ataraxionlogs | oo8. sort of open.

"Deserved," Severus echoes, sounding more than a little disdainful for the pity party it represents. "If you remember the bit about hot pliers you'll remember the rest."

Charles psychologically tortures himself for every failure.

It's an interesting word to pick, when projection is on the table.

"You don't want to hear the full-color version of what I think about what you did." Reckless arsehole doesn't cover it by half. "You're looking for Schadenfreude when there isn't any. I'm angry, Charles." His words become slightly clipped; that anger seeps into him now, too, just a little. "I wouldn't be angry at you if I didn't know you."

Charles tips his head in look away as that word is echoed back at him, argument steeling silent in keeping his mouth shut. He does remember the rest.

The cigarette is rotated between his fingers, a twitch at his brow in response to the implication of stuff he doesn't want to hear. Charles looks, a moment, like he might argue that, like maybe he does want to hear it, and there's a clear and sharp quality to look back that seems to hunt after that anger. It could be more psychological torture fodder, but also--

"Since when do you care what people want to hear."

"Since you're using it as an excuse to try and talk about me instead of working on your recovery."

So there, Charles. "Stop fishing around for outside motivations when you should be focusing on actually helping yourself."

Severus has a lot of thoughts and opinions, but ultimately, they don't matter. He doesn't have to care in a squishy, overdramatic way to notice how Charles treats himself, and how it might connect to his current ailments. If the other man thinks he needs to be coddled about it-- well, too damn bad, because Severus doesn't work that way. And he gets the impression that a large factor in Xavier's decline is the fact that no one's put their foot down in his direction in a long time.

Bridling defense has Charles lifting his chin a fraction, but he stays quiet. At least for a measured pause. As if arguing back would be somehow proving the other man right.

But then, a shake of his head. "These aren't exclusive to one another, Severus. I will focus-- I am, I'm trying--"

The wind is out of his sails almost immediately, a guttered kind of dry laugh, smokey, interrupting him. "But it does matter to me, that you're angry, and if what you've put in that report is all sound, then it's not as though I can assume every part of it. As is, I can't make it right, and that's not trying to find a motivation--

"You know me, then you'll believe that."

"I can't give a shit nicely, Charles." His tone is frustrated, but less hostile. A little bit tired. Severus doesn't know how to help him in a kinder way, he doesn't want to help him in a kinder way. And thank Merlin for that, because if he was inclined to gentle he'd probably be significantly less effective.

But there. Fine. He cares. Severus doesn't see how that changes anything, he's still mad.

"You asked me to help."

Charles could press the point, or reshape it into compromise, determinedly use it to try and dig into all the nooks and crannies of Severus' manner to dig out what he wants to know--

--or maybe this is just the product of old frustration made new again, that he can't just read the other man's mind and manhandle this conversation the way he wants it to be. There is a relenting kind of affect in glance down at cigarette, remembering it, taking a pull of smoke before blunt nails graze along the scraggle at his jaw.

"I did," he concedes. "I just don't wish to be your patient forever."

But there is a lack of reproach in his tone. He's old enough and wise enough to know that the only person who can determine how long he is anyone's patient is going to be himself, in the long run, technicalities aside. He watches ashes burn, and thinks of hot pliers.

Silence sifts through the smoke rising from their slow-burning coffin nails, a third presence between them. Severus is quiet for a while. He doesn't need to say anything - he knows that Charles knows. No one's forcing him to be a patient.

Eventually (and dryly), "That's the most sensible thing you've said in months."

Edited (silents??) 2014-09-23 08:03 (UTC)

That-- achieves a laugh, understated as usual, but enough to break Charles' own stillness as he shifts to lean his back against laundry machinery, hands braced on either side. "I'll try to make it a habit," is wry, considering his reflection in the opposite wall of metal and glass, the round eye of a dormant washing machine.

Which begs the question-- "I wouldn't've thought wizards needed this place."

Maybe it's too soon do subject diverging banter, but really.

It's not funny to Severus, so he doesn't laugh; his posture doesn't really change. Maybe he backs off of being hostile - no longer ready on a hair trigger for an argument - but there's still tension coiled through his shoulders that looks well-worn.

"I don't know how to do household spells well enough without a basin." The wizarding world has no electricity, and water works better to get things clean no matter what. Sometimes he says things like this (a basin?) that makes it seem like they still live in the middle ages, but as he's mentioned in the past, it's just that there's no mass production in their society. Of course laundry would be done by hand (or by spell) in buckets of water and soap. "This is sort of shite, though."

The washing machine beeps, and Severus frowns at it. All it's doing is changing cycles, but he regards it like he'd prefer to never see one again.

IT'S EITHER LAUGH OR CRY SOMETIMES OKAY although really in this case, it's more an expression of some tension being let go of, some pending argument put to one side. Charles still has half a cigarette left and only half-formed questions cluttering his headspace, and there's a glance after machine beep with a vague trace of distant sympathy.

