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"Someone's having a rough night," Azazel commented drily, as he watched Erik throw back yet another shot of coconut rum.
Friday nights at the Hellfire Bar were always pretty busy but Azazel was spending far too little time tonight actually doing his job because he was too busy looking after his disaster of a best friend, who was sitting on a stool the other side of the bar. Said best friend sighed and ran another hand through his hair, causing it to spike out even more than it had already.
"Can I have another shot?" Erik asked hoarsely.
Azazel pursed his lips.
"Please?" Erik added, with a sardonic smile.
Azazel rolled his eyes but dutifully poured out another drink and slid it across the counter.
"I hope you're planning on paying for all of these," Azazel said, smirking at Erik's grimace after the shot went down.
"Put it on my tab," Erik groaned, waving a hand and slumping on the counter.
Azazel glanced around the bar. Emma Frost was working tonight and wearing a very tightly fitted white waistcoat over her typical shirt, meaning most of the customers were gravitating towards her end of the counter. He had time to kill.
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong or are you just going to continue drinking in silence?" Azazel asked.
Erik glared at his friend, as if to choose the latter, but then he opened his mouth to speak.
"I broke up with Magda."
Azazel blew out a breath.
"Why?"
"Well, we just wanted different things," Erik said, in that self-consciously sarcastic way of his that usually led to a punch line. "I wanted her to meet my mother next weekend, and she wanted to fuck some freckled grad student from NYU."
Azazel winced sympathetically.
"How did you find that out?"
Erik laughed bitterly.
"They were in my bed, Az," he said, his voice strangled. "Where I sleep."
Azazel coughed.
"I'm really sorry," the bartender said. Then, in a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, he asked, "do you want something on the house?"
But Erik wasn't listening. He was glaring at something on Emma's side of the bar, shoulders tensed like he was ready to pounce.
"Wh-"
"That's him," Erik interrupted, snarling. "That's the piece of shit who took my girlfriend."
"Erik, wait!" Azazel said, but it was too late. Erik was already off at a stumbling run across the bar, elbowing past miscellaneous drunkards in his haste. Heart pounding furiously, he grabbed his victim by the collar of his shirt and raised a fist.
"Stay the fuck away from Magda," Erik spat, and he punched him.
The man crumpled against the counter like a puppet and for one triumphant, terrifying moment, Erik thought he might have killed him. Then, the man twitched his arms, and slowly pushed himself up, blood flowing wetly from his now unfortunately skewed nose.
"Who the bloody hell is Magda?" the man asked, looking up at Erik, his voice quiet and thick with blood.
Erik's eyes widened, as he slowly and drunkenly realised that the man he had just punched had a lot darker hair than he remembered of the man he had chased out of his apartment a few hours ago.
"Are you a grad student at NYU?" Erik asked weakly.
The man shook his head, spattering Erik's shirt with a few drops of blood as he did so.
"I'm a professor at Columbia," he said.
"Verdammte Scheiβe," Erik muttered, pressing a palm to his forehead. "I'm so fucking sorry. I thought you were someone else. I'm so sorry."
The man blinked, and looked like he was about to reply but, before he could, Emma Frost had suddenly appeared on their side of the counter as if by magic.
"Out," she ordered, looking at Erik and the man with that unamused expression that Erik, unfortunately, knew well.
"What did I do?" demanded the man, outraged.
"Out," Emma repeated.
Which was how Erik found himself and the man walking outside, onto the dark, urine-soaked pavement outside the Hellfire Bar.
"I'm really sorry," Erik said again. "I feel fucking awful."
The man raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for Erik to say something else, and, when he didn't, the man spoke.
"Are you done? Can I go now?" he asked, his tone clipped despite his muggy voice. "This nose isn't going reset itself."
"Yeah," Erik said numbly. "Let's get you to a hospital."
"Let's?" asked the man, coughing. "If you think I'm going anywhere with you, you are sorely mistaken, my friend."
"I'm not usually a violent person," Erik said, almost petulantly.
The man laughed wetly.
"And I don't usually spend my Friday nights spitting my own blood," the man said, convivially. "But here we both are."
"What's your name?" Erik asked quickly. "I'm Erik."
