A/N This is a response to a kink_meme prompt.
Prompt: Charles is a well-loved author of children's stories. When an accident destroys his fine motor control, he finds himself in the market for an illustrator.
Erik is a failed artist looking for a muse. He may not care for children, but there's something about Mr. Blue Eyes that he can't seem to forget.
No powers.
The bedroom door is cracked open, the yellow light from the hallway spilling onto the foot of a bed where two children are huddled, their shushed whispers and giggles filling the space underneath tented blankets.
Charles sits cross legged with a notebook in his lap. Raven sits with her back against his and her arms around her knees as he reads to her in a hushed voice. They hear the creak of a floorboard and both freeze, eyes wide. But Mother is already asleep upstairs, with an empty bottle of wine and regret on the bedside table. The nurse and butler have both long retired to their separate chambers hours ago, many floors down.
He turns the page.
"...and the X-Men took a vow to protect mankind. They are a team, but also a family. Mutant and proud." Charles finishes and bites his lip, turning to look at Raven's face earnestly. They breathe softly in the darkness but he can still see her eyes light up and her hands clasp together.
"Awesome!" She shrieks at last, grinning wide. "That was awesome!" She lunges and throws her arms around her brother, burying him nose-first into her uncombed hair. He wraps his arms tight around her and smiles too.
She pulls back and shoves him playfully. "You better hurry up with the sequel."
Charles beams and shyly looks down at his small hands stained with ink from his pen. "I suppose I could write another."
He does, over the course of fourteen years-thirteen volumes published in nine languages. His name is on the tongues of children spanning the globe. The fame, he never saw coming.
The car, though, he did see as it ran the red light. For a moment he feels like a character in one of his books, the telepath, frozen in his own mind. He can feel the scared thoughts and emotions of others around him bleed into him as he bleeds onto the pavement.
.
Charles crumples another piece of paper in anger and throws it to the floor where a small sea of failure has amassed at his feet. He picks up his pen again, pressing it solidly on the paper. Again he tells himself. His hands tremble and the line he tries to draw becomes static with little blips. Charles grits his teeth and tears a new sheet. He straightens up and presses the pen into the paper. Again. He takes a deep breath and drags it across the plane. The pen still shakes violently and he presses his right hand down with his left, as hard as he can, to steady it. The tip pokes a hole through two layers of the notebook and bleeds through onto the paper and onto his hands. He gives a cry of frustration and lets his pen fall and the ink flow. His eyes are hot and dry and he buries his head in his hands.
.
He stops, over the course of three years- two more volumes waiting for illustrations that never come. His name begins to fade from the memories of children until his books grace the bargain shelf in the back of book stores. They are the stuff of last years' book reports.
"I hardly think it necessary," Charles says crossly, glaring at his sister from across the desk. It is late and he can't believe they're having this conversation again.
She throws her hands up in frustration as if she were the older sibling. "Charles! You haven't published in years!"
"Surely the children can wait a little longer," he grouses, leaning back in his chair. The logs in the fireplace crackle behind them, nearly embers now.
Raven crosses her arms over her chest. "I hated waiting. They're probably just as impatient as I was for the work of Professor X."
Charles groans. The pen name had seemed so clever that day at the tail end of happy hour. "Raven, I don't need an illustrator. I'm getting better every day-"
"Your illustrations are horrible," she insists. "They always were, actually. Now at least you have an excuse." She grins at him.
Charles gives her a withering look over his abandoned book.
"Oh come on, just meet him," she urges him, her eyes begging him to give in.
"Raven, I've told you before-"
"He's waiting outside. What, do you want me to tell him to leave?"
"You've brought him here?"
"Trust me, he's a total fox. And I've got two more lined up for Tuesday if you don't like this one."
"I-"
"You'll thank me later!" She calls over his shoulder as she flounces out of the room.
Charles makes an exasperated noise in his throat and a haphazard attempt to straighten up his desk, righting a tower of papers and shoving his teacups (collected over the last week) to the side.
She comes back after a moment, someone trailing just behind her in the hallway, shoes clicking to a stop on the tile floor. "This is Professor X," she says with great relish, leaning against the door to let a man in a dark suit into the study. He takes off his hat and thanks her before turning to Charles.
He's definitely Raven's type, tall with a strong jaw and a stronger handshake. The corners of his light eyes crinkle when he smiles and Charles grins back uncomfortably (this man is more of a shark, he thinks, than a fox). He doesn't quite know how to tell him his services won't be needed.
"My name is Erik Lensherr," he says, setting his portfolio down lightly on the desk. Charles lets his eyes fall on the worn leather binding and the way Erik's fingers hover just over it as if his work has never been far from his hand. Gentle hands, he thinks.
Charles looks back up to his face. "It's a pleasure," he says, "however-"
Erik doesn't waste any time unfastening the folders' clasps-and Charles guiltily wonders how badly he must need this job- as he lays out the first few illustrations. A small print of a girl swallowed in sprawling sky, watercolours of Dutch tulips. A pastel of a tomcat posing for a portrait, a tumbler of whiskey in one paw and a smoking cigar in the other. They are lovely. He begins to pull out another and Charles needs to stop him.
"I'm actually not looking for anyone right now," Charles says hastily, wincing slightly when Erik stills. "I'm terribly sorry to have wasted your time."
Erik's lips twitch into a slight smile. "I understand. I'm sorry I wasted yours."
Charles shakes his head, "No, no those were wonderful," (and that much is true), "But I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding. Raven, my sister, whom you've met, she thought-"
Erik puts up hand to stop him. "That's quite alright, you don't have to explain yourself to me, Professor."
"Mr. Xavier," Charles corrects, flushing. It seemed like a good idea at the time. "Charles. Please call me Charles."
"Charles," Erik smiles politely and reaches out to collects his things. And maybe Raven is right, maybe he could use another set of hands.
"Wait-" Charles says, putting a hand over his to stop him. Erik's fingers are long and ink-stained, black charcoal under his nails and Charles wonders if everything he touches is marked with his fingerprints. "Perhaps we can set up a trial period?"
Erik looks surprised. "If you'll have me," he says.
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