He doesn't want to leave yet. He'd like to prove hot pliers wrong, if only minimally.

"Are there any blanks I can fill you in on," he finally asks, a little flatly. More facetiously, he nods to half-spent cigarette. "Before this runs out."

Severus looks over at him again, not showcasing any particular expression. He doesn't even look terribly tired, given he more or less always looks tired with his dull skin and exhaustion-shadowed eyes.

He shrugs. Blanks about the washing machine? He's got it figured out, more or less. Blanks about Charles? The open-ended questions and suppositions on his file? Merlin. Severus wouldn't know what to do with it. If Charles wants to think about those things, he can. Maybe he can find a way to do something about those notes made about himself; Severus isn't a therapist.

"I'm a schoolteacher, I know everything already." Humorless humor. Eyes on the back of his head, detentions for everyone.

Maybe Severus isn't a therapist, but there were question marks, and in the past, little room to discuss anything except for that one first clash and beyond that, what his pain feels like specifically. Ten years is a bloody long time. There is a vaguely confused pause from Charles, as if he honestly didn't expect nothing--

He gently taps the cigarette against a corner of stainless steel, finishing it without killing it. He pushes his weight off his lean.

"I'll leave you to it then."

It's better than saying I'm tired of dealing with everyone else's problems, even though it feels like that's the truth of it, today. Shouldn't it be enough that he's admitted what he has? It's more than he wanted to admit. He's supposed to care desperately and angrily about everything going on with Charles, and every other person he's treating, and every witch and wizard, and the war, and he knows he's given up his life but sometimes he's just

nothing.

It'll be fine tomorrow.

Severus doesn't say anything. He lights another cigarette, and stares at his laundry.

The terminated cigarette is slipped into a pocket within his jacket, Charles only on the verge of leaving rather than doing so by the time Snape is lighting up again. Hurt feelings are a bruised aura in the air around him, but nothing to be done for that -- he's never gone to Severus to unhurt his feelings.

And silence, while machinery hums around them.

"I don't expect you to-- I don't expect you to want to know every detail, Severus. I'd have questions for you if this was in reverse, that's all."

"This wouldn't happen in reverse." His tone is too chilly to be hostile; resigned, traces of something like dry offense. "And you wouldn't know what to ask if you saw me having a problem."

Severus doesn't think Charles would even recognize him going through anything off. Maybe he really can't connect to anyone without telepathy. He'd wondered about it even before - if the interest was feigned, just because he was bothered he couldn't stick his telepathic fingers into Severus's brain.

He's still staring at his laundry.

"I meant reverse as in, if you went back home or experienced any number of likewise unpredictable complications, but thanks for that."

Because Charles is not stupid and thinks that comment was more about himself than it is about Severus Snape's reticence, and glib retort doesn't take it awfully personally. Possibly he might have, if he caught those thoughts -- but naturally, as ever, he did not.

Not glib;

"I'd start with what's wrong."

"Would you like to know about my unpredictable complications?" This is obviously a rhetorical question-- "I'm forced to keep my position indefinitely, the war starts again, and I die. I'm fairly certain, actually, that you're older now than I'll ever be. And I don't give a shit about it."

He's dead already and living on borrowed time. If hell is real, it's in no hurry to collect Severus Snape; he wonders if there'll ever be a time when he thinks about life after everything. He wonders what that fantasy would feel like. He's not capable of imagining it.

"Maybe I'll wake up different. Dead, or waiting a handbreadth before it like Petrelli. I suppose you could ask me what's wrong, then."

It'd be that he woke up at all.

Body language had been at a slight hover, prepared to break away, but turn in displays full width of his shoulders and Charles rests a hand against the edge of a machine at a lean, head tipped as if Severus is not already taller than him, but it's not really a matter of trying to achieve eye contact when the other man is staring off his laundry.

"I could," he agrees, "but I'm asking you presently."

Because Severus compartmentalises. Severus carries on. Charles knows as well as anyone that that existence is unsustainable without rough patches, without implosions, without eventually giving way-- but usually there will be a reason.

Edited (i got new icons so bear with me) 2014-09-25 10:58 (UTC)

"Curious about how the rest of us get on without the luxury of quitting?" --Severus seem like he might add something to that, but bites it back. He's supposed to be helping Charles. Right? Probably. It's unlikely to be helpful to continue to be this hostile.

Severus puts his cigarette out on the edge of a machine. There's a flash of anger in the way he moves, but stills again just as quickly.

"Aren't you the one who snips at me for talking about other people. To call off attention."

And they were done with Charles, remember? says a raise of his eyebrows. Detentions for everyone. It's not like that doesn't sting -- it says more about what Snape thinks than 'reckless arsehole' manages to imply -- but he can lick his wounds on his own time, more interesting in that sharp jerk of movement that sacrifices cigarette against metal.