The man eyed him suspiciously for a moment. Then,
"Charles. Charles Xavier. And I really must-"
He trailed off, staring at Erik, who was making a rather peculiar jerking gesture with his right arm. However, it became clear when a taxi pulled up by the pavement, that this was his odd way of hailing taxis. Erik opened the backdoor of the taxi and looked over at Charles.
"Well, are you getting in, or not?" he asked, roughly.
Charles got in. To his surprise, so did Erik.
"Wait, I-"
"Get us to the nearest hospital, please," Erik said coolly, leaning forward to speak to the taxi driver. Then, at Charles' affronted expression, "I'm paying."
The ride to the hospital was a surreal one. Charles' nose had stopped bleeding, but now he was becoming acutely aware of his heartbeat in his right cheek, which probably indicated some sort of swelling or bruising. Erik, on the other hand, spent most of the taxi ride with his head between his knees and muttering something to himself that didn't sound English. Perhaps he was still apologising, or perhaps he was praying. Charles was rather close to praying that no one spilt their bodily fluids in the back of the taxi. Erik did look very drunk.
When they arrived at the emergency room, Erik insisted on having Charles lean on his shoulder, despite the fact that it was really only Charles' face that was injured. However, Charles was finding it difficult and time-consuming to argue logistics with Erik, who was still very inebriated, so he conceded to wrap his arm around Erik's shoulders and let himself be limped up to the queue of people waiting to tell the front desk their medical issues.
Friday nights at the emergency room were very busy. After a few minutes of awkward standing in the queue, during which Charles was still leaning heavily on Erik, Erik sighed dramatically and growled something vaguely Germanic and threatening, before pushing Charles' arm off his shoulders and stalking off to the front of the queue.
Charles tried to smile charmingly at the other people in the queue giving him dirty looks, but the effect was probably muted by the dried blood now masking his face.
A few more minutes passed. Charles was just wondering if Erik might have literally forgotten about him and gone home when he saw Erik tripping his way over to Charles in the queue with a concerningly wide smile.
"I found you a doctor," Erik said, with a smirk.
"By ethical means, I hope," Charles muttered, but he dutifully followed Erik down a hospital corridor, not wanting to wait around for longer than necessary.
Erik stopped suddenly, in front of a door labelled 'Dr Hank McCoy: Paediatrician', and turned around.
"I'm really fucking sorry," Erik said again.
"Is this the doctor?" Charles asked, not really wanting to forgive Erik for breaking his nose but also not desperately wanting to piss him off either.
"Yes," Erik said. "I will give you some privacy."
And then he ran off again.
Charles suppressed a small smile, and knocked on Hank McCoy's door.
It turned out that Hank was an old friend of Erik's and had begrudgingly agreed to quickly fix up Charles' nose before he left for the night.
"Does he make you do this often?" Charles asked, as Hank dabbed at his face with a disinfectant wipe. "Reset the noses of his victims?"
Hank chuckled, but otherwise didn't answer the question.
After they were done, Charles thanked Hank and offered to give him his medical insurance details, before Hank waved it off, saying "a friend of Erik's is a friend of mine".
Charles wasn't sure if he would call the man who'd just broken his nose a 'friend' per se, but he was also very aware of how shitty his medical plan was, so he didn't push it.
It was almost one in the morning when he left Hank's office, and retraced his earlier steps along the hospital corridor to where he and Erik had entered the building. The emergency room was even busier, if he could believe it, and Charles was just threading his way through the throng of bleeding and coughing people when he saw Erik, lying across an entire row of plastic seats and apparently fast asleep.
"Erik?" Charles exclaimed in disbelief. "Why on earth are you still here?"
Erik did not reply or even give any inclination that he was awake.
Charles looked around the room, aware of the many standing people who were probably annoyed at the healthy albeit drunk man who was taking up five seats. With a sigh, he walked up to Erik's reclining body and nudged him gently in the arm.
"Erik?" he said again. "You might want to wake up now."
Erik opened a bleary eye.
"It's you," he said, apparently having forgotten Charles' name. "I was waiting for you. Is your nose better?"
Charles' lip twitched.
"Yes," he replied. "Much better, thank you. Shall we get you home?"
