i crouch like a crow, contrasting the snow

[nocharmingman]

The small card bends in his hand, its damning text visible against the pale surface. The twin of the one left at the scene; although this one he never discarded-- a mute reminder that he and the men that he kills are not entirely in opposition. Tucking the calling card back into the innermost pocket of his tailored blazer, Erik traces his thumb

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[walkingthegrid]

His brow lifts before his head ever does, attention drawn from the amber liquid and to the new presence. It's a curious thing, someone-- especially a man if he were to be honest-- settling themselves across from Charles. Most in this pub knew he was an Detective and preferred to keep him as far away from them and their dealings as possible. Not that he was that kind of cop anyhow-- he wasn't interested in underhanded poker games or how much cocaine they had snorted off of the bathroom counter-- no he dealt with blood. Homicide hadn't been his intention, not when he joined the first, he was contented to be a patrolman and just help people-- the kindness in his heart ever persistent even when it shouldn't be. However, he was (un)fortunate enough to be talented; moving up through the ranks quickly all things considered and he was basically shoved into homicide after tracking a man down on his beat. He had an eye for detail and the talent to keep the facts together; and in a way, he told himself, he was still helping people. Stopping killers to keep them from venturing onto their next target.

"Evening," He mimics the greeting when he finally pauses to take him in. Tall, decently so, built well enough, broad shouldered but not too thick; all things one might observe in passing Charles makes a note of. Not that he's too terribly suspicious, not yet, but because it's what he does. He's not entirely sure he can turn that part of his brain off anymore. He's never really tried. The look of the man doesn't read street worker, at least not the usual sort-- and with the way Charles practically radiates cop that seems ever more unlikely. "Can I help you?"

[nocharmingman]

He smiles, and it's not snide, but it's something close to devious-- though still erring just short of it. Lifting his own glass, Erik sips it deliberately, eyes hooded when he looks back over at the other man-- who is clearly, from what he can see, drained. Sitting back, shoulders dropping, any hint of danger that hung about him is abruptly lost; replaced by a jauntier air.

"I don't believe you can," while appearing mildly bored, Erik still watches the man intently-- after following him, analyzing the movements and mannerisms-- getting to know his tracker; meeting the man himself, in person, is a heady experience. It's a direct flirtation with the man who is on his trail; who is charged with trying to get into his head; and there is an elegant irony in meeting him-- dangling the crux of the crimes so openly in front of his face, whilst he remains oblivious, "I recognize you." A well-timed pause, "from the newspapers. You're very perceptive-- with the killers."

It's risky to indulge the intrigue. Erik knows, but he cannot resist-- to mislead, if he can, would buy him time to continue his work, and time is vital now. The members of that hellish place are slowly dying off; brought to justice (although a vigilante's conception of it) faster and more effectively than the law could. Erik's tone could suggest something; he's possibly too intense in his stare, the shifting posture-- it's well-schooled.

[walkingthegrid]

"I'm flattered," He murmur sin a tone that suggests he isn't flattered at all. The thought itself is a bit unsettling, as if Charles would have to be nearly as off-kilter as the men he hunts in order to follow their trail; but just sane enough not to turn into the same kind of man. It makes him anxious, in all honesty, because there are some days he wakes up and wonders if he could become one of them. Though, so far, he's always erred on the side of justice. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Not everything was as clear cut as he'd like; but that was the court's problem not his. He was tasked with bringing them in, not passing judgement, a messenger of lady justices' will, in a sense. The intent look isn't something he's missed; it's one he's seen in a few standoffs-- be directed at himself or someone else. Though he doesn't jump to any conclusions; no if he did that he'd be poor at his job.

"Do you mind?" He asks as he plucks a packet of smokes from his pocket, shaking it so one filter will pop through he top. Obviously he isn't inclined to wait for an actual answer-- this stranger has invaded his space, if he didn't like the smoke he could move. Plucking it up between his thumb and forefinger he pops the tan paper through his lips and drops the pack back into his pocket. Speaking around his cigarette his tone is turning a bit softer, "It's been a long day--" Lighter found with his opposing hand he rolls the flint a few times till it flares to life and he cups a hand around the tip of the smoke till it's lit and he can take a proper drag. Letting the cigarette hang from his middle and index finger he scratches the tip of his nose. He doesn't usually smoke-- he was supposed to quit-- goddammit. There was just something unsettling about this conversation.

