Work Text:
They’re sitting in companionable silence working on their respective Magick History essays (him on his laptop and her on her typewriter) when the clacking of her keys goes silent. Xavier looks up to see her staring blankly at the page before her.
It had been a trying week full of club meetings, competitions, and the communal niceties that go along with those things. Enid and Ajax had had a fight and Wednesday had been by the girl’s side for much of it, offering staid comfort as well as threats of violence towards the Gorgon.
Xavier knew how much the social aspects of life drained his girlfriend. It wasn’t obvious initially, but he grew to notice how her brows would pinch and lips tighten when she was just done.
“Can we take a break?” He asks, reaching for her hand closest to him. His touch seems to snap her from her dissociating as she blinks back to reality, gaze settling on him. He holds her hand firmly, stroking over the fine bones of her knuckles with his thumb.
“If you need one.” She concedes, relaxing a bit in her chair from her ramrod typing posture.
He doesn’t need the break, but he’s not going to tell her that. He’s content to let her think it’s for him rather than her own good. She’s clearly mentally exhausted.
Xavier nods, scooting his chair closer to her after shoving his laptop and paper notes to the side. He grabs her other hand, flipping them both palms up before applying pressure over her metacarpals, digging in a bit. The girl in front of him blinks a few times in rapid succession and he can almost see her melt. The reaction is minute, but he likes to think he’s become something of a Wednesday expert thanks to all the time they spend together.
He’s pressing a kiss to her right fingers when he sees that her black polish is chipped. Wednesday is precise in all aspects of her life, and her appearance is no exception.
“Where’s your nail polish?” His question earns him a quirked brow. She gestures to her bedside table and Xavier opens the top drawer. There’s a bottle of hand lotion, a stack of photos rubber banded together, a leather-bound notebook, a fairly sizable knife in a sheath, and a small box. “In the box?” He asks, not wanting to rifle through her things more than necessary. At her nod, he takes the box out and brings it to her desk.
Inside is a base coat, a top coat, acetone wipes, cuticle oil, and about 5 different bottles of black nail polish. He laughs.
“They’re different shades,” Wednesday says, tone daring him to say anything.
Affection spreads in his gut. “I’m sure they are. Which one do you want today?”
Wednesday picks a bottle shaped like a skull.
Xavier, having been privy to more than a few of Enid and Wednesday’s nail painting sessions, knows the steps well now. He tears open a polish-removing wipe and starts taking off the existing chipped polish with firm pressure. He goes through a few wipes as the black paint is stubborn. When the removal is complete he begins in with the clear base coat.
After all her nails are covered, he playfully holds her right hand up and blows across her fingers. He laughs as her nose wrinkles. She rolls her eyes, pretending to be unamused by his antics.
Once the base coat is dry, Xavier moves on to the first coat of black polish. He’s careful to avoid her cuticles and side borders. Luckily this is not dissimilar to his favorite hobby. He finds it to be soothing. The casual intimacy of the process warms him to the core.
When he finishes the last finger for the first coat, he looks up to find Wednesday’s gaze affixed to him. He grins and she answers with a slow blink.
“Does Enid have a white polish?” He asks.
“She has all sorts of nauseating shades,” Wednesday intones drolly.
“Do you think she’d care if I borrowed the white? I could give you a few designs.” He’s picturing things that remind him of Wednesday - sharp objects, snakes and other creepy crawlies, perhaps a headstone.
“I can’t imagine it would bother her. They’re under her bed in a shoebox with a rhinestone flamingo on it.”
Xavier grabs the white polish and a very fine detail brush from Enid’s side of the room, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of Wednesday’s head before sitting back down in his chair. He applies another quick coat of black polish with a deft hand.
The smooth sounds of Wednesday’s record player fills the empty space as they wait for her nails to dry. He takes the time to drink in the sight of the girl before him. Her braids are ruffled from the long day. Her mascara has transferred a bit to her lower lids making her dark shadows appear even starker. She’s wearing a soft-looking black sweater that is slouching off her one shoulder just a bit - enough that he can see the delicate bones of her left collarbone peeking out. Her full lips are chapped like she’s been biting at them as she does when she’s distracted and no one is around.
Xavier has this urge to wrap her up, but he fears she may bite in a not fun way if he goes that far.
Instead, he dabs some white polish onto the detail brush and holds her right hand close to his face. He focuses on making the smallest strokes to form the image in his mind on the tiniest of canvases. He’s careful as he manipulates her finger a little to the left and then to the right to make smooth lines.
A piece of his hair suddenly falls into his line of vision and he blows at it in hopes of moving it out of the way. Cool little fingers tuck the strands behind his ear. Xavier shivers at her gentle gesture, looking up from his art. Wednesday’s eyes are tired but soft. She quirks an imperious brow. He just smiles at her, making sure to flash the dimples that she denies affect her. The twitch at the corner of her lips is sign enough to him that he’s charmed her - even if just a little bit.
He finishes up the design on her right middle finger, switching to her left hand to start in on another motif. When he’s finished the second image, he seals all her nails with the clear top coat. He surveys his work with pleased eyes, indicating for Wednesday to finally look.
Her right middle finger has a dagger dripping blood and the left pointer a rose with thorns. With a tweak of his hand, Xavier brings both images to life - the blood on the dagger oozes off the sharp lines of the weapon and the petals of the rose fall slowly. Her lips twitch again so he knows she’s pleased by his choices.
“Thank you.” She says, hand reaching to cup his face. He leans into her touch, pressing a kiss to her palm.
“Of course,” he whispers into her skin, eyes still intent on hers. She stares back, unblinking but not unaffected.
Xavier feels lucky to see this side of her.