Fic; Use Your Words
Title Use Your Words, for this prompt, and kathrynparis
Rating PG for...nothing omg this is so tame.
Summary Being silent for the past few days has made him startlingly observant. Alex can't speak for the laryngitis plaguing him, but finds that being voiceless makes him a man of action (as in, more so than usual). Alex/Charles.
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
What he didn’t like about being sick, Alex thought miserably to himself on his third day of physician-prescribed bed rest, was that it sucked. Like, more than anything in life should ever have to suck. He felt that all his molecules were vibrating with energy, either because of the fever or despite it, and he was restless, but tired, and above all, freakishly bored. The sheets and covers of his bed had long since settled in a rumpled heap at his feet, and he had started to feel as though his pillow were trying to suffocate him in the fits of sleep that sometimes overcame him that Sean liked to call ‘naps.’
Come now, Charles echoed in his mind, his words accompanied by some symphony that he must have been listening to in the background, violins humming in afterthought, and also, strangely, by the smell of bacon. It’s not so bad. It’s just until tomorrow.
And then I’m not supposed to talk for the whole next week! Alex thought back, aggressively.
Yes, well. Laryngitis does that to some, Charles acknowledged, the briefest of chuckles following his words.
Alex languished, trying to project his sense of uselessness to the busy professor. His throat was sore - swallowing felt like he was trying to eat a handful of nails. It’s not like he would have been able to speak for the next week even if he wanted to. What are you doing, anyway? he thought, knowing it would reach Charles.
He saw, in response, like he was there himself, the book-covered walls of Charles’ expansive study, light pouring in from the grand window behind Charles’ desk. There was a pen in his - in Charles’ - hand, and a disturbing amount of paperwork covered in fine print littered the desk in front of him. Music was indeed playing softly on the radio, and to his right was a ceramic plate speckled with leftover bacon crumbles. He - Charles - looked down, then, and there was a glimpse of his knees in his trousers, trapped under the desk, a strange metallic aftertaste and bitter, bitter regret before Alex was forcefully thrown back into his own mind, and he imagined himself as being thrown back onto his mattress, or like he had been dreaming of falling and jerked himself awake. Sorry, he thought, unsure what he was apologizing for, but knowing that Charles was upset.
Predictably, Charles returned, Whatever for? and the image of Erik, stark and blinding and sharp, appeared to them both; Alex was unsure if it was his thought or Charles’, but there was intensity there, and anger, and so he thought that perhaps he had thought of Erik first. His leaving was bittersweet, Charles assuaged him, which was ridiculous because Alex should have been the one comforting Charles. It was what he had wanted all along. I believe that we both lost something important that day.
Alex ground his teeth together, willing himself to think of anything other than Erik. They had had this conversation many times before. Alex would always think Erik was a bastard for leaving, for abandoning them, and Charles would always find a way to defend him. I’m tired, was what he ended up thinking, uncertain how to continue along this strand of conversation and not really wanting to, anyway. Put me to sleep?
He could feel Charles’ frown through the walls of the mansion. You know you shouldn’t rely on this, Alex. I don’t know if there are any adverse effects to my putting you to sleep so many times.
Last time, Alex promised.
Charles relented, like he always did. Alex felt a cooling darkness wash over him. Sleep came unnaturally; instead of closing his eyes he waited until his vision became fuzzy and then blurred and then grey. The violins of Charles’ symphony grew stronger, their legato rhythm murmuring with his pulse until that slowed, too.
//
“Man,” Sean said when he saw that Alex had opened his eyes. “You slept like a baby. I mean, snoring and everything. I came crashing in past midnight, banging on all the shelves and everything, and not a peep from you!” He was pulling on a fantastically hideous yellow shirt that clashed with his bright red hair. “Are you allowed to move yet? Bed rest’s officially over, right?” he continued, oblivious to how Alex was blinking away every other word. It was too soon past waking for comprehension of normal speech, let alone Sean’s slurred ramblings. “Because you need to run with me. I can’t run with Hank, man. He’s just too fast. And you missed breakfast. I think there might be some leftover biscuits? We’re all meeting Charles in his study in an hour to talk about the school, so up and at ‘em, man.”
Alex was going to start with a “Good morning” but as soon as he tried forming the words, that nail-swallowing feeling was back, except it felt like the opposite, like he was trying to regurgitate those nails, so he closed his mouth again, swallowed, and snapped his fingers, loud, sitting up on the bed as he was doing so.
Sean abruptly stopped talking and locked eyes with him. “Uh, hey, did you just snap your fingers at me?”
In answer, Alex jabbed the same fingers in the direction of his own throat, glaring.
“Oh right,” his roommate mumbled more to himself than to Alex. “No talking and stuff.” A smile curled its way onto his freckled features. “So who do you think is going to win the game tonight - Yankees or Red Sox? I gotta go with the Sox, man. You seen their batting line? Red Sox are the better team this year, anyway.”
Sean looked positively delighted. Meanwhile, Alex seethed. “You think people will believe me if I tell everyone your favorite color is periwinkle? That you bake cookies and knit in your free time? That your favorite hobby is helping old ladies cross the street?”
Alex launched the nearest thing his hand could grab at Sean’s face. It turned out to be a hardcover book on his nightstand, and it made a satisfying thunk against the wall when Sean ducked, grin still in place. “All right, all right, I get it. I’ll stop,” Sean said, though from his expression Alex could tell he was only just beginning. “I’ll see you in the study, man. Later.” He ducked out the door, waving, pleased.
This was going to be a problem, Alex thought to himself.
//
It was chicken-scratch, but it was also his first contribution to the discussion being held in Charles’ study: Sean thats a terrible idea NO WAY absolutely not, scribbled out on a yellow notepad and held up like a sign in front of his chest. He glared for good measure, just to emphasize how against the idea he really was. They were all seated around Charles’ giant desk, cups of lukewarm tea in front of each of them.
“You mean your dream job isn’t to teach a bunch of munchkins how to bake the perfect soufflé? Pity. An apron would have suited you. Maybe you could teach a pottery class?”
Oh, Sean was evil. Evil down to the very last red hair on his head. His snickering was quickly followed by Hank’s, and then finally, even Charles was tittering, although at least he was trying to hide it - unsuccessfully - behind his hand. Alex ripped away the top page of the notepad, crumpling the sheet into a ball and pegging it in Sean’s general direction. This time, he didn’t duck, and it hit him squarely on his cheek. “Hey!”
“Boys,” Charles intervened. “Let’s not fight. Amusing as it is to picture Alex in an apron, we have more important matters to discuss.” An image flashed in everyone’s mind. It was of the blonde in the kitchen, furiously beating something in a mixing bowl, in a bright pink apron. Charles smirked, playful. “Oh my,” he teased. The image was gone in an instant, but the effect remained. Alex felt his cheeks heat up and thanked every god he could think of that Charles had taught him control over his mutation.
Alex jabbed with his pen at the paper: know where u all sleep. This was followed by three x’s. He assumed that they understood that those x’s were Sean, Charles, and Hank. Charles smirk, if anything, grew wider. “Those x’s are meant to represent our deaths,” he explained for Alex. “And…oh? He thinks he’d be able to get to Sean first, since you’re sharing a room. I would likely be next. Then, Hank.”
“Why am I last?” Hank grumbled. It was not something that many people would grumble about.
Charles said, “Alex thinks you should probably not complain about being killed last. Gives you time to make an escape.”
“Harumph,” Hank said.
An idea came. Training, Alex wrote next to the x’s on the paper, again holding it up like a sign for the others to see. He gestured between himself and Hank, looking to Charles to elaborate. The telepath did so, eyes brightening with every revealed word. “You think you could take over the training of the new students. Collaborate with Hank on technologies that would assist them.” He had started with summarizing Alex’s thoughts but gradually just started to repeat them as they flowed into his mind, like a ticker. “He says he knows he’s not qualified to teach any core subjects because he didn’t finish his degree - it was interrupted by his stint in prison - but he has a general understanding of physics and mechanics and some biology and can take over the training portion of the curriculum until he accumulates enough credits to graduate and then we can discuss adding some more classes to the curriculum if needed.”
