forgodssake: (Default)
charles xavier. ([personal profile] forgodssake) wrote in [community profile] ataraxionlogs2016-02-02 11:11 pm

o18. closed.

CHARACTERS: Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr
LOCATION: Treehaus
WARNINGS: Extreme mutant, proceed with caution.
SUMMARY: The sleepless hours and the conversation that fills them.

Waking up in pain is not the cheeriest way to begin a moment, but it's a familiar one.

He isn't someone who often gets nightmares, anyway. Perhaps Charles Xavier is not wired that way, but sleep is often a black retreat save for when space demon-gods dictate otherwise, or more ordinary folkcreature dreamwalkers seeded in the forms of sassy Chinese men. Otherwise, dreams are unremembered fragments, memories made glossier and blurrier, and when he wakes up now, he doesn't wake up afraid.

But he does shudder, an immediate ache coming up like a wave from his still healing hand and the tingle of absent parts. He keeps it bandaged, still, the healing process arduous but faster than it would be otherwise if not for nano-technology. Chances are, he may keep it wrapped when it's done. This time, it's not so bad as to turn his stomach, but it has sunk a knife in the ability to fall back asleep.

Awake, he reaches, finding his comms device. Checks for messages, the dim blue-white temporarily lighting up the boarded wooden walls of what he is beginning to grudgingly think of as home.
sorrycharles: (fml)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-03 07:03 am (UTC)(link)
Blue-white light glances cold off a clouded cornea, open eyes fixed through the far wall, on the sound of leaves stirring in the wind. Erik dreams vividly enough for both of them.

He hasn’t been awake for long.

The weight of the hour hasn’t been enough to take him under again after the initial shock of escape -- lingering unease made real in the pit of his gut and the simmer at his nerves. Better to keep conscious long enough to ensure he doesn’t dip back into it, half-seated, pillow folded behind his head. As routines go, this one is some thirty years familiar. Powerlessness, failure, the taste of metal in his mouth.

Sometimes the terrors are more abstract -- gods and monsters.

He looks late in aside after the glowing screen of the comm device, and later still to Charles, once he’s certain the text is too small and far away for him to read. Between empathy and expression, he pries enough to get the gist.
sorrycharles: (feels bad)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-05 05:15 am (UTC)(link)
Crushing heat, impossible corridors kaleidoscoping through the ceiling, cracks spidering out from his reptile brain where fear leaks through. The sense of pursuit bled off on its own once he sat up and listened a while in the dark. The threat of its return stirs just beneath the surface, with sleep, until he’s unwound enough to slip under into gentler rest.

He got very good at it in prison, before having his mind pulled apart in four or five dimensions.

Lately it’s been much harder to meditate.

There’s a roach on the metal of the ridiculous headboard behind him; he reaches back to offer it out in the moment after Charles' hand has withdrawn, already anticipating a no thank you.
Edited 2016-02-05 05:15 (UTC)
sorrycharles: (behaving)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-06 06:39 am (UTC)(link)
No thank you, then.

Erik isn’t any more interested than Charles -- he puts it back without consideration, fingertips careful in the dark. Disappointment leeches dim into the silence that follows. He’s restless for lack of alternatives to offer, conscious of pain with no ability to affect it.

Manipulation goes unnoticed, at first. It’s easier to focus on the present with Charles awake next to him, relief in passing company as the night fills in around him. He feels a little stupid, when he realizes, resignation swept out in a deeper breath, and a flat look leveled sideways after. He never quite achieves resentment, anymore.

The scruff of his beard is some two or three weeks overdue for a trim.

"A bad trip."
sorrycharles: (deep breaths)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-09 04:54 am (UTC)(link)
Erik looks back at Charles through the dark, poker-faced. He has more confidence in his own diversion.

It doesn’t long for him to relent. They share a bed on an isolated jungle planet -- snoring and farting and occasionally stifling grunts into reclaimed gurney pads. Some soft parts are guaranteed to be exposed by default. He’s never inspired trust in the passenger population.

There isn’t much to lose in being honest, anymore.

“I passed between worlds with the drive. Through Hell.”

Through the dimension where the beast in the ship was from.

He speaks without much emotion, or inflection, words chosen on autopilot in line with supporting thought. If he’d anticipated where this conversation was headed, he might’ve lit up after all.
sorrycharles: (aside)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-10 07:13 am (UTC)(link)
“It was hot.” This seems like a stupid thing to observe of hell, and Erik lets off there, poorly illustrative. Dense. Isolation in the fifth dimension is more personal, and more difficult to describe -- being stripped down by his own hopes and fears. Vivisected.

He isn’t given to stammer, but his throat is closing in thick as he thinks back, eye contact sinking south, for the covers. A moment or two passes before he speaks again.

“The captain tried to stop us. ‘Gallagher.’ He’d been transformed.”

But that doesn’t really matter either, in the scheme of things. Filler insanity.

