Guessing (Charles Xavier)

16. Back to Black

I'm sorry for the late update, but thank you for all your support! If it wasn't for you guys, I probably would have deleted this story by now ❤️❤️❤️

14 million.

14 million people in the state of New York alone, according to the 1960 census a few years back.

And it just so happens that Hank McCoy is standing right in front of me, with a glass of gin in his hand, his thickly framed glasses a familiar sight.

"Haven," he repeats, eyes wide as if he's shocked to see me too.

"Hank."

"I haven't seen you in forever. At least, it feels like that."

I nod numbly in response, and look behind Hank's shoulders to see that Francesca is gone from the bar, half-finished Long Island Ice Teas still on the counter.

"It's been a while."

Hank hesitates before speaking again. "Will you sit down? I'll buy you a drink."

"I'm not drinking tonight, thank you."

"Come on, just one drink. For old times' sake?"

"Hank-"

"Two gin and tonics, please!" Hank calls over to the bartender, who nods and starts carrying out the order. "You can't not drink it if I just bought it," he says.

"I can," I say, "but that would be rude."

"Precisely." Hank tells the bartender to put it on his ta and he slides the drink over to me, taking the seat adjacent.

"You went back to Oxford?"

"I did."

"Without telling any of us, either."

"I didn't think that was necessary," I say quietly. The club music is drowning our words so I doubt he can actually hear me, but he understands nonetheless.

"Never mind, you're here to have fun, aren't you? How about something stronger than this?"

Before I can object, Hank waves the bartender over again and shots start coming in front of me.

It's also hard to stop drinking once you've started.

So I keep downing these drinks, one after the other, and the music starts to slur and my vision starts to become foggy and I guess I'm having a good time. Better than I expected.

A few hours later, I'm slumped over the bar counter, completely intoxicated.

***********************************

I haven't been hungover in a really long time, so long that I've forgotten how terrible it feels.

The rumbling in my head makes it difficult for me to focus or even open my eyes, but when I finally do, I see that I'm in a room of wooden panelling.

It's not the hotel.

But I've been here before.

There's an oriental rug on the ground, and I see that I've been laid down on a couch, with a jacket thrown over my body and a few couch cushions under my head. I'm still in Francesca's dress from last night, but the shoes are off, on the ground right beside the couch.

Francesca. I need to call her. But in order to call our hotel room, I would need a telephone, as well as the hotel number, neither of which I have.

Wouldn't it be easier if I could just carry a telephone with me all the time? Like a portable, mobile phone?

I lift myself up slowly, and run my hands through a tangled nest that my hair has become. The dress is overwhelmed in wrinkles and twists, so I fix that up as well.

It's then, when I'm smoothing out my mess of a skirt, that I finally recognize my surroundings.

The couch.

The rug.

The small television in the corner and the mahogany panelling on the walls.

I'm back where I started.

"Morning," I hear, and jump up almost immediately.

It's Hank, in a robe, without his glasses.

"Oh, no," I say, backing away from him. "No, no, no."

"Haven."

"I was drunk. I didn't ever want to come back here. I left for a reason, alright? And I need to leave again. Right now."

"Look, Haven..."

"Hank," I say, leaning over and bracing myself on a nightstand.

My chest is constricting and pulsing and suddenly it's hard to remember how to breathe.

"Hank, I just want to leave, please."

My voice cracks midway through the plead, and I'm painfully aware of how childish I sound.

He hesitates for a moment, before nodding. "Alright. I'm sorry. I'll call a cab."

He heads to the door, bare feet padding quietly on the ground. I hear the door open.

"Good morning, Hank," I hear, and I freeze because I know that voice all too well.

"Oh, morning. Um, don't come in, I broke... the vase and the shards are all over the floor. I don't want you to cut your feet."

"Don't worry about it. I'll help you clean it up-"

"It's really okay, I can do it on my own-"

"Don't be ridiculous, Hank."

I turn around to see Charles push past Hank and stop when he sees me. He's in a ragged shirt that looks as if it hasn't been washed in months, and the scruffy beard on his face makes him look like a stranger.

This isn't the man I had fallen in love with.

But as he's standing in front of me, blue eyes wide, the only thing I care about is the fact that he's here.

I could be focusing on the fact that he looks tired, or that Hank looks like he's going to regurgitate, or even that Charles is standing, but it all doesn't matter.

He's here.

And so am I.