FIC: Charles Xavier's Diary - Resolutions & January
TIIIIIS THE SEAAAASON TO BE FANNISH, FALALALALA, LALALALAAAAAAAAAAA
Since I probably won't get a chance to say anything tomorrow; I hope that everyone has the most wonderful Sunday they could have wished for, whether it's Christmas or something else or nothing at all for you. In my family, it is of course Christmas, although we tend to celebrate it in a secular way (to the chagrin of my mother); I am looking forward to it, although not as much as I am looking forward to brand new Who on the telly.
Life continues, otherwise, to be hectic and fairly grim, but I am sure silver linings will appear at some point. My love to all of you, and thank you so much for being such a wonderful group of people to me this year. I hope next year is even more filled with fic and festivity, and I hope every single one of you has a very, very merry holiday season.
Coming up soon, I hope, on this blog - the concluding parts of off-balance, and a fairly epic WIP which is tentatively titled sleeping dragons. But for anyone who hasn't seen it before, since it is the season of goodwill and gay sex, I give you all the gift of something I wrote a while back for the kink meme... a Bridget Jones inspired AU.
Fandom: X-Men / Marvel
Characters: Charles, Erik, Tony Stark, Raven, Hank, EVERYONE ELSE.
Genre: AU
Rating: PG.
Warnings: Camp as christmas. Which is appropriate.
Summary: "And that was it, that was it. Right there - that was the moment.
I suddenly realised that unless something changed soon, I was going to live a life where my major relationships were with genetics textbooks and a bottle of wine, and I’d finally die emaciated and alone, and be found three weeks later, half-eaten by Alsatians.
Or I was about to turn into a male, less hairy version of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction."
Written for this prompt on the X-Men kink meme.
Charles Xavier's Diary
My Resolutions
I Will Not:
Drink more than fourteen sixteen eighteen alcohol units a week.
Smoke.
Spend entire life sat in either living room or office reading boring textbooks nobody cares about for fun. This is not the behaviour of an free and single gay male.
Pretend to be the stereotype of a free and single gay male in order to attract sexual attention.
Get annoyed with Raven.
Have crushes on men, but instead form relationships based on mature assessment of character.
Sulk about having no boyfriend.
Obsess about Tony Stark
I Will:
Stop smoking. Willpower is attractive, probably.
Drink no more than twenty alcohol units a week.
Gain at least a stone.
Ensure that said stone does not turn to flab through strenuous and healthy lifestyle, possibly involving as-yet-wasted and unused gym membership.
Use gym membership in a way that is not simply to buy sandwiches.
Finally apply for PhD and become sexy, accomplished Doctor of Genetics.
Find way to make genetics seem sexy to potential partners. There must be a way to use it in chat up lines.
Save up money in form of savings. Poss start pension-also.
Be more confident.
Be more assertive.
Make better use of time.
See Raven more often.
Eat more pulses.
Form functional relationship with responsible adult or Tony Stark
January: A Bad Start
1st January.Cigarettes: 25.
Alcohol units: 17.
Food consumed:
1 bowl cornflakes, no milk.
Half packet of peanuts.
Box of mint snaps (best to get rid of all Christmas confectionary at once)
1 bloody mary (counts as food)
6 egg nogs (counts as food)
1 plate Raven’s turkey curry
1 plate M&S Christmas Pudding
It all began on New Year’s Day, in my 32nd year of being single. Once again, I found myself on my own and going to my sister’s turkey curry buffet. The one she throws for all the friends (her friends) and extended family we never actually knew. Every year, she tries to fix me up with some middle-aged boor - and this year, I feared would be no exception.
“Ah, there you are, Charles!” trilled Raven, as she skipped into the room.
“Hello, Raven,” I said, clenching.
My sister. A strange creature. A cosmopolitan twenty something for the rest of the year but put Bing Crosby on the radio and suddenly we must all drink egg nog and wear Christmas sweaters. Oh god. Speaking of Christmas sweaters…
“Erik Lehnsherr’s here,” she confided in a low voice.
“Who?”
“Erik Lehnsherr. You remember. He’s a barrister. Very well off.”
“Does he always require a surname?”
“He’s divorced, apparently. His wife was German. Very cruel race. Now, what are you going to wear?”
“Um.” I looked down at the perfectly serviceable jumper vest and shirt I was wearing. “This?”
Raven, who was as ever dressed in a hideously enthusiastic jumper with a reindeer on it, looked irritated.
“Charles, love, you’re never going to get a boyfriend if you look like you’ve just wandered out of Auschwitz. Go upstairs.”
Upstairs turned out to be my very own matching jumper, with a shiny wreath on the front. Fantastic. I was wearing an embroidered cushion.
“Ah, there he is!” roared a voice from across the room. “Charles!”
“Oh! Hello, Uncle Sebastian.” Actually not my uncle. Actually someone who calls me uncle whilst he gropes my arse and asks me that question dreaded by all singletons-
“So,” Sebastian grinned, with his teeth full of cheese and pineapple, spraying it over me as he talked, “how’s your love life?”
“Super, thanks, Uncle Sebastian.” I picked up a stack of plates for something - anything - to do, and carried it through into the living room.
“Still no missus!” he shouted after me. “I don’t know, Charles, what’ll we do with you?”
Oh thank god. Someone who looks as filled with anti Christmas bile as me.
“Hello, Hank.”
“Hello, Charles.” We briefly shook hands. Hank - my sister’s boyfriend, who despite being years younger than me seems to believe this means he has to be a role model. Which actually is fine, because we get on rather well.
“How’s it going?” I asked, placing the plates down on the table next to him.
