What was that saying? It's five thirty somewhere.

Erik was sure that was true, even if there was no way to gauge time zones at the Nexus. By his watch, it was barely two p.m., a pleasant buzz of alcohol humming through his veins as he ambled through the portrait gallery on the first floor of the hotel. In retrospect, perhaps letting Jordan take him to lunch in New York City had been irresponsible— but, he thought snidely, it wasn't as if he had anything else on his calendar for the afternoon.

He found himself in the billiards room, dragging his fingertips along the worn felt of the game table, his other hand sparking with lazy little flashes of lightning. His metal sense pinged off a handful of short, thin spikes stored somewhere on the opposite wall; closer inspection revealed a wooden box full of red-fletched darts.

Erik grinned. He was just tipsy enough to find the idea of playing funny, and let the darts hang in midair near his shoulder while he located the board hanging on the wall across the room. Plucking one out of the air, he squeezed an eye shut and threw.

The dart thudded into the wall a foot away from the board. Erik winced, and gave an unsteady chuckle— then turned, as a snort of amusement sounded behind him.

Once, Erik had gone through a door in the hotel and found himself in a desolate world. Ravaged by some horrible plague, it was a version of Earth that stood wrecked and empty, populated with shambling undead that lived on human flesh. It had been haunting and eerie, the zombies themselves downright terrifying. Even with his powers, he had barely made it back in one piece.

Standing in the midst of a crowded plaza, surrounded by screaming children wearing mouse ears and watching a grown man juggling an enormous plush fish and three cones of cotton candy, Erik found himself thinking maybe the zombies hadn't actually been that bad.

If he could only find the door back, he thought desperately, dodging a herd of tourists chattering rapidly in Japanese. It had to be here somewhere— he hadn't gone far from where he'd come through, but trying to find anything in this miasma of insanity was like looking for a needle in an entire field of hay. Harder, even; in his case, he could have used his powers to find the needle.

He was distracted from his own predicament by the sounds of a scuffle on the other side of the square, which drew not only his attention but that of a few other park wanderers. Curiosity got the better of Erik, and after a moment spent dithering, he headed toward the sounds of distress. Those sounds resolved themselves into words as he got within earshot, a stream of rapid-fire French invective heated enough to make Erik's eyebrows shoot toward the sky. The perpetrator was dressed like he was in costume himself, and engaged in a sort of pantomime dance with a six-foot tall Donald Duck, who kept waiting till the man's back was turned before knocking his oversized hat off his head. This, in turn sparked a fresh wave of ire from the man each time; Erik thought it was lucky no one else in the vicinity happened to speak French, or the man might find himself escorted from the premises.

Normally altruism wasn't in his repertoire, but Erik would have found himself just as furious in the Frenchman's position, and so decided to intervene, if only briefly. Lucky for him the costume had a sizeable number of staples holding the soles onto the great webbed feet; a flick of his fingers sent Donald crashing to the ground on his padded rear end. In the consternation and laughter that followed, Erik leaned in and grabbed the man by the elbow, hauling him off into the crowd before anyone— Donald included— was the wiser.

Erik was in a black mood, as if in direct opposition to the breezy spring morning that greeted him when he stepped out onto the Nexus grounds for a run. Normally he was up and out by dawn, but sleep had eluded him for most of last night, and by the time he'd managed a few fitful hours, his schedule was completely thrown off. He'd woken irritable and feeling trapped, and even more irked by the fact that he couldn't put his finger on what was putting him so off-kilter.

So here he was, the sun climbing toward noon, trying to outrun the sort of climbing-out-of-his-skin frustration that, in Erik's experience, could only be sated by the kind of exertion of his powers that he didn't have the space or materials to indulge in here. He thought wistfully of Madame Troi's shuttle; juggling that for an hour or so would have taken the edge off nicely.

The moment's distraction cost him dearly; he didn't sense the other person's metal-covered body flying at him until it was too late. He rounded a corner at the same time as the woman coming the other way attempted to do the same, and they crashed into each other, the rebound sending Erik reeling away into the hedge.

His assailant stumbled backward, trying to regain her footing, but Erik's rage made him quick, and she was wearing a lot of armor. With one quick slice of his hand, he sent her sprawling back on her ass in the gravel, snarling, "Are you blind by accident, or by choice?"

It was February, but that apparently meant nothing to the powers that governed the weather at the Nexus. The view from Erik's window showed a gentle, tepid rain that suggested late spring, but when he got to the conservatory, the sun was beating down hard enough to warm the benches even through the glass.

