(no subject)
There were a number of things Charles Xavier had done upon waking in his normal body after the more distressing events of the previous weekend that saw him transformed into an old man, confined to his bed. He'd gone for a run, firstly the kind with no set destination in mind, but made his lungs burn for air and his muscles ache from the exertion, the latter a pain he embraced wholeheartedly, as it surely beat the alternative of no sensation at all. Then, he'd taken a shower, and a long one at that, luxuriating in the feel of running his fingers through his hair, a simple, silly pleasure that had been denied him.
Perhaps most importantly, however, he'd gone to the Hub at his earliest convenience (which proved quite early, indeed) to get very, very drunk.
By the time the place starts to fill up in earnest, he's lost count of the number of drinks he's had, each stronger than the last at his insistence, and he's all but slumped over the bar, now, his body loose-limbed and pliant, elbows keeping him propped up so he doesn't take a swim in his most recent half-finished glass. His face is flushed, his eyes, usually piercing, glossy and over bright, but his smile stretches from ear to ear, giving him a jovial appearance rather than a pitiful one.
"It's good, isn't it?" he says to no one in particular, and downs the rest of the drink in one prolonged go, setting the glass down with a quiet clink before he lifts a hand to order another.
Timed to Monday evening, and a general reminder that the alcohol at the Hub is, in fact, good. Closed to new threads.
Perhaps most importantly, however, he'd gone to the Hub at his earliest convenience (which proved quite early, indeed) to get very, very drunk.
By the time the place starts to fill up in earnest, he's lost count of the number of drinks he's had, each stronger than the last at his insistence, and he's all but slumped over the bar, now, his body loose-limbed and pliant, elbows keeping him propped up so he doesn't take a swim in his most recent half-finished glass. His face is flushed, his eyes, usually piercing, glossy and over bright, but his smile stretches from ear to ear, giving him a jovial appearance rather than a pitiful one.
"It's good, isn't it?" he says to no one in particular, and downs the rest of the drink in one prolonged go, setting the glass down with a quiet clink before he lifts a hand to order another.
Timed to Monday evening, and a general reminder that the alcohol at the Hub is, in fact, good. Closed to new threads.