This storm brings strange loyalties (Zander)

[Matthias Walker]

Being handed the key to someone else’s apartment is not, Matthias knows, necessarily implicit permission to walk in whenever the mood strikes him.

On the other hand, though, Silas has never complained, and Mattie is inclined to monopolize the lack of bitching—surprising enough all on its own, given the doctor’s penchant for it. And, in fairness, when he turns up with the key tucked in his pocket and a take-out bag of Chinese food, he expects Silas to be there. In retrospect, that Cesan is staying late at work does not necessarily mean Silas is not, but finding the apartment empty after a thorough search—as if there was really a chance of finding Silas hiding under the bed to begin with—is surprising. And disappointing. And lonely. Eating Chinese take-out is sad enough an affair without having to do it on his own on a—yes, on a fucking Friday night.

Still, the idea of finding a stranger for company is as unappetizing as the thought of walking back across Boston, now. Matthias cheerfully flings social standards out the window and makes himself at home in Silas’s apartment, viciously sending the doctor a string of text messages intended to annoy in the wake of helping himself to bourbon and the couch:

You know what’s better than brains? Chinese food and bourbon.
Hey, Silas, hey, want to hear a joke?
Well, you get one anyway, fuck you.
Know who the fattest knight at King Arthur’s Round Table was?
Sir Cumference, cause he ate too much pi.
Silas, fuck you, I’m gonna just drink all the fucking bourbon.
No bourbon for you.

It is possibly the saddest form of entertainment Matthias has ever settled for, and the knowledge that sitting on Silas’s couch in Silas’s apartment coming up with more ridiculous things to text him is pathetic is only made slightly better by his anticipation of Silas’s face when he gets around to reading the text messages. He expects hours of downtime, wonders vaguely if he can manage a hundred texts before Silas can get to them, and has settled more securely onto Silas’s couch, legs crossed and box of rice and chicken cradled securely in the V of his ankles, armed with a glass of bourbon and his phone, when somebody knocks on the door.

Mattie spares a moment to be grateful that nobody bears witness to the events that follow; he jumps out of his skin, more startled by the innocuous knock than he is by vampires or werewolves, and nearly spills the bourbon and upsets his food; his cell phone is dropped mid-message to the floor to save the more important edible things.

It does not occur to him until his hand is on the doorknob that people don’t knock on their own doors.

It does not occur to him to check who it is at all; that it can possibly be somebody who is not Silas is absolutely not considered—it is just Silas being weird, who knows. The door is flung open, Matthias greeting the man on the doorstep armed with a glass of bourbon, “Dude, what the fuck are you even knocking f—hi.” A frown knits his eyebrows together, one hand stopping the door in its casual arc. Perhaps he should be concerned, but he settles for simple confusion, “Silas isn’t home…are you one of those religious people?”

[Zander Burke]

The dirty blonde werewolf had just gotten home from work. Tonight was a tad later than usual, he was offered overtime and so he had taken it. The only downside was Zander was left with very little social time, between waking up, work and then home to bed. So it probably was a week by the time he had time to go visit Silas again. Apologies were text-ed, whether or not Silas received them... Zander didn't care. The wolf had gotten home, showered changed into dark wash jeans and a red tee with a black design over one shoulder. The last thing he does was grab his case of beer, and headed out the door.

Deciding to take his car, he was sure Silas wouldn't bitch so much at him crashing there another night. If it was a huge fucking problem he would probably see if he can manage to drive himself home... or take a cab. In all honesty his thought process didn't go much further than drive to Silas' con the man into drinking with him possibly. If all goes well, they would have fun drinking and Zander would focus on getting Silas into a hopefully not so broody drunk time. Also, no broken noses... but Zander couldn't guarantee this -- but he wasn't in a scrappy mood tonight so it should be all good.

Parking across the street, a thought occurred to him... a fleeting past glimpse at a half assed 'promise'. Pulling out his phone he texted Silas.

<I'm at your place, you better fucking be there. Or i'm breaking in.>

Satisfied he made his way up to the apartment in toe with his beer. As soon as he got to Silas' door.. hand hovered over the door knob. Last minute he decided to be nice and knock -- only because Zander still didn't know him all too well... and didn't want to risk getting kicked out for walking in on something he shouldn't see. Zander sighs suddenly impatient, hand shot for the door, only for it to be swung open. "About fuckin-" uh what?

Expression would be... confused at first as he checked the door number once again. "Who the fuck.. ar- what? Do I look like a fucking religious person?" he spoke voice still on the incredulous side, but he lightly shook his case of Coors to make his point. His face probably mirrored Mattie's with eyebrows knitted together.

"Well. Shit. Where is he... and why the fuck are you here then?" he would ask, recovering from the fact that... even with Silas not home... there was some guy here? There was no hostility, no, Zander was just. He just wasn't expecting this.

