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Despite the constant comparisons between Erik and JFK, Charles had never once considered that he might be expected to be the next Jackie O. Charles Xavier, America’s next fashion icon, if the tabloids are to be believed.
His mother would have died laughing if she hadn’t already died of drinking.
December finds the country bubbling with excitement. The leaves have turned and the wind is sharp and cold. All over the city, mixed in with the normal holiday decorations are the first signs of the upcoming inauguration. D.C. is bracing for an influx of over two million visitors in less than a month for the pomp and circumstance, elevated by the novelty of the country’s very first Mutant President. Everyone wants to be able to ‘remember where they were when.’
Charles’ own anticipation is marred by the annoyance of fashion somehow positioning itself as the new center of his world, an idea unfathomable prior to bonding with Erik.
Luckily, in spite of being insanely busy coordinating Erik’s transition team, Raven knows her brother's strengths and weakness and rescues him from himself.
“Alright, I’m taking over,” she informs him when she finds out he still doesn’t know what he’ll be wearing day of. “People who’ve been fighting for this day since the sixties, little kids who’ve never imagined someone like them could actually be President or First Gentleman, they’ll be watching. I won’t have you up there looking like a tacky, unloved ragamuffin and smelling like wet jeans.”
Charles huffs indignantly. He’s always been a tad jealous of Raven’s neutral scent, unusual even for lower-pheromone betas. Charles naturally smells of cotton, light and airy when he’s happy and wet and moldy when he’s not.
His own naïve attempt to figure out what he should wear had rabbit-holed into a Google search, dead ending with an oddly fascinating documentary about social symbolism through fashion. He’d watched it all the way through just to relieve some of the vapidity weighing down his unfashionable soul.
Per the current agenda, he’s scheduled to change outfits three different times throughout the day. While he’d normally vociferously object to the wastefulness of wearing such expensive clothing for so little time, particularly given his personal preference for chinos and button-down shirts despite his vast inherited wealth, each outfit will highlight the stylings of a nascent Mutant and/or omega designer. Knowing that simply walking around in the designs will bring scores of new customers to underpublicized but extremely talented and deserving independent fashion and jewelry designers sufficiently qualifies as altruistic and quells his instinct to grumble, a fact of which Raven gleefully takes full advantage.
“You’re going to be the belle of the ball,” Raven assures him cheerfully.
“You’re the boss,” he relents begrudgingly, allowing himself to be carted around town and fitted with the finest and most fashionable.
After a whirlwind two days with Raven, Charles is relieved to settle in with Erik for their weekly Trekkie session, a tradition carried over from their whirlwind courtship. It’s late, after dinner, but not quite bed time. Both are showered and in pajamas, Erik in his usual black plaid sleep pants paired with a black V-neck tee and Charles in a navy-blue, long sleeve t-shirt ‘borrowed’ from Erik with soft, sky blue cotton sleep shorts underneath, much more his liking than anything Raven had made him try on. They’re sprawled together across the overstuffed couch with Charles’ beloved chunky knit blanket is spread over them.
“How was your day?” Charles asks.
He senses a general tiredness closely accompanied by pride and the satisfaction of accomplishment, but he prefers to hear what Erik wants to share rather than picking things out of his husband’s thoughts. As he told Erik not long after they started dating, he doesn’t want his telepathy to lull him into a false sense of intimacy where he knows everything and Erik feels ignored because they never really talk.
“It was a good. Long, but productive,” Erik answers as he threads his fingers through Charles' hair. “I read dossiers ‘til I thought my eyeballs would fall out, but we narrowed the pool to the most viable nominees to put before the subcommittees. We still have to interview and background check them though. It’ll take clear through January to vet and fill all these posts. Too bad I can’t just have you sort through the lot.”
They’d all decided long ago that using Charles’ telepathy to help Erik politically was verboten. Not only was it morally and ethically questionable, but having Charles show up in interviews and meetings that a spouse wouldn’t normally attend would quickly raise eyebrows and likely re-spark speculation regarding the extent of his abilities.
“Well, if I ever get the heebies and/or the jeebies about anyone, I’ll let you know posthaste,” Charles promises, shivering pleasantly as Erik's fingers slide through his hair.
