Prompt Post: ROUND THREE
ROUND THREE IS CLOSED
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<< ROUND TWO | ALL ROUNDS | ROUND FOUR >>
Rules post.
Flat view.
Updates Post (WIPs only)
Fills Post (completed Fills only)
damalur's firstclasskink on Delicious.
Volunteers always welcome.
There may be some delay on posts appearing when there is a URL in the message body as they are automatically marked as suspicious and I ( Read more... )
It is on days like this that Charles feels really, really old.
He presses his forehead against the vending machine, stabbing mechanically at any random button and hearing the hiss of coffee dispensing into the cup. It doesn't matter what his choice is anyway, since almost everything in these machines - coffee, tea, what the hell is Nesquik - tastes like hot sludge. He doesn't move even when the coffee is done, not wanting to think of that young man sitting in his office, half-catatonic with shock and pain. Then again, anyone would be if they had recently lost both parents in a two car pile-up.
Finally he shoves himself off the machine and collects the coffee, mentally bracing himself for the chaos waiting for him back at his office. That newly-orphaned young man, and then later, so many others like him, all waiting for Charles, all represented by yellow folders, which are filled with distressing information about how these kids are alone, or unwanted, or both. At the end of the day, Charles will tuck away the folders back in his drawers, but back home, he can't quite tuck them away so easily in his mind.
He trudges back to the office, giving the young man a sympathetic smile before setting the coffee down in front of him. "Drink."
The young man stares back at Charles, uncomprehending, then shrinks back into his chair. Charles sighs and flips open the yellow folder that Moira had hastily put together after the accident yesterday. "It's Hank, right? How are you feeling?"
The boy blinks, then raises a shaking hand to adjust his glasses, his eyes blank and unseeing. Something twists in Charles's chest, but he steels himself to continue reading the file. "Are you going to be staying with your aunt?" he asks kindly, but Hank's face is still loose and slack with shock. Charles sits back, pinching the bridge of his nose. He is not going to get an answer, at least not tonight, and he doesn't blame the poor chap.
He ignores the pull of the resignation letter sitting in the top left drawer of his desk.
***
"Some days," Moira is saying. There are bags under her eyes, huge dark circles, the uniform stamped on every social worker trudging through these corridors. "Some days, Charles, I just feel--" Here she trails off, shaking her head, and Charles knows all too well the nameless clump of helplessness that's stuck in her throat, in his.
"I know." He shoots her a quick smile, rubs her arm. She feels a little too skinny, and he thinks that he needs to force her out for dinner again. Dinner and nothing more, though; they had tried to make a go of it a long time ago, but the spark had failed to burst into flame. "But we do it for the kids."
"The kids." Moira's voice is flat. "Tell me, how are we going to help them when there are never enough shelters, never enough foster homes?"
"Moira." The tone of his voice is warning enough; he is still feeling drained and sad from the interview with that McCoy kid. When she looks away, he rubs her arm again. "I didn't think I'd hear this kind of defeatist attitude from you." His smile grows sly, teasing. "You've been spending too much time with Stryker, you're beginning to sound like a crusty old man."
"Thanks a lot." But at least she is smiling a little now at the mention of their pessimistic, inept director. "Speaking of which, don't forget the meeting on Monday."
"Right," he says. Because he hasn't, and he intends to hand in his resignation after that meeting. "Monday, then."
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"You're leaving?"
Burt's voice is loud enough to be heard throughout the whole office, and Charles can only imagine the curious heads peeking over their cubicle walls. Charles nods once, sharply, and his supervisor just looks flabbergasted and lost. "Charles, I can't lose you, you're one of the best--"
"I'm sorry, Burt old chap, my mind's made up."
"But I thought you really cared for these kids." Burt just looks aghast and stricken, causing a twinge of guilt in Charles's chest. "We're understaffed as it is--"
"I know." Charles clasps his hands together and places them on his lap. "But there are bright, young graduates, all more than suitable to be the best social workers. It's just a matter of recruiting and training, Burt."
"I still don't get it." Burt is taking off his glasses and wiping them furiously."I know for you, it's not about the money, it's always been about the kids."
"Precisely," Charles says. "Which is why I am applying to be a foster parent."
Burt stops polishing his glasses. "Really?"
"Yes." Charles leans forward now, excitement bubbling in his veins in a way that has been absent for a long, long time. "I've done the paperwork, I'm going to submit the application. If they'll have me, I've got to go for classes, training...but first, I have to quit because I can't be both a social worker and a foster parent."
"Oh." Burt puts on his glasses again. "Ohhh." Now his supervisor is beaming again, and it's a brilliant thing to watch. "That's actually quite a good idea. You have the background, and you have the, uh--"
"Money," Charles finishes for him, and Burt flushes. "So I'll keep you updated on the status of my application, yes?"
"Please do." Burt stands up, reaching out to shake Charles's hand. "I can think of no better person to send these kids to."
