[fic] xm: fc - barflys - pg13
This is based on this photoset. Thank you to pearl_o, for soothing my insecurities, as usual. ♥
***
"I don't know," Erik says after the second beer, "why I'm even here with you."
"Because you have no other friends, Lehnsherr," Moira says. She's already on her third, but she started before him and he has plenty of time to catch up. She sees him eyeing the bottle and smirks. He flips her off. "Maybe if you were less of a prick, other people would be willing to put up with you."
"Maybe if you weren't such a bitch, Emma wouldn't have dumped your ass," Erik mutters and signals the bartender for another beer, but the insult rolls off Moira without any bite, as usual.
"You're really calling me a bitch compared to Emma?" she asks. "I'm a fucking saint, Lehnsherr, and you know it."
He has an irritating urge to stick his tongue out at her. He refrains and takes a long drink from his fresh beer. The truth is, Moira really is his only friend. He hates admitting it--he feels like it's better to have either no friends or a respectable amount of friends. One friend just makes him look...pathetic. He'd try dumping her, but he finds himself genuinely enjoying her company which is somewhat troubling. And, really, she's just as pathetic as he is, sometimes moreso, which he appreciates in a schadenfraude kind of way. She hasn't had a steady relationship since Emma, two years ago. Emma works with Erik, but Erik's never much liked her and all it took was one holiday party for Erik and Moira to meet, get drunk, shout at each other for an hour, and cement a friendship that's been strangely persistent ever since.
He sighs, and it's only the last bits of his self-control that keep him from resting his head on the bar. He's tired. He's tired of his job and his life and, embarrassingly, of how long it's been since he fell asleep next to someone else. He's tired of having no one to vent to but Moira and not even being able to do that without a few drinks in him.
Something must show on his face, because Moira touches his wrist. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at him, but he gets the message. He can't tell if he resents it or not.
The touch turns into a squeeze and Erik pulls himself out of his self-pity to raise his eyebrows at her.
"Hot guy in the corner booth, pretty mouth, checking you out," she says. "Don't look."
He curbs his initial urge to turn around and casually glances up at the mirror behind the bar, zeroing in on the guy in question.
"He's looking at you, not me," Erik says quietly as he lifts his glass for another drink.
Moira twirls her hair around her finger and then touches her lips. She drinks again and then says, "Nope, definitely checking you out. Watch this."
Before Erik can ask what he's supposed to watch, Moira twists to the side on her barstool and then leans over to get something out of the purse that's hanging across the back. Her breasts slide forward against the lace of her camisole in a way that even Erik can't help but glance at. He looks away quickly, and back to the mirror. The guy in the corner glances down just as quickly as Erik did before returning this attention to--
Okay, maybe he is checking Erik out.
"Told you," Moira says quickly as she sits up holding a pack of cigarettes. "You have to hit that, Erik."
She pulls out a cigarette, but before she can do anything else, the bartender says, "Hey, you can't smoke that in here!"
Moira rolls her eyes. Like either of them need reminding. She tucks the cigarette behind Erik's ear. "One of us has to," she says. "Even I can tell his mouth would look great wrapped around your--"
He winces. Occasional glances aside, Moira is the last person he wants to think of sexually, beyond even his general homosexuality. "Do not finish that sentence," he says.
"Oh, honey, if you want me not to speculate on the size of your cock, you should start by not sitting with your legs open like that," she says.
Erik glares at her and adjusts his stance accordingly.
"Erik," she says, "If you don't hit that, I will be personally offended."
Erik is thinking of a comeback, maybe about the guy who works the bar post-happy hour whom Moira is lusting after pathetically, down to making up elaborate stories about sexy, daring things that probably led to the guy's eyepatch, when there's a tap on his shoulder.
Before he even turns around, he knows it's the hot guy.
"Hello there," hot guy says. He has an incongruous British accent. His mouth looks obscene around the vowels.