"Look. Guy,--" He gives him a quick appraising glance, "-- I can't give you any information you wont find in the papers." Not that he didn't know more than that, of course he did, but that wasn't for the general public and especially not for unnerving men in bars. He took another drag and tried not to think about how badly Raven would murder him if she found out. "If that's what your after."

[nocharmingman]

The man seems to have some intrinsic sense of him, and it does not set Erik's teeth on edge as it probably should. It draws him in; fascinated and lured by the other's face-- his manner, and the set of his eyes; this, the foil. His detective. While killing to erase the members of the cult that had nearly destroyed him, Erik is far from a morally upstanding man. It had begun as a misguided obligation; the slit throats and the hot spill of blood-- the widening eyes-- but he had begun to enjoy it; developed a taste for those last seconds and the vital power that they afforded him.

But Charles Xavier he does not want to string up; because here is his equal, if ever there was the possibility of one existing. Composing his features, preventing any of that real zealous fascination from leaking through, Erik shakes his head once, signaling that he did not mind if the other smoked, and his attention sputters over the other bar goers before alighting carefully on Xavier.

"Not at all, and I'm no reporter. Your work simply interests me,"-- it's almost true. Although the man himself provides the real magnetism, "Erik," he offers a hand across the table, "and you are--?" He knows, of course, but he asks regardless, wanting that causality that an introduction would offer. Offering a smile, he tries for charismatic, but ends up something just shy of wolfish.

[walkingthegrid]

There's a small quirk of one of his brows as he takes a short drag, the comment and then the extension of his hand is a curious thing to Charles, but he permits it all with little more than that twitch in his passive facade. He switches the smoke to his less dominate hand and offers the other up in return. Getting a grip he gives Erik a good shake, "My work interests you, and yet you don't know my name?" There's a bit of a sly curve to the corner of his mouth but it's dismissed as soon as it's there. "Charles," He tips his head toward the man before drawing his hand back. Placing the cigarette back between his fingers, he flicked the filter a time or two, tumbling ash into a spare cup.

He settles back into his chair, watching the other for several more seconds as the smoke tumbles out from between his lips, tracing up and very nearly bumping the top of his hat before it faded into the air. "Now, I'm curious, I'll admit-- what exactly is it you hope I can provide you with, Erik?" He questions with the vaguest wobble to his hand, the smoke spiraling upwards with the little movements before settling into a line when his hand stilled again. If the man didn't want undisclosed information, what exactly did he want?

[nocharmingman]

"Maybe I just want to hear it from you," he smiles widely, charmed by the young detective-- utterly fixated by the colour of his eyes, they're a blue he has not encountered before, perfectly bright and perfectly saturated-- and it's enough for him to muse for too long, caught in the sight of them, "I'm not looking for anything from you, Charles," Another smile, and there's something more than just polite interest in it, "unless you have a spare cigarette on you, of course," leaning both his elbows on the table, Erik has edged forward as Charles had edged backwards-- cutting the distance as he follows the pluming spirals of smoke; the movement from between the other man's lips; darkened in the dim light.

"Of course I'll compensate you, are you going to make me buy you a drink? Or should I offer?" A droll smirk follows, and Erik leans back now, fingers tracing idly over his bottom lip, then jaw-- still bewitched by the idea that this is the crux of his danger; this man could have him arrested, committed, killed-- and he could still attempt to charm him, to bring him in. Killing a police detective? He'd dare. Killing this police detective? He's torn two ways. One one hand he'd like nothing more than to keep him; but on the other he'd like to put an end to him-- slowly, drawing it out, and savoring those parted lips.

[walkingthegrid]

Charles isn't entirely comfortable with the way he makes his name sound, wonders briefly if he should have told him to address him as Detective Xavier; because that was what most were allowed to call him. Everyone but his former partner, boss and of course his sister. She usually called him old, though, so he supposed maybe the rules should apply to her too. "I just got off work, buddy," He mutters as he eases the pack from his pocket again, sliding a smoke out and offering it to him. "I don't get your fascination." Not int he same way, Charles had made this his job; he was looking out for people, stopping the bad guys and all that jazz. He hated the little flies, the reporters and rubberneckers who all liked to loiter as close to the dead body as they could get. Fascinated with the macabre and burying themselves in the deaths of others. He huffs out a snort, smoke twisting in the air.