Charles shakes his supervisor's hand, and when he walks out of the office, he prays that his gamble will pay off, and that his resignation would not have been for naught.
***
Moira won't quite look at him, and Charles can't figure out if she is sad or angry. She places his things into the mover's boxes with a little more force than necessary, and he decides that she is both.
"Moira," he says when he hands her the case files of the kids that she will be taking over. "Is everything all right?"
"Yeah." However she is biting her lip, tapping her fingers against the box of files. "It's just-- How am I going to do this without you, Charles?"
"You'll be fine," he says, and he means it. "Besides, it's not like we'll never see each other again. If my application is successful, you'll be sending those kids to me."
"I know." Her smile is small and sad, and Charles strokes her cheek. She leans into his touch with a sigh. "I'll miss having someone to bully around the office."
His laugh is out before he can stop it. "I'm sure you'll find some other unfortunate soul."
Her smile widens, then she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. "I'll see you soon, you old rascal."
For the first time in a long time, Charles Xavier walks out of his office building with a heart as light as air.
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I'm loving this, anon! More, please!
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Three weeks after his resignation, Charles stands in front of his sprawling family mansion in Rochester and thinks, this could work.
It takes him a good few hours to reacquaint himself with his boyhood home where he grew up with parents so distant that they may as well have been in another country. But he knows he's fortunate enough, he and Raven, compared to all the broken, silent, sullen kids who have sat in his old office a thousand times, having lived through a thousand horrors. The culmination of their various life experiences have had a hand in shaping his own unique perspective on life, inversely turning him into the unfailing optimist he is today. If he can help these kids, he reasons, then no one is beyond salvation.
Raven has called him silly and idealistic, but she is also quitting her job in NYC to move back here and help him get things moving. As always, Charles is a man who puts far more stock in actions than words, and knows he can count on his stepsister where it matters.
The rest of the morning is spent wandering through the grounds, mentally cataloguing all the big things that need fixing, all the little things that need tweaking. He knows he is feeling rather out of his depth here, but he refuses to let the huge umbrella of all his new responsibilities overwhelm him. All this is nothing that a hired team of cleaners and handymen can't fix, but he'll have to go into town for that. For now, his stomach is growling too.
In the car, he sings along loudly (and off-key) to the radio, letting his worries fall away with the words.
***
After a quick lunch, Charles checks his watch. He will need to pick Raven up from the airport in a few hours, but for now, he has time to wander around the town for a bit. For Charles it is a luxury for him to be able to simply wander with little purpose. As a social worker, he had often felt like the thinnest pat of butter spread out over the largest piece of bread, with too many kids needing his attention and too little time to help them all. He feels a twinge of guilt at the thought of Moira and his other colleagues straining under the additional workload, but he knows this is a better way he can help.
Having stopped at a bookshop and a deli, Charles stumbles upon a little hardware store named 'KLINSMANN HOME REPAIRS' that he had not remembered seeing in his childhood. Still, it looks like it has been there forever, ancient and a little musty. He enters the shop tentatively, eyeing the various fixtures and tools balanced precariously on the shelves. “Hello?"
Someone yells in reply to him from the back of the shop in what sounded like German. Charles pauses, then says, “I'm sorry?"
"Herzlich willkommen!" the voice shouted back cheerfully. "Warten sie eine minute!"
Charles's grasp of German is spotty at best, but at least he knows the proprietor is asking him to wait for a while. He tinkers with an antique faucet while he waits, wondering if there are many in the manor like these that he had failed to notice earlier.
A much older man with Coke-bottle glasses and white tufts of hair growing out of his ears shuffles out from the back, beaming at Charles. "Guten tag!"
Charles can't help but be charmed by this man, who looks like a bumbling, cartoonish Einstein. "Hello! Unfortunately, I don't speak much German, my good man. English?"
The old man's smile falters, but he continues to nod. "Yes, is fine."
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From the small chuckle, the old man seems to have at least understood Charles, but he seems hesitant in choosing his words. "Follow me," he says at last, and Charles obediently trots after him, following a small maze that leads out to an unexpectedly bright courtyard that makes Charles momentarily shield his eyes. He is surrounded by loud laughter and conversation, also in German. Funny, he thinks, how they speak like spitting, the words minor projectiles: goooo-ten taaarrgghhh.
The little backyard is filled with men smoking and laughing, some eating. They fall silent as the old man addresses them, and Charles can feel their gazes silently assessing him. He keeps his posture straight, his smile friendly: this is his trademark stance when dealing with an abusive parent, or a complaining member of the public.
After the owner (at least, Charles presumes he is) is done, none of the men step forward to ask for the job, but someone says, "Lehnsherr," and there is a general murmur of agreement. Charles looks around to see who they are referring to, and his eyes widen when he notices a tall man with impossibly broad shoulders turning to face him, taking a last drag of his cigarette before flicking it away.