“Torture,” he said, downing his snowball in one. “Your sister’s trying to set you up with some horrific human rights barrister. Pretty nasty beast, apparently.”
I nodded, and then suddenly Raven was at my shoulder, guiding me forward with a plate in my hands.
“Why don’t you see,” she hissed, “if Erik Lehnsherr fancies a gherkin?”
“Erik Lehnsherr?” I asked, and then found myself being propelled towards the back of an indisputably gorgeous six foot something male. His back alone was at least six times the size of me. Ding dong. Maybe this time Raven had got it right. Maybe this was the mysterious Mr Right I’d been waiting my whole life to meet…
And then he turned round, and I saw the chiselled jaw, the deep blue eyes, and the terrible absence of any kind of smile at all.
Maybe not.
“Erik Lehnsherr!” said Raven brightly. Erik Lehnsherr raised one eyebrow at me. It was a perfect eyebrow. I wanted to curl up on that eyebrow and go to bed on it. “You remember Charles,” she continued blithely, “he used to run around at college parties with no clothes on, remember?”
“Ah, no,” Erik Lehnsherr said, “not as such.”
“Raven, what in god’s name do I do with this gravy?” came the voice of Angel, Raven’s best and utterly incompetent friend. “I think it needs sieving.”
“Of course it doesn’t need sieving, just stir it, Angel,” Raven hissed between her teeth, still smiling beautifully. Angel stuck her head round the door in a look of absolute panic, her hair sticking on end. She’s about as good at cooking as I am. Raven sighed in a long suffering manner. “I’ll be right there. Sorry, boys. Lumpy gravy calls.”
And then she was gone, and it was just me and Mr Gorgeous and Judgemental. And I was in a Horrendous Jumper. Fantastic.
“Are you - staying with your parents for New Year?” I asked.
“No,” Erik Lehnsherr said, “I live close by, so.”
“Oh, me too.“
There was another pause. “You?” he asked.
“Oh, no no. Just came to see Raven, you know, visit what family we’ve got. I was actually at a party last night, so I’m a bit hungover. Wish I could be lying with my head in a toilet like all normal people.” I laughed, but Erik Lehnsherr didn’t seem to have a sense of humour. “New Year’s resolution,” I said, happily, “drink less.”
I gestured with the fag that always seemed to make it into my hand. “And quit smoking.”
Erik Lehnsherr nodded.
“And… stop talking complete nonsense to strangers.”
He nodded again, with more vigour than I’d have liked.
“In fact,” I said, bitterly, “stop talking full stop.”
“Yes,” he said, and there was something in his voice that was either an accent or panic, or could have been both, “well, perhaps it’s time to eat.”
As I found myself spooning Raven’s lumpy turkey curry into a bowl, I could hear a conversation happening a significant distance away between Erik Lehnsherr and a woman who was possibly dressed as a snowflake, and still looked gorgeous.
“Apparently,” she was murmuring, her jacket unstained by drink or plates of turkey flavoured incontinence, “she lives just around the corner from you.”
“Emma,” he was hissing, holding a plate of his own turkey curry, “I do not need a blind date. Particularly not with some verbally incontinent tweed bachelor who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, and dresses like a three year old.”
Emma coughed politely. I made my way in between them, carrying my curry, and trying not to notice the fact that I just realised I almost certainly had a napkin sticking to my shoe.
“Turkey curry. Yum. My favourite.”
And that was it, that was it. Right there - that was the moment.
I suddenly realised that unless something changed soon, I was going to live a life where my major relationships were with genetics textbooks and a bottle of wine, and I’d finally die emaciated and alone, and be found three weeks later, half-eaten by Alsatians.
Or I was about to turn into a male, less hairy version of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
So, I have made a major decision. Next year, I will not end New Year’s Day in my flat, shitfaced and listening to an easy listening CD Raven made me. I decided to take control, and start a diary. To tell the truth about Charles Xavier. The whole truth.
Resolution Number One: Obviously, will gain twenty pounds. Cannot expect any of the other resolutions - particularly not most important one - to follow if I look like a stick insect.
Resolution Number Two: Will find nice sensible boyfriend to go out with, and will not continue to form emotional attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts.
And especially will not continue to fantasise about the one particular person who embodies all these things.
Tony Stark.
Unfortunately, he just happens to be my boss. And for various slightly unfair reasons - namely this year’s Christmas party when I got on the table and sang Spandau Ballet - I suspect he does not fantasise about me.
10th January.
Alcohol units: 12 (very good)
Cigarettes: 20 (better)
Food consumed: Best not to talk about it.
11am. Could not even stand the thought of going into work, for obvious reasons. Have somehow managed to lose weight over the Christmas period, despite shoving everything into my gluttonous mouth I could get my hands on; yet arse still looks like a flaccid and uncooked chicken. The least nature could do is make me lean rather than skeletal. Desired only to sit on sofa and watch the Great Escape again.
But went in, in rather embarrassingly tight black jeans that Raven provided for Christmas. Half the time she wants to dress me like our nan and half the time she wants to dress me like a cheap cracked out rentboy.
Which led to heartwrenchingly awkward (and slightly arousing) moment at the desk. Was working on applications for university (Christ, it feels like being seventeen again) when suddenly a message popped up from Tony.
Tony, I should say, is my boss, and a genius, and American, and the most attractive and emotionally fuckwitted man (more on this later I'm sure) that I have ever met. Mostly we ignore each other, although am sure that last time I had to give a presentation he was staring at my lips.
(Absolutely did not make a point of licking them every time I walked past him from then on, because I am not that Kind Of Guy.)
Anyway, panicked and thought he’d somehow hacked my computer and seen that I wasn’t working, but then I read the message.
