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wickedwritingswickedgame · 5 years

Text

The Boiling Point

(drabble)

Trigger warning: mentions of abuse below

If one were looking for Charles Xavier they would find him in his room, combing over the things in his dresser. Tempers were high at the Xavier school tonight and patience especially thin. Charles himself gave in more than once before he’d finally excused himself.

A headache was building behind his eyes and he stopped what he was doing to massage his temples. Every night seemed to dusk the bubbling tension between himself and his family up a few more notches. It was all rather unnecessary, laughable even if he’d been anyone other than himself. Alas, Charles Xavier he was and with him came a staggering mountain of baggage. One open-faced encounter sent most running for the bloody hills—or at least a safe distance away. His family however had come right back and with them brought a series of solutions that essentially hog-tied him for the better part of a decade. He couldn’t be fixed, they decided and so stepped around the broken pieces, ensuring they wouldn’t cut anyone else.

Only one man saw him in a different light and it was that man Charles thought of now, particularly a conversation with him not too long ago. He’d come to Erik that day with a bruised arm and a broken heart, seeking comfort after having forcefully been injected with the very treatment he’d been trying to ween himself off (he didn’t need to suppress his powers Professor X wasn’t the monster everyone believes him to be...)

That day Erik suggested they walk away, start a life together apart from this place and the people in it. He hadn’t been able to make a decision at the time but with every day passed and each new conflict Charles found himself leaning further and further towards a breaking point.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts: Charles stilled but he didn’t look up. There was only one person he wanted to see in the doorway and that man harbored such affection for him even Charles’ stunted powers felt him coming. Only radio silence reverberated from the door now. Silence and the ever-present tension.

“Dad?” Came the careful voice of Charles’ adult son. Charles swallowed a sigh; his eyes opened but otherwise didn’t move.

“What do you what?” He murmured.

“I want to talk to you,” James answered. “You got a sec?”

He sounded tired, Charles notes. Tired and worried. Charles heard the door close, followed by encroaching footsteps. Surprise surprise, James expected a free schedule. Invisible fingers squeezed Charles’ heart; finally he turned around.

“Actually I’m b-busy right now,” Charles said and he cringed internally over how easily the stammer came out. It wasn’t so quick to escape around Erik.

“Oh yeah?” James questioned but that was all he said. For fleeting futile second Charles thought he might get away with continued solitude...until he felt the delicate brush of his son’s mind against his own. Charles stiffened.

“S-stop that,” he said, finally turning around. James Xavier stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, brow pinched over observing yellow eyes. He held up his hands when Charles snapped at him, withdrawing from his mind.

“Sorry,” Charles said, sighed really. Guilt prickled his heart: there was a time he’d have reacted very similarly to that sort of response to his powers. However, Charles could no longer use his powers easily and being probed by a functioning telepath felt...somewhat unfair. Unfair and invasive, he thought, watching the younger man carefully.

The urge to look away crept up on him--look away as he often did when uncomfortable—but he managed to ignore it. He kept his thoughts sparse however as James possessed a decent telepathic range: even without probing he might be able to detect Charles’ state of mind. That would do no one any good.

If James Xavier was at all tuned into his father he didn’t say. He shrugged, a more casual gesture but his eyes never left Charles’ face.

“It’s all good,” James told him. He stepped away from the door, fully entering the room. Charles couldn’t help himself: he stiffened again. No sooner did he than the younger man hesitated. Of course.

“Dad?” James asked. “Are we good or not?”

Charles hesitated. He saw the wariness slip back into his son’s face, watched his body language shift into an even less threatening position. Damn it all, they still saw him as the fragile sapling, the cracked and mushy eggshell, the trembling leaf on rocky winds and every other exaggerated metaphor in the book. It broke his heart a little bit. It also made him mad.

Had they not noticed any change for the better? Did a head held higher, a smile more frequent and almost entirely uninterrupted sentences mean nothing at all? No, Charles thought and this time he didn’t care about any and all possible eavesdropping. His family didn’t want him to change. To them he was damaged, helpless and unstable and above all incapable of thinking for himself.

Evidently James noticed the prolonged silence because he called out again, this time gentler and definitely a touch worried. Again Charles fought the temptation to duck his head and again he succeeded. Instead he chewed his lip before his features worked their way into a frown.

“What d-do you want, James?”

James closed the door. He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair.

“I’m worried about you,” he said. “And I know, I know I’m always worried about you but this is different I swear.”

Charles stopped chewing his lip, the soft and sore flesh still between his teeth. His stomach churned as he waited for an explaination.

“I know you’re thinking about leaving—and before you say anything, I didn’t have to read your mind. You uh, you project sometimes when you concentrate.”

Just like that, Charles’ anger took a back seat. He paled and his trembling heart sank into his stomach. Don’t, he told himself but it was hard, it was hard not to jump the first erratic thought-train pulling out of the station. He projected? How far? Shite, did everyone in this house already know he wanted to—

“Whoa whoa, hey—“ James winced, pinching one side of his head. “That’s, yeah that’s what I’m talkin’ about. It’s only loud enough for me to hear.”

Charles sincerely hoped James meant that because of his mutation, not because he monitored Charles like a hawk. James was a traveler by nature; before Erik’s return the boy spent half his time exploring the stars. Perhaps the one and only thing Charles missed about those days. That and his own naïveté.

“Alright,” said Charles finally. “So you know I-I want to leave...are you going to stop me?”

His fingers flexed and unfurled at his side, resisting the temptation to tug the hem of his shirt. Nervous habits did no good here. If he wanted even a small place to stand he needed to be stronger, or at least present himself that way. Think of Erik. Be like Erik. Erik wouldn’t be afraid of his own son...

