ficlet february 10: write about a postcard
This was on the original list of seven stories I wanted to write the first time I walked out of DoFP. This is only the start of what I really wanted to get at, and I might return to it some day--who knows!
***
Ficlet February 10: "write about a postcard"
The postcard comes with a pile of junk mail and bills, deposited on Charles' desk some time between his early meeting with the state education officials and his lunch call with a potential faculty member. He shifts through the pile idly while he's on hold, a teacup in his other hand, and when he sees the postcard, his heart stops.
He flips it over at the same moment the call connects, leaving him to swallow his sigh of disappointment in a cheerful hello and bland pleasantries.
The postcard was not from Erik, who has been sending him vague and unnecessarily cryptic postcards in a possible bid for forgiveness that Charles isn't sure he's going to grant.
(That's a lie and he knows it even as he asks after the children of his potential new hire. He will always forgive Erik. That doesn't mean he'll ever stop being sick of his nonsense and infuriated.)
Charles isn't sure who actually sent it--he hasn't looked any closer yet and won't let himself until the call is complete--but it's not Erik. He's both relieved and disappointed and angry he's disappointed and sad that he's angry. It's all a little much this early in the day, and Charles redoubles his efforts to focus on the call and put Erik and all of the complicated feelings he inspires aside. He tosses a newspaper over the postcard and devotes himself to the phone conversation.
As the call is wrapping up, Hank comes in with a list of needed repairs and Alex appears with a grocery list and Charles does honestly forget about the postcard until it's nearly dinner time and he's rolling hastily back into his office to fetch the paper so he can show Hank something he read earlier.
There's the postcard, still sitting on the pile of mail. It's a standard issue white rectangle from the post office--no picturesque town or city skyline on the other side. He places the newspaper off to the side and picks it up again, giving it a closer examination than he did earlier when he discarded it as soon as he saw the handwriting.
He reads it.
He puts it down quickly.
He picks it up and reads it again.
Dear Dr. Xavier,
You have no reason to speak with me, I know, given how our last encounter ended. That being acknowledged, I find myself with endless time on my hands, endless ideas, and and no outlet. I have been wanting to speak with you since I read your brilliant doctoral thesis on genetic mutation, and I'm disappointed I did not have a chance to talk with you during the events of last January.
I am being transferred to New York and I have put your name on my approved visitor list. If you would like to visit, I would appreciate the chance to discuss our shared research interests.
Sincerely,
Dr. Bolivar Trask
Charles puts the postcard down again and pinches the bridge of his nose. At least if it had been from Erik, he would have had a frame of reference for what he's supposed to be feeling.
He looks at the words again and sees, now, the "approved" stamp from the penitentiary. Bolivar Trask tried to capture and kill his sister, created giant robots to capture and kill his fellow mutants. Trask was nearly, in his way, responsible for the bleak future they--hopefully--prevented, and while Charles fought hard to keep Raven from murdering him, he can't say he's ready to sit down to tea with the man.
And yet.
He was a genius. Is a genius. And he has, perhaps, done the most research into mutant genetics outside of Charles himself. In their brief encounters, he never seemed cruel or violent, despite his desire for mutant extermination, and something about all of that mixed together into one complicated man makes Charles...curious.
Hank wouldn't stand for it. Raven would disown him again. And Erik, of course, would bring heaven and earth down around them in his rage if he were to find out.
Charles retrieves the newspaper again, and heads off to show Hank the article to which he was referring earlier.
Still, he doesn't throw the card away. He tucks it into his desk before he goes, and he doesn't put Trask out of his mind.
*
ficlet february!
Get some sleep
Five minutes away
Faint recognition
Half an hour before sunrise
Useless, but beautiful
Something’s broken
Surprise celebration
There were signs and signals
Rituals
Write about a postcard
What are you looking for?