“Dude, what?” Sean said intelligently. “Degree? I thought you were a high-school dropout!”
Alex looked at him like someone might look at a dog that had just had an accident on the family’s new rug. He didn’t even have to write or ask Charles to dig into his head for Sean to answer his unasked question, the displeasure was so apparent on his face.
“Sorry, man,” Sean began, looking cowed. “I just thought - you were in prison! Are you secretly a genius like Beast? Like, you were in college? What were you studying?”
Alex wrote PHYSICS on his notepad, below the rest of the writing.
“So your chest plate,” Hank said, effectively steering conversation away from Sean. “You understand how it works, right? I mean, down to the molecular level, you do. And I had thought I was explaining the mechanics of it to someone who had no interest! Well, Alex, this…well this doesn’t change much. But at least now I know we can collaborate on some projects together in the future. And I would be glad to organize training regimens with you. Only, how come we didn’t know about this, er, academic side of you before?”
“Nobody asked,” Charles said for him. Alex glanced up sharply, surprised that his words had come out of Charles’ mouth. “Apologies, Alex,” he continued smoothly. “I’ll not do that again without your permission.”
Thank you, he thought to the other man privately. They shared a look across the table, Charles breaking it first to say: “So I will provide instruction in the humanities, Hank in the sciences, Sean in the arts -“ (Sean interrupted, “in music, Charles.”) “-and Alex in the physical requirements and training of our youngsters.” He took a breath, tenting his fingers against one another on the desk. When he spoke again it was with a breathless kind of happiness and genuine excitement. “Fantastic. I’ll draw up the necessary papers, go through the necessary accreditations - gentlemen, this is really happening!”
They toasted with their cups of tea, the ceramics clinking against one another like the bells of a church tower.
//
Night fell, but the blood buzzed in Alex’s veins long after Sean’s ramblings evened out into mumblings and then into a deep, metrical breathing as he lay on the bed opposite. Alex folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. There were no cracks that he could count, just a smooth whiteness that looked blue in the twilight. He wondered if perhaps all those times Charles had helped him drift off to sleep had tinkered with his natural rhythms, and that was why he was feeling so restless. Maybe he would find refuge in the study, read until his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore.
Resolved, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood swiftly, searching through the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed for a sweater. It was strange, he thought, how quickly old habits returned; in prison everything had been pristine and orderly - mandatory room checks were a daily ritual - and yet as soon as he had settled in the mansion, his room had become the ordered chaos of his dorm room in college. Piles of clothes, stacks of books, random papers. All kept within his half of the room. And to make matters worse, despite his laid-back demeanor, there was not a thing out of place on Sean’s side of the room. Finally, Alex located a sweater near the bottom of the pile and pulled that on over his thin shirt, padding over to the door and slipping out into the hallway.
He winced when his first step creaked loudly, but no one seemed to be awake to hear it. Hank was likely snoring away at a lab bench or in the bunker, lost in his latest invention. And Charles’ room was on the first floor, next to his study. The steps, at least, did not creak as he tip-toed his way down them, hissing when his bare feet touched the cold hardwood on the first floor. Should have put on socks. The study was carpeted, though, and had a fire place besides. He crept his way over to the room, hesitating when he saw that the door was slightly ajar.
Charles was there, still, sitting behind his desk, not noticing or choosing to ignore the door as Alex pushed it open. He was writing something furiously, his other hand with a fistful of hair at his temple. Alex shut the door with a soft click behind him, and Charles looked up, mouth slightly open.
Alex’s lips formed the word ‘sorry.’ Charles blinked once, then seemed to regain himself. “Alex,” he breathed. “It’s all right. It’s just - well, I am not often caught unawares. You surprised me. What are you doing up at this hour?”
There was a fire crackling opposite Charles, and a piece of kindling popped as Alex tried to form an answer. Finally, he pointed at his own temple, inviting Charles in. It felt a bit like he was opening a window and calling out to someone in the front yard. Couldn’t sleep, he thought. Wanted to read.
Charles’ mouth pressed into a firm, grim line. “I knew there would be consequences to my tampering with your sleep patterns,” he said. “You are welcome to read. I have a fantastic section on the natural sciences that you might enjoy.”
Alex gave him a look that he hoped was neutral. Obviously, it was not, judging by the way Charles ducked his head, sheepish. “I’m sorry. I just assumed - well, there are other sections. Please don’t feel that you must read something pertaining to physics.”
Charles smiled - it was more of a tic in his lips - and went back to his furious writing. Instead of browsing the shelves, Alex found himself walking towards the desk, interested. What’s that? he thought loudly.
“Papers. Seals. Property laws. There is a mountain of paperwork involved in opening a private school, do you know? If I didn’t have to deal with bureaucracy I could have opened the school weeks ago.” There was a crease in Charles’ forehead and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Something frantic in his features, something lost.
Alex tapped his fingers on the desk so that Charles would stop and look up at him. He did. You’re tired, he hazarded, feeling a little out of place but growing bolder and more secure when Charles let him continue. You should get some rest. Rome was not built in a day, and stuff. The school won’t be built in a day, either, but it’ll happen.
Charles said, “I’m not tired. Whatever gave you that idea?”
In response Alex plucked the pen out of Charles’ hand and found a blank, scrap sheet of paper. He drew two huge ‘u’s next to each other and then held up the sheet to his own face, right under his eyes. He pointed at them. Bags under eyes.
Charles’ bark of laughter startled him, the sheet of paper in his hands jumping. “I suppose that’s how I look,” he said with a grin. Alex grinned back, letting the paper fall onto the desk. “All right,” Charles acceded. “I’m a little tired. I’ll just finish this form and call it a night.” After a pause, he continued: “Would you like to stay?”
Alex nodded and pointed at the fire place.
“It’s warm?” Charles guessed.
Alex butterflied his hands open, miming opening a book.
“You’re going to read by the fireplace?”
Alex nodded.
“You know, I think we would make a pretty good charades team.” This was followed by a chuckle. Alex rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. Fine. Finish my work. Sleep. All right.”
Alex ended up finding The Lost World tucked into a shelf corner, well-thumbed with the front cover nearly indecipherable. He had been reading it before the accident that landed him in the big house, and thought that now was a good a time as ever to pick up where he had left off. The heat of the fire was warm against his right side as he read, curled into the soft, leather armchair in front of the mantle.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s fictional crew had just discovered the natives living on the plateau when Charles very pointedly placed his pen onto the table and folded his hands together on the surface. “Finished,” he announced, like a schoolboy taking an exam. Alex dog-eared the page he was reading and put the book in his lap, letting himself have a nice, full-body stretch in the chair. He was sleepy.
The telepath wheeled himself away from his desk, expertly maneuvering so that he had come around to the front. “Now look who’s tired,” he said wryly. “You should be getting to bed as well.”
Alex waved his concern away, standing and walking to Charles until he was behind the chair. “You don’t have to, Alex. I’m perfectly capable of making it to my own room, next door.”
Alex again waved away the concern, taking the handles and pushing.
It was a short walk, but worth it to see the inside of Charles’ room. It was a room full of memories and pictures and ghosts. Raven’s face was on his dresser. Chess pieces decorated the nightstand. More bookshelves lined the walls. But Charles said ‘good night’ and looked at him with tired eyes and Alex thought that maybe the ghosts were stronger than the memories and the pictures. Because Charles was tired, but the atmosphere of the room was dense and stifling, like a thundercloud, and he seemed so incredibly sad as well.
//
Even though he hadn’t made it back to his bed until the middle of the night, Alex woke with the sun, the light slanting through a slit in the curtains sharp and hot against his face. Sean was still asleep. It was Sunday, after all, so he let him slumber.