Xavier,
Interesting choice of trousers. Are normal jeans off sick? I’m concerned for their health.
Tony.
Undeniably flirtatious. The man has no shame. Opened up a new message to reply:
Mr Stark,
Don’t have concerns about health of jeans. Jeans are simply taking a sabbatical. New trousers are offended that you think them incapable of jean’s workload.
Perhaps too much. Suggests dislike of sexual harrassment when frankly quite enjoying it. Edited to say
Will inform jeans that you sent regards.
Clicked send.
3pm. He hasn’t emailed back. WHY HASN’T HE EMAILED BACK.
11pm. How did I become the kind of man who writes a diary in the bar's toilet? Are there even enough of us to count as 'those kind of men'? Are there support networks? When did this happen?
Emergency meeting after work with urban family, who had differing opinions on the subject.
“Fuck him,” was Sean’s opinion. Sean is Irish and an activist. Not an activist of anything in particular, he‘s just one of those people who doesn‘t seem comfortable unless he‘s campaigning against something. In this case, he was campaigning against Emotional Fuckwittery, his latest theory of men. “He’s an emotional fuckwit so fuck him. Fuck him and everything about him. Actually, do you want to fuck him?”
“Fuck yes.” Thankfully, now that I am a sensible thirtysomething almost-a-doctor I can handle my drink. Absolutely was not drunk in the slightest.
“Is this fucking fucker even fucking gay?”
“I don’t think he notices either way,” I said, thinking grimly about some of the people Tony’s been known to drag home.
“Oh,” Sean looked slightly put out. Think was disappointed he couldn’t swear some more.
“Just be careful of an office romance, Charles,” Armando said.
“What would you do, Armando, if one of your employees had managed to somehow offend you through an… an innocent email?”
“I’d fire you, Charles,” he said, bluntly.
“Is this Stark guy still unbearably gorgeous?” Alex. One time eighties popstar who wrote one successful song and then retired when he realised that was enough to get him laid for the whole of the nineties. And, like the rest of us sad drunken louts, a total poof, of course. I need better friends.
“Yes.” I think I actually sighed, like some desperate heroine in a romance novel.
“Well,” he said, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette, “I think a well-timed blowjob’s the only answer, then.”
“You are a revolting human being,” I said.
“More vodka, Charles?” Armando asked. I shook my head.
“God no,” just as Alex laughed and said to his Smug Married Boyfriend “God yes. Fill him up, goddamnit, he’s a sexy singleton now.”
They are waiting for me outside the loo with all of the vodka ever oh god.
11th January
3am. Haue consum a entire packit of chockklit digestifs since gemmng in I diddan even know I had em brillumfs
ramn beeeeen an vobka
Dun care about Tonj stupid prat
I am so fugming drunk I hame my friends and I hate my liff whhhhhyyyyyy
14th January
9:30am. Oh no, that’s fine, Tony. Just breeze in here with a ‘Xavier’ like I didn’t spend the entire weekend obsessively compulsively checking my emails. If it’s possible to shorten your life expectancy through stress I absolutely did. And you’re late to work. You absolute bastard.
He is so American.
Had to sneak off for a fag break. This is not good. Am strong and independent adult male, and I do not have a dependency on tobacco, so have decided to quit immediately.
10am. He replied!
Xavier,
If today was an attempt to make me feel better about your poor neglected jeans, rest assured I am still concerned. Is it possible to get an address or phone number so that I can send them some flowers?
Tony.
Sent him my phone number. Oh god, I think I need a fag.
18th January. Alcohol: None, blood sugar too high
Cigarettes: TOO MANY TO COUNT
Food consumed: 1 prawn mayonnaise baguette
1 doughnut
6 cups of coffee
Toast
Spent the week engaged in ridiculous emails. (Am not as good at this diary nonsense as I would like. It’s just so bloody time consuming. Am now attractive young gentlemen involved in extremely romantic whirlwind office romance. Have to keep myself well rested.)
Sent Tony a message on his answerphone today.
“Hi, Tony… Xavier here. Just wondering whether you were interested in meeting up… with jeans… I mean, also with me... in the jeans... anyway… call me back, if you want to - I mean, whatever.”
Oh god oh god I am such an idiot what is wrong with me, how can I expect to do an PhD when I cannot be trusted to manage a simple phonecall. Is everyone a child wondering how they accidentally became an adult in charge of their own feeding and watering, or is it just me?
21st January.
Xavier,
Thank you for your message.
Tony.
Who writes that in response to an invite for a date? It can only be bad news. Panicked for a bit before finally having a think and sending
Mr Stark,
Shut up, please. I am indescribably busy and important.
Charles Xavier.
That'll show him. Sat at desk feeling very smug and attractive. He walked past during the lunch break, and raised an eyebrow. Deliberately did not look up. I am a sex god.
Mr Xavier,
Completely understand. Will cease all harassment in future. Mortified to have caused any kind of offence. Respect you inordinately as a colleague. Your ass looks absolutely mindblowing, incidentally.
Tony.
Ridiculous.
Mr Stark,
Perhaps you forgot, but in this country where we can spell, we spell it ‘arse’.
I have a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary on my desk if you need to borrow it.
Charles Xavier.
That’ll show him and his smug, terrible, American face with his gorgeous smug American eyes oh god what if I offended him. Should absolutely not be writing this entry at my desk. Someone will notice.
Oh god oh god new email.
you are so unbelievably attractive when you correct my grammar you make me forget punctation
sunday at eight
tony
Read it three times, quietly hyperventilating. I hope he meant a date at Sunday at eight and that’s not just some terrible arousal-inspired mistype. I'm not sure what he could have meant. Tried looking at the letters on the keyboard and all he could have meant otherwise is 'right', and Sunday at right makes no sense.
