August, 2015: Part Three

Erik wasn't sure what had exactly roused him from his drunken doze, but he was vaguely aware that he was not only being stared at but actively discussed. He twitched his upper lip in an attempt at a contemptuous sneer, but it fell as flat as his face nearly did against the tabletop before him. Fine facial movements clearly a near impossibility, for now, Erik opted to slowly peel open his eyelids and peek at his company instead.

Ah, he wondered why the glare he felt burning into the side of his head felt familiar.

"Pietro," he greeted with a half-perked smile.

"I can drive him back," a voice was saying. "No charge."

"We seriously don't live far," Pietro replied, but his brown-eyed stare didn't stray. "We can walk." He managed the sneer Erik had failed to muster a second ago. Erik closed his eyes against the familiarity of it. "He could use it."

"Mm, yes, I dare say he could. However, I would take Darwin's offer if I were in your shoes. New York is quite the, uh, what's the word I'm looking for-"

"Cesspool!"
"Ah, yes, thank you, Alex." The English-accented voice was smooth enough to lull Erik deeper into his doze. "As I was saying, it isn't quite safe to walk the streets at night, and I'm sure you could use an extra hand getting Mr. Lehnsherr to your floor. You live in an apartment, correct?"

"Unfortunately."

"Then it's settled!" The Englishman sounded pleased. "I'll be more than happy to assist you, of course. I can't imagine a man that played as an Enforcer would be very light."

"Yeah," Pietro drawled, "He's a regular fat-ass."

There was a brief moment of semi-silence as the trio discussed how they would get his uncooperative limbs extracted from the booth until the Englishman cleared his throat and flexed his fingers.

"Well, I guess I'll just try and coax him out then."

A voice from across the room called out, "He's not a dog, Charles."

"I'm well aware of that, Alex, thank you!"

"Says who?"

"Really, Pietro, that isn't any way to speak of your father, now is it?"

"It's Peter," he corrected with only a hint of teenage rebellion, "And he'd have to act like one to be considered one."

"Right, well then..." Charles' cheerful voice rang only slightly false. "Back to it, chaps."

Erik, despite his concentration being shot, was suddenly aware of a body leaning into the booth. He shied away from the outstretched hand; silent, but his teeth bared.

"I see why they called you The Shark," Charles pitifully joked as he gently placed a hand on Erik's shoulder. The hand remained steady and warm, even when Erik tensed underneath the touch. "Easy, friend. I mean you no harm."

The fingers dug into the material of his hoodie, blunt nails digging past the thin fabric and leaving bruises against his skin in an attempt to gain purchase. It didn't take much effort on Charles' part to half drag Erik from where he had nestled himself in the corner to the edge of the booth. It wasn't until he was confronted with the notion of having to now stand that Erik then started to bulk at the touch.

"Easy, Erik. I'm sure standing seems like the worst idea right now, but unfortunately, that's the next step, and it's a lit-tle unavoidable, I'm afraid." Erik wasn't sure if the sing-songy lilt was helping or not.

"If I stand," Erik started gravely, "I will get sick."

"The hell you will!"

"Can it, Alex."

"You gonna clean it up, boss-man?"

"No one will be cleaning up anything, gentlemen," Charles broke in not unkindly. "Because no one will be getting sick." His stare, a ridiculously bright cornflower blue, raked over Erik's pinched features. "I hope."

"Yeah," Pietro groused, "Hold onto your cookies, man."

Erik, in spite of wanting to let said "cookies" be released from the depth of his bowels, managed to fight down the alcoholic bile and be aided to his feet. He swayed once, twice, before the hand that had guided him up now rest on the small of his back.

"We'll take this slow, I think," Charles stated in his irritatingly friendly way.

Pietro groaned somewhere to Erik's right. He paid him no mind. He could only focus on left foot forward, sway, steady, right foot forward, sway, steady, pause, repeat. Well, he wasn't so much as focusing on that as he was being guided into those motions by the brunette man directly by his side.

"I'm Erik," he decided to announce to his apparent puppet-master.

Rather than a scathing sarcastic remark, he received a genuine beam in return. "I'm a fan of your work, Erik. I'm Charles Xavier."

The taller man snorted. "My work? I scrub urinals, Xavier. Hardly an admirable trait."

