March 20, early evening

Erik went straight back to his room from the holodeck, itching with furious energy. It had been a close call there, opening his mind to Charles like that-- the risk of him looking too deep, seeing too much, had been very real and present, and Erik couldn't help feeling he'd had a narrow escape. He didn't let himself think about the relief he felt at hearing Charles's voice in his head after so long-- how tempting it had been to do exactly what he knew he couldn't do, and let him in all the way-- it simply couldn't happen, and the less he let himself entertain the idea, the easier it would be.

A shower did nothing to help calm him down, and he knew he was going to have to distract himself somehow. He debated going to visit Mystique, but she'd seen enough of his inner turmoil over Charles to last a lifetime-- she wouldn't rest until she knew what was wrong with him, which would thoroughly defeat the intent not to think about Charles at all.

A bottle of vodka (or a close alien equivalent thereof) sat invitingly on the table, and in a split second Erik made a decision. He sent a quick text message, got some glasses, ice, and tonic water, and poured himself a drink.

He'd finished the first and was halfway through his second when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," he called, tipping back and draining the rest of the liquor down his throat.