But is it just me, or is Sunday at eight a really really weird time for a date?
Oh god what am I going to wear???
27th January.
11am. “Pepper Potts.”
“Oh - I - Hi, Pepper, is Tony there?”
“Yes.” She sighed. Pepper is a terrible human being who I'm fairly sure can read minds and kill you with her brain. She may also have been CIA trained. I'm not kidding, there's an office betting pool on it. And she goes everywhere with him. “Do you have a message?”
“I - I was just wondering… if it was this Sunday he meant…”
“Yes, Mr Xavier,” she said, with a hint of a smug smile mixed with exasperation in that annoying American voice that I‘m pretty sure Tony trains them in, “tonight at eight.”
“Oh. Fantastic. Um-”
“Mr Stark will see you then.”
Fuck.
2pm. Spent the morning starving self in order to be svelte and beautiful this evening, then looked in the mirror and remembered I am unattractive stick insect, so ate an entire cheesecake straight from the freezer. Now feel very sick. Bother.
4pm. Phone rang. Picked it up at light speed half-expecting it to be Tony with an excuse. It wasn’t. It was Alex.
“You know,” he said, ever helpful, “you absolutely cannot answer the phone like that if it’s him. Makes you seem really desperate.”
“Fuck off,” I said, stubbing out the twentieth cigarette of the day.
“Just calling to see how pre-date jitters are going.”
“I am a twig. An asexual, unattractive, twig.”
“You don’t mean asexual,” said Alex, sounding bored, “you mean an ugly homosexual. Go and have a bath and paint your toenails or something. And make sure you have a wank before you go on the date, you don’t want to get a boner halfway through your first kiss, you sad, lonely individual.”
“Fuck off,” I said again, and hung up.
4:30pm. Phone rang again. Answered it after six rings.
“Charles Xavier.”
“Better,” said Alex, “but room for improvement.”
5pm. Should I wax? I mean, I’ve never waxed before, but I’m a skinny lad. What if Tony likes that and then he gets down there and I’m not waxed and the hair puts him off? Maybe he’s into that? Oh crap, I am a hideous hideous human being and I have too much pubic hair.
5:30pm. Okay, so I should never, ever, ever wax.
6:15pm. Fuck it. Fuck Tony Stark and his emotional fuckwittery. I am going to go in a pair of nice posh jeans and a shirt and he can just deal with it.
6:30pm. I am going to go in a nice suit and he can just deal with it.
6:35pm. I don’t own a nice suit. None of my suits match. I have three pairs of suit trousers and a jacket that used to belong to Uncle Sebastian that he lent me for my MSc interview and I still haven’t given back.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I am ringing the only person I know with a sense of style and a slimline wardrobe.
“Armando!” I shouted, half hysterically. “Need - suit - borrow. You have?”
“Charles?” he said in confusion, “Aren’t you supposed to be-”
“Tony Stark! Emotional fuckwit! Very nice suits don’t have one Uncle Sebastian HELP.”
Armando laughed for a good five minutes, started to say something, held the phone away so he could laugh some more, clearly took some time to explain to Alex (oh of course they are together, they are always together, even my own friends hate me) and laugh with him before putting his mouth back to the phone and saying in a voice that only Smug Marrieds have “I’ll be right over. Ten minutes.”
7pm. This is NOT TEN MINUTES, ARMANDO.
7:15pm. To be fair, it is an incredibly nice suit.
“This is yours?” I asked, agape.
“No,” said Armando, casually, Alex behind him raising one eyebrow, “but don’t ask and I won’t tell.”
“I thought Sean was trying to stop that one,” said Alex.
“What do you think?” I asked, through the cigarette clenched in my teeth. I swear to the god that loves gay men, if tonight goes well, I will quit on the spot, no patches or anything.
“Well, it makes your face look rather uninspiring by comparison,” Alex said. I threw the remote at him.
Flaming arrogant married bastard.
7:40pm. I am ready. I am ready and gorgeous and sober and totally prepared with witty comebacks and insightful comments and fashionable, attractive remarks that are going to make Tony Stark literally get down on his knees in the restaurant and beg me to let him whisk me away on a romantic elopement to Vegas.
‘No, Tony, I can’t… think of all our work-'
'Damn the work! I absolutely insist. We'll be married by midnight. Let me carry you to the jet.’
… Alright, perhaps it’s not entirely probable he’ll carry me all the way to the airport, but he could possibly manage a taxi. Either way, I’m wearing a very nice pair of brogues, so I won’t be walking any distance.
7:45pm BASTARD. Absolute undeniable bastard; cannot believe this has happened. Walking frantically to the door from bathroom and saw that my message light was blinking. He didn’t even have the courage to ring himself.
“Mr Xavier, this is Pepper Potts calling on behalf of Mr Stark. Mr Stark is extremely busy this evening and apologises, but he’s going to have to miss this evening. He hopes, however, that you will enjoy the reservation with a friend, and will happily ‘foot the bill’. Have a pleasant evening.”
Tony Stark is a terrible and inadvisable mistake, and I do not need his charity, because I am an independent man of worth.
7:55pm Called Sean. We’re taking the table. Fuck him. I hope the champagne is expensive.
3am. it was!
28th January. Tony is not in today. Apparently he has ‘had to fly out to the American branch on urgent business’.
Maybe it’s a legitimate excuse. Not that I care.
I hope everything’s alright.
31st January.
Spent the evening sat on the sofa reading ‘Concepts of Genetics’. There's nothing like the classics.
Have somehow managed to gain three pounds. Yessssss.
Hurrah, hurrah, am a self-actualised and enlightened human being.