"Most everything you'll read is bullshit," He elaborates as he leans back and gestures to the waitress to bring him another scotch. "Reporters like to make everything shiny and crazy and reckless-- they want people to be in terror so they'll buy more papers, but-- they're idiots. They're only causing more trouble, bringing us false leads." Another snort as thin fingers twisted the cigarette between them. "It's not random, I'm damn sure of that, hell-- I even told them that, not yet anyway-- but what do I know?"

[nocharmingman]

Erik accepts the smoke with a teasing pause, ensuring to catch the other man’s eye when he does so-- but pulls away, lighting the cigarette before the implication is altogether too implicit, “is that so?” He questions blandly, not altogether caring for the man’s professional opinion on the case, he’s intimately acquainted with the finer details of it himself anyhow; though he does enjoy the idea that he’s providing the feds with a perplexing chase.

Charles is the more engaging subject, he wants to pick the man apart; the psychological subtleties-- wants to determine whether or not this uncannily perceptive young detective is an eideteker; if they have that dangerous sting of mutuality between them that would complicate everything so beautifully.

“This case of yours, the calling cards? Oh it doesn’t look random to me in the slightest. What a pity you can’t get into the man’s mind, hmm?” Taking an elegant drag, wavering trails of smoke punctuate Erik’s words, “or can you? I suppose they would not have hired you if you couldn’t blur the lines for yourself in order to see as they do.”

[walkingthegrid]

There's another scrape of his short thumbnail against the skin of his chin while he listens to the strangers questions; they're unusual and still stink of reporter to him, but they're more about himself than the case which only serves to make him slightly bemused. If they were looking to slander his good name as a reason the killer hadn't been caught then they would have to put quite a bit of work in-- considering the only person he saw regularly outside of the force was his sister and he knew for all their little fights she'd never say a word against him; even in the instances where it might have been deserved. "You can never be too sure, can you?" He raises an eyebrow slowly before taking a long drag and letting it out in a few rolling puffs.

"I can assume that I think like he does, that I track his same steps and figure out his thoughts-- but you never really know till you catch them; it's ass assumption and logic before then. That primal part of your brain that suggests what you might do if you were in the same position, motivated by the same things, but you can never be absolutely positive till your face-to-face and you can see it." His voice dips, just a bit, near the end before he chuckles at his own intensity and takes another drag. "I wouldn't think of it as blurring the lines," Or at least, he'd rather not, "I think of it more as... educating myself in the killers ways; they can be quite fickle, little hints here and there, habits, those sorts of things-- they paint a picture of themselves and it's just my job to see what fits and what doesn't."

[nocharmingman]

Taking a thoughtful drag on the cigarette, Erik's head tips just slightly to the side, inquisitive, but not entirely-- just interested enough to be attentive, and just attentive enough to be self-serving, "And you spend all that time around this person, whom you've never met, just learning about the mechanics of them." He takes the cigarette from between his lips, turning it between his fingers, the plume of smoke wavering in the air, "must be-- entertaining." He's getting more inquisitive now, wanting to push at the boundaries and try to needle for more information, because his sense of vanity is very much an influence, and he wants to know the extent of his own enigma, is absolutely fascinated by the idea of it, "odd how these people can be any of us. It could be me for all you know, hmm?" Affecting a raffish grin, Erik sits back, bringing the cigarette to his mouth for another long pull; the smoke whispering through his teeth in a dragonish haze.

"Another round?" He motions to the glass on the table, tongue moving over his bottom lip, eyes slipping upwards to light on Charles'-- a little more than exploratory now; he can't keep his intent at bay altogether; it's still present, and it comes off as somewhat wolfish, but he wears it with charisma, "I did offer."

[walkingthegrid]

"It could be you," His tone sounds far less amused than Erik's own, or even than his own had been moments before. He didn't like that idea, but it was a curious thought at the very least. He took a little drag, mostly brushing the filter of his cigarette against the painfully red lower lip of his. Debating this idea for a long moment, "That takes a different sort of narcissism than I had thought, but it wouldn't entirely be out of the pattern; after all, all murder is self serving in a sense, so I wouldn't entirely be surprised." He murmurs as he takes another short drag before he let out a slow puff of air and smoke.