The muscles in his legs felt heavy and soft. He realized with sudden clarity that it had been a week since he had been able to take a jog around the grounds. When he went downstairs, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and alternately stretching his arms, his running shoes making soft sounds against the floor, he saw that Charles’ door was still shut and nodded to himself, satisfied that the telepath was still sleeping. It was just past seven in the morning.
He exited through the door in the kitchen, and the morning air was brisk even through the layers he had shrugged on. He bounced a few times on his toes before starting with a light jog. Running was a relief; it always had been. The feeling he got after a good hard run, exhausted down to his bones and malleable, certainly unable to muster the energy to let loose any plasma, was peace. He passed by the gardens in front of the mansion, feet crunching the gravel, and then rounded the corner again to escape into the woods behind the property. A fog hung over the trees, but it was quickly breaking, disappearing in the warm light of the sun. His breath whitened in front of him. He liked running to a rhythm - two steps to breathe out, two steps to breathe in. Sometimes, he counted his breaths. This time, his mind wandered back to the telepath still asleep inside the mansion.
In the weeks after Charles had returned from the hospital, claiming that all he really wanted was a decent cup of tea, he had presented the idea of a school before anyone could ask how he was doing, was he recovering, was it strange to be confined to the chair during the day? It had been a good distraction, one that everyone needed, Alex thought then, but now he wasn’t so sure. Charles was running himself into the ground. Unable to train with them physically - not outdoors, anyway, though Charles still frequently used the small gym on the first floor - the telepath had spent most of his time hunched over the papers on his desk, making hurried phone calls, seeking legal counsel. It was taking its toll on the academic, Alex could tell, not just by the bags under his eyes, but by the cadence of his speech and his near-constant apologies. Alex thought of the chess pieces littering Charles’ nightstand.
Maybe the school had been a distraction at first from the chair, but it had turned into something greater. A reply to Erik’s leaving, a promise, an assurance that there could be a way of peace, and Charles was going to find it. He wanted Erik to return, Alex realized sadly, after Charles had proved him wrong.
He stepped hard on an ugly root that had grown into the seldom-used path and cursed, more surprised than hurt by the awkward twist it had caused on his ankle. His breath came in short spurts, and he paused, carefully putting weight on his heel and finding no lasting pain. Looking around, he found the area unfamiliar to him; he must have taken a turn in the path without realizing it. The path ahead was a mystery, and he felt a pull in his gut to follow it, to see where it led, but the sun was inching higher into the sky, and the fog had completely vanished, now, so he turned and ran back from where he came.
//
Being silent for the past few days has made him startlingly observant. Technically, he could speak now, if he really wanted to, but his voice was barely even a whisper, and it really wasn’t worth all of the repeating and leaning in close to people’s ears to get his words across. Plus, it was still kind of painful to use his throat. He’d much rather jot a thought down on the notepad or have Charles act as messenger. After his small-scale intervention in the study, Charles had made a visible effort not to spend so much time hunched over his desk and even suggested that they all get out of the mansion for the afternoon. Have a meal at the country club, or visit a museum.
Hank mumbled something about needing to find a less corrosive material for Alex’s suit, since last time the chest plate had basically burned a hole right through the fabric, at Charles’ suggestion of venturing off the grounds. But, Alex saw how Hank’s shoulders first stiffened and then sagged, how he stared down into the bottom of his nearly-empty cereal bowl, how tightly he gripped the spoon in his hand. His first instinct was to call Hank out on the lie, to make him admit that he wasn’t actually busy but that he didn’t want to leave the safe obscurity of the mansion, didn’t want to be seen by others, big and blue.
Another thing about medically-induced silence - it was teaching Alex how to hold his tongue. Charles thought to him privately as Sean scarfed down the last of the pancakes, words echoing pleasantly, This, too, will take time.
Alex nodded, scribbled something onto his notepad. He held it up for Hank to see, who blinked confusedly at the gesture. He had written: NEED ANYTHING FROM OUTSIDE?
“Uh,” Hank said, adjusting his glasses with the hand that still held the spoon. He ended up hitting himself in the face with it. “Well. Maybe some shirts, if you all go shopping? Mine don’t fit me anymore, and I feel that I can only get away with wearing the lab coat for so long…” He drifted off, uncertain.
Alex made an exaggerated ‘A-Okay’ sign with his fingers while Sean said around a mouthful of food, “We’ll get you some shirts, Hank, big guy. You think you’d wear an extra-extra large now?”
Alex snapped his fingers, calling attention back to him; it was a habit he was going to have to break once his voice was back completely. He mimed a collar around his neck like those fancy shirts that Hank seemed to like.
“Collared shirts in the biggest size they have would be great, thanks.” A smile curled onto Hank’s lips, foreign but contagious. Alex hadn’t seen him smile in a long time.
“So we’ll do some shopping around town, pick up supplies and groceries and things of that nature, and have a meal together upon returning,” Charles summarized, and Alex could just imagine him saying something similar to a class full of young mutants. “I’ll call the car around. It usually takes about half an hour to pull up. We can leave then.” His eyes were bright and full of possibilities.
//
They ended up on some fancy street in Rye, where the sidewalks were bricked and the buildings all seemed to follow some outward appearance code of frosty and regal. Charles claimed his favorite tailor was just down the block from where the car dropped them off, the driver promising to return in exactly two hours, and they hadn’t meant to split up, but Sean’s eye caught an upscale second-hand record store and his excitement was so palpable that Charles waved him away, amused. “Two hours, Sean,” he called after him. Then it was just he and Alex. “Looks like it’s you and me,” Charles quipped unnecessarily, looking up at the blonde with something approaching mischief.
Why are you looking at me like that, Alex thought flatly.
“You wouldn’t know it,” Charles answered aloud for him, “but I am quite the shopping fiend, or so I’ve been told. And you have the great and fulfilling task of being my, ah, personal chauffeur, as it were.” That might have been blush rising on Charles’ cheeks. Alex searched him for any indication that being out in public in a wheelchair was embarrassing, or difficult, or awkward, or hateful. He found none. Charles was not coloring because the chair made him uncomfortable - no, that was all Alex. “You and your leather jacket,” he continued, seeming to sense Alex’s line of thought. “People are going to think that you’ve been assigned to community service when they see us.”
Alex shrugged. So? He didn’t care. People would think that they wanted to think. That was kind of the pattern in his life. At least you know you’re not a charity case. Where to?
“Perhaps we should pick up Hank’s shirts before we forget.”
He nodded, agreeing. He wheeled Charles into a shop that looked far to sparse to be making any profit, pale shirts and dark trousers draped stylistically over wooden shelves and railings, except that he looked at the price tag on one of the delicately hanging shirts and nearly suffered heart palpitations at the number he saw there. Well, Charles was buying.
And, yeah, he was buying.
It started with three shirts for Hank in that first store, then a dark silk tie that Charles thought Hank would like in the next, and then a beanie hat that the telepath insisted was softer than rabbit’s fur that Sean would just adore, and then apparently Charles was of the mind that Alex would probably need a slightly more professional wardrobe now that he was going to be a responsible adult and all in front of youngsters, so he bought him a wardrobe.
That is, he invested in two dress-shirts, a tie, a pair of slacks and a pair of more casual pants, and a blazer. “I’m not buying these things for you, Alex,” Charles insisted as he fished out the crisp bills - Alex wondered when he was going to start flourishing his checkbook. “I’m investing in one of my teachers. You will pay me back with your work. Also, those pants look absolutely fabulous on you.”
I can’t exactly run in these pants, Alex thought glumly. Or lift weights. Privately, he vowed never to wear them. He was a denim and leather sort of guy, and always had been. The gifting of clothing seemed to be more for Charles’ benefit than for anyone else’s though, so he let it slide.
“Pish posh,” Charles said to the bewildered salesperson, who blinked owlishly for a moment before slapping on a smile, choosing wisely to ignore the seemingly one-sided conversation to bask in the glory of a commissioned sale.
