preston rawlings, psychic accountant (ex_clerk820) wrote in rooms,
[Like any good tourist, Preston stared at the house through the window while he tapped compulsively on the trimming of the window.
Anyone with any ability, and probably most people without, could feel Preston's raging anxiety from miles away. He wanted a cigarette so badly that the bitter lust for it suffused his entire set of thoughts, and a feeling of being constantly hunted, endlessly pursued without opportunity for shelter, was an echo of his childhood, and made Preston feel desperation and despair in equal measure. He was doing a decent job holding it off, and the fear was topmost, leavened somewhat by the reassuring set of conversations on the journal when everyone (with the sole exception of Erik, the bastard) was unbelievably understanding.
Preston was actively trying to stay out of other people's heads, knowing that he could both control and affect unsuspecting minds around him, but his own emotions were so powerful that he was simply amplifying them in all directions, indiscriminate.
He was wearing clothes that he'd borrowed from Steve Rogers and Stark Tower, in that order: plain pants that were too loose for him and a black t-shirt whose small white logo was hidden by his old, rather dusty suit jacket he'd brought with him from the Twenties. He looked like he'd recently been shopping at the Salvation Army, but at least he smelled alright. Preston knew Charles right away, though the strength of his mind made Preston forget everything he'd remembered about the comic book hero, and he'd expected him to be large in every way that he was not. He stared at him from where he stood next to the back wheel of the car.]