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thisavrou_log2017-05-22 10:29 pm
welcomeprofessor) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-05-22 10:29 pm
you're in his eye and you'll know why [closed]
Who: Charles Xavier (welcomeprofessor), Logan (el_paso), Kurt Wagner (preciousblueberry), & Laura (coercive). Jean Grey is Sir Not Appearing in This Film.
When: Late 5/15-Early 5/16; set after this.
Where: X-Mansion.
What: Impulsive teenagers (and tweens) impulsively teenage. Charles and Logan good cop/bad cop. (Actually, they're both angry. What a twist.)
Warnings: Mentions of slavery, gore/injuries,alcohol, and likely a good amount of cursing.
[It hasn't even been a day. It already feels like a lifetime. When worry settles, it gnaws, begging answer after answer in an incessant and unceasing need to be sated (and feeling like it never will be). When the reasoning stops, it begins eating away at whatever else it can: doubts, memories, nerves, and anything else that a person keeps close to the heart for fear of something breaking. If it hits hard enough or is left to its own insidious devices, even the most sound logic can turn into a jittery, nerve-wracking sickness. Worry becomes dread. Logic becomes fear. And it all congeals in that place in the stomach most sensitive to disturbance and from there, it becomes despair.
Charles' heart is already in his stomach. Fast-paced, unsettled nerves first sparked alight with that network address that had set off this whole chain of events, as he had desperately (and fruitlessly) tried to argue his point that this "plan" was a foolhardy one at best, and full of pain at worst. If there was ever a time to wish he had been too wrapped up in concerned, moral hyperbole and had been wrong, this would have been it. But this was not the time, and he hadn't been wrong.
His heart had first dropped at the question of whether or not his "kids" would be able to go through the Ingress themselves to follow this reckless "plan." Not having an answer for that had been bad enough. Especially when leaning--perhaps too much so--on his faith in them.
I have to have faith in them, or I've taught them nothing at all, he'd said. Full of hope, despite thinking--knowing, even then--that it was nothing more than hoping against hope.
Naturally, it has led then to a distant, unrelated memory. A haunting accusation that he can't help but feel is more right than it has any business being. "You should have fought harder for them."
His answer, however, had come in the form of something far worse than any conjecture or worry. He has a tendency, even at the best of times, to reach out with his mind to simply orient himself. It goes beyond listening to thoughts or conversations or memories. It is not a form of psychic possession but is still rooted firmly in control, even if that control is more narrowly focused in helping him feel as if he has a sense of place. Beyond the Ingress portal, where this supposed hellscape of brutality and slavery resided, his mind could not reach. There had been no sense of place, no comfort in knowing that even a mere presence speaks to some relative safety. The rest had been silence.
And so it had been for hours. Seconds stretched into minutes that felt more like days, and worry gnawed its way into despair.
Logan's message causes his heart to jump...right before it plummets again. Confirmation is no relief at all. They've done precisely what he'd tried to believe they wouldn't, and it had ended--if such things ever do end--in the way he wishes now he hadn't so keenly foretold. There is more time that settles uncomfortably between than message and the soft sounds at the front door as it opens, and it is the first time in a very long time that he misses the ability to properly pace. The nervous energy instead folds inward, nails becoming a sharp bite into the palms of tremorous hands.
By the time he can no longer say he's alone in that too large house where the echoes of the slightest movement bring back memories of ghosts this new mansion may never--god willing--possess, he's no longer in his chair, but settled on the couch in the alcove of his office, his forehead pressed firmly into the palm of his hands as his elbows jut into legs that don't feel the weight. He raises his head, only just, at the sound of entrance.]
In my office, please.
[It sounds firmer than he feels, "please" spoken more like a command than a request. Worry continues to gnaw.]
welcomeprofessor), Logan (el_paso), Kurt Wagner (preciousblueberry), & Laura (coercive). When: Late 5/15-Early 5/16; set after this.
Where: X-Mansion.
What: Impulsive teenagers (and tweens) impulsively teenage. Charles and Logan good cop/bad cop. (Actually, they're both angry. What a twist.)
Warnings: Mentions of slavery, gore/injuries,
[It hasn't even been a day. It already feels like a lifetime. When worry settles, it gnaws, begging answer after answer in an incessant and unceasing need to be sated (and feeling like it never will be). When the reasoning stops, it begins eating away at whatever else it can: doubts, memories, nerves, and anything else that a person keeps close to the heart for fear of something breaking. If it hits hard enough or is left to its own insidious devices, even the most sound logic can turn into a jittery, nerve-wracking sickness. Worry becomes dread. Logic becomes fear. And it all congeals in that place in the stomach most sensitive to disturbance and from there, it becomes despair.
Charles' heart is already in his stomach. Fast-paced, unsettled nerves first sparked alight with that network address that had set off this whole chain of events, as he had desperately (and fruitlessly) tried to argue his point that this "plan" was a foolhardy one at best, and full of pain at worst. If there was ever a time to wish he had been too wrapped up in concerned, moral hyperbole and had been wrong, this would have been it. But this was not the time, and he hadn't been wrong.
His heart had first dropped at the question of whether or not his "kids" would be able to go through the Ingress themselves to follow this reckless "plan." Not having an answer for that had been bad enough. Especially when leaning--perhaps too much so--on his faith in them.
