Day 2
Title: Room of Ghosts
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Ship: Gen (Charles/Hank possible?)
Summary: A drunk Charles lets things slip.
Charles had been barely back a week when Hank lost him. He couldn’t have gone far, of course, Hank knew that intellectually- Charles was hardly used to steering the heavy wheelchair at all, and (thankfully) wasn’t in a heap at the bottom of any of the flights of stairs Hank had hurtled up and down whilst calling for him but still...
“Charles? Please okay where are you? It really isn’t funny now.” Hank called, panic making his voice - often slurred now around unfamiliar teeth, rise higher and higher.
What could he do if Charles really hurt himself? Hank could hardly call an ambulance or go with him into hospital in his current (he refused to think of it as permanent) state.
Finally, he found himself along an unfamiliar stretch of corridor, opening and closing doors full of dust sheeted furniture and not much else until at last:
“There you are!”
Hank was so relieved at finding Charles that even the usual clench in his chest at seeing the all-too-familiar whiskey bottle hanging from loose fingers failed to affect him.
The room smelt musty and alcoholic, but when Hank looked around, it was actually quite a nice room. The windows let in a bright and airy light and the desk Charles had slumped across was a fine shining construction with ornate carvings.
“What is this place?” Hank asked.
“M’stepfather’s.” Charles muttered, groaning as Hank pulled the chair from the desk. “Stop, just stop fuckin’ moving me without permiss- perm-stop it.”
“Sorry,” Hank stepped back as if scalded by the chair’s handles.
“I didn’t know you had a stepfather.” Hank ventured, as the silence became oppressive.
Charles grunted again and then leaned over the chair, almost tipping it, and was sick in a waste paper basket.
“Urgh,” Charles sniffed. “Thought he might’ve left- someth- somethi-ha!” Charles broke out in a laugh, “Even smells like ‘im now. The bastard.”
“You mean, he er-drank a lot?” Hank couldn’t help himself.
“Drank a lot, smoked a lot, did a lot of pills- doctor you know, they get the best shit. But you know what? S’a secret.”
Charles clutched at Hank’s shirt forcing him to look at him.
Charles did look ill, sweating and pale with red-rimmed eyes as if he still hadn’t stopped crying since the day onthe beach.
“It was my fault.”
“I’m sure that’s not true!”
“Hank! Lissen- lissten to me don’t you assume I don’t know wha’ I know. It was. He was scared of me so he drank. Hated me, he did. Why couldn’t me an Cain be more alike why was I alwaysh showing him up how fuckin’ clever I was, used t’lissen to him thinking it over when he tried to punish me. Used ta bring me up here and take hiss belt to me for-for jusss’ being here- inheritin’ all thiss instead o’Cain. Ha.”
“Charles!” Hank touched his arm, horrified.
“Oh the beatin’ stopped my friend soon enough. Soon as I worked out how.” Charles laughed, “He though’ I wash a ghost in the end- couldn’t- couldn’t remember me every….”
Charles sighed, closing his eyes.
“Why am I in this fuckin’ room, Hank?”
“Do you- er-”
“Ugh. Yes. Just get me through the door.”
Hank took the handles of the chair, carefully this time and wheeled Charles out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Title: The Man in the Sand Wastes
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Ship: only the usual Carlos/Cecil because Cecil can't stop mentioning his love life on the radio.
There is a man out in the sand wastes.
He has walked out of his place of work. He has left behind his lunch and his colleagues to walk out into the sand wastes in the hot sun. He has shed his white coat.
He has walked as if in a dream out to the sand wastes. He does not recall choosing to go there, or choosing to walk. In fact, if he thinks at all, he would be thinking: “It is too hot to be out in the sand wastes.” Or: “Boy, I really should answer my boyfriend’s texts.” Or even: “You know, I really should’ve listened to my boyfriend and joined in on Wailing Wednesday when, you know, the entire town sobs ritual tears under a specific stone in their street designated for this purpose.”
But, I digress, dear listeners.
The man is thirsty. He has nothing to drink. His beautiful hair clings hotly to the back of his beautiful neck.
The man is limping. The walk was long and the sun is high.
The sun is high, but the void is empty.
He digs a hole. He does not use a shovel.
He digs.
And digs.
And at the bottom of the hole, he places a piece of paper, with a secret on it. It is a secret made of numbers, equations and memories. It is also, just a piece of paper.
The hole fills with sand.
And the man’s tax returns are completed for another year. Don’t forget to fill in yours listeners!
This has been a community announcement sponsored by the town’s Clerical, Accountancy and Ghoul Maintenance Department.