“That’s all I can really ask,” Erik says in easy acceptance. “How about your day? I know your personal assistant is still up in the air and the whole dress up thing has been running you in circles. Any progress?”
“The clothing matter is done and done, thank heavens. Staff for the Office of the First Gentleman, not so much. I think I hate you a little for poaching Raven,” Charles grumbles half-heartedly as he tucks up closer to Erik.
“Well, in my defense, you had her all day today in addition to nearly two decades to let her boss you around before I met her. For free!” Erik teases. “Now, she’s mine, all mine.”
“So rude,” Charles huffs indignantly. “You know, I always assumed the Office of the First Gentleman was ceremonial, ambassadorial fluff, but there’s actual work to be done! Work that requires a Chief of Staff, a Press Secretary, a Communications Director, and a Social Secretary. How did I end up needing a Social Secretary? I am not the Social Secretary type.”
Erik gives him a bland look. “Charles, you attended boarding school and had an honest to god Beautillion ball, which I’d never even heard of until I met you. I think people would be more surprised that you don’t already have a social secretary. Or at least a personal assistant.”
Charles tilts his head to the side and gives Erik the squinty eye.
“Fine. I suppose it’s a silly thing to complain about. I’m sure you have far more things on your plate.”
“Hey, I asked for that plate,” Erik reminds him. “Begged tens of millions of people to let me have that plate and everything on it. You’re my game-for-anything-but-seriously-stressed-out ‘plus one.’ Feel free to vent as much as you need, schatz.”
Erik holds up a wrist, offering his radiocarpal scent gland to Charles who gladly accepts. He inhales deeply and sighs softly as the pheromones, Erik’s rich leather scent, send a warm tingle of happylovedcontentacross his brain. Head delightfully fuzzy and light, he reaches back and swipes his own wrist against the column of Erik’s neck, scent marking his Alpha in return. They lazily rub against each other for several long minutes, letting the hormones flow between them, easing the tensions of the day, and helping them balance one with the other.
“I have faith in you. You’ll figure it out,” Erik reassures him, then picks the remote back up, cueing up their program. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”
Charles hums gratefully. “You’ll make for an amazing President.”
“I sure hope so,” Erik says as the opening theme music plays.
In the run up to the election, they’d watched all three seasons of Star Trek, the Original Series. Now, they’re about halfway through the seven-season run of Star Trek: The Next Generation. While Commander Spock is Charles’ favorite TOS character, Captain Jean-Luc Picard is definitely his TNG beau.
“You know, Jean-Luc looks vaguely how I imagine you’ll look like twenty or thirty years from now, if you go bald,” Erik speculates. “He even has the British accent. Maybe he’s a distant relative?”
“No. Absolutely not,” Charles says firmly, “because I happen to find him very attractive and that would make it weird.”
“You think he’s hotter than me?” Erik asks.
“Of course not,” Charles reassures him. “But I have decided he’s my hall pass.”
“Your hall pass?” Erik cries in mock outrage. “You’d cheat on me?”
“If I somehow miraculously live all the way to the year 2360, I will absolutely cheat on you with Jean-Luc Picard. Fair warning.”
Erik tsks his tongue. “If I make it that long, do I get to use my hall pass with Deanna Troi?”
Charles scoffs. “No. Because she’s Betazoid. She’d be able to tell that you’re only interested in her because her empath powers remind you of me and any relationship would be doomed to fail because no one could ever replace me in your heart.”
“How tragic,” Erik says solemnly.
“Truly,” Charles agrees.
“Are you also cheating on Spock?”
“Spock would understand,” Charles insists haughtily. “It’s logical to have different lovers in different galaxies. That way, you’re never alone.”
“I dunno,” Erik counters. “From what you’ve made me watch, Vulcan Alphas are extremely possessive of their partners. I think you and Jean-Luc are both going to get Vulcan Nerve Pinched. You’re going to Helen of Troy the Federation.”
Charles nearly chokes on his laughter. “Romulans eat your hearts out.”