Cigarettes consumed: 10 (very very good)
Alcohol units: 5.
tbc.
Since I probably won't get a chance to say anything tomorrow; I hope that everyone has the most wonderful Sunday they could have wished for, whether it's Christmas or something else or nothing at all for you. In my family, it is of course Christmas, although we tend to celebrate it in a secular way (to the chagrin of my mother); I am looking forward to it, although not as much as I am looking forward to brand new Who on the telly.
Life continues, otherwise, to be hectic and fairly grim, but I am sure silver linings will appear at some point. My love to all of you, and thank you so much for being such a wonderful group of people to me this year. I hope next year is even more filled with fic and festivity, and I hope every single one of you has a very, very merry holiday season.
Coming up soon, I hope, on this blog - the concluding parts of off-balance, and a fairly epic WIP which is tentatively titled sleeping dragons. But for anyone who hasn't seen it before, since it is the season of goodwill and gay sex, I give you all the gift of something I wrote a while back for the kink meme... a Bridget Jones inspired AU.
Fandom: X-Men / Marvel
Characters: Charles, Erik, Tony Stark, Raven, Hank, EVERYONE ELSE.
Genre: AU
Rating: PG.
Warnings: Camp as christmas. Which is appropriate.
Summary: "And that was it, that was it. Right there - that was the moment.
I suddenly realised that unless something changed soon, I was going to live a life where my major relationships were with genetics textbooks and a bottle of wine, and I’d finally die emaciated and alone, and be found three weeks later, half-eaten by Alsatians.
Or I was about to turn into a male, less hairy version of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction."
Written for this prompt on the X-Men kink meme.
Charles Xavier's Diary
My Resolutions
I Will Not:
Drink more than fourteen sixteen eighteen alcohol units a week.
Smoke.
Spend entire life sat in either living room or office reading boring textbooks nobody cares about for fun. This is not the behaviour of an free and single gay male.
Pretend to be the stereotype of a free and single gay male in order to attract sexual attention.
Get annoyed with Raven.
Have crushes on men, but instead form relationships based on mature assessment of character.
Sulk about having no boyfriend.
Obsess about Tony Stark
I Will:
Stop smoking. Willpower is attractive, probably.
Drink no more than twenty alcohol units a week.
Gain at least a stone.
Ensure that said stone does not turn to flab through strenuous and healthy lifestyle, possibly involving as-yet-wasted and unused gym membership.
Use gym membership in a way that is not simply to buy sandwiches.
Finally apply for PhD and become sexy, accomplished Doctor of Genetics.
Find way to make genetics seem sexy to potential partners. There must be a way to use it in chat up lines.
Save up money in form of savings. Poss start pension-also.
Be more confident.
Be more assertive.
Make better use of time.
See Raven more often.
Eat more pulses.
Form functional relationship with responsible adult or Tony Stark
January: A Bad Start
1st January.Cigarettes: 25.
Alcohol units: 17.
Food consumed:
1 bowl cornflakes, no milk.
Half packet of peanuts.
Box of mint snaps (best to get rid of all Christmas confectionary at once)
1 bloody mary (counts as food)
6 egg nogs (counts as food)
1 plate Raven’s turkey curry
1 plate M&S Christmas Pudding
It all began on New Year’s Day, in my 32nd year of being single. Once again, I found myself on my own and going to my sister’s turkey curry buffet. The one she throws for all the friends (her friends) and extended family we never actually knew. Every year, she tries to fix me up with some middle-aged boor - and this year, I feared would be no exception.
“Ah, there you are, Charles!” trilled Raven, as she skipped into the room.
“Hello, Raven,” I said, clenching.
My sister. A strange creature. A cosmopolitan twenty something for the rest of the year but put Bing Crosby on the radio and suddenly we must all drink egg nog and wear Christmas sweaters. Oh god. Speaking of Christmas sweaters…
“Erik Lehnsherr’s here,” she confided in a low voice.
“Who?”
“Erik Lehnsherr. You remember. He’s a barrister. Very well off.”
“Does he always require a surname?”
“He’s divorced, apparently. His wife was German. Very cruel race. Now, what are you going to wear?”
“Um.” I looked down at the perfectly serviceable jumper vest and shirt I was wearing. “This?”
Raven, who was as ever dressed in a hideously enthusiastic jumper with a reindeer on it, looked irritated.
“Charles, love, you’re never going to get a boyfriend if you look like you’ve just wandered out of Auschwitz. Go upstairs.”
Upstairs turned out to be my very own matching jumper, with a shiny wreath on the front. Fantastic. I was wearing an embroidered cushion.
“Ah, there he is!” roared a voice from across the room. “Charles!”
“Oh! Hello, Uncle Sebastian.” Actually not my uncle. Actually someone who calls me uncle whilst he gropes my arse and asks me that question dreaded by all singletons-
“So,” Sebastian grinned, with his teeth full of cheese and pineapple, spraying it over me as he talked, “how’s your love life?”
“Super, thanks, Uncle Sebastian.” I picked up a stack of plates for something - anything - to do, and carried it through into the living room.
“Still no missus!” he shouted after me. “I don’t know, Charles, what’ll we do with you?”
Oh thank god. Someone who looks as filled with anti Christmas bile as me.
“Hello, Hank.”
“Hello, Charles.” We briefly shook hands. Hank - my sister’s boyfriend, who despite being years younger than me seems to believe this means he has to be a role model. Which actually is fine, because we get on rather well.
“How’s it going?” I asked, placing the plates down on the table next to him.
“Torture,” he said, downing his snowball in one. “Your sister’s trying to set you up with some horrific human rights barrister. Pretty nasty beast, apparently.”