[Matthias Walker]

“Well not with that kind of language, I think religious people censor,” the answer is still bemused, his mouth running on autopilot, as Mattie blinks at the case of beer the man is holding. Does Silas even drink beer? He has seen the man drink bourbon like water, but never yet has he spotted a beer bottle in a five foot range of the doctor, and that a stranger washes up on Silas’s doorstep waving beer like his entry ticket is utterly bewildering. It helps, a little, that said stranger looks as absolutely confused as Mattie feels, and after a moment Matthias tires of the standoff at the door. The alcohol is well-wishes enough for him, and retiring back to Chinese food and texting alone is pathetic.

He shrugs, steps sideways, and makes a loose gesture for the man to step into the apartment with the glass of bourbon, “Hell if I know, elbow-deep in someone’s skull? You’re welcome to wait for him or something, I’m just—I have food.” It is not exactly an answer, but it sounds slightly less painfully sad than admitting that he came hoping for company on a Friday night bearing take-out as a bribe. “Was gonna be for Silas, but whatever, I’m pretty sure I could feed a fucking army for a couple days anyway, you like Chinese?”

The question is rhetorical at best; the merits of feeding a stranger food he had intended for the owner of the apartment in which he is camping out are ignored. He had always intended to make Silas keep the leftovers anyway—Chinese take-out is not exactly the healthiest meal in the world, but it’s still exponentially better than ice cream, Cheetos, and bourbon for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The impromptu addition to the anticipated number might deplete the expected leftovers, but Mattie doubts the dent will be that noticeable. He turns with a wave of his hand to wave the man along in his wake to reclaim his chicken and rice and his spot on the couch.

“I’m Matthias, and I—” His lips quirk into a half-apologetic, half-amused slant. Perhaps he should be less doubtful of Silas’s ability to make friends, but he just—Silas has always told him everything, he thought. That he suddenly sprouted someone with a penchant for showing up with a case of beer and didn’t even mention how offensive the beer instead of bourbon was—it’s weird. Matthias shoves a random box of take-out in Zander’s direction along the coffee table like an absentminded olive branch, “Okay, so are you, fuck, I don’t know. I didn’t know Silas had friends, but I feel like a long-lost relative wouldn’t have brought beer, wine is probably classier, right? That’s all I got, man.”

[/blockquote]

[Zander Burke]

Zander would blink before chuckling some."I'd fucking hope so, I'd make a scary-ass nun." he snorted.

The werewolf was surprised to see the guy step aside to allow Zander to come in. In a way he felt like this was almost awkward. But in all honesty like Silas picked up on, Zander didn't have much respect for personal boundries. Sure he will stay out of their fucking bubble... but he wasn't one to stay away for too long. Plus why ask to come over when that person was probably going to turn you down? Best way to make friends was to just invite yourself. Haaah probably why he pisses so many people off.

A pleased smile crossed his lips, "why thank you."

Zander made a face, like a wrinkling of his nose "Ugh. That would be the worst job. Although i'd put up with it to snag a place like this. But sure. I'll wait, nothing better to do tonight." he stated before heading to the kitchen to put his beer in the fridge. Since the last time he checked, Silas had all the room in the world for this to be Zander's temporary beer fridge. He didn't know whether the guy drank the stuff, but he had a feeling it was pretty safe.

"I fucking love Chinese. Although I wouldn't underestimate how much I can eat. a mischievous smile then, a tell sign that he was kidding. He didn't eat too much when he planned on drinking some, and not so much now since he now knew this food was for Silas. Although he had just met the man, he already knows that the other wolf doesn't eat much. Maybe that was why he was so fucking grouchy all the time. Zander left the box in a corner out of the way, to place his empties when he was done. With that he grabbed a beer and then joined Mattie on the couch, leaning against one arm.

Brown and blue eyes would flicker to Mattie as he introduced himself, Zander took a swig of his beer -- and then lifted the drink in a cheers manner. "Ah. Zander," he introduced.

When Silas pretty much asked him how he knew Silas, an amused smile spread across his lips as he shook his head some. "The fucking guy broke my nose last weekend. Probably my fault, think I pushed way too many buttons at the bar. Fucker took me home and set my nose. And here I am." he said while he took another drink of his beer, setting it on the coffee table as he took some of the takeout. "Frankly i'm still fucking surprised he put up with me, after insulting his choice in drink... and forcing him to come socialize with me. He floored my ass." smirk would have crossed his face at this point too remembering the rage on Silas' face when he had punched Zander into the table behind him.

"I'm assuming you know him. Since... you're here when he's not? And you have the same fucking awful taste in booze." there would be a small pause, "Friend, mailman... lover?" he would ask with a crooked smirk, "no offence to Silas but the fucker doesn't seem like the all social type."