"One more glass," He shouldn't, but he was still stable on his feet and he could down another glass before he headed out into the chill and carried himself home. The other was interesting, he couldn't tell now if he was an interviewer, one of those obsessed fans or something else. That calculating gaze of his own turned on the other man.

[nocharmingman]

"Hypothetically speaking, of course," Erik quips back over his shoulder when he stands to order at the bar; moving with casual grace-- there's something tightly wound about him; restrained in the set of his shoulders, and it's not danger, although it's not purely ease either. Charles' focus isn't easy to hold; because there's intensity there too-- in the sheer electricity that colours his blue eyes, and he wonders if he's been caught, if the detective has somehow, through a lifetime of association, simply sniffed him out. Returning with two more glasses of scotch, he sets one down in front of Xavier, watching the man levelly.

"Shouldn't you be worried, if I'm your calling-card killer, hmm?" And he wants to tack something on the end of that, just to add scorn-- some endearment to irritate the man. It's endlessly amusing to know how close the detective is to real danger, how perfectly ironic that he's seated opposite the one man who could truly hurt him. The one he's chasing. Erik's too interested to try anything for the moment, however, "are you nervous?" A bark of laughter, and he takes a healthy drink of scotch.

[walkingthegrid]

"I think I'd be the least likely to be worried," He answers simply as he lifts the drink, taking a sip form the class. His own assumptions kicking in rather than things he knew as fact. "A killer like this, he leaves calling cards and they're not accidental; he wants to claim these kills as his own as well as taunt the police-- he think's he's smarter than us, that he can avoid capture on his own brilliance. Killing me would be akin to cheating the game. It would be like admitting I'm close to catching him, and therefor smarter than he is, I don't think that's something he'd be keen to do. Not yet anyway, I don't think he's any more afraid of me than I am of him." He rubs his jaw thoughtfully, the filter of the cigarette ghosting his lips but not passing them yet.

"I'm more nervous about the rest of the people in the city, the ones who could fall prety to his games-- I've no doubt he fools them too easily. Which is why he needs to be caught, of course."

[nocharmingman]

"Sounds like a stand up guy," Erik croons, everything about his voice a purr-- not too evident, but still beneath the strongly European-sounding consonants, "I wonder if he knows you're on his tail. That'd be enough to send me out the country-- a man like that in the same town," he takes a drink, swirling the scotch around the glass and eyeing the amber liquid with a dourly, half-interested gaze.

It's soon turned, inevitably, on Charles again, and he smiles, wide and sudden, "you take this job pretty seriously, don't you. Even off duty. Can't say I've seen many cops like that; must be a real killer in regards to your social life." He almost wants to irritate the man, to pry just enough to find out more; get information that he otherwise would not have managed to glean from the newspapers alone.

[walkingthegrid]

"I imagine if you know, he knows, if it's in the paper I can't see how he wouldn't know." He muttered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Really, he had no doubt the killer kept track of the media coverage of his crimes, any well informed killer would have to do that if they didn't want to be caught. Knowledge is power and things like that, of course it was all assumptions and things of that nature; but he liked to think he had a good enough grasp on the killers motives and things of that ilk.

"What isn't there to take seriously about a serial killer? People are dying; people I can save-- if I'm slacking on my job then I'm no better than he is." He scowled a little, he could tell the man was needling; though he wasn't entirely sure if it was intentional or not-- though he didn't care to find out.

[nocharmingman]

"You're right I'm sure, being the authority in this regard," he responds, glibly raising the glass to his lips again-- breath fogging the rim of it; teeth clicking once as he drinks, before commenting, "interesting how you're so quick to equate yourself with him. Is that why you decided to become a detective, Charles?"

Tipping his head towards the other man, he gives him his entire attention-- as if fully invested in what he had to say. In some ways he is-- because Charles is so terribly intriguing to him, and he wants facts to pull apart, to analyze long after they've left the bar. He could catch this man; find him, find his apartment and kill him. But it would be so-- unsporting. The next man may be some idiot criminal profiler, applying Freudian theories to his techniques and categorizing him, neatly boxed into a catalogue of killers-- checklisted with traits.