disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to Torie, because I want to pet her face. That's not creepy, is it?
notes: I am so late to this party.

title: vodka on the rocks
summary: Erik figured it couldn't get much worse than this. — Charles/Erik.






Erik figured it couldn't get much worse than this.

Charles was a terrible drunk, really. He floundered all over the place, sway tipsily from side to side and—and draped himself all over people. Erik had spent the entire night so far simply trying to restrain his wayward friend from doing something that may or may not have gotten him jailed.

So it really couldn't get much worse, except. Well.

"Charles, Charles, stop that, you're being—" Erik managed, through clenched teeth. The smaller man was latched to his arm and was fluttering his lashes in an exceedingly disturbing way. At this rate, Erik was just going to have to put him to bed (or something equally embarrassing. Charles normally did not allow himself to become so thoroughly—what was the word—plastered, oh yes, there it was).

"But Erik, I have important things to do!"

The lashes fluttered again.

This was not a good sign.

"Like what?" Erik asked, slow and steady. He'd learned that caution was the best method to avoid a furious, drunken Charles Xavier. A furious, drunken Charles Xavier usually spelled doom for all involved, and Erik really was not in the mood to deal with it, tonight.

"Like this!" Charles announced, and proceeded to drag him to the closest available chair. He shoved him down (Erik grunted, displeased), and promptly deposited himself in Erik's lap; he draped himself there, and touched his nose to Erik's.

Like this was totally a normal occurrence.

Which it wasn't.

The lashes fluttered up and down a third time.


"Charles," hissed Erik, "what are you doing?"

"Sitting," Charles said. "You're very comfortable, you know." It was a cross between a giggle and a purr, and Erik looked down at him in all his red-faced, nuzzling, giggling, drunken glory.

So apparently it could get worse.

And Charles, bless his hammered little heart, seemed to have decided that it was time for A Talk. Erik could tell—he had that slightly pinched twist to his mouth that only appeared when Charles was in the midst of trying to decide where to begin with his Talk. Those normally didn't go so well, but there was a speculative look in those bright blue eyes that was both frightful and delicious.

"Charles, I think you've had enough for now," Erik tried.

"No, I don't think you've had enough," he said. Another soft, sweet little escaped from Charles' mouth, gone dark red with too much wine. He pressed his face into the crook of Erik's neck, tongue poking out to press at his pulse.


Erik gulped and tried to figure out where to put his hands.

"Charles—" Erik tried one last time.

But it was futile. Erik's thoughts were muddling up; he did have a very attractive man in his lap, and his arms were curling around said man without Erik's consent. Charles smiled like a cat that'd been at the cream.

Erik's last coherent thought before he lowered his mouth to Charles' was that this was not his fault.