Some of the bags Charles carried in his lap, but even with that Alex was soon laden with paper shopping bags. Their next shop was a book shop, and it was like seeing the sun for the first time, the way Charles brightened as soon as they entered. “Park me in front of the Biology section,” Charles ordered graciously, so Alex did, and managed not to bristle when Charles released him from duty with a regal wave of his hand. “Please, look around. Leave an old man to his books. You must be tired of me by now, anyway.”
Whatever, he thought. Let me know if you need anything from the top shelf. And then he wandered off, quickly losing himself amongst the stacks. It smelled of old paper and dust and coffee. The store was narrow and long, extending well into the building and probably reaching through to the other side. Most of the books were kept in order on the shelves by author or publisher, Alex found, but there were some display tables around that seemed to have books stacked upon them at random. He found Dracula in the same pile as Nietzsche’s The Will to Power. Plath’s The Bell Jar was buried under a pile of children’s picture books. Except for the children’s books, the store reminded him of his college’s library, how the silence seemed to echo inside the walls, the hush of papers being thumbed and turned, and the whispered conversations. He recognized the feeling welling up inside of him but didn’t want to acknowledge it. His heart thumped painfully slowly, it seemed, as he thought about how close he had been to graduating.
But then, as soon as he was able to exhale and expel the sense of regret, he realized it was not his own. Charles? he thought immediately. There was no answer save for a steady click, click that seemed to filter into his mind. He placed The Bell Jar back on top of the pile of books and made his way back to the Biology section, only to find it absent of the professor. Slowly, he searched through the long and narrow stacks of the store until he was quite certain that he had seen all of it, until he turned the corner and found a hidden nook labeled ‘Mechanics’ in which Charles sat, unmoving with his back to the rest of the store, eyes fixed on the thing that was making the clicking noise in front of him.
“Charles,” Alex tried to say, his throat managing to form a whisper of the name. It hurt, though, the way nails on a chalkboard grated against the ears; that was all the talking he would be doing today.
When Charles turned Alex could see the thing that had held his attention so completely. It was a perpetual-motion toy, the one that was a line of silver spheres hanging in balance until someone pinched one or two away and let it swing, and then it would swing and swing and swing, some weak test of the combination of inertia and momentum and the conservation of energy. It went click, click, click, like heels against a tiled floor. “Oh, hello Alex,” he said innocently.
How long had Charles been watching that toy? Had he been thinking of Erik? Alex thought he had been thinking of Erik. It made him simultaneously angry (like he wanted to rip one of the nearby books or bookshelves in half) and sad (which in itself was a surprise, because Alex had long ago broken down and transmuted feelings of sadness into feelings of anger). He wanted to ask Charles what he was thinking but also didn’t want to know the answer. In the end, he took a great breath and walked forward, hand outstretched, stilling the sphere against its brethren. The clicking noise stopped. The sound was making my head hurt, he thought to Charles. He wondered if lies felt different than truths in Charles’ mind.
Charles’ face betrayed nothing. “Hm,” he said benignly. “I think I’ve had enough shopping for today.”
Yeah, Alex stoically agreed. Me, too.
//
He found him later in the study, after Hank had accepted the shirts graciously and Sean had pulled the beanie hat over his ears and dinner had been served, eaten, dishes piled away in the cupboards. He sat motionless, staring again, only this time there was no toy in front of him, only his desk and papers and a pen clutched in his fingers like an afterthought. Alex knocked on the door; the hinges whined against the pressure and he winced as the noise brought Charles out of his daze. It was the second time that day he had caught the professor unaware. He didn’t have to guess what Charles had been thinking about, this time, only wondered why he had been thinking about him, about Erik. It was like Charles was slowly slipping through all their fingers, like water through cracks. This had gone on long enough.
“Alex,” the older man breathed, voice thin. “What are you doing here?”
I wanted to talk to you.
Charles’ lips quirked in response. “Talk?” he quipped, unable to resist.
Alex narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, a universal sort of expression that roughly meant, I’m serious don’t mess with me right now I will end you. Sufficiently humbled by the expression, Charles beckoned him into the room.
Once he was in the room, though, he didn’t know where to start, what to say. After a moment of silence from both mutants, Alex let his mind open and flow, uninhibited and almost rambling. He began with You’re sad, and the statement caused Charles to sit up, sit back, and blink. He continued with You’re so sad and you think that no one can see it. But when he left you threw yourself into this cause, this school, into this work, so you could forget about your sadness or maybe you put it on a shelf or something, except you can’t do that with feelings like that, like sadness. They eat you right up. I know, Charles. I let myself be angry for a very long time; I thought I could keep it inside me, too. Then one day it came out, and I went to prison for it. You miss him. You miss Erik.
If he had been talking Alex was sure he would have been out of breath. As it was, he only felt a bit piqued and like he wasn’t sure how to close off his mind again. Charles’ unnerving stare was not helping matters.
“No,” he rebutted gently. “I miss the chess games and his wit. I miss his energy. His intelligence. His drive.” He shook his head while saying this, as though to confirm his words, but Alex noticed how the grip on his pen tightened, turning his knuckles white.
You miss him, Alex insisted. And it’s okay that you do. I miss him, too. You’re mostly sad about it and I’m mostly angry about it, but what it comes down to is that he’s gone, and Raven’s gone even if she phones sometimes, and you - we - need to come to terms to that.
For one panicked moment Alex thought that he might have gone too far, pushed a little too hard, broken the professor like those toy cars he used to play with in the foster home. Charles had frozen, expression hunted. Alex blinked surprise in the realization that he was leaning over the desk on his hands; he hadn’t been aware that he had walked so deep into the room.
Finally, Charles laid the pen flat on the desk slowly, deliberately. “You think it’s easy?” he said, his voice low, bright blue eyes trained on Alex’s own. “I wish it were so simple. But there is so much to do. So much to take care of. You and the other young mutants - you were just the beginning, the tip of the iceberg. So many people need my help. I can’t stop to deal with Erik - or his absence. We are moving forward. This is a huge step, Alex, and if I pause - “
It was too much for one man to handle. Alex imagine the iceberg of mutants that Charles was referring to, and his mind, irrationally, conjured up the image of the Titanic. If Charles thought he was going to save the entire ship single-handedly, he had another thing coming. Alex had no intention of letting the man be a martyr. If only he could get a word in, if only the man’s lips would -
A surge of confidence brought him forward onto his toes until Alex was tipped onto the desk completely, pressing his lips into Charles’ dry, soft ones, wide-eyed shock on both of their faces. Never one to pull punches, so to speak, Alex pressed on, insistent but gentle, back starting to strain from bending over the desk but worth it when Charles closed his eyes and kissed back. You can pause, Alex thought to him. Sometimes you have to look back to remember why you are moving forward, he continued, ironically seemingly unable to pause his own thoughts.
Charles pulled back suddenly, ending the kiss, and Alex nearly pitched forward but caught himself on his elbows. “I don’t know that I can,” the telepath admitted, something like guilt in his eyes. “I’ll look back and I’ll be trapped there.”
The blonde shook his head. “No,” he whispered, voice caught in his throat. It felt less like sandpaper today, at least. You won’t. We’ll help you back. I’ll help you back. I’ll drag you back it I have to. Call him, write him. Make amends, get out of this limbo that you’re in, and then move on.
“Alex, I don’t trust myself enough at this point to do that.”
He recognized the tone of voice as one of resignation. Maybe Charles knew he wasn’t going to stop to Titanic from going down (briefly, Alex wondered how long he could keep up the metaphor - he never was one for literature devices), but he could sure use a lifeboat. And that, Alex could deal with. I’m not asking you to trust yourself. I’m asking you to trust us. To trust me. You can do that.
Alex couldn’t be sure what the professor thought about that - he stared at the younger man with something like surprise and wonder and gratitude, and maybe a little lust. Alex thought, yeah, that was all right. Let him stare. And then Charles leaned forward and kissed him. That was a good enough answer, for now.
//
The next morning Alex went for a run. He took the unfamiliar turn in the path, and then followed it to the end.