James didn’t answer right away, not with words. A series of expressions washed over his face, everything from muddled to conflicted.

“Are you going to make me?” He asked quietly.

Charles’ stomach churned. It didn’t seem like he had a choice. That’s not all it sounds like...

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “D-don’t phrase it like that, don’t pin this on me, I won’t...”

Charles shook his head. Why, he thought. Why must it be this way?

“Dad?”

“What?” James’ yellow eyes widened and the lines in his face, however few there were, tightened. Damn it. Charles drew in a slow breath, then let it out again.

“I’m—” he tried again but cut himself off. Don’t apologize, Erik told him. He wasn’t to blame anymore.

“When you...s-say things like that it seems like you think this is all m-my fault,” Charles explained. His fingers twitched again, looking for an anchor against the building storm. He curled his hands into fists.

James said nothing. Charles took it as a sign to continue. (He hoped it was, otherwise his son was multitasking telepathically...)

“I-I’ve lived most of my life that way,” Charles said. “That...that’s a f-form of abuse, James...”

Erik might hold little love for the extended Xavier family but Charles was an Xavier too...didn’t he owe them a chance to understand? Understand, really? Isn’t it a little late for that?

The lines in his son’s face twisted and in place of wariness now he looked hurt. Genuinely hurt, as though he’d been dealt a critical blow to his character. Charles supposed he essentially had.

“Are you seriously accusing me of abuse? Me? I’m the one who pulled you out of there,” James said darkly and Charles realized it wasn’t hurt he was hearing but betrayal.

“Nobody here gets what you’ve been through better than me,” James went on. “I read your mind, remember? I’ve seen everything that’s happened to you.”

Yellow eyes met Charles’ blue ones. As if Charles somehow needed reminding of their first encounter. Fuck, why must everything be a fight? (Why indeed: wasn’t this what Erik tried to tell him before?) Despite his best efforts Charles wasn’t able to hold back his anxiety any longer: he uncurled one hand and brought it up, biting hard on his index finger. I hate myself. I hate this.

James evidently also needed a moment: he loed away, rubbing his neck. A muscle pulsed beside his jaw—once, twice—and vanished in a heavy sigh.

“I didn’t come here to upset you,” he said, turning back to Charles. Charles chewed on his knuckle. He believed that much, that James meant no harm by what he said. The boy was many things but a willing antagonist did not fit his character. What is it they say? The road to heartache is paved with good intentions? Something like that...

This time it seemed the younger telepath waited for Charles to speak: he stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing now and then towards the door. Or was it away that he looked, waiting for Charles to collect himself? The elder and stunted telepath flushed. He took his hand out of his mouth.

“I...I understand your concerns,” he murmured. “I do, honestly...b-but they’re stuck in the past. Erik hasn’t hurt me once s-since his return and he isn’t g-going to in the future. You’re a telepath, surely you can see that.”

He was fidgeting again, but at least he’d finally said it. If James were going to make a point of bringing up his powers he ought to be reminded of their full scope. Indeed, James’ mouth twinged and twitched like he wanted to say something but knew there might be consequences. Instead he crossed his arms. “That’s not the point...”

“Then what is the p-point?” Charles asked. He tugged at the hem of his pullover. If only he could talk to James as easily as he did with Erik...but that was part of the problem, wasn’t it.

“James?” Charles ventured when the other man didn’t answer. He still looked like he wanted to but—

“We’re your family,” James blurted. He removed one hand from his pocket, thumping his chest. “Me, mom and Em—hell you have grandkids now, dad. Why...why isn’t that enough?”

“I...” Charles started but he trailed off. His heart throbbed and squirmed as guilt and loyalty and obligation tried to grab for it. Think of Erik, he told himself again. He’d do anything for Erik. He loved Erik. He wanted to be with Erik...no matter the cost.

“I’m not happy here,” Charles confessed. “Nobody trusts me, nobody listens to me a-and Hank is cruel to me, James, he’s been c-cruel for years—”

“You never told me that—”

“I tried!” Charles cried, gesturing to James with his free hand. “You—all of you, you don’t listen, you just...it s-seems like you think I’m the p-problem. I’m not,” he said, searching his son’s face. Once again, James was slow to answer. When he did, his words were shaky on his tongue.

“I never thought of you as a problem. I was relieved when I found out you weren’t the monster everyone made you out to be.”

Charles gave him a look—a pained, disappointed look. “You don’t b-believe I can be fixed. That’s the same thing.”

They parted ways shortly after that. James mentioned something about having to share their conversation with Raven to which Charles curtly wished him well. Once alone he limped over to the bed, collapsing with his hands clasped over his mouth.

That was it then: if his son—his only bloody telepathic child—couldn’t understand him, kept twisting his words and his heart into suffocating knots—what hope was there anyone else would listen? Fuck, he hoped Raven wouldn’t confront Hank. No no please don’t tell Hank what I said—

Charles whimpered: his belly jumped and his chest convulsed. He should be proud of himself, he knew that and he knew Erik would tell him the same. He’d finally stood up for himself, something he hadn’t done in...shite, he couldn’t remember. Sadly (sickeningly) it didn’t seem to matter right now: if James talked to Raven and Raven told Hank then word would spread and they’d all gang up on him and it hurt so fucking much how badly that frightened him. They were supposed to be different. He thought they were. You stupid old fool. You never learn.

Charles dropped his arms: he doubled over, catching his head in his hands.

“I want to leave,” he croaked. He’d never said it aloud before. “I want to leave, I want t-to leave this place...”

#xmwg #xmen wicked game #james xavier #charles xavier #cherik #v: second chances #ship: cherik #wgcharles #jamesxavierprime #tw: abuse #wickedwritings

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