There were miles of gardens outside, all apparently grateful for the late morning sunshine; every leaf and blade of grass seemed to be stretching upward, and Erik found himself in almost as good a mood. With a book tucked under his arm, an Adirondack chair trailing along in midair behind him, he stalked into the Italian gardens in search of a sunny spot by one of the fountains. After a year of recycled air and the blackness of space, even a few hours of uninterrupted sunlight felt like a luxury, and he intended to put them to good use.

Installed at last on a broad stretch of lawn, Erik stretched out in the chair, cracking open his book, a tome on the fall of the Roman Empire. He'd picked it up idly the other day, but found himself immersed, and he quickly became oblivious to everything around him as he lost himself in it again. The Roman Empire was not on the brink of collapse; what brought it to an end were the barbarians... In spite of himself, he wondered what Charles might have to say on the subject, and the parallels between the barbarians' role in the fall of Rome and the hopeful role of mutants (Erik's hope, anyway) in the fall of the human-dominated society of the present.

He read for over an hour, kicking off his shoes to let his toes curl into the grass as the sun rose steadily higher. He would have been content to stay there indefinitely, or at least until hunger drove him back indoors— but Erik knew when he was alone and when he wasn't, and he gradually became aware of another person on the edges of his periphery, a presence he found it increasingly difficult to ignore.

He was only half surprised to look up and find it was Charles, sitting there looking at him from across the lawn. The last time they'd crossed paths, Erik had spoken first, a glib opening that had set the tone for a bitter and unsatisfying conversation. This time, he'd let Charles play white. He stuck his finger in to mark his page and closed the book, his chin tilting up slightly as he met and held Charles's eye contact, waiting to see what he had to say.

Despite an investment of time and effort and a great deal of Charles's persuasive sweet-talking, in the end it had been for nothing. The mutant had listened to their pitch, but he'd been skeptical from the outset, and none of the answers they'd given to any of his questions had changed his mind. He'd thanked them politely and declined the CIA's offer just as politely, and gone on his way alone.

So now they were empty-handed for the second time in a row-- though at least the surly man in Toronto had done them the courtesy of telling them to fuck off right away, rather than let them waste an evening in his doubtlessly unpleasant company.

Still, it was a failure, and (Erik guessed) in an effort to avoid calling Moira to admit as much, Charles had announced that they were going out. Erik had protested that these outings were never as much fun as Charles promised they would be, but it made about as much difference as usual: that is to say, none at all. He found himself shepherded first to one bar and then another, and by the time he realized it was after midnight they were being shown to a corner booth in a little diner that smelled of coffee and fried things, "Runaround Sue" playing softly on the jukebox in the corner.

Erik shrugged out of his jacket before sliding into the bench, ordering a coffee with barely a glance at the waitress, studying the menu while Charles took five minutes to flirt his way into a cup of tea. When she'd gone, Erik glanced up to find Charles looking at him with the smug, all-knowing expression that had grown so annoyingly familiar over the past few weeks.

Emphasis on annoying-- Erik reminded himself that he had refused to let himself be charmed by Charles, especially when he was like this, tipsy and flushed with his shirt sleeves rolled up, grinning at Erik like they shared the best secret in the world.

There was no point in even noticing, Erik told himself sternly. Charles was like this with everyone.

But Charles kept grinning at him, and eventually Erik raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk even though he didn't know what could possibly be so amusing. "What?"

Character Basics

Name: Erik Lehnsherr
Canon: X-Men First Class (film)
Exit: Erik left his canon just after the battle in Cuba, before rescuing Emma Frost from the CIA. He spent a year on a space station as part of another game, then found himself in the Nexus, where he's been ever since.
Stuck?: locked out of his home canon universe, but not out of the special doors.

( Permissions behind the cut )

Erik didn't think of himself as a particularly materialistic person. Living poor through his childhood, and the constant deprivation and hunger in the camps, had given him a propensity toward a Spartan lifestyle. Even once hunting Nazis proved to be incredibly lucrative, he had preferred to live frugally-- especially since he'd never known when he might have to pack up and run in a hurry.

But Erik had lived in the same place, the same room, for over a year now, and in spite of himself he'd become accustomed to it. Liked it, as much as he could be said to like somewhere he'd been brought to against his will and had no opportunity to leave. Everything he owned except one change of clothes and his helmet had been in this room when it flooded, and unlike Raven he hadn't been mad enough to go diving for any of his belongings.