Fin.
Rating PG for...nothing omg this is so tame.
Summary Being silent for the past few days has made him startlingly observant. Alex can't speak for the laryngitis plaguing him, but finds that being voiceless makes him a man of action (as in, more so than usual). Alex/Charles.
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
What he didn’t like about being sick, Alex thought miserably to himself on his third day of physician-prescribed bed rest, was that it sucked. Like, more than anything in life should ever have to suck. He felt that all his molecules were vibrating with energy, either because of the fever or despite it, and he was restless, but tired, and above all, freakishly bored. The sheets and covers of his bed had long since settled in a rumpled heap at his feet, and he had started to feel as though his pillow were trying to suffocate him in the fits of sleep that sometimes overcame him that Sean liked to call ‘naps.’
Come now, Charles echoed in his mind, his words accompanied by some symphony that he must have been listening to in the background, violins humming in afterthought, and also, strangely, by the smell of bacon. It’s not so bad. It’s just until tomorrow.
And then I’m not supposed to talk for the whole next week! Alex thought back, aggressively.
Yes, well. Laryngitis does that to some, Charles acknowledged, the briefest of chuckles following his words.
Alex languished, trying to project his sense of uselessness to the busy professor. His throat was sore - swallowing felt like he was trying to eat a handful of nails. It’s not like he would have been able to speak for the next week even if he wanted to. What are you doing, anyway? he thought, knowing it would reach Charles.
He saw, in response, like he was there himself, the book-covered walls of Charles’ expansive study, light pouring in from the grand window behind Charles’ desk. There was a pen in his - in Charles’ - hand, and a disturbing amount of paperwork covered in fine print littered the desk in front of him. Music was indeed playing softly on the radio, and to his right was a ceramic plate speckled with leftover bacon crumbles. He - Charles - looked down, then, and there was a glimpse of his knees in his trousers, trapped under the desk, a strange metallic aftertaste and bitter, bitter regret before Alex was forcefully thrown back into his own mind, and he imagined himself as being thrown back onto his mattress, or like he had been dreaming of falling and jerked himself awake. Sorry, he thought, unsure what he was apologizing for, but knowing that Charles was upset.
Predictably, Charles returned, Whatever for? and the image of Erik, stark and blinding and sharp, appeared to them both; Alex was unsure if it was his thought or Charles’, but there was intensity there, and anger, and so he thought that perhaps he had thought of Erik first. His leaving was bittersweet, Charles assuaged him, which was ridiculous because Alex should have been the one comforting Charles. It was what he had wanted all along. I believe that we both lost something important that day.
Alex ground his teeth together, willing himself to think of anything other than Erik. They had had this conversation many times before. Alex would always think Erik was a bastard for leaving, for abandoning them, and Charles would always find a way to defend him. I’m tired, was what he ended up thinking, uncertain how to continue along this strand of conversation and not really wanting to, anyway. Put me to sleep?
He could feel Charles’ frown through the walls of the mansion. You know you shouldn’t rely on this, Alex. I don’t know if there are any adverse effects to my putting you to sleep so many times.
Last time, Alex promised.
Charles relented, like he always did. Alex felt a cooling darkness wash over him. Sleep came unnaturally; instead of closing his eyes he waited until his vision became fuzzy and then blurred and then grey. The violins of Charles’ symphony grew stronger, their legato rhythm murmuring with his pulse until that slowed, too.
//
“Man,” Sean said when he saw that Alex had opened his eyes. “You slept like a baby. I mean, snoring and everything. I came crashing in past midnight, banging on all the shelves and everything, and not a peep from you!” He was pulling on a fantastically hideous yellow shirt that clashed with his bright red hair. “Are you allowed to move yet? Bed rest’s officially over, right?” he continued, oblivious to how Alex was blinking away every other word. It was too soon past waking for comprehension of normal speech, let alone Sean’s slurred ramblings. “Because you need to run with me. I can’t run with Hank, man. He’s just too fast. And you missed breakfast. I think there might be some leftover biscuits? We’re all meeting Charles in his study in an hour to talk about the school, so up and at ‘em, man.”
Alex was going to start with a “Good morning” but as soon as he tried forming the words, that nail-swallowing feeling was back, except it felt like the opposite, like he was trying to regurgitate those nails, so he closed his mouth again, swallowed, and snapped his fingers, loud, sitting up on the bed as he was doing so.
Sean abruptly stopped talking and locked eyes with him. “Uh, hey, did you just snap your fingers at me?”
In answer, Alex jabbed the same fingers in the direction of his own throat, glaring.
“Oh right,” his roommate mumbled more to himself than to Alex. “No talking and stuff.” A smile curled its way onto his freckled features. “So who do you think is going to win the game tonight - Yankees or Red Sox? I gotta go with the Sox, man. You seen their batting line? Red Sox are the better team this year, anyway.”
Sean looked positively delighted. Meanwhile, Alex seethed. “You think people will believe me if I tell everyone your favorite color is periwinkle? That you bake cookies and knit in your free time? That your favorite hobby is helping old ladies cross the street?”
Alex launched the nearest thing his hand could grab at Sean’s face. It turned out to be a hardcover book on his nightstand, and it made a satisfying thunk against the wall when Sean ducked, grin still in place. “All right, all right, I get it. I’ll stop,” Sean said, though from his expression Alex could tell he was only just beginning. “I’ll see you in the study, man. Later.” He ducked out the door, waving, pleased.
This was going to be a problem, Alex thought to himself.
//
It was chicken-scratch, but it was also his first contribution to the discussion being held in Charles’ study: Sean thats a terrible idea NO WAY absolutely not, scribbled out on a yellow notepad and held up like a sign in front of his chest. He glared for good measure, just to emphasize how against the idea he really was. They were all seated around Charles’ giant desk, cups of lukewarm tea in front of each of them.
“You mean your dream job isn’t to teach a bunch of munchkins how to bake the perfect soufflé? Pity. An apron would have suited you. Maybe you could teach a pottery class?”
Oh, Sean was evil. Evil down to the very last red hair on his head. His snickering was quickly followed by Hank’s, and then finally, even Charles was tittering, although at least he was trying to hide it - unsuccessfully - behind his hand. Alex ripped away the top page of the notepad, crumpling the sheet into a ball and pegging it in Sean’s general direction. This time, he didn’t duck, and it hit him squarely on his cheek. “Hey!”
“Boys,” Charles intervened. “Let’s not fight. Amusing as it is to picture Alex in an apron, we have more important matters to discuss.” An image flashed in everyone’s mind. It was of the blonde in the kitchen, furiously beating something in a mixing bowl, in a bright pink apron. Charles smirked, playful. “Oh my,” he teased. The image was gone in an instant, but the effect remained. Alex felt his cheeks heat up and thanked every god he could think of that Charles had taught him control over his mutation.
Alex jabbed with his pen at the paper: know where u all sleep. This was followed by three x’s. He assumed that they understood that those x’s were Sean, Charles, and Hank. Charles smirk, if anything, grew wider. “Those x’s are meant to represent our deaths,” he explained for Alex. “And…oh? He thinks he’d be able to get to Sean first, since you’re sharing a room. I would likely be next. Then, Hank.”
“Why am I last?” Hank grumbled. It was not something that many people would grumble about.
Charles said, “Alex thinks you should probably not complain about being killed last. Gives you time to make an escape.”
“Harumph,” Hank said.
An idea came. Training, Alex wrote next to the x’s on the paper, again holding it up like a sign for the others to see. He gestured between himself and Hank, looking to Charles to elaborate. The telepath did so, eyes brightening with every revealed word. “You think you could take over the training of the new students. Collaborate with Hank on technologies that would assist them.” He had started with summarizing Alex’s thoughts but gradually just started to repeat them as they flowed into his mind, like a ticker. “He says he knows he’s not qualified to teach any core subjects because he didn’t finish his degree - it was interrupted by his stint in prison - but he has a general understanding of physics and mechanics and some biology and can take over the training portion of the curriculum until he accumulates enough credits to graduate and then we can discuss adding some more classes to the curriculum if needed.”