I nodded, and then suddenly Raven was at my shoulder, guiding me forward with a plate in my hands.
“Why don’t you see,” she hissed, “if Erik Lehnsherr fancies a gherkin?”
“Erik Lehnsherr?” I asked, and then found myself being propelled towards the back of an indisputably gorgeous six foot something male. His back alone was at least six times the size of me. Ding dong. Maybe this time Raven had got it right. Maybe this was the mysterious Mr Right I’d been waiting my whole life to meet…
And then he turned round, and I saw the chiselled jaw, the deep blue eyes, and the terrible absence of any kind of smile at all.
Maybe not.
“Erik Lehnsherr!” said Raven brightly. Erik Lehnsherr raised one eyebrow at me. It was a perfect eyebrow. I wanted to curl up on that eyebrow and go to bed on it. “You remember Charles,” she continued blithely, “he used to run around at college parties with no clothes on, remember?”
“Ah, no,” Erik Lehnsherr said, “not as such.”
“Raven, what in god’s name do I do with this gravy?” came the voice of Angel, Raven’s best and utterly incompetent friend. “I think it needs sieving.”
“Of course it doesn’t need sieving, just stir it, Angel,” Raven hissed between her teeth, still smiling beautifully. Angel stuck her head round the door in a look of absolute panic, her hair sticking on end. She’s about as good at cooking as I am. Raven sighed in a long suffering manner. “I’ll be right there. Sorry, boys. Lumpy gravy calls.”
And then she was gone, and it was just me and Mr Gorgeous and Judgemental. And I was in a Horrendous Jumper. Fantastic.
“Are you - staying with your parents for New Year?” I asked.
“No,” Erik Lehnsherr said, “I live close by, so.”
“Oh, me too.“
There was another pause. “You?” he asked.
“Oh, no no. Just came to see Raven, you know, visit what family we’ve got. I was actually at a party last night, so I’m a bit hungover. Wish I could be lying with my head in a toilet like all normal people.” I laughed, but Erik Lehnsherr didn’t seem to have a sense of humour. “New Year’s resolution,” I said, happily, “drink less.”
I gestured with the fag that always seemed to make it into my hand. “And quit smoking.”
Erik Lehnsherr nodded.
“And… stop talking complete nonsense to strangers.”
He nodded again, with more vigour than I’d have liked.
“In fact,” I said, bitterly, “stop talking full stop.”
“Yes,” he said, and there was something in his voice that was either an accent or panic, or could have been both, “well, perhaps it’s time to eat.”
As I found myself spooning Raven’s lumpy turkey curry into a bowl, I could hear a conversation happening a significant distance away between Erik Lehnsherr and a woman who was possibly dressed as a snowflake, and still looked gorgeous.
“Apparently,” she was murmuring, her jacket unstained by drink or plates of turkey flavoured incontinence, “she lives just around the corner from you.”
“Emma,” he was hissing, holding a plate of his own turkey curry, “I do not need a blind date. Particularly not with some verbally incontinent tweed bachelor who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, and dresses like a three year old.”
Emma coughed politely. I made my way in between them, carrying my curry, and trying not to notice the fact that I just realised I almost certainly had a napkin sticking to my shoe.
“Turkey curry. Yum. My favourite.”
And that was it, that was it. Right there - that was the moment.
I suddenly realised that unless something changed soon, I was going to live a life where my major relationships were with genetics textbooks and a bottle of wine, and I’d finally die emaciated and alone, and be found three weeks later, half-eaten by Alsatians.
Or I was about to turn into a male, less hairy version of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
So, I have made a major decision. Next year, I will not end New Year’s Day in my flat, shitfaced and listening to an easy listening CD Raven made me. I decided to take control, and start a diary. To tell the truth about Charles Xavier. The whole truth.
Resolution Number One: Obviously, will gain twenty pounds. Cannot expect any of the other resolutions - particularly not most important one - to follow if I look like a stick insect.
Resolution Number Two: Will find nice sensible boyfriend to go out with, and will not continue to form emotional attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts.
And especially will not continue to fantasise about the one particular person who embodies all these things.
Tony Stark.
Unfortunately, he just happens to be my boss. And for various slightly unfair reasons - namely this year’s Christmas party when I got on the table and sang Spandau Ballet - I suspect he does not fantasise about me.
10th January.
Alcohol units: 12 (very good)
Cigarettes: 20 (better)
Food consumed: Best not to talk about it.
11am. Could not even stand the thought of going into work, for obvious reasons. Have somehow managed to lose weight over the Christmas period, despite shoving everything into my gluttonous mouth I could get my hands on; yet arse still looks like a flaccid and uncooked chicken. The least nature could do is make me lean rather than skeletal. Desired only to sit on sofa and watch the Great Escape again.
But went in, in rather embarrassingly tight black jeans that Raven provided for Christmas. Half the time she wants to dress me like our nan and half the time she wants to dress me like a cheap cracked out rentboy.
Which led to heartwrenchingly awkward (and slightly arousing) moment at the desk. Was working on applications for university (Christ, it feels like being seventeen again) when suddenly a message popped up from Tony.
Tony, I should say, is my boss, and a genius, and American, and the most attractive and emotionally fuckwitted man (more on this later I'm sure) that I have ever met. Mostly we ignore each other, although am sure that last time I had to give a presentation he was staring at my lips.
(Absolutely did not make a point of licking them every time I walked past him from then on, because I am not that Kind Of Guy.)
Anyway, panicked and thought he’d somehow hacked my computer and seen that I wasn’t working, but then I read the message.
Xavier,
Interesting choice of trousers. Are normal jeans off sick? I’m concerned for their health.
Tony.