[Matthias Walker]

At least he isn’t the only sad fucker without something better to do than drink and eat all night.

The stranger rummaging through the kitchen—Mattie spares half a thought to being concerned on principle of not knowing the guy, but he knows from experience that the most valuable thing Silas keeps in his kitchen cabinets is the set of Katy Perry CDs—is still bewilderingly random, but, well. Company, he supposes. If he can’t have Cesan or Silas, well, it’s convenient that the man turned up with alcohol on the doorstep, even if Mattie still cannot figure out where the fuck he came from. Silas does not have other friends that show up on the spur of the moment; Matthias may not live with the man anymore but this kind of thing is strange enough to merit a mention.

“Zander,” he echoes the man’s introduction, and tips the glass of bourbon to him in answer to the toast. The formality is brief; the name does not mean anything, triggers no piercing memory that would clarify as to why.

Not that the explanation helps much, either.

Mattie stares for a moment, eyebrows pulling together in utter bewilderment, a smile quirking up the corners of his mouth, helplessly amused at the man’s cheerful recounting of the story. “So he used you as a punching bag and you,” the incredulous summary is interrupted by a laugh, a disbelieving shake of his head, “bring him beer on a Friday night because he, what, earned it by not leaving you there?” It should not be funny that Silas broke the man’s nose—even had the benefit of being a werewolf to sway things in his favor—but the way Zander goes about telling it is good-humored enough for Mattie to go with it, because Jesus, Silas has a great streak for weird first meetings with his friends.

He shrugs at Zander’s question, hesitates over the mention of lover, and offers in an absolute deadpan, “I’m the mailman, really, I got a spare key because he gets me to deliver brains to him and those can’t really go without being refrigerated, y’know?” A shrug, the mock solemnity melting into a crooked grin, “Nah, I’m a friend,” sort of, but Mattie does not plan on unloading all the complications onto Zander now or ever, thanks much, “And fuck you, man, playing nice enough to be friends involved a lot of bourbon, it grows on you.”

Besides, it’s difficult to be enough of an asshole to complain about Silas’s expensive as fuck bourbon when he steals it all too frequently—for lack of anything else in the damn place, yes, but still. Matthias pauses, sets down the glass of bourbon onto the coffee table to poke through the chicken and rice with a plastic fork (chopsticks are and will remain a mystery), and then looks up at Zander again, “Sooo…” Waiting is all very well and nice, but usually first meetings are more intuitive and more neutral than this. So, right, Silas is not a social creature, but there ought to be some kind of continuity in his friends and Mattie does not fucking get it.

Without the doctor around as a buffer to prevent Mattie from embarrassing him, the hunter leans forward, propping his elbows against his knees, “I already knew he was a grumpy asshole and all, but Jesus, is that how you make all your friends? Haven’t got that much room to talk, but I’m pretty sure most people don’t go for the whole broken nose and bar fight thing as a courtship ritual.”

[/blockquote]

[Zander Burke]

(Playing with fonts, yaaay)

"Hah. Well when you put it like that, it kind of sounds fucking stupid. I suppose you're not wrong. Fuck. Anyone who can put up with me after I royally pissed them off... is a potential friend in my books." he replied with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. He brought his drink to his mouth and then hesitated, "and fuck him, this beer is mine. I was hoping to get him to drink with me tonight, or whatever." He supposed it was an odd fucking reason to stick with someone. Zander didn't really have high standards, especially when it came to people he liked to chill with. Silas could have royally fucked him up, if he kept hitting him while he was down -- but he stopped... and then offered to fix him up. To Zander getting into a scrap wasn't personal, at all... he liked bar scraps, it was a lot more fun when the other person could look at it the way Zander does.

He snorted when Mattie went along with the mailman joke, but sort of made a face when brains were mentioned. He was certain if he saw brains in Silas' fridge, he would avoid the kitchen like his like depended on it. Warm beer was only a minor sacrifice. "Ew. Fuck no, Bourbon is like Black Liquorish. You either love it... or fucking hate it. I understand whiskey and vodka, but fuck bourbon. The smell just... kills me." he stated wrinling his nose some, his nose was very sensitive when it came to alcohol... and when there was one he didn't like. Well. He didn't like it.

"Fuck off. I didn't mean to get into a fight, it was all fine..." the word fine was... used loosely -- since he was sure he stepped over the line when he insulted his bourbon. "He sort of exploded when I touched him, trying to get him off his sorry ass. How was I supposed to know not to touch him. Not my fucking fault." he added raising his hands in defence, although one still held his alcohol. "Although fuck that guy's gotta hard hit." he stated with a smirk. He was sure it was because of his furry friend, that Silas hit so fucking hard. Doctors are supposed to be pansies, aren't they? "Also. I don't go looking for fights... they just sometimes happen.." a bit of a lie. But eh.

