preston rawlings, psychic accountant (ex_clerk820) wrote in rooms,
[Preston didn't really know what to think. There was no doubt this man was Charles Xavier. He knew it the way he knew he was standing upright and not upside down. He could feel the man, and he was dead sure. But he didn't match up with the vague pictures Preston remembered from Saturday Morning Cartoons, a yellow chair and wicked eyebrows. Preston decided his memory of childhood could only be good when he was remembering the bad parts. Figures.
Automatically, Preston put his hand out in response to the offered one. It was a business-like, entirely governmental response, and he only stopped when he had it halfway out there. Physical contact made his abilities so much stronger that skin-on-skin contact tended to make him a different person entirely. Usually the person he was touching. He thought of Saint, and looked guilty.
Preston usually looked guilty.] Nice to meet you. [It was mostly true. He smiled uncertainly.] Yes. I'm trying to quit. Keep trying. [Preston's eyes dropped down to Charles in the chair. How strange it was to see him so small. His mind was like a mountain.]