A Man Walks Into a Bar…
Author's Note: The inspiration for this story suddenly occurred to me whilst I was watching Suits and contemplating First Class during the commercials (an interesting combination, I think). This is another first attempt at a particular writing style. Please R&R with your thoughts. :D
Spoilers for X-Men: First Class.
Disclaimer: I claim no rights to X-Men.
A man walks into a bar, and he is tall, dark, and handsome. He is accompanied by a man of shorter stature, impeccably dressed and effusing good-heartedness into the crowded tavern. The man offers a genuine smile to his companion at the doorstep, but the expression is marred by the severe sharpness of his eyes and the tense creases on his forehead.
The two men accommodate themselves at the secluded end of the bar, the security of half-concealment an effective inducement. While the second man motions to the bartender, the first man analyzes their environment with practiced proficiency. When he has discerned the sober from the inebriated and the boisterous from the deleterious, he returns his attention to his friend and clinks their glasses together. From the pocket of his leather jacket, he retrieves a metal object. It floats in the palm of his hand. His spreads his fingers apart and the coin meanders weightlessly amidst the outstretched appendages.
The second man swivels on his stool to observe the variety of customers with a curious smile. At irregular intervals, he briefly raises a hand to his temple, masking the effort to concentrate as a brush of his hair. Occasionally, he frowns, the result of either forlornness or revulsion. Once or twice, he laughs heartily and nudges his friend, whose gaze is directed toward the beer taps he manipulates with leisure and precision. The second man declines one girl's offer to dance; her boyfriend is glaring from across the barroom. He refutes an unsavory woman's invitation because, as he honestly states, he has a duty to his drinking partner tonight.
"You needn't stand on ceremony with me, Charles." The coin has since retired to its owner's pocket. Its master occupies himself with shaping and reshaping a beer bottle cap. It flattens into an oval mirror and condenses into a razor-edged cube intermittently.
"You think too highly of yourself, Erik. I was merely utilizing you as a means of escaping a drug-addled woman's ill-conceived advances."
Conversation between the two men oscillates between cheery banter –
I do believe, my friend, that the young lady in the red dress intends to approach you within the next ten minutes.
I promise not to threaten her, Charles.
– and sincere efforts to forge a partnership from a friendship, despite the differences which threaten their alliance.
I've never had a partner-in-crime before. Although, I suppose, we're not doing anything illegal. Yet.
I've always had crime for a partner. This will be a new experience for you, Charles.
Erik, I'm unused to your smiling so much.
The clock strikes midnight.
"Another round, Charles?"
"Alright."
Having imbibed enough liquor to counsel his foolhardiness into determination, Charles steels himself for death by tie clip. "It wasn't your fault."
"The accountant sloshing brandy all over your suit jacket? Of course that wasn't my fault."
"Your mother, Erik. Shaw. I – I know what happened to her."
"Stay out of my head, Charles." Biting and unrelenting. The expected response.
"I have, but unless I develop the ability to erase my own mind, I won't be able to forget what I witnessed in yours. I want to help you, Erik." Thankfully, the metal on Charles's clothing remains unanimated. "It – wasn't – your – fault."
Erik's glass slams onto the counter with sufficient momentum to crack the bottom. He clenches his fist and Charles's stool wobbles, toppling him onto his feet. "If it wasn't my fault, then there's nothing you should concern yourself with." He sighs, righting the stool with a flick of his hand. "Thank you for being a benevolent little lab rat, Charles, but you can't understand who I am, what I must do."
"I said I knew everything about you, Erik. I don't. But I am your friend and friends trust each other."
"Trust… is a novel concept for me."
"We'll work on it, then, together."
The beer bottle cap-turned-morphing mass of metal ripples atop a cork coaster. The light from the lamp overhead glimmers pleasantly on the molten puddle.
It is fast-approaching 2 A.M. and Charles shrugs into his freshly-stained suit jacket as Erik allots a generous tip to the unquestioning bartender.
They weave through the numerous worn wooden tables, mostly unaware of the other patrons until the obnoxious lilt of a man's voice drifts toward them from a cluster of raucous fools seated at the table closest to the door: "My mother, the old hag… costing me a fortune in medical bills… ought to leave the stupid woman to rot, eh?"
Charles, following his friend at a comfortable pace, lunges for Erik and catches hold of his arms, forcibly maneuvering him past the damned idiots and onto the street outside of the establishment, all the while whispering fiercely, "Calm your mind, Erik. Calm down."
Upon returning to their hotel room, Erik immediately undresses and ensconces himself in bed. He prefers sleeping flat on his back, one arm hidden beneath the sheets, his hand clutching a dagger. The other arm rests across his abdomen.
Fluffing his pillows before climbing into bed, Charles chances a glance at Erik's motionless form. He studies the weapon glinting innocently on their shared chest of drawers. It is pointed, sleek, and as thick as a nail, enwrapped in the label of a German beer company.
A man walks into a bar, assured of his destiny, uncertain of his purpose beyond exacting revenge and bloodying his hands with the life force of his creator. He is accompanied by a man, previously undeterred in his faith in the prevailing goodness of humanity and mutantkind alike – and this man will persevere in endeavoring to convince his friend that not all the world is a manifestation of the evil and immorality he endured as a child.
Two men walk into a bar, rage and serenity swirling in their consciousness…
Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is always welcomed and appreciated.