Author'sNote:This is my first attempt at writing for this fandom (actually my first attempt at writing in any fandom for quite some time) and I hadn't intended to do it. But after reading a number of prostitute!Charles stories, I noticed a definite lack of prostitute!Erik stories. So I finally decided to try my hand at one. I tried to keep things historically and geographically accurate, but I make no guarantees. I will also try to keep to the movie canon (not remotely familiar with the comics), though I have adjusted the timeline slightly. It is my intention to keep everyone in-character as much as possible, but the basis of the story (i.e. childhood effects us as adults ,so a different childhood could lead to a change in outlook andto some extentpersonality) does require certain changes in Erik. However, I do hope to keep his core personality consistent with movie canon.

One such discrepancy is Erik's appearance. Movie-Erik is too sleek for his station in this story. For an illustration of Erik as he appears here, go to (minus the spaces)

http:/ www. michaelfassbender. org/ romee. html

Chapter 1

Summer 1942

The Lensherr's didn't have much. Most of their possessions had been confiscated when they were taken to the ghetto two years ago. But they had managed to retain a little, carefully hidden away all this time. And they knew that there were ways to leave Warsaw if you had the money and connections – dangerous, uncertain ways. For two years they held onto the hope that they would all get out alive, that this nightmare would end peacefully. But it was clear now that the ghetto was being liquidated. It was no longer a matter of if they would be deported, but when.

Herr Lensherr knew how to pick his battles. The chances of getting three people out of the ghetto together were nonexistent – and even if it could be done, it would cost a fortune. But maybe, just maybe, they had enough to get the boy out. There was a man who lived by the old courthouse near the edge of the ghetto. Rumor had it that he could get children out, though he denied it vehemently. But when Herr Lensherr approached him with all he had – a small fortune by ghetto standards – he agreed to sneak the boy out.

"How soon?"

"Three days time. Have him in the courthouse by curfew. Everything will be taken care of."

"Where will they take him?"

"Away from here."

They filled their son's pockets with what food they had and layered every spare piece of clothing on his little body despite the summer heat.

"Mama, I want to stay with you and Papa!" the little boy cried. His mother wiped his tears, holding back her own.

"Erik," said Herr Lensherr, crouching down to his son's level, "how old are you now?"

"I'm ten, Papa," he sniffed.

"That's right. You're a big boy now. So I need you to be brave and strong. You must do as Herr Werner says."

"But what about you? Why can't you come, too?"

Frau Lensherr pulled her son to her so he wouldn't see the tears streaming down her face. "Everything will be alright, mein liebchen." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small locket, beat up and worthless, that she had kept hidden even from her husband, and put it around her son's neck, tucking it under the layers of clothing. "This was your grandmother's. She would want you to have it, to keep it safe. Be a good boy, Erik. Ich liebe dich."

February 1961

Charles Xavier scanned Cerebro's printout, crossing out the coordinates pinpointing Sean Cassidy. He had been an easy recruit, thrilled to be with others like him and anxious to learn. Charles was a bit concerned with the persistent flashes of spy films that ran through Sean's young mind but decided not to disillusion the boy just yet. There were so many more mutants out there to contact, he would leave the job description to Moira.

Raven dropped into the chair across from him, legs sprawled casually over the arm rest. "Sean's already determined to seduce Angel. It's pretty sad, actually." She watched her brother shuffle through the stack of maps before splaying one across the coffee table between them. "So who's next?"

Charles slid his finger along the page, stopping near the center. "There's a mutant in London – a young man, I believe."

"Charles, there must be a dozen mutants in London. Pretty big place. Besides, with the CIA funding these little trips, I thought we were supposed to stick to the States."

"Yes, I know, thank you. But this particular mutant…I just can't ignore him any longer. Raven, when I see him in Cerebro, he's just so…bright. I can feel the power radiating from him, drawing me to him. I've been trying to dismiss it, but it's fascinating."

"Have you talked to Moira about recruiting from overseas?"

"Well, no. But I hardly need them to fund the trip, and I most certainly do not need their permission. We are volunteers, remember, not employees."

"Fair enough. When do we leave?"

"Actually, I was hoping you would stay. There's another young man I'd like to talk to, and I thought perhaps you could take Hank. He's taken a bit of a shine to you and it would do him good to get out and about."

"No way! Charles, if this guy is as powerful as you think he is, he could be dangerous. You're not going alone."

Charles quirked an eyebrow at his sister. "Thank you for your concern, Raven, but I believe I can handle the situation."

"You don't even know what the situation is!"

"That may be, but I'm not exactly helpless myself, you know. Anyways, dear sister, this isn't up for discussion. I need you to stay on task here. The reports of Shaw in Cuba have been confirmed; he'll be influencing Castro in some way, for some dark purpose. We may not have much time left. Perhaps this mutant in London can help; perhaps not. Regardless, we need to build our defenses while we can. I need you here."

Raven sighed. "You've dug your heels in on this one, haven't you?"

"Very much so, yes."

"Fine. I'll go to New York with Hank. But be careful, Charles. Not everyone's intentions are as pure as yours."


