ataraxionlogs | oo6. closedish.

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oo6. closedish.

CHARACTERS: Charles Xavier and Severus Snape; Remus Lupin; Emma Swan; Nuala; Rogue; Johanna Mason; Odessa Knutson; Erik Lehnsherr; Captain Hook (Killian Jones); Hank McCoy; Raven Darkholme; Cassandra Anderson, others as they happen.
LOCATION: Level fourteen, room one hundred; laundry facilities; bar on level fourteen; kitchen on level fourteen; the Gardens; media library; level twenty, room one-hundred and ninety two; others as they happen.
WARNINGS: TBA.
SUMMARY: Adjusting to being a different person is a struggle.
NOTES: This is only partially closed. I'm using this as a forum for people to poke him, as random run ins may happen as I tag out instead. Please let me know if you'd like to do anything, and I'll be happy to set up a thread (unless you're feel ambitious).

to ever spend my life sitting playing future games

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[ his telepathy is back. of course it is — he's dragged her out of sleep with it, but it is only now that she sees, perceives the way his mind is flinching away from the thoughts and dreams of others that she grasps the implications of it. ]

You know I can.

[ she doesn't sit next to him; instead, she takes a chair and sits across from him.

it's easy to take his hands, nothing gentle or soft about the touch. ] Can you narrow it down to my mind? Focus.

[ His hands are warm and lax in hers, initial resistant locked up in his shoulders before mind catches up with body, and his fingers curl over the edges of her palms.

There's a twitch of him shaking his head. No. But--

He tries anyway, lifting his attention up to meet her eyes. She can feel his presence like a sudden blind lash of telepathic power, sharing pain by sifting to the surface painful thoughts in turn. Immediately, there is psychic flinch back, even as his hands remain calm in hers.

Pain is echoed physically too. It sparks alone nerve ends, from the small of his back, aching warm. Lessening, off his feet, but there, as omnipresent as the voices. ]

Edited 2014-07-26 13:44 (UTC)

[ it's supposed to ground him, not make him resist, even if the resistance is mental only and doesn't translate into the physical. the pain stings and her own mind recoils before she can force it into openness.

it takes a moment for her to gather her thoughts again. ] Is this the drug wearing off?

It's worn off.

[ Words are quiet, scratchy above a whisper, betraying a palpable fear of what he's meant to do without it that she could tap into even without being psychic. Information is easy to conduit to her; it's been gone for a little while, now. A different medication (magic nonsense, potions, his colleague in Xenogen) has been used to dull the physical pain, allowing him to escape, some, the pressures of psychic interference.

But that's gone too. And here he is. His hands grip hers tighter, and loosen. ]

I just need it quiet again, and-- I don't want to hurt you.

[ He also doesn't want to be hurt. Not by her own pain that could be brought to the surface. ]

[ he used to be able to handle his mutation quite gracefully and without pain, and she doesn't think the ability to do that is gone, not entirely. that certainty is there, not pushed at him but making her own approach calmer than his. ]

I see.

[ her jaw doesn't clench, expression almost serene now that she's awake and prepared for the pain, now that she knows a little more of what is happening. ]

I can handle the pain.

[ his, and her own. she can handle keeping hers away from him, too. ]

[ A breathy exhale communicates reluctance, but of a helpless kind. Charles did walk himself here, after all, wrench her out of her sleep, half-collapse on her bed. Prepared, to accept help.

He turns his focus on her again, an attempt to burrow away from the many minds that surround them. He'd once been subtle, but this is inept, as precise as a fire hose, more power than he wants to have to handle. It erodes defenses, sandblasting to expose the jagged shapes of darker psyche below.

There is the memory of when they'd last held hands, here, of the false-notions planted in her brain by an evil man who was barely a man. Of smoke and fire.

The want to just be silent inside his own head again is a fishhook in his heart. She can feel it too, in the form of request. Make it go away. ]

[ she pushes that memory aside, doesn't let herself look at it too closely. what she said was the truth: she can handle it. and he is here because he needs help and recognises that, at least.

make it go away is there, but her grip on his fingers tightens. not enough to hurt, definitely enough to be felt.

it isn't going to go away isn't outright said, neither mentally nor out loud, but it's another certainty. this is what their mutation means, or part of it. instead: ] Look at me.

[ and, a moment later: ] Tell me what I'm thinking.

[ not because she doesn't know, but because he needs to focus. so she recalls a memory of her training, recalls concentrating on the gun in her hand, recalls concentrating on statistics, recalls memories that required focus, that will require focus in recounting. ]

[ He can't particularly hide anything from her, no more than she can from him. There is a coiling of anxiety in automatic response to the prospect that this is just it, forever, but an attempt is made to set this aside as she does her darker memories.

Charles lifts his gaze up to meet hers, guardedness behind pale eyes, inclined to do as he's told. (He always used to have a problem, doing what he was told.) ]

Using a gun.