You remind me of someone
A meeting, a beginning
Lasting impression
Long drive
Behind closed doors
Ask questions later
Six impossible things
Day off
Lost in a city
A door key
A late night phone call
Someone else’s mortification
Something from music
Something from a picture
***
Ficlet February 10: "write about a postcard"
The postcard comes with a pile of junk mail and bills, deposited on Charles' desk some time between his early meeting with the state education officials and his lunch call with a potential faculty member. He shifts through the pile idly while he's on hold, a teacup in his other hand, and when he sees the postcard, his heart stops.
He flips it over at the same moment the call connects, leaving him to swallow his sigh of disappointment in a cheerful hello and bland pleasantries.
The postcard was not from Erik, who has been sending him vague and unnecessarily cryptic postcards in a possible bid for forgiveness that Charles isn't sure he's going to grant.
(That's a lie and he knows it even as he asks after the children of his potential new hire. He will always forgive Erik. That doesn't mean he'll ever stop being sick of his nonsense and infuriated.)
Charles isn't sure who actually sent it--he hasn't looked any closer yet and won't let himself until the call is complete--but it's not Erik. He's both relieved and disappointed and angry he's disappointed and sad that he's angry. It's all a little much this early in the day, and Charles redoubles his efforts to focus on the call and put Erik and all of the complicated feelings he inspires aside. He tosses a newspaper over the postcard and devotes himself to the phone conversation.
As the call is wrapping up, Hank comes in with a list of needed repairs and Alex appears with a grocery list and Charles does honestly forget about the postcard until it's nearly dinner time and he's rolling hastily back into his office to fetch the paper so he can show Hank something he read earlier.
There's the postcard, still sitting on the pile of mail. It's a standard issue white rectangle from the post office--no picturesque town or city skyline on the other side. He places the newspaper off to the side and picks it up again, giving it a closer examination than he did earlier when he discarded it as soon as he saw the handwriting.
He reads it.
He puts it down quickly.
He picks it up and reads it again.
Dear Dr. Xavier,
You have no reason to speak with me, I know, given how our last encounter ended. That being acknowledged, I find myself with endless time on my hands, endless ideas, and and no outlet. I have been wanting to speak with you since I read your brilliant doctoral thesis on genetic mutation, and I'm disappointed I did not have a chance to talk with you during the events of last January.
I am being transferred to New York and I have put your name on my approved visitor list. If you would like to visit, I would appreciate the chance to discuss our shared research interests.
Sincerely,
Dr. Bolivar Trask
Charles puts the postcard down again and pinches the bridge of his nose. At least if it had been from Erik, he would have had a frame of reference for what he's supposed to be feeling.
He looks at the words again and sees, now, the "approved" stamp from the penitentiary. Bolivar Trask tried to capture and kill his sister, created giant robots to capture and kill his fellow mutants. Trask was nearly, in his way, responsible for the bleak future they--hopefully--prevented, and while Charles fought hard to keep Raven from murdering him, he can't say he's ready to sit down to tea with the man.
And yet.
He was a genius. Is a genius. And he has, perhaps, done the most research into mutant genetics outside of Charles himself. In their brief encounters, he never seemed cruel or violent, despite his desire for mutant extermination, and something about all of that mixed together into one complicated man makes Charles...curious.
Hank wouldn't stand for it. Raven would disown him again. And Erik, of course, would bring heaven and earth down around them in his rage if he were to find out.
Charles retrieves the newspaper again, and heads off to show Hank the article to which he was referring earlier.
Still, he doesn't throw the card away. He tucks it into his desk before he goes, and he doesn't put Trask out of his mind.
*
ficlet february!
Get some sleep
Five minutes away
Faint recognition
Half an hour before sunrise
Useless, but beautiful
Something’s broken
Surprise celebration
There were signs and signals
Rituals
Write about a postcard
What are you looking for?
You remind me of someone
A meeting, a beginning
Lasting impression
Long drive
Behind closed doors
Ask questions later
Six impossible things
Day off
Lost in a city
A door key
A late night phone call
Someone else’s mortification
Something from music
Something from a picture