Charles sat in the back of the black taxi in Piccadilly Circus, fingers pressed to his temple. He had been disappointed to learn that the coordinates had landed him in one of London's busiest and most transient areas. When Cerebro had recorded the mutant's location weeks ago, he could have been just passing through. There was really no reason to assume he would be returning to the intersection at any given time.

Still, Charles closed his eyes and stretched his powers through the sea of humans, searching for the familiar buzz of a mutant's mind. He felt one a few miles east – a little girl with the rather unremarkable ability to grow her hair at will. There was a teenage boy to the west who had been born with a lizard-like tail. His parents had it removed shortly after and the boy would never have any idea that he was a mutant. He let his mind brush past a handful of others, none of which contained the devastating power that had mesmerized him in Cerebro.

And then there it was.

The driver jumped at the sharp gasp that escaped his passenger. A quick peek in the rearview mirror showed the young man frozen, eyes wide and hand trembling at his temple. "Are…are you alright, sir?"

"Uh…yes…yes, of course. Could you take me…No, never mind, it'll be better…" He tossed a note into the front seat, flung himself out of the cab, and dashed down the street, following the psychic pulse pounding through his head in time with his heart. He slowed down on Old Compton Street and began cycling through the myriad minds clogging the sidewalks and doorways, pushing roughly through the storm of mental chatter, zeroing in on the one shining, red hot mutant mind.

His powers and his eyes locked onto him in the same instant, drawing him slowly forward. The man sat on a stoop half a block away. He held a tattered paperback in one hand and brought a cigarette to his lips with the other, inhaling slowly. As Charles approached, he saw that the man had loosely curled auburn hair, blown messily in the wind. He wore a white v-neck t-shirt under a worn grey suit jacket and tight black pants. Slightly dazed, Charles stood in front of him and cleared his throat.

The man looked up at Charles with blue-gray eyes. "I'm not working at the moment." But he quickly took in Charles' fine clothes and reconsidered. "Though I suppose I could be if the price were right."

Charles frowned, confused. "I…what? I'm sorry, my name is Charles Xavier. I know this is a bit odd, but is there somewhere we could talk privately? About your…gift?" He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a secretive and knowing manner.

The man let out a short huff of laughter and smirked. "Like I said, if the price is right."

Charles looked around as if he hoped to find a translation of the cryptic responses written on the walls. "Perhaps I could buy you a cup of coffee?"

The man considered him for a moment. "You want to buy me coffee and talk about my 'gift?" He shrugged. "Why the hell not?"

They settled into an outdoor table at the small café across the street. Before Charles could speak, the man leaned forward and smiled seductively. "So…Charles, was it? Why don't you tell me exactly what you'd like to do with my 'gift'?"

Charles swallowed, caught off guard. Was this stranger a telepath as well? Could he possibly have read Charles' mind and seen his work with the CIA and their intentions in Cuba? Or was it possible that mutants had already tried to recruit him, putting him on guard? Perhaps even Shaw himself? Charles weighed the dangers of broaching the touchy subject to a powerful, cautious mutant armed with little information against his moral duty to stay out of people's heads uninvited.

He couldn't help it. He had to see what this strange man knew. He peeked.

And then he choked.

In the very front of the stranger's mind, Charles caught a glimpse of himself. He was naked, the man on his knees before him, hands on his hips as he tongued the head of his cock. He heard the man think, 'I could charge him double. I bet he wouldn't even blink an eye.'

The man pulled back and quirked a slightly suspicious eyebrow as Charles coughed up his sip of coffee. "Everything alright there, mate?"

Charles cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before looking back up at the stranger. "Are…are you a – " he dropped his voice to a hissing whisper, "a prostitute?"

The man raised both eyebrows now and lot a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. "You must be kidding me. I don't have time for this. Thanks for the coffee, Charles." He got up.

Charles stared after him with his mouth hanging open. He had been prepared for any number of reactions: excitement, joy, wariness, anger, reluctance, refusal. But to approach the most powerful mutant he knew of and be propositioned by a male prostitute? That possibility had never entered his mind. He blinked himself furiously back to his senses, jumped up and started jogging after the man. "Please! Wait!" The man turned to face him, arms crossed over his narrow chest. "I'm not here to judge you, I don't care what you do for a living. I just want to talk to you." He glanced around and dropped his voice. "About your mutation."

The man's nostrils flared and he began nodding slowly. "Of course. I should've known you were one of those Jesus freaks, though I have to admit, 'mutation' is a new name for it. Very creative." Charles sputtered and tried to interrupt but the stranger powered over his objections. "Next time you want to preach to me about my mutation, you can pay for the pleasure like everyone else."

Charles watched in a daze as the man took the stairs to his flat two at a time and disappeared through the door. He shook his head, still stunned. But without the mutant to distract him, he suddenly became aware of the other minds surrounding him.

And a number of those that had witnessed the exchange were projecting some very hateful thoughts in his direction. For such an intelligent man, it took Charles a dangerously long time to realize he'd just been pegged as an anti-homosexual crusader in the middle of Soho.

Everyone on the street froze in place as Charles walked quickly from the scene

Credit: The story title is taken from the first verse of "Sleepwalker" by The Wallflowers. Full credit goes to Jakob Dylan.