Erik gives an amused snort and kisses Charles’ fingers. They settle in to watch as Jean-Luc battles to take retake the ship and take down a gang of would-be marauders trying to steal a dangerous chemical compound from Enterprise. Charles sighs in contentment, enjoying the calm relaxation, inwardly wishing they could stay in this moment forever, but knowing they can’t.
Inauguration Day dawns with much of the same heady buzz as Election Day scant months ago, but without the heavy, stomach-turning uncertainty about how it will end. Per tradition, Erik and Charles spent Inauguration Eve at the famous Blair House in the much-vaunted Principle Suite. With one hundred nine rooms total, including fifteen guest rooms, each kitted out in antique colonial furniture, original period portraits, porcelain art pieces, and crystal chandeliers, the two-century old home has hosted dozens of incoming Presidents the night before the Big Day.
They quietly dress, each mentally centering themselves for a long day. Erik dresses in a custom-made, classic black two-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and a black-and-silver diagonally striped tie, all from Giancarlo. His hair is artfully combed back with a light touch of pomade and his beard is carefully groomed. Despite the comically petty whisper campaign that maybe Erik is using the beard to hide unsightly features a la Lincoln, he’s decided to keep his trademark look and be the first President inaugurated with facial hair since Benjamin Harrison in 1893. Charles is obviously biased, but he thinks Erik looks amazing and stylishly Alpha.
Charles slips into his first suit of the day. The ensemble, the Plum Dandy, was designed and hand-fabricated by Kurt, a soft-spoken, teleporting Mutant whose permanently blue skin reminded Charles of Raven’s natural form. It features a midnight blue, wool three-piece suit paired with a white shirt with an almost imperceptible dark plum checkering, a dark plum tie and socks, and dark brown shoes. Charles has grown his hair out, closer to the traditional omega style, and the wavy locks now brush his collar, pushed from his face by amethyst and diamond hair combs that match the piercings in his ears.
Once dressed and fully coiffed, they carefully give each other the once over. The scrutiny today will be relentless, so they make sure that not a single hair is out of place, that Erik’s flag pin is attached and right-side up, that Charles is wearing all the expected omega jewelry.
“I think we’re ready,” Charles says with a smile small, pushing down the jitters he feels.
“One last thing,” Erik tells him, reaching into his suit pocket. “I have something for you.”
He pulls out a plain safety pin.
“Jewish folklore believes that a piece of metal secured inside of your clothes is supposed to ward off evil spirits and those with bad intentions. Given what I can do with a single piece of metal, I’ve always liked that particular wives’ tale,” he says with a playful smirk.
He fastens the pin to the inside of Charles’ waist coat then re-settles the material so it lays flat.
“That one is just for us,” he says. Then he pulls out a tiny omega charm bag.
“This is for everyone else to see. To symbolize my never-ending desire to keep you safe.”
The charm inside is a fancier facsimile of a safety pin, decorated in garnet and opal, Charles’ omega stones of choice.
“You know, Raven is going to beat you up if I show up red-eyed and teary,” Charles jokes softly with a sniffle.
“I’ll take my chances,” Erik quips back.
After he fastens the charm to Charles’ omega bracelet, he leans to kiss Charles, a sweet peck on the lips.
“Now, let’s go show them how Muties do it.”
After departing the Blair House, they head to the Adas Israel Synagogue for the customary interfaith national prayer service with the Vice-President-Elect, the minority and majority leaders of the House and Senate, and any other members of Congress who cared to attend. Outgoing-President and First Lady Bryant have chosen to attend as well.
The rabbi delivers a fairly generic sermon about working towards peace and harmony, leading with morality, and having tolerance towards all, a positive message unlikely to offend the gathered attendees, few of whom are actually Jewish.
Afterwards, the crowd mingles while the plethora of Secret Service agents and security details coordinate departures.
“My, don’t you look handsome today,” First Lady Bryant, or Grace as she’d previously insisted they call her, exclaims quietly in the genteel southern accent that had charmed the press for the past eight years.
“Likewise,” Charles remarks of her beautiful, sapphire-colored dress and matching winter coat.
“Thanks,” she says with a laugh. “I wanted to make sure I look nice in the background of all your historic photos, you know.”
The frankness startles a laugh out of Charles.