Finishing one beer he set it on the table, finally getting to eating some of the food. "So. Smartass. What's your story, since we're sharing 'How I met Silas' encounters." he asked taking a couple more bites, before getting up to grab a couple more (so he didn't have to keep walking back). Just because he had food doesn't mean he was going to stop drinking. And Mattie seemed to be getting into the bourbon. Any awkwardness that Zander felt at the beginning was now gone, he didn't even care that he was at Silas' without the guy there.

"Keep fucking drinking asshole. I'm not going to be the only pathetic fuck here." he stated, not caring how fucking stupid it must sound or look -- drinking while waiting for the host.

[Matthias Walker]

Well, Matthias isn’t exactly in a prime position to judge on friend-making techniques.

Staying in Boston is a first, and he is not exactly a magnet for people even with the months of learning the city’s streets and alleys. Still, making nice with people he picks fights with at bars has never struck him as remotely appealing—probably has something to do with inevitably ducking punches from the biggest and stupidest guy he can find, instead of grouchy neurosurgeons—and the slanted grin and arched brow say as much. But hey, if it works for him. Mattie muffles the dry chuckle against the rim of the glass, shrugs loosely and sticks his tongue out pointedly at the man’s pointed disapproval of the bourbon. Better bourbon than nothing had become better bourbon than shitty cocktails or cheap beer, and if Silas is willing to pay for it, Mattie isn’t one to complain.

“He’s kinda got a thing about being touched,” is his supremely innocent agreement, his grin crooked as he bows his head over the Chinese takeout, and, okay, the turnabout is not unexpected but there is really no fucking way to make We met because threesomes sound good. Buying time by applying himself to the cooling food and following it with another mouthful of bourbon isn’t exactly good manners either, but, well. Can’t win ’em all. He pulls an eloquent face at Zander, “Yeah, believe me, I’m not gonna stop drinking anytime soon, I already promised Silas I wasn’t gonna leave him any bourbon if he didn’t get his ass home, so.”

Viciously-made promises aside, he sets down the glass on the coffee table, shrugs, “Met him in a bar. Surprising, right? He was with a,” part-time lover, “Friend and I thought I’d go make nice. Ended up going home with them, slipped out the next day and dislocated my shoulder in about three hours, so, y’know, hospital, and before I know it, the guy’s stepping into the goddamn room and asking me where it hurts, and I figured, hey, if I run into the guy twice in the span of twelve hours, I might as well be nice. Beginning of a beautiful friendship. Really.” The statement is wry, the gentle sarcasm underpinned with an easy smile and shrug, “He bitches even more at his friends than he does random guys he beats up in bars, you’ve been warned.”

[/blockquote]

[Zander Burke]

"Only kinda? I'm pretty sure he wanted to kill me. And that is no word of a lie." he laughed shaking his head some.

Zander popped open another beer, sort of multi-tasking with drinking his beer and finishing his Chinese food. Zander wasn't picky with food, unless it had a name he could not pronounce. Thankfully most Chinese food has been heavily American-ized. He just stays away from the Chop-suey and whatever those stringy see-through noodles are. Unless he's pushed or dared to eat something, he won't touch it voluntarily. But he does tend to give in if others tell him too, not because he cracks under pressure... its mainly because he likes the attention. To an only child who had all the attention when younger... he still craves it now.

"Ahaha you shithead. I hope he kicks your face." he laughed but his eyes glinted with amusement with of a touch of his mischievous nature. "Fuck. If I could stomach that shit I would join you. Just to see that look on his face. I am such a cocksucker." he stated with a grin, but he wouldn't even try. Not unless he was told to with a few more beers in his system. Just enough to turn off the self-preservation aspect of himself that flickers even while sober.

While Mattie talked Zander pretty much finished up his food, setting his container on the table, listening with a slightly amused smile. His mind of course guttered right off the bat, but he tried to keep that in check... it wasn't really hinted at -- so Zander didn't try to think too much on it. But he couldn't help that little smirk that played on his lips when Mattie spoke. He hoped since Mattie didn't know Zander all that well he would hopefully think Zander was simply amused instead of just being a giant pervert.

"Hah. I don't feel quite as stupid now." he snorted.

Brown and blue eyes studied Mattie for a moment, deciding whether or not it was a good idea. "Fuck it. Lets liven this up a bit." he stated getting up and grabbing a glass for himself, and a couple more beer for the table. After setting everything down, he proceeded to poor the beer from its bottle into the glass. "We are going to play a little game, while we wait." when the contents of the beer were now in the glass he pulled out a quarter and set it on the table.