The man's black polo shirt does little to hide the long, slender tattoos that start at his forearms and disappear under his sleeves, and Charles wonders if gangs in Germany also made tattoos part of the initiation for new members. The man looks rough, dangerous, but years of social work has enabled Charles to read people exceptionally well, and the man called Lehnsherr has hands that look used to hard manual labour. He is now looking steadily at Charles, but he says something in German to the owner. "Was machen wir jetzt?"
"Oh, you don't speak English too," Charles says. "That might be a problem."
"He is only one," the owner insisted. "Lehnsherr, yes?" All this while, the man called Lehnsherr is just staring at Charles a little too curiously, but there is a hint of a smile too, as though there is some private joke that Charles doesn't understand. Maybe there is, because there is something in this man's eyes that makes Charles's nerves sing, maybe with caution, maybe with something else.
"All right then," Charles says, and kicks himself. What is he going to do with a handyman who only speaks German. "Just tell him to come to this address tomorrow, at nine." He hands over the address to the owner, studiously avoiding Lehnsherr's heavy gaze.
Charles pretends to ignore the mocking laughter long after his exit.
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"Who is this guy?" Raven asks, after she has unpacked in her old bedroom and taken out her old collection of stuffed animals. Equally unnerving is the single katana that lies on a stand on her mantle, and Charles idly wonders what else she has learned and experienced during her time in NYC. "How could you just hire him out of some shop?"
"It's not just some shop," Charles says. "And it's really hard to find help now, most of them have already been engaged by the people who own summer homes. And I can't wait, I want to get this place up and running as soon as possible."
"Fair enough," Raven says. "But I reserve the right to point and laugh at you when he destroys the shelves and makes off with half the furniture."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming, little sister." Charles grins wickedly as he tries to grab her for a kiss on the cheek, and she squeals with laughter as she shoves him away.
With Raven back in the house, there now seems to be a bit more life bouncing around the hallways, but Charles cannot wait to fill these rooms with kids who have lived on the streets, or shared such rooms with numerous siblings. The local grocery's van comes trundling up the driveway, and Charles watches as the various cupboards and fridges are filled with healthy food for growing children and, not to be forgotten, junk food for growing teenagers.
The handyman called Lehnsherr arrives at exactly five minutes before nine, and this time he is carrying a massive toolbox and wearing workmen's coveralls. They do nothing to disguise the lean muscle rippling underneath, which is good, Charles decides, as it means this man knows his business. Lehnsherr gives Charles the same blank look when he is introduced to Raven, but the dazzling smile takes Charles by surprise, and makes Raven look away coyly. "He doesn't understand English," Charles explains to Raven. "So don't give the poor chap a hard time."
"Why would I?" She rolls her eyes at him before smiling at Lehnsherr who, bless his German sense of efficiency, goes right to work.
***
Moira calls in the afternoon with the first case. "I thought you might want to take this one," she says, and Charles can hear the triumph in her voice. "Remember Hank McCoy?"
It barely takes Charles a second to recall him. "Oh yes, poor chap, lost both parents in an accident. Isn't he staying with his aunt?"
"Irreconcilable differences," Moira says dryly, and Charles knows this is code for what-the-fuck-do-I-do-with-someone-elses-child syndrome. "Got any room for my boy?"
Charles grins widely. "For you, my pretty little bee, I have five hundred."
***
While Raven and the caretaker, Mrs Rodriguez, go about preparing Hank's room for his arrival, Charles walks around to look for a suitable room to convert into a laboratory. He remembers that in Hank's file, he had seen perfect SAT scores and several achievements in regional science fairs, and he thinks that the boy would feel at home here if there were places he could work and tinker in. Charles arrives at his stepfather's old study and thinks that this might make a good place, and the window has a nice view of the garden.
Charles is about to leave when he notices movement in the garden, and he looks down to see Lehnsherr carrying out planks of rotten plywood that had probably been decaying in the basement, or one of the other rooms. Now Lehnsherr is mopping his forehead, bending down to guzzle water from an open bottle. His arms are golden, gleaming with sweat, and as a result the tattoos look darkened, even more pronounced.
Charles feels something settling in the pit of his stomach, like a coiled cobra, dangerous and waiting to strike, and it is a while before he finally moves away from the window.
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Also, the fact that (as far as is mentioned) Erik doesn't speak English is intriguing. I wonder what his tattoos are. *tattoo fan*
Carry on! c:
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I can't wait for the house to fill up with kids and for Charles and Erik to fall madly in love.
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ERIK HAS TATTOOS! I THOUGHT HE CAN'T GET ANY HOTTER. WOW. I'M SO GLAD TO BE WRONG.
I find it hilarious and hot that Charles, who is so prim and proper (aside from having a heart of gold), is perving on a sweaty Erik as he works in the garden. That scene was such a good remake of a cliche.
PLEASE UPDATE SOON.
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