Erik nodded, and pushed himself off the plastic seats. Watching Erik sway worryingly, Charles stepped forward and let Erik lean on him.
"I'm so sorry I hurt your nose," Erik mumbled into Charles' shoulder as they walked slowly out of the emergency room. "I didn't want to hurt anyone."
"Except the guy you thought I was," Charles corrected, as he looked around the street for a taxi.
"Well, yes," Erik sighed. "But that's only because he had sex with my girlfriend in my bed."
Charles winced.
"Ouch."
"Are you alright?" Erik asked worriedly.
Charles choked back a laugh.
"Yes," he said. "I was just reacting to your story. Your own bed, you say?"
Erik nodded against Charles' shoulder.
"Where I sleep, Charles."
When Charles finally managed to hail a taxi and coerce a very sleepy Erik into the backseat, he realised he had no idea where Erik lived.
"Hey," he said, prodding Erik's ribs. "What's your address?"
But it was no use. Erik was fast asleep and already snoring gently with his face pressed against the passenger window.
"You did what?!" yelled a very shocked Raven over the phone the next morning. Charles glanced hastily over at his living room couch, where Erik was thankfully still asleep. "I cannot believe you. What if he was an axe murderer?"
"Well, he's not," Charles replied exasperatedly. "His right hook is far too powerful. It would be a waste to bring axes into the equation."
"This isn't a joke, Charles!"
Charles held his phone a few inches away from his ear for a second.
"Do you mind keeping it down?" he asked. "Erik's still here and trying to sleep."
"Oh my God."
"But back to my original query. Do you think I should make pancakes or scrambled eggs?"
Erik woke up to the sweet, buttery smell of pancakes being made. He smiled serenely and raised his arms to stretch, before whacking them painfully against something hard. He opened his eyes and looked around, to see an unfamiliar living room and the wall he must have bashed his arms against. Where the hell was he?
He sat up, feeling his stomach groan with a low-level nausea, and looked over the back of the couch to see an open kitchen area, where a brunet was currently making pancakes, in blue flannel pyjamas.
Oh fuck. Memories from last night re-entered Erik's mind with a burning clarity, just at the moment Charles turned around and gave Erik a winning smile.
"Good morning."
Oh fuck. Charles the Columbia professor was upsettingly hot when he wasn't coated in blood.
"I'm so sorry," Erik groaned. "I can't believe you let me sleep on your couch after what I did. And now you're making me pancakes."
"Well," Charles said, smiling. "I'm actually making me pancakes. But I suppose you could have some if you want."
Erik's face went cold.
"Of course," he said stiffly. "I'm sorry. I'd better be on my way."
Charles' face softened slightly.
"I was only joking. You should stay for breakfast."
Erik shook his head and stood up the best he could without gagging from the hangover head rush.
"I've already imposed on you enough as it is," he said, refusing to make eye contact with Charles and his distressingly blue eyes.
Charles' posture deflated somewhat.
"Well, if you're sure..." he said.
Erik nodded, and picked up his leather jacket that had been folded and placed on the living room coffee table.
"Where's the front door?" he asked.
Charles pointed to his left with an unreadable expression. Then, as Erik turned to leave, Charles held out a hand.
"Wait!"
Erik stopped mid-step.
"Just hang on a second," Charles continued, blushing and picking up a pen and a sticky-note from his kitchen counter. He scribbled something in what looked to be pretty horrific handwriting, and then walked over to Erik.
"My sister is going to absolutely kill me for this," he said, a flush rising on his cheeks. "But here's my number."
Erik stared at the yellow sticky-note in Charles' hand.
Charles smiled hesitantly.
"You know, you're pretty cute when you're not committing aggravated assault. You should call me when you've gotten over this Magda of yours."
He held out the sticky-note. Erik only hesitated for half a second before he grabbed it and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Thanks," he muttered, still not looking at Charles, before almost running out of the apartment, refusing to look back and interpret Charles' facial expression. The moment he got outside, he found himself laughing at the ridiculousness of the entire situation, much to the confusion of the doorman, before he took the metro back to his apartment to deal with the whole Magda situation.
Four weeks later, he took Charles up on that offer to call.