"Are you against drinking beer. Because... this game will guarantee you getting completely shitfaced." he asked while he moved the Chinese food off the coffee table. When shit was set up he looked at Mattie, "So. This game is called Irish Quarters. Pretty fucking much you spin this quarter, while its spinning chug the shit out of your drink (which is why I suggest beer). When the drink is gooone you need to attempt to refill your glass. If at any point the quarter falls, you need to start over."

There would be a pause, while a slow smirk crawled to his face, "are you game fuck-face? If so you go first." he grinned, offering one of his bottles of beer in case Mattie decided to switch or change his mind.

[Matthias Walker]

“Attempted murder is only ‘kinda’ for Silas,” is Mattie’s grave response. The solemnity falls into a crooked grin at Zander’s approval of his whole drinking Silas out of house and home plan, and he tips the glass of bourbon at him. “Asshole,” snickered over the rim of the glass as he takes a sip. “At least I actually like it, sort of,” it wasn’t his fault that Silas had more or less been the catalyst to his taste in alcohol. Fitting that the doctor be the one to pay for the alcohol, then, seeing as it was fucking top shelf bourbon—fancy drink for rich people with nothing else to spend their money on, not the kind of shit most people buy easy lays at bars.

He taps his fingers against the rim of the glass, absent, half-impatient. Killing time with a stranger isn’t a bad way to be spending a Friday night, but Matthias has sort of gotten used to familiarity. Then Zander speaks again, and Mattie arches an eyebrow at him, curious, leans forward. Liven it up, huh—well, why not. Sort of limited, what with the lack of actual people, but why the hell not. So even if playing a little game gives him momentary pause, caught between wondering if Zander’s going to want to play Truth or Dare like a seventh grade kid at a slumber party or if this is the lead-up to a proposition, he makes a loose-fingered gesture for the man to continue.

Interest brightens blue eyes as Zander sketches out the rules of the game, and when he finishes, Mattie laughs, slouches back against the couch, “You are so fucking on, dude, hold that thought a sec.” Refilling a glass requires actual glasses, and with that Mattie sets down the Chinese food and his near-empty glass of bourbon on the table to go to the kitchen for two more. Mixing drinks is probably—definitely—a shitty idea; the only redeeming factor is that his stomach isn’t completely empty, but, Jesus—it’s a Friday night and if he is going to spend it in someone else’s apartment with a stranger armed with a case of beer, he might as well do it wasted.

“Before we start…” The dramatic pause is inevitable, the crooked grin an invitation as he takes the beer from Zander and pours it into a glass, “Wanna make a bet or something? May the…” A pause as he considers, and then, “Less drunk off his ass man win? Silas can be the judge whenever he gets back, and, I don’t know, loser pays for dinner sometime. Like, pizza or takeout or what-the-fuck ever, not like five star restaurant shit.”

The bet is just a novelty, though, and Mattie slides to his knees in front of the coffee table, picks up the quarter, and examines the task before him with rapt solemnity for a moment. In theory it’s easy enough—spin the quarter, drink, pour, and hell, at first it probably won’t be that hard. And it isn’t: He shifts sideways to set the quarter spinning in a whirl of silver, picks up the glass of beer, and upturns it to drain it. The beer comes as a shock after the rich burn of bourbon, and halfway through drinking the ridiculousness of playing drinking games like a flashback to college strikes him.

He is laughing when he sets down the glass, the quarter wavering, and slops the beer messily over the edge of the glass onto the coffee table, “Shit, Jesus fuckin’—I totally thought I was done with drinking games when college ended, God,” it’s been years since he has drunk with the intent of getting wasted. “Ha.” He slaps a hand over the quarter, levels a triumphant grin at Zander as he slides it across the table, “Your go.”

[Zander Burke]

There was a very pleased grin that slid to his features when Matthias agreed to his little game. This drinking game was one he played numerous times, in college... as well as random people at the bar (very costly though). Since he got drunk a lot slower than the ones who just drink liquor straight. He had a lot more fun with games, because it required him to drink very quickly -- clearly no fun when you're on your own.

When Mattie took the beer, Zander's eyes brightened with the thought of a bet aspect of this game. Which now made this little drinking game several times more fun. When he explained the bet Zander smirked mischievously, "you little shit. Fuck, you're on. " he stated as he sat back to watch Mattie as he spun the quarter. Zander watched with interest, and anticipation. He doesn't know this guy, which is why he got him to go first -- to see what he was up against. He was hoping bourbon sippers would be giant pussies, when it came to actually chugging beer.

Genuine surprise would be the first expression Mattie would have seen after his glass was set down. But he was pleased to see it would be a challenge to try and one up this guy. "Hah, yeah no you are never too fucking old for drinking games." he stated as he popped open his second bottle of beer to prep for pouring. "Thank fucking god, this may actually be a challenge now. I guess not all bourbon sippers are fucking sissies." he stated picking the quarter up from the table. He has played this game so many times he barely even has to think before flicking the quarter.

