Author's note: First X-men fic! Rated T for profanity and implicit sexual content. There's not going to be any actual sex in this fic so no worries!
I kind of felt like pairing a brash, impulsive person with Charles would be a fun match. Please read and review, and I'll put up chapter two soon!
CHAPTER ONE
As the man's hips bumped against hers, she mewled playfully, leaning in to his touch.
"You're looking mighty fine today, babe," he growled, hands running through her dark hair.
She choked out a giggle, shrugging her shoulders modestly - as modest a street worker could pull off at least.
He was at least two times bigger than her, vertically and horizontally. Many of her co-workers would be pleased to have a valley of man to themselves, but as her eyes passed over the disgustingly lecherous grin on his aged face, it took all her willpower not to puke.
It was almost over.
She climbed over him, chest against chest, and looked him in the eye.
It was almost over.
"Who are you? What am I doing here? I'm married, for god's sake!"
The man had long ran out of the hotel room, screaming and desperately hiding his manhood with the flimsy blanket, and in her hands, the woman waved around a black leather wallet.
It was already over.
Rema Price was a street worker.
Not a prostitute, not a hooker, not a slut, not a whore, and definitely not a "bitch who could not keep her legs closed".
"That's such a derogatory term, dear," Rema sang, not bothering to hide a scowl. Standing in her boots, she glowered at the other woman in front of her. A blondie, the woman was at least five inches taller than her and had a thin frame, towering so dangerously close that her long hair tickled the shorter girl's face.
That idiot of a customer had called his wife over to the hotel, absolutely bent on the belief that he would never cheat on his beloved wife. For this, he was inclined to believe that Rema had drugged him "because she apparently wanted to have sex with that flabby old dumbass so badly." The nerve. Just because the man didn't want to deal with his wife's wrath himself.
After two hours had passed and Rema was now out and about on the streets, she gave her shoulder a furtive rub of sympathy, commending herself for withstanding the screaming banshee for so long. She had already used her ability once today and a straining headache threatened to spread from her neck and above, making it nearly impossible to use it against the blonde woman. It was a miracle that she managed so long without drop-kicking the socks out of that lady.
She rolled her shoulders, whipping out a pack and lighting up a plain cigarette, watching as it sparked in the bland, gloomy air as she strolled right into her favorite bar.
She really needed a slam of whiskey.
Mondays sucked.
"Hey, gimme a whiskey, Bobby!" She yelled out, a small voice blending perfectly in the flurry of noises at the counter. After years of service, Bobby was undeniably good at what he did and even through all the chattering and laughing, he threw a small greeting in Rema's direction as he sauntered over to prepare her much-needed alcohol. Lean but not-so-mean, Bobby was practically old enough to be Rema's dad. His bar had been established fifteen years back and was still going strong, drawing in many visitors with its alluring mix of both tranquility and exhilaration.
Only ten seconds had passed and the impatient woman slumped against the surface, groaning. If she could, she would trade her pansy little power for the ability to make booze suddenly appear in front of her any day.
"One in the afternoon and already drinking?" An amused voice rang out from beside her, and she lifted her head off the table just enough to take a glance at the man.
So typically English, she mused to herself, as she soaked in his educated form and the placid way his hair seemed to wind in and out around his face. Rather than being seated at the counter chair, he rested comfortably in a wheelchair.
He chuckled.
"What are you laughing at?" She muttered skeptically. After a good scoping, it was clear that he definitely was not a prospective customer. If there were no greens involved, she wasn't willing to participate.
"Nothing," he crowed, his lips upturned into a creeping curve. "But how exactly does my appearance scream Brit?"
Crap, she could have sworn that her mouth was shut the whole time.
He continued talking, apparently not getting the idea that she wanted to be left alone - that, or he was ignoring it. "For all you knew, I could've been Australian."
"Not many Aussies end up in America," her lips had pursed into a thin line by now, patience running thin beyond measure, "and I wasn't born yesterday. You clearly don't have an Australian accent."
"Is that so?" He hummed and she grimaced at his clandestine smile as his eyebrows lifted, creating an air of satisfied bemusement. At that moment, she already decided that she didn't like this man. It bothered her how he seemed to look at her so familiarly, as if he knew every inch of her broken character, every crevice and beyond, and moreover, accepted it.
Before she could spit out something witty, the banter was cut short as Bobby slid a mug of whiskey right to Rema. With her booze in hand and her cigarette in the other, no one could ruin this for her, not even that annoyingly talkative man next to her.
"You're quite sneaky-"
"-Look, mate, I ain't interested so-"
"-What you did to that man in the hotel room." For a second, the record player in the bar skipped a beat and hell, so did Rema's heart.
With a fierce glare, she insisted, "I don't know what you're talking about." She couldn't tell what was going on. Was he talking about the fact she took his wallet or the part where she made the man forget he hired her in the first place?
He kept his eyes in turn with hers, refusing to leave her sight, and they held some degree of compassion in them, even for a stranger like Rema. "You're not alone. We can help you."