[ Focusing. He feels out of practice of doing simply that. Alcohol abuse, long hours, short bouts of reading, no challenges, nothing academic, no work. Before the serum, there had been ordinary painkillers, and how much he had hated what those did--

Focusing. ]

Training to be a Judge. Success rates at fifty yards. Seventy-five.

[ The pain, diminished now from previous flare up, isn't going away either, but he's thinking of her accuracy percentage during her first assessment instead of it. ]

Good.

[ she's nodding, thumb brushing over the back of his hand in a gesture that would be romantic if not for the intent to praise, and nothing else, that he can perceive.

the brief moment his mind wandered gives her inspiration as to how to keep going. ]

What was your PhD on? Explain it to me.

[ --that gets a laugh, if a quiet, uneven, barely vocalised one. Surprised. His gaze has dropped back down to their hands. ]

Human genetic mutation.

[ That feels like a long time ago, or-- it used to feel like a long time ago. Part of him still feels as though it were barely yesterday, a part crystallised by his time at the Tranquility prior to last jump. When he was still a scientist. ]

By and large, it was a reflection on mutation as a means of advancing the human race as a species. Genetic variation creating diversity. I theorised on the remote possibility that the dawn of a nuclear age may have already taken us a further step in the form of humans with extraordinary abilities, beyond imagining.

[ His tone is gently wry. Of course he'd already known that, when he'd penned it down. He thinks briefly on Erik, on how wrong he had taken it, but the thought isn't allowed to go beyond idle tangent, cut off like a snake decapitated. He thinks better of Raven, who thought she was a pet to him, but better identified as a muse. Long gone. ]

I wrote a companion piece of the effects of nuclear radiation on human biochemistry, and prior to that, focused study on behavioural neuroscience. You can't walk into Oxford and start talking about superpowers without a little groundwork convincing them you're not crazy.

[ There's an exhale that comes at a hiss, his hands twitching in her grasp in compulsion of putting his head back in between them (and will, if she lets him), but voices are only voices, less needling. Just unwelcome.

He remembers, too, being able to think clearly, to come up with all these brilliant things. ]

[ she nods, and doesn't ask him again to look at her eyes instead of her hands. so long as he is focusing and talking, not losing himself in the voices and not being overwhelmed, where he looks doesn't matter so much.

the laugh is a step in the right direction, she thinks.

( raven is here; not long gone now. bridges once burnt can be crossed again, especially since raven/mystique cares still. )

she doesn't let him put his head between his hands, her grip tightening as his hands twitch. ] Tell me about the study on behavioural neuroscience. What behaviour were you studying?

The, uh.

[ His hands grip back, reflexively. ]

Neuroscience is about the physical dictating the emotional. I wrote on the neural mechanisms of thought and feeling, its place in modern psychology. Much research is done on nonhuman animals, but you can extrapolate, based on those readings, patterns between all organisms. Hunger and sexual drive and--

[ A break in his train of thought. Shakily getting back on it. ]

Its an old school of academic thought. We've been slicing open brains since ancient Greece. Sometimes it all sounds like butchery to me, like breaking down a painting into its molecular components to find the beauty in it. I always thought I knew better, because of what I could do, I could see it when they couldn't.

Hunger and sexual drive and what?

[ her tone isn't sharp, but the question is insistent. there's a hint of a smile lurking behind her expression, too, because of his likening the mind to a painting like that. it appeals to her, and she can certainly understand the belief that he might be able to see something others can't.

and, a moment later: ] They're always there, but you can't let that control you.

[ that's gentle, soft. she'd gone through something similar as a child, but not since, not really. ]

It was the same for me, as a child.

[ Replying to tangential thought, entwined as if he's holding onto a life line. His head tips to the side, tentatively listening to both her thought and the background murmur of voices both. Panic subsiding. Breathing. ]

I didn't understand what was happening to me, or if it was happening at all. It took a few years, a little maturity, but after that it was always so easy.

Hunger and sexual drive and sensory perception. We don't passively receive the messages forced upon us, we sculpt them into lessons, memories, expectation. Ideally.

I just want to sleep.

[ breathing is important, and she keeps her own steady, a subtle invitation to match his rhythm to hers if he wants, if he can. ]

My mother helped me a lot, through it. [ there's a memory, of her mother holding her close, her head tucked underneath her mother's chin, a steady voice of just focus on me, honey, listen to me breathe and my thoughts, okay, no one else and underneath it all worry and i love you so much, cassie and that had helped.

she doesn't know how to build walls, not really — morgoth helped with that, a little, in exchange for self defence lessons, before he went and tore it all down again — she pushes that thought down. it has no place here; it won't help. ]

Can you sleep with music playing?