As soon as the coin leaves his fingers the glass of beer is in his hands. The trick to chugging everything is to just let the alcohol drain down your throat. If you try swallowing every little drop, you'd either end up choking, or you'd be the last one done. Worked better with a funnel, when it pretty much forced the booze down your throat. Zander drained the beer, grabbing the second one as the quarter clinked against one of the glasses. Luckily for him it had enough speed to keep wobbling as he refilled his glass, spilling only some. "Fuuck. As much I love this game, its been a fucking while. " he laughed pushing the quarter back to Mattie, re-adjusting his glass so it wasn't too in the way.

Zander go up to grab more beer out of the fridge. As soon as he was up, he stumbled a bit -- forgetting how fast the beer hits your head. "Don't you fucking say a word." he snipped, but a grin was still plastered on his face. The rest of the journey was fine, he grabbed as much as he could carry and flopped back to the floor, knee accidentally bumping the table. He divided them up evenly, passing Mattie's half to him on the floor.

[Zephyr]

Apparently his job isn’t that fucking important, because Silas returns from an eight hour surgery to see his phone blinking up at him urgently. He hesitates for only a second before unlocking his phone…and very nearly drops it to the ground when he sees his inbox fucking full of new messages. “The fuck?” Silas growls, not noticing a presence behind him.

Evelyn makes him jump when she wraps her arms around his shoulders and plasters herself to his back, resting her head on his shoulder and looking at his phone contemplatively. “Wow.” She says with a whistle. “Someone’s popular with the guys. Maybe you should give me some tips sometime, sweetie. I can’t seem to keep one. You’ve got two.” Of course Silas blushes and tenses, trying to shake the persistent blonde off of him.

“Fuck off, Eve. Don’t you have a bedpan to change or something.” His words are meant to wound, but Evelyn has known the guy long enough that she barely blinks at him. She just beams, wrinkling her nose and laughing a little. “Ouch, doc. That hurts.” Then she leans forward to place a wet kiss on his cheek before dancing out of his reach on light feet. “Get out of here before you keep your guys waiting anymore.” He’s about to argue, but she gives him a stern look. “And don’t you fucking dare try and find a reason to stay, or I’ll make sure you have the day off for the next two weeks…and I’ll tell Mattie.”

Silas stands his ground for a moment longer, glaring at the nurse for a second, realizing that he’s met his match. No one fucks with Eve. He glowers at her before going to go get his stuff, snorting at the nurse as he passes. “I will fucking fire you one day.” Her expression is nothing short of gleeful when Silas is on his way out.

God.

Why is this really his goddamn life?

~~

The surgeon is understandably apprehensive when he pulls up to his apartment building. Matthias and Zander both went to his apartment. What if they met? The thought of what the pair of them could unleash upon his world is truly horrifying and for a moment, Silas sits in his car, stubborn and silent. Finally, the cold and a misplaced sense of curiosity draw him outside and he makes his way up the familiar path to the building, and the even more familiar trek through the inside of the place. He freezes at the door; imagines he can hear everything he owns being methodically destroyed and slowly opens it and peeks inside.

God fucking dammit. They’re both there…together. The awkwardness of this moment settles heavily on Silas – but probably not anyone else since both Matthias and Zander are pleasantly drunk off their fucking asses – and he doesn’t hesitate for a second before turning around and heading the other way.

But apparently his stealthy entrance wasn’t as stealthy as he thought and he hears Matthias yelling his name before he’s abruptly grabbed by the shoulders and pulled – figuratively kicking and screaming – into the bowels of his own apartment. He drops his briefcase and whirls on his assailant, brows furrowed and an impressive glare on his face before he takes in the scene around him.

What the fuck.

“Are you guys wasted right now?”

[Matthias Walker]

“Silas!”

The apartment has been transformed in Silas’s absence. The game is not, as it turns out, conducive to neatness; beer is slopped across the coffee table, Chinese take-out boxes still stacked, one tipped onto its side and fortunately empty, if greasy. The quarter is mid-spin when Silas steps into the room, and, game forgotten, Mattie half-drops and half-sets his beer back onto the coffee table and pushes himself to his feet, and if he sways, well, that is fixed with one hand braced against Zander’s shoulder for a moment until the floor steadies beneath his feet. It’s been years since he was well and truly drunk, and he is well-past the point of guilt, of God how am I going to get home after this. The alcohol leaves a pleasant warmth in its wake and eliminates the half-formed remembrance of propriety, of remembering the boundaries of friendship instead of—

—crossing the room in two steps that bear more resemblance to a controlled fall than an actual human being deliberately moving forward, the grip he gets on Silas’s shoulders as much to keep himself from falling as to keep Silas inside.

