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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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. ]

[ Pants go next, standard issue boxers preserving enough modesty until he can flip covers over himself, pausing before settling to allow pillow to be taken. A nod after her in lieu of verbal good night, fleeting eye contact, before he's turning his back.

And we're back to this. Restless pain. Voices.

But sleep will win out soon enough as he lets both of these things flow over him as they must, listening instead to her breathing, his own heart beat, her mind as a point of focal reference. ]

[ she keeps her own mind deliberately calm — it isn't so difficult, now that she's settling down again, tiredness tugging at her. she thinks of riding a bike, because sometimes the hum of the tranquility reminds her of it.

she doesn't go to sleep until he has drifted off. ]

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oo6. closedish.

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