Undeniably flirtatious. The man has no shame. Opened up a new message to reply:
Mr Stark,
Don’t have concerns about health of jeans. Jeans are simply taking a sabbatical. New trousers are offended that you think them incapable of jean’s workload.
Perhaps too much. Suggests dislike of sexual harrassment when frankly quite enjoying it. Edited to say
Will inform jeans that you sent regards.
Clicked send.
3pm. He hasn’t emailed back. WHY HASN’T HE EMAILED BACK.
11pm. How did I become the kind of man who writes a diary in the bar's toilet? Are there even enough of us to count as 'those kind of men'? Are there support networks? When did this happen?
Emergency meeting after work with urban family, who had differing opinions on the subject.
“Fuck him,” was Sean’s opinion. Sean is Irish and an activist. Not an activist of anything in particular, he‘s just one of those people who doesn‘t seem comfortable unless he‘s campaigning against something. In this case, he was campaigning against Emotional Fuckwittery, his latest theory of men. “He’s an emotional fuckwit so fuck him. Fuck him and everything about him. Actually, do you want to fuck him?”
“Fuck yes.” Thankfully, now that I am a sensible thirtysomething almost-a-doctor I can handle my drink. Absolutely was not drunk in the slightest.
“Is this fucking fucker even fucking gay?”
“I don’t think he notices either way,” I said, thinking grimly about some of the people Tony’s been known to drag home.
“Oh,” Sean looked slightly put out. Think was disappointed he couldn’t swear some more.
“Just be careful of an office romance, Charles,” Armando said.
“What would you do, Armando, if one of your employees had managed to somehow offend you through an… an innocent email?”
“I’d fire you, Charles,” he said, bluntly.
“Is this Stark guy still unbearably gorgeous?” Alex. One time eighties popstar who wrote one successful song and then retired when he realised that was enough to get him laid for the whole of the nineties. And, like the rest of us sad drunken louts, a total poof, of course. I need better friends.
“Yes.” I think I actually sighed, like some desperate heroine in a romance novel.
“Well,” he said, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette, “I think a well-timed blowjob’s the only answer, then.”
“You are a revolting human being,” I said.
“More vodka, Charles?” Armando asked. I shook my head.
“God no,” just as Alex laughed and said to his Smug Married Boyfriend “God yes. Fill him up, goddamnit, he’s a sexy singleton now.”
They are waiting for me outside the loo with all of the vodka ever oh god.
11th January
3am. Haue consum a entire packit of chockklit digestifs since gemmng in I diddan even know I had em brillumfs
ramn beeeeen an vobka
Dun care about Tonj stupid prat
I am so fugming drunk I hame my friends and I hate my liff whhhhhyyyyyy
14th January
9:30am. Oh no, that’s fine, Tony. Just breeze in here with a ‘Xavier’ like I didn’t spend the entire weekend obsessively compulsively checking my emails. If it’s possible to shorten your life expectancy through stress I absolutely did. And you’re late to work. You absolute bastard.
He is so American.
Had to sneak off for a fag break. This is not good. Am strong and independent adult male, and I do not have a dependency on tobacco, so have decided to quit immediately.
10am. He replied!
Xavier,
If today was an attempt to make me feel better about your poor neglected jeans, rest assured I am still concerned. Is it possible to get an address or phone number so that I can send them some flowers?
Tony.
Sent him my phone number. Oh god, I think I need a fag.
18th January. Alcohol: None, blood sugar too high
Cigarettes: TOO MANY TO COUNT
Food consumed: 1 prawn mayonnaise baguette
1 doughnut
6 cups of coffee
Toast
Spent the week engaged in ridiculous emails. (Am not as good at this diary nonsense as I would like. It’s just so bloody time consuming. Am now attractive young gentlemen involved in extremely romantic whirlwind office romance. Have to keep myself well rested.)
Sent Tony a message on his answerphone today.
“Hi, Tony… Xavier here. Just wondering whether you were interested in meeting up… with jeans… I mean, also with me... in the jeans... anyway… call me back, if you want to - I mean, whatever.”
Oh god oh god I am such an idiot what is wrong with me, how can I expect to do an PhD when I cannot be trusted to manage a simple phonecall. Is everyone a child wondering how they accidentally became an adult in charge of their own feeding and watering, or is it just me?
21st January.
Xavier,
Thank you for your message.
Tony.
Who writes that in response to an invite for a date? It can only be bad news. Panicked for a bit before finally having a think and sending
Mr Stark,
Shut up, please. I am indescribably busy and important.
Charles Xavier.
That'll show him. Sat at desk feeling very smug and attractive. He walked past during the lunch break, and raised an eyebrow. Deliberately did not look up. I am a sex god.
Mr Xavier,
Completely understand. Will cease all harassment in future. Mortified to have caused any kind of offence. Respect you inordinately as a colleague. Your ass looks absolutely mindblowing, incidentally.
Tony.
Ridiculous.
Mr Stark,
Perhaps you forgot, but in this country where we can spell, we spell it ‘arse’.
I have a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary on my desk if you need to borrow it.
Charles Xavier.
That’ll show him and his smug, terrible, American face with his gorgeous smug American eyes oh god what if I offended him. Should absolutely not be writing this entry at my desk. Someone will notice.
Oh god oh god new email.
you are so unbelievably attractive when you correct my grammar you make me forget punctation
sunday at eight
tony
Read it three times, quietly hyperventilating. I hope he meant a date at Sunday at eight and that’s not just some terrible arousal-inspired mistype. I'm not sure what he could have meant. Tried looking at the letters on the keyboard and all he could have meant otherwise is 'right', and Sunday at right makes no sense.