Now, he stood in the waterlogged ruin that had once been his bedroom, wondering if it was even worth it to try and salvage anything, or if he should give it up for lost and colonize a rec room like Lwaxana. The carpet appeared to have dried out just fine; he could only hope the same would go for the mattress in time.

A bottle of vodka lay on the floor, unbroken and with its cap still screwed on. He picked it up and straightened just in time to hear a step behind him.

"Your room's not a total loss, then." Bond's voice was wry and dry as ever, and Erik found he didn't mind the interruption.

"Not completely," he agreed, leaning back against the dresser with the bottle still in his hand, giving James a wry little smile of his own. "But now I've got this, I think I might quit while I'm ahead. Maybe if I leave it alone for a few days I'll come back and everything will have been put to rights again."

By now everyone knew what to do when the replicator gave you things you didn’t ask for: bring them to the Level 1 kitchen and put them in the refrigerator. It was rather like what Erik imagined living in a university dormitory to be like-- you opened the door and could find anything from a six-pack of questionable origin to a container of something that had once been a vegetable (but what vegetable it had been was better left a mystery).

It was rare Erik found himself unable to wrangle the replicator in his room into giving him something at least resembling what he wanted, but tonight apparently his quest for a glass of milk was too much for the bloody machine to handle. Shoving his feet into a pair of ratty slippers (which had come to him from the wardrobe already worn in; he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or grateful) he trudged down the hall to the kitchen and started going through the fridge.

The carton of milk was at the back, naturally, shoved in between a bottle of violently green soda pop and a bunch of brussels sprouts still on the stem. Erik reached for it, snagged it, and in an act of petty rebellion against being made to go to such effort, popped it open and drank straight from the carton.

He heard a noise behind him and realized someone was there. He swallowed and turned as he scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, ready to sarcastically defend against anyone who might be ready to tease him--

--and stopped short at the sight of Charles standing on the far side of the kitchen.

Shock numbed his fingers and he felt the carton of milk slip from his grasp, heard it thunk against the metal floor. A moment later his foot grew damp as the puddle of milk spread. His first thought-- not a single set of words so much as a jumble of panic and relief and fear-- quickly gave way before the memory of Mystique running from a phantom assailant, Amy’s moving angel statues, the hellhounds that had hemmed them in and torn Shepard to shreds-- hallucinations made flesh, some madness brought on by the station.

Furious with himself for being so easily taken in, Erik turned his back on the vision of Charles and bent to pick up the carton of milk, throwing it in the sink and going to take a towel out of a nearby drawer.

Erik had been preparing for this for two months. Maybe not this specifically, but for something. After the holidays, he'd known something was coming, and that it was going to be bigger and probably more lethal than what had come before. The screens in the Hub had only shown them a jungle, and his communicator hadn't displayed anything he could make sense of (though judging by Sherlock and Spock's reactions, it clearly meant something to them) but he knew better than to think there wouldn't be ample opportunities for death and mayhem down there.

He'd gone back to his room for the bag he'd had packed, slid the two knives in their sheaths onto his belt (he'd never had occasion for conversation with the big man Mystique had been in quarantine with, but was grateful for his forethought in having taken these) and ran back to the Hub, ready for anything.

Or so he thought. When Erik rematerialized the first thing that hit him was the realization that he wasn't in the middle of the jungle. The second thing that hit him was a wave.

It bowled him under, tumbling him, and he breathed in water, came up spluttering, mentally cursing. He'd been dropped down not too far from the shore; the coast of the jungle was to his left, the late afternoon sun glinting bright off the water, and he bobbed with the next wave, orienting himself and kicking out towards land. He'd managed to keep hold of his bag, thank God. It looked like he was alone down here-- the station must have scattered them-- and he'd need all his supplies if he was going to make it through the night.

"Never a dull moment," Erik muttered. Further down the beach he could see the low hulk of a rock and started toward it. At least he'd have somewhere to sit and take stock before-- he assumed-- he'd be expected to move inland.

It was only about an hour after leaving the hub that Erik made up his mind and knocked on Mystique's door. He'd thought about it for a little while, but in the end he thought she might want to know about Forge, might not want to be surprised by his arrival. He would want the same in her position, he knew. He could only imagine rounding a corner here and being confronted by Hank or Alex unawares.

He heard her muffled reply and the door hushed open. Mystique was stretched out on her couch; Erik made a show of glancing around the room and raised an eyebrow. "Good of you to let your valet off for the evening," he said dryly. "It's so troublesome trying to talk when the help are listening in."