Firefly {Charles Xavier/Reader}

It’s a sunny day, birds are twittering outside, and someone—probably Raven—is making heavenly-smelling waffles in the kitchen. And yet, you find yourself in the library of the Xavier mansion, standing by the window and staring out at the verdant green of the garden. You barely register the colour though—or anything else about your surroundings for that matter—you are far too deep into the memories of the past that haunt you incessantly.

“Why won’t you let me help you?”

You jump, startled, and turn around to face him, one hand pressed to your chest over your frantically beating heart as you try to calm down. It takes a while for your breathing to return to normal, but once you manage it, reining in your powers is not too hard.

Charles does nothing throughout the entire sequence of events; he simply leans in the doorway and watches you. It is only after you have returned the furniture to the ground and the books to their shelves that he begins to walk towards you and you see the worry in his eyes.

“You can’t help me Charles, no one can,” you tell him softly, turning away before he can reach you.
He stays silent for a long while, no doubt trying to think of a way to convince you to let him in.

“How can you know that if you won’t even let me try?” he asks this time. The words themselves are nothing new- he has after all been at this for a long time but it is the way he says them which touches you. Soft, and tired, and desperate, but still hopeful.

He reaches out towards you slowly, giving you plenty of time to move away but you stay put and you let him take hold of your arm and turn you back around to face him. His eyes are glossy and sad and you are ever so tired of avoiding him so you let him pull you into a hug.

“If you do this, there are things you will see that I have told no one about,” you murmur softly into his chest.

He pulls away and studies you for a long moment before speaking.

“I would never tell anyone about any of it,” he says firmly with a reassuring smile, squeezing your hands in his for added emphasis. It amuses you a little that he thinks that is the reason for your fear.

“It’s not that, Charles. I do trust you, though it may not seem like it at times,” you pause, unsure of whether to go on, “I worry about what you will think of me when you see the things that are in my head.”

He looks a little shocked at this and he remains silent for a long time. You realize that he is actually thinking about this- considering what you have said to him, taking your words seriously.
And you know his reply will carry weight, it will not be an easy- and ever so false- assurance that it can’t possibly be that bad.

“I know that you will find this hard to believe but please try,” he tells you finally, eyes boring into yours as he attempts to impress upon you just how serious he is being, “whatever I find in there, I will think no differently of you.”

The sincerity he is displaying hits you like a wave at high tide.

“Alright,” you let out a faint sigh with your acceptance, but you are somehow sure that you will not regret this decision. He smiles and leans in, pecking your check before moving away again.

“Thank you ___”

“No, Charles, thank you. For not being completely put off by my awful behavior. I’ve been quite rude to you.” You are being completely earnest and yet he chuckles, confusing you.

“Oh, you’ve never been rude. At the very least, it was nothing I didn’t deserve.”

You laugh with him this time- you cannot quite believe your luck, to have someone as wonderful as Charles show you such devotion is not something you could have seen coming even in your wildest dreams.

He holds your gaze for a few moments before taking your hand and pulling you over to the sofa, pushing you down gently before sitting down beside you.

“You want to do this now?” you burst out as he touches his temple with the forefingers of his right hand in his customary pose when he is about to read someone’s mind.

“Well, yes, before you have a chance to change your mind,” he sounds completely serious but then he cracks a smile, and you decide to play along.

“I wouldn’t do that,” you protest indignantly, fighting to keep the smile off your face.
He lets out a fleeting laugh, but his eyes continue to twinkle even as his laughter dies down and he reaches out with his free hand to take one of yours.

“I know. But I’d like to help you as best as I can, and I’d like to do it now so that you don’t have to go through this alone any longer.”

Once again, he has left you speechless- you simply squeeze his hand, take a deep breath and nod at him, indicating that he can begin.

You do not know what you had expected but it is certainly not this- the pain of the memories that Charles is accessing forces you to squeeze your eyes shut, and when it shows no signs of abating you slowly lose all sense of your immediate surroundings. When you drop Charles’ hand and curl into his chest, it is an unconscious movement on your part.

How long this goes on for you don’t know but after a while, things change, you are no longer consumed by sadness. A calm, peaceful image fills your mind—a beach at sunrise—and a soft, familiar voice whispers to you. Reassurance, and encouragement, and love. It is Charles’ voice and it slowly draws you from the pain- induced haze.

Your eyes snap open and you draw back, taking a deep breath and looking up from your hands to find that Charles’ gaze is already on you, heavy with some feeling you do not quite understand.

“I don’t want your pity,” you snap defensively, fueled by the sting left by the agonies of the past, not quite soothed away despite his attempts towards the end.

“I don’t pity you, ___, I admire you. You have been so strong and so brave in the face of such darkness- how could I ever pity you?”

And in that moment, you finally recognize his expression.

Never in a million years had you expected him to look at you with pride in his eyes after what he had just seen, and by doing so he has managed to surprise you yet again. And as a sense of peace begins to settle over you, you realize that you want more than anything to thank him but the words on the edge of your lips seem insufficient so you take his face in your hands and press your lips to his instead in a soft, fleeting kiss. One that you hope conveys your gratitude, as well as the newly found hope, and the much more familiar love that he has always inspired in you.

“So tell me Charles, what’s the verdict?” you ask in an attempt to lighten the mood after you pull away but you realize too late that what you are about to say next actually negates that purpose, “do you really think there is a way forward for me?”

He reaches out, takes your hands in his again and squeezes softly before speaking.

“Of course there is. For you, always. Don’t give up on me now ___,” he is smiling as he speaks, and warmth blossoms in your heart as you smile back.

“I won’t, Charles,” you whisper, pulling your hands out of his grip to throw them around his shoulders and embrace him. His arms encircle your waist, drawing you closer, and you let your eyes fall shut, taking the simplest of comforts in his presence.