And now the weather
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Ship: Gen (Charles/Hank possible?)
Summary: A drunk Charles lets things slip.
Charles had been barely back a week when Hank lost him. He couldn’t have gone far, of course, Hank knew that intellectually- Charles was hardly used to steering the heavy wheelchair at all, and (thankfully) wasn’t in a heap at the bottom of any of the flights of stairs Hank had hurtled up and down whilst calling for him but still...
“Charles? Please okay where are you? It really isn’t funny now.” Hank called, panic making his voice - often slurred now around unfamiliar teeth, rise higher and higher.
What could he do if Charles really hurt himself? Hank could hardly call an ambulance or go with him into hospital in his current (he refused to think of it as permanent) state.
Finally, he found himself along an unfamiliar stretch of corridor, opening and closing doors full of dust sheeted furniture and not much else until at last:
“There you are!”
Hank was so relieved at finding Charles that even the usual clench in his chest at seeing the all-too-familiar whiskey bottle hanging from loose fingers failed to affect him.
The room smelt musty and alcoholic, but when Hank looked around, it was actually quite a nice room. The windows let in a bright and airy light and the desk Charles had slumped across was a fine shining construction with ornate carvings.
“What is this place?” Hank asked.
“M’stepfather’s.” Charles muttered, groaning as Hank pulled the chair from the desk. “Stop, just stop fuckin’ moving me without permiss- perm-stop it.”
“Sorry,” Hank stepped back as if scalded by the chair’s handles.
“I didn’t know you had a stepfather.” Hank ventured, as the silence became oppressive.
Charles grunted again and then leaned over the chair, almost tipping it, and was sick in a waste paper basket.
“Urgh,” Charles sniffed. “Thought he might’ve left- someth- somethi-ha!” Charles broke out in a laugh, “Even smells like ‘im now. The bastard.”
“You mean, he er-drank a lot?” Hank couldn’t help himself.
“Drank a lot, smoked a lot, did a lot of pills- doctor you know, they get the best shit. But you know what? S’a secret.”
Charles clutched at Hank’s shirt forcing him to look at him.
Charles did look ill, sweating and pale with red-rimmed eyes as if he still hadn’t stopped crying since the day onthe beach.
“It was my fault.”
“I’m sure that’s not true!”
“Hank! Lissen- lissten to me don’t you assume I don’t know wha’ I know. It was. He was scared of me so he drank. Hated me, he did. Why couldn’t me an Cain be more alike why was I alwaysh showing him up how fuckin’ clever I was, used t’lissen to him thinking it over when he tried to punish me. Used ta bring me up here and take hiss belt to me for-for jusss’ being here- inheritin’ all thiss instead o’Cain. Ha.”
“Charles!” Hank touched his arm, horrified.
“Oh the beatin’ stopped my friend soon enough. Soon as I worked out how.” Charles laughed, “He though’ I wash a ghost in the end- couldn’t- couldn’t remember me every….”
Charles sighed, closing his eyes.
“Why am I in this fuckin’ room, Hank?”
“Do you- er-”
“Ugh. Yes. Just get me through the door.”
Hank took the handles of the chair, carefully this time and wheeled Charles out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Title: The Man in the Sand Wastes
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Ship: only the usual Carlos/Cecil because Cecil can't stop mentioning his love life on the radio.
There is a man out in the sand wastes.
He has walked out of his place of work. He has left behind his lunch and his colleagues to walk out into the sand wastes in the hot sun. He has shed his white coat.
He has walked as if in a dream out to the sand wastes. He does not recall choosing to go there, or choosing to walk. In fact, if he thinks at all, he would be thinking: “It is too hot to be out in the sand wastes.” Or: “Boy, I really should answer my boyfriend’s texts.” Or even: “You know, I really should’ve listened to my boyfriend and joined in on Wailing Wednesday when, you know, the entire town sobs ritual tears under a specific stone in their street designated for this purpose.”
But, I digress, dear listeners.
The man is thirsty. He has nothing to drink. His beautiful hair clings hotly to the back of his beautiful neck.
The man is limping. The walk was long and the sun is high.
The sun is high, but the void is empty.
He digs a hole. He does not use a shovel.
He digs.
And digs.
And at the bottom of the hole, he places a piece of paper, with a secret on it. It is a secret made of numbers, equations and memories. It is also, just a piece of paper.
The hole fills with sand.
And the man’s tax returns are completed for another year. Don’t forget to fill in yours listeners!
This has been a community announcement sponsored by the town’s Clerical, Accountancy and Ghoul Maintenance Department.
And now the weather