"Hey," Erik says.
"I'm not fucking him," Moira says.
The guy's eyebrows hit his hairline, but other than that, he doesn't react. Erik resists strangling Moira.
"I was just looking for a light," the guy says, which is a ridiculously flimsy excuse. It's a dive-y place, but they still have matchbooks behind the counter, and everyone in the room's got a lighter.
"Gotta smoke them outside," the bartender says again, forcing Erik to look away from the guy's ridiculously blue eyes to glare at the bartender.
"Yeah, it's not our first fucking day in the city," Erik says, although based on Blue Eyes' accent, maybe it is. To the hot guy, Erik adds, "You wanna...step outside?"
"I would love to," the guy says, and he drags out the 'o' in love in a way that forces Erik to admit that, yes, Moira's right, he needs those lips on his cock.
He slides off the bar stool and finds he's got a good six inches on the guy, which is another tick in the column of things that drive Erik crazy. He tips his head back to smile up at Erik, and over his shoulder, Moira mimes a phone call and points at herself, mouthing, call me.
Oh, fuck her so hard.
He turns away from the hot guy and leans on the bar, flagging down the asshole bartender.
"My friend's got a hard-on for the guy who works the night shift," Erik says. "Black guy with an eyepatch?"
"Oh, fuck you, Lehnsherr," Moira says and she actually blushes, which is new and interesting and Erik commits to memory for future humiliation purposes. The bartender looks at Moira appraisingly.
"Bourbon girl," the bartender says. "Right. Dude's name is Fury. You should stick around, he's working later."
Moira looks torn between embarrassment and excitement. She settles for glaring at Erik.
"Go smoke," she says. "Maybe when you come back, I'll hate you a little less."
"Yes, please," the hot guy says, and lays a hand at the small of Erik's back.
Erik likes that, too.
"Erik," he says. "My name is Erik."
"Charles," the guy says. "I'd quite like that smoke."
"Lead the way, Charles," Erik says, and Charles' smile is a promise that might just turn Erik's shitty night around after all.
***
"I don't know," Erik says after the second beer, "why I'm even here with you."
"Because you have no other friends, Lehnsherr," Moira says. She's already on her third, but she started before him and he has plenty of time to catch up. She sees him eyeing the bottle and smirks. He flips her off. "Maybe if you were less of a prick, other people would be willing to put up with you."
"Maybe if you weren't such a bitch, Emma wouldn't have dumped your ass," Erik mutters and signals the bartender for another beer, but the insult rolls off Moira without any bite, as usual.
"You're really calling me a bitch compared to Emma?" she asks. "I'm a fucking saint, Lehnsherr, and you know it."
He has an irritating urge to stick his tongue out at her. He refrains and takes a long drink from his fresh beer. The truth is, Moira really is his only friend. He hates admitting it--he feels like it's better to have either no friends or a respectable amount of friends. One friend just makes him look...pathetic. He'd try dumping her, but he finds himself genuinely enjoying her company which is somewhat troubling. And, really, she's just as pathetic as he is, sometimes moreso, which he appreciates in a schadenfraude kind of way. She hasn't had a steady relationship since Emma, two years ago. Emma works with Erik, but Erik's never much liked her and all it took was one holiday party for Erik and Moira to meet, get drunk, shout at each other for an hour, and cement a friendship that's been strangely persistent ever since.
He sighs, and it's only the last bits of his self-control that keep him from resting his head on the bar. He's tired. He's tired of his job and his life and, embarrassingly, of how long it's been since he fell asleep next to someone else. He's tired of having no one to vent to but Moira and not even being able to do that without a few drinks in him.
Something must show on his face, because Moira touches his wrist. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at him, but he gets the message. He can't tell if he resents it or not.
The touch turns into a squeeze and Erik pulls himself out of his self-pity to raise his eyebrows at her.
"Hot guy in the corner booth, pretty mouth, checking you out," she says. "Don't look."
