A.N. This is primarily a gift fic, but concrit is still welcome and appreciated. I need to get the voices down for future fics.

Though this is mostly Charles. Erik's POV to come later, maybe.

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Charles couldn't be sure what woke him, whether it was the persistent throbbing in his head, the growing discomfort of a full bladder, the nagging feeling of something crucial left undone or…. Ah yes, it might perhaps have been the heavy drape of an arm across his waist where no arm was meant to be.

Quite used to these sorts of situations after a few too many merry nights at Oxford, Charles very calmly extricated himself from the clinging arm- excellent muscle definition, charming freckles, he congratulated himself on his good taste- and stumbled into the bathroom none too gracefully. His partner's even breathing was reassurance enough that an undignified wobble or two wouldn't be noticed, and his surprised gasp at the chill of tap water would also pass unremarked.

Business seen to, he strode back to the comfort of his bed considerably more poised, already decided that he would let his guest sleep off the night and maybe offer a light breakfast that they could reminisce over. If memory served- and that wasn't entirely certain- it had been a more than pleasant evening and he wasn't adverse to an encore, perhaps during a shower both of them sorely needed-

His train of thought came to a screeching halt when he took in the features of his feather-comforter interloper: blond hair, amber skin, a smirk on his lips even while he slept the sleep of the just, shoulders a little too broad for Charles' normal preferences, but tapering down to quite possibly the most charming waist he had ever seen.

Oh Shit. Erik Lensherr was in his bed.

Erik Lensherr, scourge of temps and interns, sworn enemy of HR and accounting, and Charles Xavier's very personal bete noir, otherwise known as his direct superior. At least he had been until yesterday. Today Charles wasn't sure he had a job at Shaw Pharmaceuticals anymore, not that he particularly wanted or needed it. He had, after all, sent a rather incriminating e-mail to his supervisor, one that began with "I adore you" and ended with his number, if Charles recalled correctly. All of it cunningly calculated to procure one of those coveted pink slips rumor said Lensherr kept tucked in his top pocket at all times.

Nonsense of course. The slips were orange and Lensherr never handled them personally, preferring to dispatch them via his right-hand woman, Emma.

Frantically Charles reviewed his memories of the day before. For the third time, he had submitted his resignation only to have it returned to his desk before the hour's mark was up. His services were essential, the mocking orange slip read in Lensherr's distinctive scrawl, and therefore not subject to termination until his contract had expired. A copy of said contract was helpfully attached, its relevant clauses highlighted to taunt him with two years of work he still owed.

Reeling from disappointment and feeling more than a little peevish with his singularly unaccommodating superior, Charles had- perhaps foolishly in hindsight- enlisted the help of Alex and Sean, both of whom had agreed only drastic action could save him. Over lunch they had composed a frankly outrageous email, detailing Charles' smoldering passion for infuriatingly stubborn men that refused all requests for reasonable accommodation, his devout wish that they could interact on a more personal level and a desperate plea for a date so laden with innuendo all three of them had been certain security would escort him out by end of day for sexual harassment.

Sean had gleefully smashed the send button before Charles could reconsider, and Lensherr had the worst timing in all the world because every attempt to unsend returned the same message: that it had already been delivered to Lensherr's inbox and read.

Charles had reasoned that in matters of getting roaring drunk, there was no time like the present. He was certainly fired anyway, and any chance of a reference was gone along with one impulsive email. Twenty minutes found him in the back of a cab heading for the farthest bar from his place of work that still sold half decent imports.

Evidently his master plan to avoid Erik until he had to return for his personal effects had been an abject failure.

Exhibit A: He was sound asleep in Charles' bed.

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Charles had frequented enough bars to have a reasonable grasp of their many types. This one, in the vernacular, was a dive. Not that he particularly cared so long as his glass was clean and the bartender obliging. A wad of cash had ensured the bartender was very obliging indeed and Charles had sat well away from the other customers, nursing a bottle of something that tasted vaguely like beer. Whatever it was, it wasn't strong enough to erase the memory of the past couple hours, but it was at least enough that he was beginning to see the humorous side of it.

Mr. Lensherr would be well within his rights to fire him now, and that had been the object, but cut off without references and the looming specter of a pending complaint? It was far from ideal. If only he could have seen the look of disbelief on Erik's face it might have been worth it. Normally he had only two expressions: A genial smile with far too many teeth or a scowl Charles thought might just stick one day. He would have given the last penny of his paycheck to watch all that smug self-certainty melt away beneath an onslaught of increasingly absurd vows of undying devotion.

Really he should buy Alex and Sean a drink for their services, if only for the sake of that image.

Another bottle found its way to his table, and another still. Charles downed them both with the lack of attention he reserved for mediocre drinks, eyes turning now to the other customers. This was an event to be mourned and celebrated in equal measure. Having consumed what felt like a good portion of the bar's stock while mourning, Charles' thoughts turned a little more toward celebration. He wasn't taking Lensherr home, after all, but why not someone else?

