Fic: Not Giving Up (Victorian!AU) 1/?
Title: Not Giving Up
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG
Warnings: alcohol, implied painful memories (not explicitly mentioned)
Summary: In 1895, Charles is a lowly constable at the Toronto Constabulary when a surprising man is pulled in for murder that he didn't commit. Victorian AU Chapter 2 Chapter 3
Word Count: 900 (hopefully later chapters will be longer)
Author's Notes: Technically this is a crossover but I don't know anyone who is familiar with Murdoch Mysteries (a Canadian, Victorian, turn of the century, mystery show). I promise that you won't be confused if you've never heard of it. The characters that aren't mine aren't central to the story and are very well explained.
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. Charles and Erik belong to the comic book world and the rest belong to Maureen Jennings
“Xavier! Get in here! And bring Crabtree with you!”
“Sir.” Charles nodded back to his angry looking Scottish Chief Inspector who was hollering out of the door of his office. Inspector Brackenreid did a good job of convincing him that redheads were liable to have a large temper. Charles turned to his fellow constable, George Crabtree, who nodded and followed him into the office.
“All right boys, what’s this I’ve been hearing about betting in the workplace?” Inspector Brackenreid downed his glass of alcohol, eyes shining past his ginger mutton chops and intimidating demeanor. As usual, he had his jacket thrown over the side of his chair and his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, uncovering his ginger haired forearms. Charles glanced over at the curly haired constable next to him, decked out in the black button down jacket and bobby hat of the Toronto Constabulary.
Crabtree was innocently eager to remedy the situation, “Well sir, I wouldn’t call it betting so much as healthy competition for improvement, sir. You see-”
“I don’t care what you call it!” Brackenreid’s Scottish brogue was thicker now and getting louder by the second. “I damned well don’t want it in my station do you hear?”
Charles looked at his recently shined shoes like a chastised school boy. Unfortunately, it didn’t allow him to escape Brackenreid’s notice.
“Xavier! I don’t want to see you backing out of this. It’s you they’ve been betting on isn’t it?”
Charles nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“You lot have been trying to see how many times Constable Xavier here will ‘guess’ right? How many times his ‘hunches’ on a suspect will be right on the dot? It’s luck. That’s all it is.”
Charles licked his lips nervously and continued staring at the floor. He was always right of course. Mind reading was an incredibly useful skill when determining whether or not a man is guilty.
“Now I don’t give a damn how often your guesses are right Xavier but I want this betting business put to an end. Is that clear?”
Crabtree tried to intervene, “Of course, sir, but-”
“Is That Clear?!”
Both Charles and Crabtree nodded resignedly at the patriarchal authority of their boss. “Yes, sir.”
“Right then. Hurry along with your work and send in Murdoch. We’ve got a murder investigation underway.”
“Right away, sir.” said Crabtree, always eager to please.
Charles followed him into the main lobby of the station just as a man in handcuffs was being led through the door. He looked like a convict with sharp accusing eyes and a clenched jaw. His dark hair was falling out of a slick down part as if he’d been in a struggle. The bruise on his cheek only confirmed Charles’ suspicion. He played the part of convict so well that Charles wanted to accuse him on the spot. Charles initiated a gentle nudge into the man’s mind. He didn’t want to quit his winning streak just yet.
With mind reading, some people were easy. They’re heads were full of average troubles and secrets and it was really quite dull. But others were like a physical blow. This mind was like that. Charles felt as though he had jumped into ice cold water, then as if he were wading through vast distances of mud. This man was guilty of many things, Charles decided, but not murder. He winced. At least not yet.
Upon reaching an intensely guarded section of the stranger’s mind, Charles reeled back in excitement. His name was Erik and not only was he innocent of the crime for which he had been convicted but he was someone like Charles! He was… Charles had been conducting research on his own and after much thought had finally decided on the term “neo-human” to denounce this special state of being. He had only ever met a few others which included his adoptive sister but he had yet to find someone of his own age with powers so strongly developed.
“Calm down ‘Professor’” Charles chuckled, mentally calling himself by the pet name his younger sister, Raven, had for him. She often joked that even as a constable he had a professorial attitude about him. Charles chose to ignore this sentiment most of the time as it made him feel old. The most resilient image he had of a professor entitled someone stiff necked and bald. Charles sure as hell did not want to be bald.
The attempt to calm himself down was not successful and he continued to fantasize about tests and research that might lead him to further conclusions about his own elusive species. It wasn’t until Erik shot him a terrible glare that Charles came back to reality.
He tried to smile amiably at the tall, muscular narrow faced gentleman wearing work clothes of a poor man. It was the least he could do. Erik had suffered so much… Charles shook his head. There was much to despise about being “special”.
“Charles!” Constable George Crabtree’s heavy Canadian accent caught his attention. “Charles, we need you to dust for prints off of the evidence from the Shaw crime scene.” Crabtree slammed a box full of items from a hairbrush to a day book on Charles’ desk. “Detective Murdoch wants the results as soon as possible.”
“Right away… sir.” Charles said mockingly in his British accent that was posh and out of place for a policeman in the Toronto Constabulary.