I have to have faith in them, or I've taught them nothing at all, he'd said. Full of hope, despite thinking--knowing, even then--that it was nothing more than hoping against hope.
Naturally, it has led then to a distant, unrelated memory. A haunting accusation that he can't help but feel is more right than it has any business being. "You should have fought harder for them."
His answer, however, had come in the form of something far worse than any conjecture or worry. He has a tendency, even at the best of times, to reach out with his mind to simply orient himself. It goes beyond listening to thoughts or conversations or memories. It is not a form of psychic possession but is still rooted firmly in control, even if that control is more narrowly focused in helping him feel as if he has a sense of place. Beyond the Ingress portal, where this supposed hellscape of brutality and slavery resided, his mind could not reach. There had been no sense of place, no comfort in knowing that even a mere presence speaks to some relative safety. The rest had been silence.
And so it had been for hours. Seconds stretched into minutes that felt more like days, and worry gnawed its way into despair.
Logan's message causes his heart to jump...right before it plummets again. Confirmation is no relief at all. They've done precisely what he'd tried to believe they wouldn't, and it had ended--if such things ever do end--in the way he wishes now he hadn't so keenly foretold. There is more time that settles uncomfortably between than message and the soft sounds at the front door as it opens, and it is the first time in a very long time that he misses the ability to properly pace. The nervous energy instead folds inward, nails becoming a sharp bite into the palms of tremorous hands.
By the time he can no longer say he's alone in that too large house where the echoes of the slightest movement bring back memories of ghosts this new mansion may never--god willing--possess, he's no longer in his chair, but settled on the couch in the alcove of his office, his forehead pressed firmly into the palm of his hands as his elbows jut into legs that don't feel the weight. He raises his head, only just, at the sound of entrance.]
In my office, please.
[It sounds firmer than he feels, "please" spoken more like a command than a request. Worry continues to gnaw.]
no subject
And that's exactly why she ends up grunting in protest and struggling a little as she's brought into his office. Charles shouldn't see her so dirty and bloody. She doesn't want him to see her at all, not like this. Not when memories from her previous life are at the front of her mind, and guilt is weighing on her so heavily that she can barely stand. There's not really a look in her eyes that says anyone's home as she scampers over to hide beside his chair. If this were any other time, she'd freely sit in it. Now, she hides behind it like it's going to protect her from whatever words are spoken.]
no subject
He's so run down by the time they get through the patching up that he doesn't even try to fight the decontamination; he lets them do whatever they want, bending to their demands and allowing them to lead him about like mindless animal being herded. (He does wait until the yellow goes away before going home, at least.)
Regardless of his attempts to inconspicuously sneak in, that unwavering voice stops him dead in his tracks, causing his heart to fall into the pit of his stomach. The bandaged cut at his side throbs with distress and he can't stop himself from gently resting a hand over it through the fabric of his shirt. He didn't want Charles to see him like this-- clothes singed, skin broken, bruised and covered in congealed filth, but he had a feeling it would only be worse the longer he resisted.
A shaking breath passes his lips then he lowers the arm back to his side and trudges into the office, reluctantly peeking up through the mess of his bangs, adam's apple bobbing nervously as he swallows.]
You ... you wanted to speak with me?
[He hadn't even been given the chance to get rid of the sword before this confrontation; it sits heavily in the scabbard on his back, though the comparison to the guilt weighing on his mind is nowhere near as substantial.
The fact that Laura is also there does nothing to settle the abrupt leap of his anxiety, either.]
no subject
[The terseness of the statement isn't subtle. The pure upset of it is taken and suppressed enough, it's difficult to rein in his tone to the point where it's as composed. Right now, he has little inclination to be soft. Even if he's being met with explainable trepidation.
He motions to a couple of the adjacent chairs in the office, assuming that's invitation enough.]
I'd like you both to explain to me what in the world you thought you were doing.
[He's not yet yelling. That's victory enough.]
no subject
It seems a little inconvenient.
As does having to face the crushing guilt and accepting the fact that she's disappointed both her father and Charles Xavier.
That's a lot for one eleven year old to live with in one day.]
The bad men will never hurt children again.
[And that's really all it boils down to, for her. Was she acting out on the anger and upset at the things done to her? Yes. She has no problem being up front about that, and isn't really apologetic about it. She's eerily detached, if anything.]
no subject
If he does, he'll have to settle with the feeling of being trapped and while he's sure it's the preferred method to this sort of situation, he'd rather be able to shift when necessary to accommodate his damaged side. Standing also seemed to relieve some of the pressure, so that's another reason entirely for him to (politely) decline the telepath's gesture toward the chairs with a brisk shake of his head.
Honestly, he's lucky the surprise doesn't show on his face at the fact Charles isn't raising his voice. (Yet-- there's still a chance.)]
I reacted heedlessly, [he admits, head dipped and his face flushed with shame.] I didn't consider the consequences of our actions.
[His shoulders raise a little higher, pressing against his ears in an attempt to hide the discoloration of his skin.] Simply put, I heard 'slavers' and 'children,' gathered what information I could and went to help rescue whoever needed it.