Except that none of them seemed particularly appealing. Now that he actually had the idea of Erik in his head it just wouldn't leave him alone. An ass he might be, but damned if he didn't fill out a suit in wonderful and intriguing ways. Now that they were soon to be ex-coworkers, Charles could admit that Erik's arrogant smile had thrilled him a little. When it was directed at anyone other than himself, of course. Not to mention a dry wit that all too often left his colleagues wondering whether he wasn't half serious.

Charles prided himself on his ability to discern the serious from the mundane in all matters Lensherr.

Had prided. Reading Lensherr's moods was not a skill he would have much cause to practice any longer. He toasted an imaginary audience, forcing himself to finish his glass before setting it down again. Five years ago and it would have been no trouble to down a keg on his own. Between skipping breakfast, missing lunch and running on six hours of sleep he was far from his best, but what could one more glass hurt? Or maybe a shot of something stronger.

He was just contemplating the relative merits of a Car Bomb as opposed to straight whiskey when he heard the flap of Satan's wings… otherwise known as the disapproving voice of Erik Lensherr, hovering just off his right shoulder.

"You're late for your shift-"

Charles conjured up his most endearing smile. The one that made Moira blush to the roots of her hair, and made Erik turn red with the effort of holding back what Charles had always imagined to be a truly righteous outburst of temper.

"A shift I would only be working if I were still employed. Since I took the liberty of showing myself the door, I am, in fact, exactly on time." He helpfully lifted his empty glass by way of illustration.

The foreboding frown that on second thought actually looked quite distinguished on Erik's features was slowly replaced with reluctant curiosity. "On time for what, Charles?"

There was something a little off about that sentence, a little unexpected in the soft, almost gentle way it was delivered. Softness was not a quality anyone would think to associate with Erik Lensherr, the man was all steel in his business dealings. There was something else nagging at him too, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. No matter. Erik's question demanded the only appropriate answer.

"Happy hour." Charles didn't bother stifling his grin, pushing himself away from the table in one smooth movement to make for the bar again.

Erik was inconsiderate enough to follow at a discrete distance, radiating puzzlement and a vague sense of frustration. Charles was rather familiar with the feeling, having felt it directed at him every time he had ever been subjected to Erik's frequent presence. What exactly was so confusing or irritating about him Charles had long since given up trying to guess.

Charles slipped onto the first empty stool, book-ended on either side by men only slightly less intimidating in appearance than Logan, chief of security. He spared a second to openly admire the intricate tattoo etched into a muscled forearm, allowing a lazy smile to creep across his lips.

He was just about to offer the subtlest of comments from his not-inconsiderable flirtatious arsenal- which was to say about as subtle as sky-writing "Hello, handsome" in the skies above New York- when the object of his study scrambled hastily out of his seat, threw down far too much money for what he had been drinking and made a bee-line for the door as though he too sensed the homicidal aura Lensherr exuded with every breath.

Erik settled onto the stool with a smirk Charles was all too familiar with, broad and satisfied, throughly amused at the foibles of the human race that he probably didn't count himself a part of.

There was a predatory quality to the way he leaned in, thoughtlessly violating every principle of personal space as he hunkered down shoulder-to-shoulder.

Charles yanked at his collar, suddenly made acutely aware of the warmth of another body when he had been too long without. Was the bar's thermostat broken? It was hot as the fires of hell. The flames of the second circle to be precise, Charles thought with a wry twist of his lips. No helping whom he found attractive, which usually happened to be the one person in the room he should not want and could not have.

Well, Erik had volunteered after all.

"Remind me again, what is a supervisor like you doing in a dump like this?"

"Sean told me you might be here."

"Extracted under rigorous interrogation, I hope?"

"His break room privileges are revoked." Charles didn't even pretend to be surprised when a casual gesture and soft word from Erik produced two more tall glasses of beer.

His first sip was enough to tell him it was far from the cheap swill he'd been drinking. Charles mentally added 'beer snob' to the ongoing list of Lensherr's crimes.

"Drinking on shift is a firing offense."

"I took the day off."

There was really nothing Charles could say that didn't make it sound like he cared, so he clinked their glasses together unceremoniously instead, "Cheers."

This whole conversation was surreal. Were they going to pretend the email hadn't happened? Had Erik only skimmed it, perhaps just long enough to see Charles' signature at the bottom before marking it trash? The next words out of Erik's mouth sank his frail hopes.

"It isn't every day I get such an… effusive invitation to a date."

Thinking back over what he had written, Charles had to admit that was certainly not the word he would have chosen. Too flattering by half.

"I don't suppose you took the day off to celebrate handing over my walking papers?"

"No, but I did bring along a copy of your contract so we can review whichever clauses seem to be confusing you." A dry tone, entirely unperturbed and thoroughly bored.

"Damn." Reluctant admiration colored the word. Charles doubted he could have managed the same air of indifference under the circumstances.

"Of course seeing as I've taken the day off, I don't see why we should mix business with pleasure."

The words were spoken so casually Charles didn't register the gist of them until he was halfway through a hearty gulp. He choked and sputtered, wincing at the pain of swallowing too much at once.

"Easy, Charles. It won't run away from you."