“Dude, what?” Sean said intelligently. “Degree? I thought you were a high-school dropout!”
Alex looked at him like someone might look at a dog that had just had an accident on the family’s new rug. He didn’t even have to write or ask Charles to dig into his head for Sean to answer his unasked question, the displeasure was so apparent on his face.
“Sorry, man,” Sean began, looking cowed. “I just thought - you were in prison! Are you secretly a genius like Beast? Like, you were in college? What were you studying?”
Alex wrote PHYSICS on his notepad, below the rest of the writing.
“So your chest plate,” Hank said, effectively steering conversation away from Sean. “You understand how it works, right? I mean, down to the molecular level, you do. And I had thought I was explaining the mechanics of it to someone who had no interest! Well, Alex, this…well this doesn’t change much. But at least now I know we can collaborate on some projects together in the future. And I would be glad to organize training regimens with you. Only, how come we didn’t know about this, er, academic side of you before?”
“Nobody asked,” Charles said for him. Alex glanced up sharply, surprised that his words had come out of Charles’ mouth. “Apologies, Alex,” he continued smoothly. “I’ll not do that again without your permission.”
Thank you, he thought to the other man privately. They shared a look across the table, Charles breaking it first to say: “So I will provide instruction in the humanities, Hank in the sciences, Sean in the arts -“ (Sean interrupted, “in music, Charles.”) “-and Alex in the physical requirements and training of our youngsters.” He took a breath, tenting his fingers against one another on the desk. When he spoke again it was with a breathless kind of happiness and genuine excitement. “Fantastic. I’ll draw up the necessary papers, go through the necessary accreditations - gentlemen, this is really happening!”
They toasted with their cups of tea, the ceramics clinking against one another like the bells of a church tower.
//
Night fell, but the blood buzzed in Alex’s veins long after Sean’s ramblings evened out into mumblings and then into a deep, metrical breathing as he lay on the bed opposite. Alex folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. There were no cracks that he could count, just a smooth whiteness that looked blue in the twilight. He wondered if perhaps all those times Charles had helped him drift off to sleep had tinkered with his natural rhythms, and that was why he was feeling so restless. Maybe he would find refuge in the study, read until his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore.
Resolved, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood swiftly, searching through the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed for a sweater. It was strange, he thought, how quickly old habits returned; in prison everything had been pristine and orderly - mandatory room checks were a daily ritual - and yet as soon as he had settled in the mansion, his room had become the ordered chaos of his dorm room in college. Piles of clothes, stacks of books, random papers. All kept within his half of the room. And to make matters worse, despite his laid-back demeanor, there was not a thing out of place on Sean’s side of the room. Finally, Alex located a sweater near the bottom of the pile and pulled that on over his thin shirt, padding over to the door and slipping out into the hallway.
He winced when his first step creaked loudly, but no one seemed to be awake to hear it. Hank was likely snoring away at a lab bench or in the bunker, lost in his latest invention. And Charles’ room was on the first floor, next to his study. The steps, at least, did not creak as he tip-toed his way down them, hissing when his bare feet touched the cold hardwood on the first floor. Should have put on socks. The study was carpeted, though, and had a fire place besides. He crept his way over to the room, hesitating when he saw that the door was slightly ajar.
Charles was there, still, sitting behind his desk, not noticing or choosing to ignore the door as Alex pushed it open. He was writing something furiously, his other hand with a fistful of hair at his temple. Alex shut the door with a soft click behind him, and Charles looked up, mouth slightly open.
Alex’s lips formed the word ‘sorry.’ Charles blinked once, then seemed to regain himself. “Alex,” he breathed. “It’s all right. It’s just - well, I am not often caught unawares. You surprised me. What are you doing up at this hour?”
There was a fire crackling opposite Charles, and a piece of kindling popped as Alex tried to form an answer. Finally, he pointed at his own temple, inviting Charles in. It felt a bit like he was opening a window and calling out to someone in the front yard. Couldn’t sleep, he thought. Wanted to read.
Charles’ mouth pressed into a firm, grim line. “I knew there would be consequences to my tampering with your sleep patterns,” he said. “You are welcome to read. I have a fantastic section on the natural sciences that you might enjoy.”
Alex gave him a look that he hoped was neutral. Obviously, it was not, judging by the way Charles ducked his head, sheepish. “I’m sorry. I just assumed - well, there are other sections. Please don’t feel that you must read something pertaining to physics.”
Charles smiled - it was more of a tic in his lips - and went back to his furious writing. Instead of browsing the shelves, Alex found himself walking towards the desk, interested. What’s that? he thought loudly.
“Papers. Seals. Property laws. There is a mountain of paperwork involved in opening a private school, do you know? If I didn’t have to deal with bureaucracy I could have opened the school weeks ago.” There was a crease in Charles’ forehead and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Something frantic in his features, something lost.
Alex tapped his fingers on the desk so that Charles would stop and look up at him. He did. You’re tired, he hazarded, feeling a little out of place but growing bolder and more secure when Charles let him continue. You should get some rest. Rome was not built in a day, and stuff. The school won’t be built in a day, either, but it’ll happen.
Charles said, “I’m not tired. Whatever gave you that idea?”
In response Alex plucked the pen out of Charles’ hand and found a blank, scrap sheet of paper. He drew two huge ‘u’s next to each other and then held up the sheet to his own face, right under his eyes. He pointed at them. Bags under eyes.
Charles’ bark of laughter startled him, the sheet of paper in his hands jumping. “I suppose that’s how I look,” he said with a grin. Alex grinned back, letting the paper fall onto the desk. “All right,” Charles acceded. “I’m a little tired. I’ll just finish this form and call it a night.” After a pause, he continued: “Would you like to stay?”
Alex nodded and pointed at the fire place.
“It’s warm?” Charles guessed.
Alex butterflied his hands open, miming opening a book.
“You’re going to read by the fireplace?”
Alex nodded.
“You know, I think we would make a pretty good charades team.” This was followed by a chuckle. Alex rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. Fine. Finish my work. Sleep. All right.”
Alex ended up finding The Lost World tucked into a shelf corner, well-thumbed with the front cover nearly indecipherable. He had been reading it before the accident that landed him in the big house, and thought that now was a good a time as ever to pick up where he had left off. The heat of the fire was warm against his right side as he read, curled into the soft, leather armchair in front of the mantle.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s fictional crew had just discovered the natives living on the plateau when Charles very pointedly placed his pen onto the table and folded his hands together on the surface. “Finished,” he announced, like a schoolboy taking an exam. Alex dog-eared the page he was reading and put the book in his lap, letting himself have a nice, full-body stretch in the chair. He was sleepy.
The telepath wheeled himself away from his desk, expertly maneuvering so that he had come around to the front. “Now look who’s tired,” he said wryly. “You should be getting to bed as well.”
Alex waved his concern away, standing and walking to Charles until he was behind the chair. “You don’t have to, Alex. I’m perfectly capable of making it to my own room, next door.”
Alex again waved away the concern, taking the handles and pushing.
It was a short walk, but worth it to see the inside of Charles’ room. It was a room full of memories and pictures and ghosts. Raven’s face was on his dresser. Chess pieces decorated the nightstand. More bookshelves lined the walls. But Charles said ‘good night’ and looked at him with tired eyes and Alex thought that maybe the ghosts were stronger than the memories and the pictures. Because Charles was tired, but the atmosphere of the room was dense and stifling, like a thundercloud, and he seemed so incredibly sad as well.
//
Even though he hadn’t made it back to his bed until the middle of the night, Alex woke with the sun, the light slanting through a slit in the curtains sharp and hot against his face. Sean was still asleep. It was Sunday, after all, so he let him slumber.