Good naturedly, Charles pulled the box close to him and got to work.
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG
Warnings: alcohol, implied painful memories (not explicitly mentioned)
Summary: In 1895, Charles is a lowly constable at the Toronto Constabulary when a surprising man is pulled in for murder that he didn't commit. Victorian AU Chapter 2 Chapter 3
Word Count: 900 (hopefully later chapters will be longer)
Author's Notes: Technically this is a crossover but I don't know anyone who is familiar with Murdoch Mysteries (a Canadian, Victorian, turn of the century, mystery show). I promise that you won't be confused if you've never heard of it. The characters that aren't mine aren't central to the story and are very well explained.
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. Charles and Erik belong to the comic book world and the rest belong to Maureen Jennings
“Xavier! Get in here! And bring Crabtree with you!”
“Sir.” Charles nodded back to his angry looking Scottish Chief Inspector who was hollering out of the door of his office. Inspector Brackenreid did a good job of convincing him that redheads were liable to have a large temper. Charles turned to his fellow constable, George Crabtree, who nodded and followed him into the office.
“All right boys, what’s this I’ve been hearing about betting in the workplace?” Inspector Brackenreid downed his glass of alcohol, eyes shining past his ginger mutton chops and intimidating demeanor. As usual, he had his jacket thrown over the side of his chair and his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, uncovering his ginger haired forearms. Charles glanced over at the curly haired constable next to him, decked out in the black button down jacket and bobby hat of the Toronto Constabulary.
Crabtree was innocently eager to remedy the situation, “Well sir, I wouldn’t call it betting so much as healthy competition for improvement, sir. You see-”
“I don’t care what you call it!” Brackenreid’s Scottish brogue was thicker now and getting louder by the second. “I damned well don’t want it in my station do you hear?”
Charles looked at his recently shined shoes like a chastised school boy. Unfortunately, it didn’t allow him to escape Brackenreid’s notice.
“Xavier! I don’t want to see you backing out of this. It’s you they’ve been betting on isn’t it?”
Charles nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“You lot have been trying to see how many times Constable Xavier here will ‘guess’ right? How many times his ‘hunches’ on a suspect will be right on the dot? It’s luck. That’s all it is.”
Charles licked his lips nervously and continued staring at the floor. He was always right of course. Mind reading was an incredibly useful skill when determining whether or not a man is guilty.
“Now I don’t give a damn how often your guesses are right Xavier but I want this betting business put to an end. Is that clear?”
Crabtree tried to intervene, “Of course, sir, but-”
“Is That Clear?!”
Both Charles and Crabtree nodded resignedly at the patriarchal authority of their boss. “Yes, sir.”
“Right then. Hurry along with your work and send in Murdoch. We’ve got a murder investigation underway.”
“Right away, sir.” said Crabtree, always eager to please.
Charles followed him into the main lobby of the station just as a man in handcuffs was being led through the door. He looked like a convict with sharp accusing eyes and a clenched jaw. His dark hair was falling out of a slick down part as if he’d been in a struggle. The bruise on his cheek only confirmed Charles’ suspicion. He played the part of convict so well that Charles wanted to accuse him on the spot. Charles initiated a gentle nudge into the man’s mind. He didn’t want to quit his winning streak just yet.
With mind reading, some people were easy. They’re heads were full of average troubles and secrets and it was really quite dull. But others were like a physical blow. This mind was like that. Charles felt as though he had jumped into ice cold water, then as if he were wading through vast distances of mud. This man was guilty of many things, Charles decided, but not murder. He winced. At least not yet.
Upon reaching an intensely guarded section of the stranger’s mind, Charles reeled back in excitement. His name was Erik and not only was he innocent of the crime for which he had been convicted but he was someone like Charles! He was… Charles had been conducting research on his own and after much thought had finally decided on the term “neo-human” to denounce this special state of being. He had only ever met a few others which included his adoptive sister but he had yet to find someone of his own age with powers so strongly developed.
“Calm down ‘Professor’” Charles chuckled, mentally calling himself by the pet name his younger sister, Raven, had for him. She often joked that even as a constable he had a professorial attitude about him. Charles chose to ignore this sentiment most of the time as it made him feel old. The most resilient image he had of a professor entitled someone stiff necked and bald. Charles sure as hell did not want to be bald.
The attempt to calm himself down was not successful and he continued to fantasize about tests and research that might lead him to further conclusions about his own elusive species. It wasn’t until Erik shot him a terrible glare that Charles came back to reality.
He tried to smile amiably at the tall, muscular narrow faced gentleman wearing work clothes of a poor man. It was the least he could do. Erik had suffered so much… Charles shook his head. There was much to despise about being “special”.
“Charles!” Constable George Crabtree’s heavy Canadian accent caught his attention. “Charles, we need you to dust for prints off of the evidence from the Shaw crime scene.” Crabtree slammed a box full of items from a hairbrush to a day book on Charles’ desk. “Detective Murdoch wants the results as soon as possible.”
“Right away… sir.” Charles said mockingly in his British accent that was posh and out of place for a policeman in the Toronto Constabulary.
Good naturedly, Charles pulled the box close to him and got to work.