xavier secures the cash in the strong box, cursing again when he remembers that he first must locate the key. It’s not exactly Erik’s fault, but the small annoyance does ensure that the guy - the client, now - will not escape unscathed. Xavier sighs contentedly as he resumes his former sprawl, head back and feet on the desk.

As Mr.Rosenheimer enters the foyer he is seized by the sudden conviction that the heavy front door sticks badly, and Xavier listens in on a satisfying jolt of annoyance, pain, and fear of a broken nose. Guys with limp dicks being dodged by chameleonic girlfriends don’t get to smirk at C.F. Xavier.

~*~