But is it just me, or is Sunday at eight a really really weird time for a date?
Oh god what am I going to wear???
27th January.
11am. “Pepper Potts.”
“Oh - I - Hi, Pepper, is Tony there?”
“Yes.” She sighed. Pepper is a terrible human being who I'm fairly sure can read minds and kill you with her brain. She may also have been CIA trained. I'm not kidding, there's an office betting pool on it. And she goes everywhere with him. “Do you have a message?”
“I - I was just wondering… if it was this Sunday he meant…”
“Yes, Mr Xavier,” she said, with a hint of a smug smile mixed with exasperation in that annoying American voice that I‘m pretty sure Tony trains them in, “tonight at eight.”
“Oh. Fantastic. Um-”
“Mr Stark will see you then.”
Fuck.
2pm. Spent the morning starving self in order to be svelte and beautiful this evening, then looked in the mirror and remembered I am unattractive stick insect, so ate an entire cheesecake straight from the freezer. Now feel very sick. Bother.
4pm. Phone rang. Picked it up at light speed half-expecting it to be Tony with an excuse. It wasn’t. It was Alex.
“You know,” he said, ever helpful, “you absolutely cannot answer the phone like that if it’s him. Makes you seem really desperate.”
“Fuck off,” I said, stubbing out the twentieth cigarette of the day.
“Just calling to see how pre-date jitters are going.”
“I am a twig. An asexual, unattractive, twig.”
“You don’t mean asexual,” said Alex, sounding bored, “you mean an ugly homosexual. Go and have a bath and paint your toenails or something. And make sure you have a wank before you go on the date, you don’t want to get a boner halfway through your first kiss, you sad, lonely individual.”
“Fuck off,” I said again, and hung up.
4:30pm. Phone rang again. Answered it after six rings.
“Charles Xavier.”
“Better,” said Alex, “but room for improvement.”
5pm. Should I wax? I mean, I’ve never waxed before, but I’m a skinny lad. What if Tony likes that and then he gets down there and I’m not waxed and the hair puts him off? Maybe he’s into that? Oh crap, I am a hideous hideous human being and I have too much pubic hair.
5:30pm. Okay, so I should never, ever, ever wax.
6:15pm. Fuck it. Fuck Tony Stark and his emotional fuckwittery. I am going to go in a pair of nice posh jeans and a shirt and he can just deal with it.
6:30pm. I am going to go in a nice suit and he can just deal with it.
6:35pm. I don’t own a nice suit. None of my suits match. I have three pairs of suit trousers and a jacket that used to belong to Uncle Sebastian that he lent me for my MSc interview and I still haven’t given back.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I am ringing the only person I know with a sense of style and a slimline wardrobe.
“Armando!” I shouted, half hysterically. “Need - suit - borrow. You have?”
“Charles?” he said in confusion, “Aren’t you supposed to be-”
“Tony Stark! Emotional fuckwit! Very nice suits don’t have one Uncle Sebastian HELP.”
Armando laughed for a good five minutes, started to say something, held the phone away so he could laugh some more, clearly took some time to explain to Alex (oh of course they are together, they are always together, even my own friends hate me) and laugh with him before putting his mouth back to the phone and saying in a voice that only Smug Marrieds have “I’ll be right over. Ten minutes.”
7pm. This is NOT TEN MINUTES, ARMANDO.
7:15pm. To be fair, it is an incredibly nice suit.
“This is yours?” I asked, agape.
“No,” said Armando, casually, Alex behind him raising one eyebrow, “but don’t ask and I won’t tell.”
“I thought Sean was trying to stop that one,” said Alex.
“What do you think?” I asked, through the cigarette clenched in my teeth. I swear to the god that loves gay men, if tonight goes well, I will quit on the spot, no patches or anything.
“Well, it makes your face look rather uninspiring by comparison,” Alex said. I threw the remote at him.
Flaming arrogant married bastard.
7:40pm. I am ready. I am ready and gorgeous and sober and totally prepared with witty comebacks and insightful comments and fashionable, attractive remarks that are going to make Tony Stark literally get down on his knees in the restaurant and beg me to let him whisk me away on a romantic elopement to Vegas.
‘No, Tony, I can’t… think of all our work-'
'Damn the work! I absolutely insist. We'll be married by midnight. Let me carry you to the jet.’
… Alright, perhaps it’s not entirely probable he’ll carry me all the way to the airport, but he could possibly manage a taxi. Either way, I’m wearing a very nice pair of brogues, so I won’t be walking any distance.
7:45pm BASTARD. Absolute undeniable bastard; cannot believe this has happened. Walking frantically to the door from bathroom and saw that my message light was blinking. He didn’t even have the courage to ring himself.
“Mr Xavier, this is Pepper Potts calling on behalf of Mr Stark. Mr Stark is extremely busy this evening and apologises, but he’s going to have to miss this evening. He hopes, however, that you will enjoy the reservation with a friend, and will happily ‘foot the bill’. Have a pleasant evening.”
Tony Stark is a terrible and inadvisable mistake, and I do not need his charity, because I am an independent man of worth.
7:55pm Called Sean. We’re taking the table. Fuck him. I hope the champagne is expensive.
3am. it was!
28th January. Tony is not in today. Apparently he has ‘had to fly out to the American branch on urgent business’.
Maybe it’s a legitimate excuse. Not that I care.
I hope everything’s alright.
31st January.
Spent the evening sat on the sofa reading ‘Concepts of Genetics’. There's nothing like the classics.
Have somehow managed to gain three pounds. Yessssss.
Hurrah, hurrah, am a self-actualised and enlightened human being.
Cigarettes consumed: 10 (very very good)
Alcohol units: 5.
tbc.