“We’re going to die here if we don’t destroy it.” Or worse: go on forever.

The truth comes out, flat, without much spirit. He hasn’t done much, since they’ve been here, to stop it. The bare minimum. The animals, the masks. It’s already gaining a foothold.

Regaining eye contact after that is a struggle.
Edited 2016-02-10 07:15 (UTC)
sorrycharles: (sorry charles)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-13 06:59 am (UTC)(link)
Or the ship manipulated them into this precise course of action, away from the pursuit of Van Rijn and his space army. Whatever his role, and whatever the mechanism for navigation, he’s certain it wasn’t their aim that brought them here, to this planet. There’ve been plenty of occasions wherein he’s failed to distinguish reality from illusion imposed by the Tranquility.

Touch stops him circling back to infinity in the potential for self-deception. He considers allowing Charles to have feelings without breathing on the glass, but only briefly, comfortable enough in mutual warmth (and dread). His next thought is undeniably his own.

The strong may survive, but they have some three hundred clamoring, unwashed humans to maintain if they intend to establish a legacy that lasts longer than their huts.

He’s distinctly bitter -- old, oily anger radiating heat from beneath more rational obligation. So few are worth the effort. He turns his nose to Charles in the dark.

“I’ll destroy the ship if I have to.” How? With bombs? Tying it off to great foil balloons and floating it into a volcano? There’s a disconcerting disconnect between intent and the fantasies he has about the explosion, teeth flashed white under his eye. It doesn’t matter.

sorrycharles: (aggressive tendencies)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-16 06:33 am (UTC)(link)
Suspicion whorls like vapor in the slipstream of that prompt, defensive resistance stirred up by the notion that Charles may not believe him. The trouble with such deepset paranoia is that it doesn’t feel irrational, in the moment. Empathy’s encroach doesn’t paint as clear a picture of his own doubt reflecting inward.

What it does do is dispel Charles as the source.

His hackles smooth on their own, even if he is being reined (gently) around into a less immediately dangerous line of thought. He looks Charles’ hand over, with all five of its fingers, as he settles back onto his bones.


The touch at his wrist is well-timed.

He’s referring to a literal nothing -- memories that never clearly resolved, after he was caught up like a scruffed cat in Resnik’s grasp, too tired to fight. Frenchmen dying in the ether, sparks of life winding down into the event horizon, never quite quashed and dead all the same. The ship twisted, reality distorted in the heat, soul flayed and exposed at the mercy of Something alien nearly upon him.

All of this recall and no words. He’s holding his breath, heart squeezed through the pit of his stomach, rabbiting, weightless in his chest while he struggles to ford through to anything important.

“I landed in the jungle, away from the ship.” Anger flushes late through fear, stinging at his eyes, release akin to relief at tangible description. “I heard the crash.”
sorrycharles: (you had my curiosity)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-19 04:33 am (UTC)(link)
A sharp sniff clears Erik’s sinuses -- he rankles his nose and looks away to wood fitted around a metal-slatted window. It could be worse. Extraordinary powers and available materials all considered, their treehouse is probably one of the finest in the compound.

“Turnabout’s fair play.”

He’d been knocked out and dragged by Anderson and the Soldier two years ago, after Charles followed Petrelli into the bridge.

He smiles, slightly, when the blunt end of his nose comes back around.

“You can’t just lie awake.”
sorrycharles: (yes but)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-20 04:44 am (UTC)(link)
This time his suspicion is more grounded, furrowed easy between his brows. Not quite content to believe that Charles will simply follow him under, once he’s out. Frustration hardens in parallel to that gnawing ache, just beyond his reach.

He’s more awake now than he was when Charles first stirred next to him, eyes sharp and wet in the dark, hearing tuned acute to the shuffle and rake of the tree they’re in. Bed springs creak beneath the both of them when he leans away and down.

A grunt, a scuff, and he levers a shoddy wooden chest out enough to flip it open.

There are chess pieces inside, and a hinged board, all finely finished metal. The board levitates and the pieces assemble themselves while he fumbles with a lamp.

“My kingdom for a distillery.”
sorrycharles: (keeping terrorism classy)

[personal profile] sorrycharles 2016-02-21 07:16 am (UTC)(link)
“I gave all of my copper to the electrician.”

There’s no reason for him to lie about this to a telepath. The words trip out naturally as he works the lamp, and he pauses with his back turned, thumbs poised.

A moment later, resin takes a flame, and he sits back to set the lamp square on the headboard between them.

He doesn’t have any dangerous designs for what he’s kept buried nearby. Certainly nothing refined enough to qualify as a plan. He is assured very easily by himself while he sees to it that the lamp is secure. Any delay in his reaching for liquor on offer is minimal -- incidental, as he takes care for fire safety in a house made of wood.

One of his pawns advances on its own, and he sniffs over the canister's lip. His next breath is deeper before he drinks, confidence in Charles’ knowledge of alchemy hovering at around 60%. It smells right.