"Ah, yes, well I had meant your former career as an Enforcer. However, there is nothing wrong with custodial duties. It is very important-"

"Stop," Erik cut in brusquely.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offen-"

"No," Erik shook his head. "Stop." He thrust out a hand, fingers splayed as if reaching for something, and heaved heavily against the rapidly rising gorge of alcohol in his system. He gagged as the familiar burn tickled his throat, and squeezed his eyes shut as if sheer will would push it all back down. Within a few seconds, it seemed to wish it away worked in this case. He sagged against Charles' supportive weight.

"Impressive," Charles lightly joked as he willingly held up Erik's surprisingly heavy yet lean form. "Let's make haste home, shall we?"

Erik doesn't notice the nod Charles makes towards the others. He just allows himself to be bodily handled from the bar to the street to an already running cab. The light atop of the vehicle isn't turned on, but it's apparent that the driver is on duty when Darwin exits the building himself and rounds the vehicle like a man on a mission.

Pietro sidles up against the passenger side of the cab, opening the door to a welcoming blast of heat. He glances back towards Charles and his father, and then into the cab, and decides he's better off helping Charles from the inside than out. So, he dives into the backseat and reaches out to manhandle Erik into the back.

It doesn't take them long to maneuver the relatively compliant man into a semi-sitting position; he's more slouched against Charles' side more than anything, but the Englishman isn't bothered. He's used to offering consoling hugs to distraught students, even if said "students" are actually college-attending young adults.

In any event, the ride to the apartment is unmarred and brief. Between Pietro and Charles, under Darwin's concerned yet watchful gaze, they manage to lug Erik to the right floor without any incident. There's a moment of panic when Erik can't find the keys, and a muttered caustic remark about being unable to trust a teen with them when Pietro plucks his own copy from his back pocket with an eye roll.

Charles doesn't really take in their meager surroundings as he tries to push-pull Erik towards what he assumes is his bedroom, but Pietro gently stops him with a yank on the tail of his blazer. The teen jerks his chin toward the tattered couch.

"He sleeps there. We've only got the one-bedroom, and it's mine."

Charles forces a polite smile, but sadness tinges the edges of his eyes. He says nothing as they drop Erik's now dead weight onto the couch, but does spare a moment to situate the practically comatose man into a position that would prevent drowning in his own vomit. Should that situation happen, of course.

With a deep sigh, Charles turns his eyes onto the silver-haired teen and rakes a hand through his own floppy brunette hair. He pauses, hand caught in a little snag before he thrusts the hand out for a shake. "I don't believe I've introduced myself," he ruefully offers. "I'm Charles Xavier."

"I know," Pietro admits as he shakes the hand once. "You were a speaker for some sciency-assembly at my school once. You were trying to recruit some students for the college you go to."

Charles grins at the memory but shakes his head the next moment. "Don't let my youthful good looks fool you, my friend. I'm actually a professor there."

Pietro's mouth quirks into what Charles believes is a smile, but it's a fleeting moment.

"Have you ever considered attending university?"

"Me?" Pietro scoffs. "Yeah right. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm gonna spend the rest of my life living off my petty thefts and taking care of my old man." The teen suddenly looks vulnerable as he casts an indiscernible over his father's sleeping form. He schools his expression into something more teasing, but the hurt is still evident in his eyes as he jokes, "Or maybe I'll be good at running. My old man is an expert at that. It's in the genes."

Charles so desperately wants to sit the teenager down and explain all the reasons why he's wrong, but he can read a room like nobody's business, and instead, he claps the boy on the shoulder. "Well, if you ever feel like running away for a bit, come join me and the lads on the weekend. We play a variety of sports, and I'm quite a fan of hockey myself."

"You?" Pietro's dark brow rises in disbelief. The hurt is gone now, as swift as the change of subject. "You play hockey? I'd love to see that," he laughs now.

Charles' frown is goodhearted. "I'm actually quite decent, thank you very much. You can have a look-see for yourself come this weekend."

The teen smiles to himself, and nods. "Yeah. You know what? I'd like that."

This time it's Pietro that offers his hand to the older man. Charles shakes it firmly.

"Invite Erik as well. I'm sure he'd love to shave some ice again, as they say."

"Yeah." Not as joyful, although the smile remains. "Yeah, I'll ask."

"Good."

End.