“I have a little something for you,” she says, holding out a medium-sized, lilac-colored gift bag. “A few mementos to mark the beginning of your journey.”
“Thank you,” he says whole heartedly, accepting the package demurely even as Grace’s mind projects her excitement over the hand-crafted omega charm keeper inside. “You didn’t have to. I can’t wait to open it.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure. I think you’ll like it,” she says with a grin. “And one more thing, one that you can open now.”
She hands him a velvet pouch so small it leaves no doubt that it holds an omega charm.
This time her mind is almost giddy with anticipation of Charles’ reaction. Well and truly curious, Charles places the larger bag at his feet and tips the jewelry bag into his palm. He nearly gasps when he sees it. Roughly the size of a quarter, crafted from sterling silver, it’s an intricate and delicate piece that surely represents dozens of hours of expert artistry, an eagle clutching arrows in its talons and a dove gripping an olive branch in its beak, both birds cradled in a pair of cupped hands.
“Only thirty-one people in the history of our country have ever received this particular charm,” Grace explains. “It’s a small reminder that your job for the next four years is to be Erik’s staunchest defender as well as the counterweight that reminds him of his better angels. Best of luck, First Gentleman.”
Charles is rendered speechless, amazed by the charm, Grace’s beautiful words, and the good wishes emanating from her.
“Thank you,” he says again, even more emphatically.
He’s still awed by the thoughtfulness of the gift when he shows it to Erik afterwards, mentally replaying the exact scene for him once they’ve returned to their chauffeured car.
“She’s absolutely right,” Erik says firmly, kissing Charles on the temple. “I can’t do this without you by my side. I wouldn’t even want to.”
From the synagogue, they finally head to the staging area for the Ceremony.
“Compass and Clairvoyant leaving Vehicle One, approaching Endurance and Epiphany,” the dark-suited agent in the front seat says quietly into his mic.
Charles bites back an amused grin. Erik is Compass, a reference to the magnetic-field-based apparatus. Charles’ code name is an inaccurate but nonetheless charming nod towards his psionic abilities. Phil and Melinda have been respectively christened Candor and Chameleon, a cheeky tip of the cap to their professional reputations. Endurance and Epiphany, of course, are President and First Lady Bryant.
Erik waits for the all-clear as previously instructed, stepping out when the car door is opened by a second stoic-faced agent. Erik then turns and offers his hand to assist Charles from the low-slung vehicle.
So, this is what the top of the world looks like, Erik thinks silently to Charles, amusement painting his thoughts. A giddy thrum of triumph and excitement pulses through their shared mental space, a sharp contrast to the charismatic but calm façade Erik is presenting outwardly.
You did it, Charles grins and congratulates him once again.
We did it, Erik corrects with an answering smile and a warm pulse of affection, squeezing Charles’ hand for a brief second before he leads them forward towards towering pristine white marble columns draped in stars and stripes bunting.
Goosebumps of excitement and anticipation prickle across Charles’ skin as he passes through the high archway and into the building proper. Just entering is already better than any museum tour he’s ever taken, a casual stroll on an exclusive route most will never have the privilege of walking. He’s gratified to feel a coinciding wave of barely banked awe from Erik echo through their bond. With one last glance at a printed copy of the program Raven had stuffed into his pocket, they take their place at the very back of the processional line.
After nearly an hour’s worth of patriotic music, poems, and songs, Charles finds himself standing on a stage outside the West Front of the US Capitol building, centered between Erik and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, holding the beautifully engraved handles of an heirloom Torah proudly loaned by the Jewish Historical Society of Greater Washington, heavy enough to require both hands, as Erik takes the Oath of Office.
“I do solemnly swear that I, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States. So help me, God,” Erik repeats after the Chief Justice.
The enormous crowd roars with cheers and the Marine Band strikes up Hail to the Chief.
President Erik Lehnsherr @POTUS
It’s a historic day, America. Thank you for sharing it with us!
[JPEG: OathOfOffice]
#InaugurationDay
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Vice President Phil Coulson @VP
I’m ready to serve. Thank you, America!