[ it might seem like a nonsequitur; it isn't. ]

[ His teachers had thought he was slow at school. Distracted all the time, apparently inclined to cheat in his exams. There weren't many words to describe this sort of thing in the 1940s, telepathy certainly not gracing that limited, ignorant list. His mother hadn't thought to talk about how much he used to read, at home, books beyond his years. ]

Yeah.

[ He can feel her shove one memory aside, and he reaches for the warmer one, of her own experiences. There isn't anything particularly voyeuristic or appropriative in it; it's kept separate, appreciation for what it is. ]

I had music to fill in the silence, when I was first on the serum. Which just makes me sound ridiculous, I know. You miss it when its gone, even if its turned on you.

[ she'd consistently scored below what was needed to become a judge and her mutation had opened those doors for her anyway. it's saved her life. she knows to be thankful for it.

test scores aren't everything. ]

Pretend the voices are music. They're there, but you can blend them out.

[ she doesn't shrug, but her mind gives the impression of it. ]

I think of it like a radio, sometimes.

[ Charles doesn't say anything immediately, as if preventing himself from arguing the point. He did come to her for help. It would be impolite.

There is a part of him that thinks he is genuinely broken, physically and mentally, and this belief is transmitted inarticulate between them. There had to be a reason, that he would bring himself to abusing the serum.

All the same-- ]

I can try.

[ The crisis is past, anyway. Telepathy is a dull murmur in the back of his mind, manageable, and even pain has been allowed to stay rather than fought, focusing on her hands, her thoughts.

That she is barely dressed, which only seems to register now. He should go. ]

[ politeness doesn't really need to factor into this, but that it does, that it's something he'd consider, that's appreciated nevertheless. not that she doesn't still get the impression of him wanting to argue the point, intertwined as their minds are in this.

there is a strong sense, though she doesn't articulate it ( doesn't need to ) of determination, of belief that broken things can be fixed with effort and that people are only ever truly broken if they give up. ]

You can stay, if you think it'll help.

[ it wouldn't be the first time she hasn't slept in a bed. he's already sitting on it, and she got some sleep. there's a general willingness to — watch over his sleep, so to speak.

the offer stands. ]

[ There isn't much in the way of silence between them, ever, especially now that his power has returned. Even this pause over her offer is underscored by transmission of thought, of the fact that he had hoped she would offer when he first listed in the direction of her room, that he still has enough dignity to feel bad for imposing on her like this, that the answer is yes, thank you.

The alternative is to get sickeningly drunk, so. ]

Thank you.

Of course. [ he feels bad for imposing, but given the alternative, she is glad this is his choice.

she's glad he sought help rather than spiral further down, and there's a measure of — approval of that choice, not just because it is the one she thinks right but because she's seen enough people make a different choice.

drug abuse is common enough in mega city one.

there is a sense, too, of the fact that she would not mind if he made the same choice again, if he came back when needed, even if it is an imposition.

( this is making a difference. ) ]

[ As soon as he sees that connection made, between what he does or did versus the truly disenfranchised, the unfortunate, the addicts, there's a tug away of psychic connection, his hands slipping from hers. It's hard to say immediately if this flash of resistance is either a desire to set himself apart from such a category out of personal pride or that he feels too entitled, too privileged to be considered with the same sympathy, the same pity.

Both, maybe. ]

Alright, [ he says, hands splaying. ] I don't mind-- well I do mind the floor. I can take the next empty room, if that'd be more sensible.

[ there is no sense of apology to be found in her mental landscape. what he did was drug abuse, and she will not shield him from that truth or apologise for it because he had reasons ( everyone does ) or because he is her friend.

if he wants to set himself apart from that category, there is one thing that will easily do it: recovery. that thought is quite deliberately pushed at him, before she moves to stand. ]

You can have the bed.

[ there are two chairs, with a pillow on them they won't be so uncomfortable. she's slept on worse. unless he thinks taking the next empty room would not be detrimental to his getting some actual sleep. sensible should not feature into the decision making, here. ]

[ The thought is passively received, nudged around his brain like unwanted peas on a dinnerplate, ultimately scattered. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to analyse it, doesn't want to wind up reflecting on the conversations he has had thus far about it.

He wants to sleep. ]

Alright.

[ He'll have the bed, then. Exhausted enough to make good on this offer right now, his feet already bare against the ground, he shucks off the shirt he pulled on over thinner cotton, body language turned away mostly out of an affect of individual privacy than anything else. ]

[ she turns away to give him some semblance privacy, busying herself with arranging the chairs to her liking. he needs sleep more than she does.

( there isn't really anything like privacy between them, not when they can be and often are in each other's minds. ) ]

Good night, Charles.

[ she has a second blanket somewhere, doesn't she? — she finds it in the wardrobe, after a moment's search. now to take a pillow from the bed, and she's all set. ]

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forgodssake - 2014-07-29 11:12 (UTC) - Expand

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mindtricks - 2014-07-29 11:27 (UTC) - Expand

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