Back up to the wizard's sharp profile. "I haven't quit everything."

"I'm not someone's patient, and I'm not in danger of accidentally forcing half the ship's population to run into walls against their will," Severus snaps back immediately, gaze hard as his previous resolution to dial it back evaporates. "I don't mess up, because I can't, or I will be in prison. Even here," and something seems to grind to a painful point inside him, desperate to claw its way out and hurt something, anything, "despite the fact that I've dragged this stupid inbred cunt from death twice I have to deal with him and every other sludge-brained Neanderthal he's wanked off up my arse the second I blink in someone else's presence."

His voice does-- an interesting thing, during that rant, slipping white-knuckled into the echo of an accent he doesn't actually use, starting at an escalation and finishing like a slammed door somewhere quieter, temper finally trapped back down.

"Maybe you could just leave."

This first part is not the worst thing anyone's ever flung at Charles, and it's over in a blink. There are arguments, about what it is to be a patient, what Severus is to him besides, about the fact that look, you're doing it again!!, but Charles just.

Listens, to words, and changes in tone, slants of accent, the creaking break of temper against leash before the quiet sets back in, as it would. He seems like he might say something, but dismissal is quick to snake in, and shoulders slacken slight under worn, brown leather.

He remembers something Snape said to him once. It doesn't really feel like a long time ago, so much as something that happened to some other version of himself, but not really.

He'd said, I don't feel so much, anymore.

"I know," is quite truthfully well-aware, fractionally apologetic as Charles persists anyway, as if leaving were in its own way more difficult. "But I want to ask you what's to this, now."

Edited 2014-10-01 06:35 (UTC)

It's a lie. Of course. Not one Severus told willingly-- he thinks he doesn't feel so much because, most of the time, he doesn't. What he does feel is warped and uneven, emotions filtering in improperly and over-saturated when they manage to connect. He doesn't know what he's doing.

"So you can have more dirt on me?" like a guttered-out candle flame, he sounds flat again. Even more tired than before.

"The first thing that happened to me when I stepped out of the medbay for the first time was Black breaking half the bones in my face." Dully. Because he doesn't remember if he mentioned that to Charles before or if it's just something to be assumed; being hit is so ordinary to Severus that he forgets when it should be remarkable. "I should have killed him. I would have. I'd still be in the brig, or airlocked. I hesitated because he looks like his dead brother and for that one second, that one second I could have just done it, I choked."

The anger in him over the Marauders is a never-ending fire. The fact that Sirius has punctuated his entire experience here feels like acid in him, eating away at everything, all the time. He can't ever escape them and he wants so badly to, he wants them to hurt, and suffer, and it's not a desire he knows how to be rational about. His hate suffocates him.

This first part twinges bad enough that tension locks down taut along his jaw and ices over his regard. It hurts, stupidly, but a part of him has enough sense to put pressure on minor wound and stay quiet. Cornered dogs bite. People who are bad at this say sharp things. Charles knows that to be true. It's always easier to handle when he can hear their thoughts.

But Severus presses on and Charles stands still and quiet, while machinery hums and churns clothing, spin cycle activated before the change over to drying can take place.

"I remember," he says, a cautious approach, as if letting his presence become noticeable risks distraction and more sniping, but hell, he's not psychic (in this particular room), and can only respond with which feels honest to respond, "trying to tell Erik that killing wouldn't bring him peace. He wasn't having any of it, probably because I'd never hated anyone like that before. I couldn't know what I was talking about. It was a long time ago."

He didn't kill Erik, though. Just let him rot in jail. "Was his brother a--?" Friend, he wants to say. "--better man?"

Nothing but good can come of Sirius Black's death. All he does is fuck up and get away with it because he's charming; even wasting away in Azkaban, he finds a way to wriggle out of true culpability. Severus feels stupid and he hates it-- time and time again he's dragged that worthless bastard from death's clutches here, and look where he's gotten because of it. He meant it when he said never again.

Severus doesn't want to kill anymore. He's aware of his soul. But Merlin, certain people would be worth it.

"Yes." Blunt, pointed. The weight of it suggests friend may have gotten the same answer. "He stayed with his family. He tried. I never knew it but he-- defected." The unspoken like I did is palpable. Both of their covers were too good for the other to ever know at the time. "No one ever knew how he died. He'd just vanished. I learned here, from Harry Potter. He'd defied the Dark Lord and was killed. Horribly. Black - Sirius - is lauded as this self-sacrificing hero, leaving his 'awful' family. But it's easy to leave what you don't like."

Much harder to step away from what's kind to you because you know it's wrong. What did Black sacrifice? He left a wealthy family who didn't like him to live with a wealthy family who did like him. Regulus betrayed parents who loved him. (Severus betrayed his friends.)

oo8. sort of open.

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