The muscles in his legs felt heavy and soft. He realized with sudden clarity that it had been a week since he had been able to take a jog around the grounds. When he went downstairs, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and alternately stretching his arms, his running shoes making soft sounds against the floor, he saw that Charles’ door was still shut and nodded to himself, satisfied that the telepath was still sleeping. It was just past seven in the morning.
He exited through the door in the kitchen, and the morning air was brisk even through the layers he had shrugged on. He bounced a few times on his toes before starting with a light jog. Running was a relief; it always had been. The feeling he got after a good hard run, exhausted down to his bones and malleable, certainly unable to muster the energy to let loose any plasma, was peace. He passed by the gardens in front of the mansion, feet crunching the gravel, and then rounded the corner again to escape into the woods behind the property. A fog hung over the trees, but it was quickly breaking, disappearing in the warm light of the sun. His breath whitened in front of him. He liked running to a rhythm - two steps to breathe out, two steps to breathe in. Sometimes, he counted his breaths. This time, his mind wandered back to the telepath still asleep inside the mansion.
In the weeks after Charles had returned from the hospital, claiming that all he really wanted was a decent cup of tea, he had presented the idea of a school before anyone could ask how he was doing, was he recovering, was it strange to be confined to the chair during the day? It had been a good distraction, one that everyone needed, Alex thought then, but now he wasn’t so sure. Charles was running himself into the ground. Unable to train with them physically - not outdoors, anyway, though Charles still frequently used the small gym on the first floor - the telepath had spent most of his time hunched over the papers on his desk, making hurried phone calls, seeking legal counsel. It was taking its toll on the academic, Alex could tell, not just by the bags under his eyes, but by the cadence of his speech and his near-constant apologies. Alex thought of the chess pieces littering Charles’ nightstand.
Maybe the school had been a distraction at first from the chair, but it had turned into something greater. A reply to Erik’s leaving, a promise, an assurance that there could be a way of peace, and Charles was going to find it. He wanted Erik to return, Alex realized sadly, after Charles had proved him wrong.
He stepped hard on an ugly root that had grown into the seldom-used path and cursed, more surprised than hurt by the awkward twist it had caused on his ankle. His breath came in short spurts, and he paused, carefully putting weight on his heel and finding no lasting pain. Looking around, he found the area unfamiliar to him; he must have taken a turn in the path without realizing it. The path ahead was a mystery, and he felt a pull in his gut to follow it, to see where it led, but the sun was inching higher into the sky, and the fog had completely vanished, now, so he turned and ran back from where he came.
//
Being silent for the past few days has made him startlingly observant. Technically, he could speak now, if he really wanted to, but his voice was barely even a whisper, and it really wasn’t worth all of the repeating and leaning in close to people’s ears to get his words across. Plus, it was still kind of painful to use his throat. He’d much rather jot a thought down on the notepad or have Charles act as messenger. After his small-scale intervention in the study, Charles had made a visible effort not to spend so much time hunched over his desk and even suggested that they all get out of the mansion for the afternoon. Have a meal at the country club, or visit a museum.
Hank mumbled something about needing to find a less corrosive material for Alex’s suit, since last time the chest plate had basically burned a hole right through the fabric, at Charles’ suggestion of venturing off the grounds. But, Alex saw how Hank’s shoulders first stiffened and then sagged, how he stared down into the bottom of his nearly-empty cereal bowl, how tightly he gripped the spoon in his hand. His first instinct was to call Hank out on the lie, to make him admit that he wasn’t actually busy but that he didn’t want to leave the safe obscurity of the mansion, didn’t want to be seen by others, big and blue.
Another thing about medically-induced silence - it was teaching Alex how to hold his tongue. Charles thought to him privately as Sean scarfed down the last of the pancakes, words echoing pleasantly, This, too, will take time.
Alex nodded, scribbled something onto his notepad. He held it up for Hank to see, who blinked confusedly at the gesture. He had written: NEED ANYTHING FROM OUTSIDE?
“Uh,” Hank said, adjusting his glasses with the hand that still held the spoon. He ended up hitting himself in the face with it. “Well. Maybe some shirts, if you all go shopping? Mine don’t fit me anymore, and I feel that I can only get away with wearing the lab coat for so long…” He drifted off, uncertain.
Alex made an exaggerated ‘A-Okay’ sign with his fingers while Sean said around a mouthful of food, “We’ll get you some shirts, Hank, big guy. You think you’d wear an extra-extra large now?”
Alex snapped his fingers, calling attention back to him; it was a habit he was going to have to break once his voice was back completely. He mimed a collar around his neck like those fancy shirts that Hank seemed to like.
“Collared shirts in the biggest size they have would be great, thanks.” A smile curled onto Hank’s lips, foreign but contagious. Alex hadn’t seen him smile in a long time.
“So we’ll do some shopping around town, pick up supplies and groceries and things of that nature, and have a meal together upon returning,” Charles summarized, and Alex could just imagine him saying something similar to a class full of young mutants. “I’ll call the car around. It usually takes about half an hour to pull up. We can leave then.” His eyes were bright and full of possibilities.
//
They ended up on some fancy street in Rye, where the sidewalks were bricked and the buildings all seemed to follow some outward appearance code of frosty and regal. Charles claimed his favorite tailor was just down the block from where the car dropped them off, the driver promising to return in exactly two hours, and they hadn’t meant to split up, but Sean’s eye caught an upscale second-hand record store and his excitement was so palpable that Charles waved him away, amused. “Two hours, Sean,” he called after him. Then it was just he and Alex. “Looks like it’s you and me,” Charles quipped unnecessarily, looking up at the blonde with something approaching mischief.
Why are you looking at me like that, Alex thought flatly.
“You wouldn’t know it,” Charles answered aloud for him, “but I am quite the shopping fiend, or so I’ve been told. And you have the great and fulfilling task of being my, ah, personal chauffeur, as it were.” That might have been blush rising on Charles’ cheeks. Alex searched him for any indication that being out in public in a wheelchair was embarrassing, or difficult, or awkward, or hateful. He found none. Charles was not coloring because the chair made him uncomfortable - no, that was all Alex. “You and your leather jacket,” he continued, seeming to sense Alex’s line of thought. “People are going to think that you’ve been assigned to community service when they see us.”
Alex shrugged. So? He didn’t care. People would think that they wanted to think. That was kind of the pattern in his life. At least you know you’re not a charity case. Where to?
“Perhaps we should pick up Hank’s shirts before we forget.”
He nodded, agreeing. He wheeled Charles into a shop that looked far to sparse to be making any profit, pale shirts and dark trousers draped stylistically over wooden shelves and railings, except that he looked at the price tag on one of the delicately hanging shirts and nearly suffered heart palpitations at the number he saw there. Well, Charles was buying.
And, yeah, he was buying.
It started with three shirts for Hank in that first store, then a dark silk tie that Charles thought Hank would like in the next, and then a beanie hat that the telepath insisted was softer than rabbit’s fur that Sean would just adore, and then apparently Charles was of the mind that Alex would probably need a slightly more professional wardrobe now that he was going to be a responsible adult and all in front of youngsters, so he bought him a wardrobe.
That is, he invested in two dress-shirts, a tie, a pair of slacks and a pair of more casual pants, and a blazer. “I’m not buying these things for you, Alex,” Charles insisted as he fished out the crisp bills - Alex wondered when he was going to start flourishing his checkbook. “I’m investing in one of my teachers. You will pay me back with your work. Also, those pants look absolutely fabulous on you.”
I can’t exactly run in these pants, Alex thought glumly. Or lift weights. Privately, he vowed never to wear them. He was a denim and leather sort of guy, and always had been. The gifting of clothing seemed to be more for Charles’ benefit than for anyone else’s though, so he let it slide.
“Pish posh,” Charles said to the bewildered salesperson, who blinked owlishly for a moment before slapping on a smile, choosing wisely to ignore the seemingly one-sided conversation to bask in the glory of a commissioned sale.