The lights are too bright, the floor unsteady after sitting too long in one place, and God, he needs to pee really fucking badly, but, “Silas,” he repeats, softer, knots his fingers into Silas’s jacket and buries his face against his shoulder. He smells like antiseptic and the cold snap of fresh air, and for a moment Mattie is content to cling to him, impervious to the radiating waves of disapproval, blissfully ignorant of the state of the apartment beyond him.

It’s not until Silas’s accusing question registers that Mattie remembers Zander and oh, the bet. Reluctantly, he pulls away from Silas, shakes his head. The room spins, and his grip tightens spastically in Silas’s shirt. Firmly, “No.” Then, licking his lips and straightening, blinking away the brightness of the room to focus on Silas, “Well, he is. I’m not. We were having a—it was a game. You’re the judge, but, I mean, c’mon, it’s pretty obvious who the winner is, right? Sorry, man,” he adds over his shoulder in Zander’s general direction, because really, he cannot be fucked to turn when turning and falling are looking more and more synonymous, “But it’s the truth.”

One brow arches as he turns blue eyes back to Silas expectantly. Trying to look sober when Mattie knows he is decidedly not is a task in and of itself, never mind trying to simultaneously stay upright. Talking serves a fairly good distraction. “I texted you,” he says, “You could’ve been here, you were supposed to be here. I was waiting for you.”

[/blockquote]

[Zander Burke]

So the game kicked his ass. It was fun, because he tried so hard to one up Mattie -- that he may have over did it. But drunk people have this thing called drunk vision, he was sure Mattie was around the same boat that he was in. Whether that was a good thing or not, it didn't even matter anymore. He was pretty sure most of the bet was forgotten during their chugging, he even lost track of how many they drank. How many times had he gotten up and stumbled to the fridge for more? Zander waited semi patiently for Mattie to complete his turn, when suddenly Matthias cries out Silas' name. Zander's head whipped around to see Silas at the door, a grin suddenly split on his face.

The werewolf made a move to stand, one hand on the couch the other on the coffee table as he shifted from a seated position to his knees -- which made the worst snap crackle noises. Of course anymore movement he made after that was erased as soon as Mattie's used his shoulder as a brace. "Fucker, use someone else as a fucking whatever." he slurred with a smirk still on his face, but stood as soon as Mattie's hand left, Zander's eyes looked up to see the fucking hunter pretty much fall onto Silas. The werewolf snorted, which sort of melted into a fit of giggles. So the only progress Zander made was just slipping his ass on the couch his hands over his face, as he sort of just shook, laughing.

When Mattie replied to Silas' enraged 'are you wasted' question. Zander's eyes snapped up, as he finally remembered the whole reason why they were drinking so hard to begin with. "Fuuuck you asshole." he stated standing, with a bit of a wobble. Since he remembered their challenge he was focusing on trying to stay upright. But his whole world was almost on the verge of spinning. Which wasn't exactly a good thing, but as long as his vision didn't spin... he should be okay.

"He is just as fuckindrunk as I am. Fuckin'liar." he stated firmly but couldn't keep the smile off his face. As soon as he took a step forward, to meet the others he fell backwards onto the arm of the chair. With a chuckle he just decided to stay there, eyes sort of unfocused as he silently laughed a bit more. "Fuuuck. Fucking bourbon drinker kicked my fuckin ass." he giggled at the irony of it. He was soo confident that he would beat Mattie at this because this was his game and his alcohol.

"Siiilas. Come plaay. I think I have some beer left.." he stated vaguely pointing to the fridge, with a crooked, unfocused grin. With that he forgot that he told himself to remain seated, he stood and stumbled over to meet Silas and Mattie -- probably instead crashing into them.

[Zephyr]

Well. No one can say that Silas didn’t make a decent attempt at escaping. He’s still vainly trying to walk towards the door when Matthias is methodically pulling him away from it, and he half wonders if the guy is so drunk that he can’t tell that Silas is doing his very best to get outside again.

And there’s nothing he can do after that.

Matthias is heavy in his arms and Silas suspects that the only think keeping the hunter’s face or ass from getting real acquainted with the ground are his arms. One is hooked around Matthias’ waist, keeping the guy from faceplanting, either on him or the floor. He does a pretty poor job of the former though, because Matthias’ face is suddenly pressed against him, and everything is forgotten in one breathless moment. For once, Silas doesn’t fight Matthias’ incessant clinging – not that he ever really does…not for real, but he isn’t even glaring this time.

His eyes are widened slightly in awe and he lifts his free hand to card through the kid’s head, and if the thought that Matthias has to be this wasted to want to be near him enters his mind, he lets it go unanalyzed for the warm press of the other man’s body against his own. Then Matthias is pulling away and Silas is tightening his grip on the man’s waist, fingers digging into the kid’s hip to keep him from just falling on the ground.