As he turned to wheel himself out of the pub, he gave a swift wave of his arm and a business card slid out.
She watched his disappearing figure with contempt, reaching out for the card warily, as if it would burn her upon contact. On it read the name Charles Xavier and only a phone number.
"What, is this guy part of AA or something?"
- x -
"Look, girlie, you are way too buzzed to go home by yourself!"
After the mysterious man had gone, Rema was left to her own accord and she readily embraced the alcohol and smoke. Shakily, she stumbled off her stool and practically dragged her head up to look at the wall clock, clucking her tongue as she realized that it was already eight at night.
Bobby was already halfway to the telephone, fingers gripped tight around a strikingly white card. "Hello? Yeah, you know Rema, right? Yeah, she's kinda wrecked so ya think you can come pick her up? Yeah, she's righ-... oh damn. She's gone."
The freezing cold hit her like a brick and instantly, Rema tightened the grip around her coat. With lament, she decided that having night vision would have been useful, and her mind now held a stalemate battle between deciding which was more desirable: conjuring booze out of thin air or seeing at night.
As she made her way over the next block, a firm hand crept around her neck and within seconds, she found herself facing the barrel of a gun.
"Give me your money or I'll blow your head off, bitch!" With a tight beanie enclosing his head, the darkness concealed the thug's face and Rema could barely catch sight of his venomously curled lips.
As she lifted her hair out of her face, she stared at him hard and she ignored the tingling feeling that danced around her face, as well as the blaring pain that erupted and pulsed within her skull. She had never had to use her power more than one time in a day.
Shivering, she breathed out, "Shoot me. I dare you."
He hesitated at first, desperately trying to decide between simply bolting and crossing the line, but as he glanced at the arrogant smirk that rested on the woman's face, rage flared within him before he could stop himself.
"You're gonna regret this, lady."
He brought his gun up to her face once more, rough hands ready to cock and load the gun, but as he attempted to do so, he accidentally unlocked the cartridge. Holding her pained head, Rema only watched as it dropped onto the ground with a loud clatter.
An involuntary shudder ran up and down the thug's spine as he practically gripped onto his weapon for dear life. His fingers crawled up and around the gun, backing up a step as he momentarily tripped over the fallen cartridge. "How do I... How do I use this thing?"
Rema continued to stand there, staring at him.
With a noisy bark, he dropped his gun, preparing to run for it. "Stop looking! Fuck... fuck, I'm getting out of here!"
The shady man left so suddenly that Rema had half a mind to cuss him out. It was his fault in the first place that her head was aching so violently. With that cynical thought, she pulled out a cigarette, ready to set it alight and forget about this day.
Almost as quickly as the man had made his exit, another figure revealed itself and even in the dim shine of moonlight, she could see the metal wheels.
Before she could call him any unladylike names, the pain seemed to lessen.
Relax, Rema. I can help you.
"What the hell?" Frankly, she was too freaked out to bother thanking the English man. "I never told you my name!"
She could have sworn she heard his voice echoing through her skull but in her state of mind, it would have been easy enough to miss a possible moving of lips. It was the alcohol talking. There was no way that this man could talk to her telepathically, nor could he have alleviated her pain so quickly.
You can make people forget. What makes you think a telepath can't exist?
She said nothing, only setting the cigarette between her lips as she turned with her back faced to him.
This time, he spoke aloud, rolling closer to her with every word. "We're not the only ones, Rema. There are more of us and we can help you."
She brought tender fingers up to her face, enclosing them around the lone cigarette that rested so gracefully in her mouth. With a slow puff, she peered over her shoulder and back at the wheel-barred man, holding a steely gaze. "What makes you think you can help me?"
The words had been meant to be frostily polite, hasty and so icy that all hell threatened to freeze over, yet as the simple question escaped her lips and into the cold winter air, a song had bled through - paused mid-way, frozen with no direction. He would play along with this song, Charles decided, and he would be the conductor.
"Well, to start," he wheeled forward slowly and cautiously, and the woman turned to the approaching man apprehensively, now in full view. In a split second, he managed to pry the cigarette from her, tossing it in a nearby dumpster.
With her eyes wide, she gawked at him, alternatively switching her gaze between the now-lost cigarette and the smug, accomplished smirk that was threatening to appear on his face.
A silence persisted as the two of them continued to look at one another, both tempted yet afraid to say another word.
Finally, Charles held out his arm, reaching out for her.
She remained quiet. Reluctantly, she allowed her hands, those dirty, corrupted limbs of hers, the privilege to rest in his.
He felt warm.
Chapter two preview:
He did not just say that.
"Just what did you call me again?" She gritted her teeth, eying the other man in distaste as she beckoned for him to repeat himself.
"Mutant."
His eyes were lit up in delighted excitement and he had said that word so simply, so easily that it was almost disbelieving. With sass, she cattily bit out, "How... how derogatory!"
This Charles was really unbelievable.
Again, review and I'll post up chapter two soon! :)