Some of the bags Charles carried in his lap, but even with that Alex was soon laden with paper shopping bags. Their next shop was a book shop, and it was like seeing the sun for the first time, the way Charles brightened as soon as they entered. “Park me in front of the Biology section,” Charles ordered graciously, so Alex did, and managed not to bristle when Charles released him from duty with a regal wave of his hand. “Please, look around. Leave an old man to his books. You must be tired of me by now, anyway.”
Whatever, he thought. Let me know if you need anything from the top shelf. And then he wandered off, quickly losing himself amongst the stacks. It smelled of old paper and dust and coffee. The store was narrow and long, extending well into the building and probably reaching through to the other side. Most of the books were kept in order on the shelves by author or publisher, Alex found, but there were some display tables around that seemed to have books stacked upon them at random. He found Dracula in the same pile as Nietzsche’s The Will to Power. Plath’s The Bell Jar was buried under a pile of children’s picture books. Except for the children’s books, the store reminded him of his college’s library, how the silence seemed to echo inside the walls, the hush of papers being thumbed and turned, and the whispered conversations. He recognized the feeling welling up inside of him but didn’t want to acknowledge it. His heart thumped painfully slowly, it seemed, as he thought about how close he had been to graduating.
But then, as soon as he was able to exhale and expel the sense of regret, he realized it was not his own. Charles? he thought immediately. There was no answer save for a steady click, click that seemed to filter into his mind. He placed The Bell Jar back on top of the pile of books and made his way back to the Biology section, only to find it absent of the professor. Slowly, he searched through the long and narrow stacks of the store until he was quite certain that he had seen all of it, until he turned the corner and found a hidden nook labeled ‘Mechanics’ in which Charles sat, unmoving with his back to the rest of the store, eyes fixed on the thing that was making the clicking noise in front of him.
“Charles,” Alex tried to say, his throat managing to form a whisper of the name. It hurt, though, the way nails on a chalkboard grated against the ears; that was all the talking he would be doing today.
When Charles turned Alex could see the thing that had held his attention so completely. It was a perpetual-motion toy, the one that was a line of silver spheres hanging in balance until someone pinched one or two away and let it swing, and then it would swing and swing and swing, some weak test of the combination of inertia and momentum and the conservation of energy. It went click, click, click, like heels against a tiled floor. “Oh, hello Alex,” he said innocently.
How long had Charles been watching that toy? Had he been thinking of Erik? Alex thought he had been thinking of Erik. It made him simultaneously angry (like he wanted to rip one of the nearby books or bookshelves in half) and sad (which in itself was a surprise, because Alex had long ago broken down and transmuted feelings of sadness into feelings of anger). He wanted to ask Charles what he was thinking but also didn’t want to know the answer. In the end, he took a great breath and walked forward, hand outstretched, stilling the sphere against its brethren. The clicking noise stopped. The sound was making my head hurt, he thought to Charles. He wondered if lies felt different than truths in Charles’ mind.
Charles’ face betrayed nothing. “Hm,” he said benignly. “I think I’ve had enough shopping for today.”
Yeah, Alex stoically agreed. Me, too.
//
He found him later in the study, after Hank had accepted the shirts graciously and Sean had pulled the beanie hat over his ears and dinner had been served, eaten, dishes piled away in the cupboards. He sat motionless, staring again, only this time there was no toy in front of him, only his desk and papers and a pen clutched in his fingers like an afterthought. Alex knocked on the door; the hinges whined against the pressure and he winced as the noise brought Charles out of his daze. It was the second time that day he had caught the professor unaware. He didn’t have to guess what Charles had been thinking about, this time, only wondered why he had been thinking about him, about Erik. It was like Charles was slowly slipping through all their fingers, like water through cracks. This had gone on long enough.
“Alex,” the older man breathed, voice thin. “What are you doing here?”
I wanted to talk to you.
Charles’ lips quirked in response. “Talk?” he quipped, unable to resist.
Alex narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, a universal sort of expression that roughly meant, I’m serious don’t mess with me right now I will end you. Sufficiently humbled by the expression, Charles beckoned him into the room.
Once he was in the room, though, he didn’t know where to start, what to say. After a moment of silence from both mutants, Alex let his mind open and flow, uninhibited and almost rambling. He began with You’re sad, and the statement caused Charles to sit up, sit back, and blink. He continued with You’re so sad and you think that no one can see it. But when he left you threw yourself into this cause, this school, into this work, so you could forget about your sadness or maybe you put it on a shelf or something, except you can’t do that with feelings like that, like sadness. They eat you right up. I know, Charles. I let myself be angry for a very long time; I thought I could keep it inside me, too. Then one day it came out, and I went to prison for it. You miss him. You miss Erik.
If he had been talking Alex was sure he would have been out of breath. As it was, he only felt a bit piqued and like he wasn’t sure how to close off his mind again. Charles’ unnerving stare was not helping matters.
“No,” he rebutted gently. “I miss the chess games and his wit. I miss his energy. His intelligence. His drive.” He shook his head while saying this, as though to confirm his words, but Alex noticed how the grip on his pen tightened, turning his knuckles white.
You miss him, Alex insisted. And it’s okay that you do. I miss him, too. You’re mostly sad about it and I’m mostly angry about it, but what it comes down to is that he’s gone, and Raven’s gone even if she phones sometimes, and you - we - need to come to terms to that.
For one panicked moment Alex thought that he might have gone too far, pushed a little too hard, broken the professor like those toy cars he used to play with in the foster home. Charles had frozen, expression hunted. Alex blinked surprise in the realization that he was leaning over the desk on his hands; he hadn’t been aware that he had walked so deep into the room.
Finally, Charles laid the pen flat on the desk slowly, deliberately. “You think it’s easy?” he said, his voice low, bright blue eyes trained on Alex’s own. “I wish it were so simple. But there is so much to do. So much to take care of. You and the other young mutants - you were just the beginning, the tip of the iceberg. So many people need my help. I can’t stop to deal with Erik - or his absence. We are moving forward. This is a huge step, Alex, and if I pause - “
It was too much for one man to handle. Alex imagine the iceberg of mutants that Charles was referring to, and his mind, irrationally, conjured up the image of the Titanic. If Charles thought he was going to save the entire ship single-handedly, he had another thing coming. Alex had no intention of letting the man be a martyr. If only he could get a word in, if only the man’s lips would -
A surge of confidence brought him forward onto his toes until Alex was tipped onto the desk completely, pressing his lips into Charles’ dry, soft ones, wide-eyed shock on both of their faces. Never one to pull punches, so to speak, Alex pressed on, insistent but gentle, back starting to strain from bending over the desk but worth it when Charles closed his eyes and kissed back. You can pause, Alex thought to him. Sometimes you have to look back to remember why you are moving forward, he continued, ironically seemingly unable to pause his own thoughts.
Charles pulled back suddenly, ending the kiss, and Alex nearly pitched forward but caught himself on his elbows. “I don’t know that I can,” the telepath admitted, something like guilt in his eyes. “I’ll look back and I’ll be trapped there.”
The blonde shook his head. “No,” he whispered, voice caught in his throat. It felt less like sandpaper today, at least. You won’t. We’ll help you back. I’ll help you back. I’ll drag you back it I have to. Call him, write him. Make amends, get out of this limbo that you’re in, and then move on.
“Alex, I don’t trust myself enough at this point to do that.”
He recognized the tone of voice as one of resignation. Maybe Charles knew he wasn’t going to stop to Titanic from going down (briefly, Alex wondered how long he could keep up the metaphor - he never was one for literature devices), but he could sure use a lifeboat. And that, Alex could deal with. I’m not asking you to trust yourself. I’m asking you to trust us. To trust me. You can do that.
Alex couldn’t be sure what the professor thought about that - he stared at the younger man with something like surprise and wonder and gratitude, and maybe a little lust. Alex thought, yeah, that was all right. Let him stare. And then Charles leaned forward and kissed him. That was a good enough answer, for now.
//
The next morning Alex went for a run. He took the unfamiliar turn in the path, and then followed it to the end.
Fin.