[JPEG: OathOfOfficeVP]
#InaugurationDay
13.4k Retweets 173k Likes
The swearing in ceremony is merely the tip of the Inaugural Celebration iceberg. Erik’s speech is very well received, if social media is to be believed, particularly his fiery challenge to renew the pursuit of a more perfect union and make sure opportunity for the American Dream is available for all. After the recessional, they complete the customary stroll from the Capitol to the White House, the sidewalks overflowing with well-wishers, yelling, cheering, whistling, and waving. Once at the White House, they review the troops, then see the Now former-President Bryant and former-Vice President Ellis off from residence for the final time. The whole production is capped off by a ceremonial entering of the White House to wrap up the live-streamed segment of the day.
“They didn’t warn me there would be this much walking and standing,” Erik groans as he plops down on a chair in the changing quarters, his dopey grin belying his grumbling.
Charles gives him an askant glance. “The parade route was barely a mile and a half. You run three and a half miles every morning.”
“Not in stiff dress shoes I don’t,” Erik counters, slipping off the offending footwear while he awaits Charles’ wardrobe change. He sighs, wiggling his sock-clad toes across the cool stone tile flooring. He then looks at Charles with a lifted brow, a teasing reminder that the omega should be swapping outfits.
This time, Charles dons a deep, teal blue, three-piece suit with a pristine white shirt, a silver tie, navy blue socks, and black shoes. This ensemble, the Sea Drift, was designed by Alison, a beta Mutant with the ability to convert sound into light beams. Charles swaps out his amethyst and diamond accessories for sapphire pieces, making sure that Erik’s safety pin makes the transition between outfits, a move which makes the Alpha grin widely.
Freshly outfitted, they attend the Congressional luncheon in the Old Supreme Court Chamber of the Capitol. They sit with Phil and Melinda at the head banquet table as the guests of honor and listen politely as the leaders of each chamber as well as the leader of many of the House and Senate committees make short speeches about hope for future bipartisanship and present them with ceremonial welcome gifts, mostly paintings, portraits, and sculptures on loan from various museums and state departments that they hope will have prominent positioning in the décor of Erik’s Executive Suites. It’s lovely if not a little long winded. Thankfully, the roasted salmon and grilled asparagus were not as dry as the speeches.
After being driven to the Washington Convention Center, they change outfits one last time, shifting to formal wear for the Ball. Charles suits himself in a light gold dinner jacket paired with a black vest, shirt, tie, socks, and shoes. The outfit, Champagne Dreams, had been designed by a baseline omega named Megan. Charles tucks a dark garnet silk square into his breast pocket and swaps out his sapphire accessories for garnet and gold.
“I look forward to finally getting undressed and not having to worry about clothes,” Charles says as he fixes his new hair combs into place.
Erik raises a brow, looking away from the mirror where he’d been wrestling with the bow tie of his tuxedo. “I’m also looking forward to you getting undress and not worrying about clothes.”
Charles rolls his eyes playfully.
“You know what I mean,” he says.
“That won’t stop my imagination,” Erik says with a leer, as he triumphantly wrests his bow tie into place.
Charles mentally pokes his tongue out at his husband. So incorrigible…
Once dressed, they head to the lower levels where the Inaugural Ball is being held.
“Ladies and Gentleman, the President and First Gentleman of the United States,” the Master of Ceremony announces as the band strikes up Hail to the Chief while Erik and Charles enter the ballroom to applause.
The level of glitz and glamour is so tastefully done, it would make the Westchester Ladies’ Legion sick with envy. Everyone is elegantly dressed and dozens of attendees approach them throughout the night to give them congratulations and well-wishes.
But Charles’ favorite part of the night, the memory he will carry with him forever, is their first dance as President and First Gentleman. Erik leads him to the dance floor and they take center stage, a spotlight shining down on them and the presidential seal underneath their feet, as the brassy, mid-tempo melody and the raspy vocals of Ray LaMontagne’s ‘You are the Best Thing’ fill the room.
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” Charles murmurs quietly as they sway together.
“Thank you, First Gentleman. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Erik whispers back.
President Lehnsherr @POTUS
Your President and First Gentleman
-Raven D.
[JPEG: FirstDance]
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