charles xavier.

“I take my coffee black, Charles. Are you sure you’re not getting forgetful in your old age?”

          “may i inquire what you’d like to be called? i’m charles xavier,”          his own name sounds thick and cloying on his tongue, but charles smiles through it regardless. he knows of the man before him through comic books from his own youth. it’s distracting, best left unmentioned. there are people people who could say similar of the aging, balding man he’d been before his death. charles, bracing his hands against the rests of the wheel chair he’ll be using until he undergoes intensive physical therapy, pushes himeself forward, extending a hand.          “pleasure’s mine.”

YES YOU DO

no just me. DO IT.

          they’re training soldiers. he doesn’t deny that. the idea that he’s anything but acutely aware is an insult, not only to his intelligence but his resolve as well. that he knows it does not mean that charles LIKES it. they are the human eqivilant of the nuclear option, not in regards to senate, but in each and every one of them lies a weapon of mass destruction.          ( there’s power in him. he doesn’t use it like he COULD. charles is a good man, no matter how much you disagree with him he is guided by SOME moral rightness that does not let him enslave people and force his will on the masses. they’ve handed him that ability, and it terrifies him. )

          the grounds of the estate were never really home and he hopes to make them something close now. his mother had problems, his step-father was an awful man. let optimism shake loose some of the cobwebs, right? the trees are starting to go golden and the grass on the lawn looks a little parched as later summer shifts into autumn. charles’ cardigans finally seem seasonal again, and he’s so enveloped in the knit of the one he wears now that he almost misses the way a presence brushes his awareness.          ( something warns him not to intrude. )          instead he starts a search, sending the vibe to stay alert to erik still inside the estate itself as he jogs towards the unknown.

                                               this moment between them is as soft as the light that’s filtering through the curtains. as if the light itself has made them more gentle. or perhaps it’s their years together that have done that, solidfying who and what they are to each other. the political game has ended. they’ve both come out the winner. now it’s time to rest. 

                                              his comment brings an actual chuckle from her, feeling the press of his mind against hers, knowing he’s seeing himself through her eyes. ❝ yes. but you usually look that way. sorry to disappoint. ❞ you should see them after we’ve been kissing, she tacks on at the end of it. knowing full well he’ll be able to hear it. but she softens further as he continues and she lets her thumb caress his cheekbone. ❝ yes. i suppose i am. ❞ even she sounds a little surprised.

          he leans forward, kissing the little spot below her lip where her chin begins. eyes closed     ( he’s viewing himself through her eyes )   he smiles from where he lays finding the ridges of her face and committing soft curves and cushioned lips to his memory.       “who would have thought there’d be room for such softness in the middle of our SHARP lives?”         he whispers. charles in not immalleable. he had given way below her fingers before. time has worn some of the edges that he would rather cut her on than surrender. there’s a goodness to him. a PURITY that there would not, could not have been before. not when his head was so wrapped up in his own scheming.

                                           she has to admit that it’s nice. it’s nice not having to worry about the game, not having to calculate every step she makes, trying to keep up at his intellectual level and worry about being left behind or discarded. her sister is gone. they have children. she may not be queen, but she is consort, and she’ll take it. it started off as ‘take it for now,’ but now she’s not sure she wouldn’t mind keeping the title. there’s no threat of him marrying anyone else. for the first time since that night they dipped their hands in her family’s blood, she feels she can finally RELAX. 

                                          the backs of her knuckles come up to brush his cheek, a soft pink hued over his skin: so pale it absorbs the colors of that around it. a small quirk finds its way to her lips and she brushes a thumb lazily across a lip that has no right being a red as it is. 

                                          ❝ funny. i was just thinking the same thing. ❞

          they play off of each other, the cast of the light their only real unifying feature. their children take after her, though his eyes had managed to weasel in once.     his smile as she touches his lip is genuine and he reaches up to take hold of her hand, kissing the pad of her thumb before filling her palm with the whole of his cheek. charles is warm, her fingers feel cool to the touch and he wraps an arm around. not for the first time charles wonders what he looks like to her, at this moment, pressing gently against her mind to be able to see. and oh, his the softest of his features seem to be what dawn light suits, brings forward.

                                                        she lets herself be adjusted, resting contentedly on his chest as her fingers play idly against the pale skin of his side. a light smirk that’s verging on a genuine smile pulls at her lips when he speaks. ‘genuine emotion’ is probably somewhat of a gray area with them, considering how they got here, but it’s genuine enough. for example, in this moment, she is not scheming or plotting or weighing her words. she simply is. she remains in the moment, allowing herself to enjoy his arm around her shoulders, the press of his lips in her hair. she tilts her head up so that she can smile at him, amused and something almost soft in her brown eyes. 

                                                       ❝ oh the cleverness of me, ❞ she half murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. 

          he doesn’t outright laugh, smiling instead and tipping his head down to meet her lips. charles doesn’t deny it, instead pulling her closer with her hands in his. the morning light is soft, filtered through the almost gauzy material of the palace curtains. it throws them both into peach and cream cast, making charles seem almost younger, a ruddiness to his cheeks that isn’t natural.