At last he pinpointed the source of that nagging feeling the world had gone off-kilter. Since when did Erik refer to him by his given name? Not that he particularly minded, come to it he thought it sounded rather good spoken in such tones of reluctant amusement.

Clearly he was somewhere past tipsy if two little syllables could make his heart race like this. At least that explained how warm his skin felt, absolutely nothing to do with Lensherr at all, he assured himself. Absolutely nothing. He pushed the glass out of temptation's reach, just in case.

Even with his coughing fit slowly abating, Charles found his wits had rather abandoned him somewhere between leaving the table and that last disastrous gulp. No suave replies were obliging enough to dance trippingly off his tongue, and if his expression could be described in a single word, he imagined it must be 'thunderstruck.' Or perhaps 'pole-axed', if Erik's cat-and-canary smile was anything to go by.

Charles had never considered himself a canary before. He was rapidly revising his self-opinion.

Unfortunately, his tongue recovered faster than his scattered thoughts, and the only word that it could manage was a decidedly confused "Erik?"

"Yes, Charles?"

Oh that wasn't fair! He could see perfectly well what that name on his lips was doing to Charles' composure. The only decent thing to do would be to resume their usual bickering, but no one had ever accused Erik Lensherr of playing fair.

Very well. Two could play at that game. He offered his most charming smile, complete with sparkling blue eyes and flushed cheeks, taking a perverse pleasure in seeing the wary way Erik set aside his drink.

"I propose we order another round and get our business out of the way before we proceed to pleasure."

Erik's blush spread quickly, over his cheeks and ears, down his neck and beneath that high collar. It was charming, almost- cute. If it had been anyone other than Erik. As it was, Charles resolved to make it his personal mission to get that first button undone so he could confirm that blush went as far as he thought it did. Of course, the first order of business would be getting him out of that damnable tie- shouldn't be too difficult, Erik was already fiddling with it, suddenly glancing everywhere but at his erstwhile companion.

The tables had turned, Charles was well into his element. He gestured for a refill before turning back to an increasingly flustered Erik.

"Now, I don't suppose you have a hard copy?"

And there went the damnable tie. An excellent start to the evening.

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Which still didn't explain how he had ended up sharing his bed with Lensherr, but it was at least enough to make an educated guess. The question quickly became what he intended to do about it. Snippets of sensation, images from the night before all played out of sequence in his mind's eye. Waking Erik for an encore didn't seem like such a terrible idea… nakedness was the great equalizer and Charles saw no reason to call off the truce until they were both fully kitted out for war.

Well, except for Erik's tie. Charles had a very clear memory of throwing it out a taxi's window over Erik's protests. He also had a very vivid memory of silencing those protests in the only way he could think of at the time- sloppy, enthusiastic kisses that had the driver yelling at them to stay in their damned seats.

Charles hoped he had remembered to tip exorbitantly.

The muted rustle of sheets pulled him back to the present, just in time to see Erik's eyes flicker open, shut again, and then snap open again with sheer panic. He pushed himself upright, and Charles' conscience sternly rebuked him for taking the time to enjoy rippling abs before he spoke up.

"I think you followed me home. More accurately, I think I might've dragged you into my home."

"Charles." A gasp of recognition and relief. Surprise melting away into… satisfaction? Amusement? An unholy mixture of the two that left Charles wondering which of them exactly was more responsible for last night. Until a moment ago, he had been quite certain he had cunningly persuaded Erik to broaden his definition of 'pleasure'. Now… he was no longer quite so certain.

"I owe you a tie, by the way. The rest of your suit should be around here somewhere." His shoes were definitely on the stairs, Charles remembered swearing as he tripped over them. As for the rest, he was reasonably certain it was in the house.

"I'm not really thinking of the tie, Charles."

Dry humor laced his voice; Charles couldn't help but respond with a smile that was only half-sheepish, "No, I don't suppose you are."

Damned if his name didn't sound every bit as sexy this morning as it had last night. Not a particularly sexy name, Charles. At least, not until Erik Lensherr got his filthy, talented tongue all over it.

Completely at a loss for what to say, he trailed off. Still a little distracted by what seemed like miles upon miles of bare skin, tanned, bruised in some places- and what wouldn't he give to remember how that had happened?

He glanced back up to catch Erik's eye, was unsurprised to find Erik engaged in the same wondering inspection… and evidently liking what he saw. Confidence renewed, Charles stalked forward, damn the consequences.

"My memory of last night is a little hazy-"

"We could both do with a reminder."

"We could." Charles slipped onto the bed again, relishing the feel of Erik's arms catching his weight, pulling them skin to skin with the same fervor of the night before.

Later they could retrace precisely how this had happened and whether they intended it to happen again. There was still the matter of an inconvenient contract to discuss, an outrageous email Charles was tempted to request for a keepsake, and their working relationship to go over. But today was Saturday, and Charles' schedule didn't call for him to return until Monday afternoon, so why bother thinking again until Monday morning?

Erik was in wholehearted agreement. By that time, he hoped to have convinced Charles that it didn't really matter how it had started so long as it continued.