The surgeon’s expression does an abrupt about face when the man starts actually speaking…and Silas stares at Matthias like he’s grown an extra head, his brown and green eyes wide and thoroughly indignant. For a moment, he’s too shocked to speak, his brow drawing together in incredulous bewilderment. Did the fucker hear himself? He can’t even finish a fucking sentence and he doesn’t think he’s fucking drunk? Silas is starting to get an appreciation for all those times Matthias had to come scrape him up off the pavement. God, they are a fucking mess.

And Silas knows Matthias is drunk, but he lets his eyes soften at the other man’s words. And what the fuck? Is Matthias really trying to make him feel guilty for not dropping what he’d been doing and rushing back here to entertain him.

The sad part is that it’s actually working, and he’s feeling badly for not coming sooner. Matthias just doesn’t cling to him enough anymore for Silas to be picky about the affection he does get from the other man. “Yeah.” The surgeon starts, completely at a loss for words at the moment.
Sorry ‘bout that. Won’t happen again.” He says, voice low, circling his thumb over the back of Matthias’ neck for a moment.

Then he looks over to Zander and the fucker is just as drunk as Matthias. “You’re one to talk, asshole.” Silas growls at Zander, even though there’s a smile on his face, and he keeps his arm curled around Matthias to keep the kid from falling over, eyes narrowing abruptly at the other man. “Stop talking shit about my liquor. I’m not the one spilled all over the fucking furniture.” Not that, you know, he wouldn’t be if he’d been drinking. And Silas conveniently forgets about his ridiculously low tolerance for alcohol, as he always does, and fixes Zander with a glare that is just this side of amused.

“I’m not going to fucking drink with you guys.” He says, a little too defensively. He doesn’t get drunk that often, does he? “Someone has to be sober enough to make sure one or both of you doesn’t has out in his own puke.” Silas growls, shifting his arm around Matthias a little tighter, as if in demonstration.

There is so much more he wants to say to these two, but Zander is coming at him and Silas tries to catch him before he runs headlong into him, but his arm is firmly around Matthias and his free hand is not at a good enough angle to do any catching and Zander runs into him…knocking Silas to the floor and most likely Matthias too since the doctor’s arm seems to be the only thing keeping him upright.

“Fucking hell.” Silas snarls from beneath a pile of limbs and alcohol breath. “I really fucking hate you both.”

[Matthias Walker]

Perhaps the greatest proof of his sobriety is not half-turning to Zander and declaring, too loudly because volume control is, maybe, a little past him right now, “I am so fucking not wasted, dude, YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW,” but the utter ridiculousness of the situation, he thinks, sort of mitigates it. Mattie turns back to Silas, still clutching at his suit, opens his mouth because Silas is the judge, he has to do his job, and is startled into silence and a confused, crooked grin at the look on the doctor’s face. The actual apology is even more bewildering, but as far as he can tell, it isn’t bad, “Oh, awesome, good. That was easy. You’re usually, uh, y’know.”

He waves a hand vaguely in lieu of actually coming up with a suitable word, drapes his weight more securely against Silas; staying upright by using the doctor as a leaning post is easier than trying to make his way back to the couch. And anyway, despite Silas’s defensive bitching about his beloved bourbon and his own sobriety, he is still warm and has his arm around Mattie, and Mattie isn’t sober enough to fight him on it. “Wow,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead against Silas’s shoulder and closing his eyes because God, the lights are fucking bright, “There was no puke involved ’till you came in. Stop being such a doctor.”

Zander’s approach is too loudly uncoordinated, too clumsy and too gracelessly brash, to go unnoticed.

That said, the very sensible voice in the back of his head that points out emergency evasive maneuvers, right fucking now go go go does not register fast enough; he’s a little preoccupied with holding on to Silas tighter, breathing in the smell of antiseptic and clean air, with the vague intent of wanting to just crawl up him like a very grouchy tree. It proves distraction enough that the collision jolts his balance off-center, and where reflexes would kick in any other time, Mattie emits a yowl like a startled cat, the lasso of Silas’s arm around him yanking him flat to the floor.

Or, no.

Flat on top of Silas.

His head spins, his lip throbs where he’d bitten it on the way down; the abruptness of it has his stomach turning, and Silas’s disgruntled complaining is ignored entirely in favor of dropping his head against his chest, “Oh my fucking fuck—ow. You’re a terrible landing pad. You—never become a landing pad. Ow. I might throw up on you. And I’m bleeding. Ow.” He unknots his fingers from Silas’s suit, swipes his thumb over his lip and, yes, he is not too wasted to recognize that the red that comes away is a bad thing.

He is, on the other hand, not quite sure what to do with the knowledge that he is bleeding once he has it. Licking the blood from his lower lip, Mattie frowns and reaches over to wipe his fingers off onto Zander’s shirt, “You can’t even walk. I win.”