He curbs his initial urge to turn around and casually glances up at the mirror behind the bar, zeroing in on the guy in question.
"He's looking at you, not me," Erik says quietly as he lifts his glass for another drink.
Moira twirls her hair around her finger and then touches her lips. She drinks again and then says, "Nope, definitely checking you out. Watch this."
Before Erik can ask what he's supposed to watch, Moira twists to the side on her barstool and then leans over to get something out of the purse that's hanging across the back. Her breasts slide forward against the lace of her camisole in a way that even Erik can't help but glance at. He looks away quickly, and back to the mirror. The guy in the corner glances down just as quickly as Erik did before returning this attention to--
Okay, maybe he is checking Erik out.
"Told you," Moira says quickly as she sits up holding a pack of cigarettes. "You have to hit that, Erik."
She pulls out a cigarette, but before she can do anything else, the bartender says, "Hey, you can't smoke that in here!"
Moira rolls her eyes. Like either of them need reminding. She tucks the cigarette behind Erik's ear. "One of us has to," she says. "Even I can tell his mouth would look great wrapped around your--"
He winces. Occasional glances aside, Moira is the last person he wants to think of sexually, beyond even his general homosexuality. "Do not finish that sentence," he says.
"Oh, honey, if you want me not to speculate on the size of your cock, you should start by not sitting with your legs open like that," she says.
Erik glares at her and adjusts his stance accordingly.
"Erik," she says, "If you don't hit that, I will be personally offended."
Erik is thinking of a comeback, maybe about the guy who works the bar post-happy hour whom Moira is lusting after pathetically, down to making up elaborate stories about sexy, daring things that probably led to the guy's eyepatch, when there's a tap on his shoulder.
Before he even turns around, he knows it's the hot guy.
"Hello there," hot guy says. He has an incongruous British accent. His mouth looks obscene around the vowels.
"Hey," Erik says.
"I'm not fucking him," Moira says.
The guy's eyebrows hit his hairline, but other than that, he doesn't react. Erik resists strangling Moira.
"I was just looking for a light," the guy says, which is a ridiculously flimsy excuse. It's a dive-y place, but they still have matchbooks behind the counter, and everyone in the room's got a lighter.
"Gotta smoke them outside," the bartender says again, forcing Erik to look away from the guy's ridiculously blue eyes to glare at the bartender.
"Yeah, it's not our first fucking day in the city," Erik says, although based on Blue Eyes' accent, maybe it is. To the hot guy, Erik adds, "You wanna...step outside?"
"I would love to," the guy says, and he drags out the 'o' in love in a way that forces Erik to admit that, yes, Moira's right, he needs those lips on his cock.
He slides off the bar stool and finds he's got a good six inches on the guy, which is another tick in the column of things that drive Erik crazy. He tips his head back to smile up at Erik, and over his shoulder, Moira mimes a phone call and points at herself, mouthing, call me.
Oh, fuck her so hard.
He turns away from the hot guy and leans on the bar, flagging down the asshole bartender.
"My friend's got a hard-on for the guy who works the night shift," Erik says. "Black guy with an eyepatch?"
"Oh, fuck you, Lehnsherr," Moira says and she actually blushes, which is new and interesting and Erik commits to memory for future humiliation purposes. The bartender looks at Moira appraisingly.
"Bourbon girl," the bartender says. "Right. Dude's name is Fury. You should stick around, he's working later."
Moira looks torn between embarrassment and excitement. She settles for glaring at Erik.
"Go smoke," she says. "Maybe when you come back, I'll hate you a little less."
"Yes, please," the hot guy says, and lays a hand at the small of Erik's back.
Erik likes that, too.
"Erik," he says. "My name is Erik."
"Charles," the guy says. "I'd quite like that smoke."
"Lead the way, Charles," Erik says, and Charles' smile is a promise that might just turn Erik's shitty night around after all.