A/N: I don't know why I'm taking so long posting chapters... Sorry guys!
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Chapter 6: Jealousy
Cold bit angrily at his exposed arms and legs. He'd been stupid to storm out in nothing but an undershirt and his slacks. They rode low on him without the aid of a belt, the hollow of his hips peeking between the hem of his shirt and pants. Striding out, shoelaces flying around his feet untied, Charles made it all the way to the edge of the cliff. He stared down at the churning waves, lapping at the docks and jutting rocks with a sinister hunger. Splayed out around him like a vast, translucent canvas the velvety night sky played silent witness to Juniper's sleeping countenance rising up behind his solitary form.
Burying his face in his hands Charles took a deep breath, the salty crispness of the sea air mixing with the faintness of Logan's scent still clinging to his fingers. Holding them away, he let the wind thread in between them, continuing up to wrap his entire body in an icy sheet.
The hollow moan of the wind was cored by a shrill, whistling cry. Cocking his head, Charles listened hard. It became louder, more distinct like some surreal instrument. Turning, he scanned the ground, eyes eventually climbing the walls up Juniper to catch a wisp of red at the top of a tower. Silhouetted against the silvery blackness of the sky was a stark head of ginger hair. Then a pale arm shot up and waved down at him. Resting a finger against his temple, Charles sent very clearly, Sean? Is that you?
Whoa, came the reply, That tickles!
Up in the crow's nest, a cylindrical room entirely of glass, Charles sat with his back against the wall nursing a cup of steaming hot Irish Cocoa while Sean sipped from his own virgin hot chocolate. Alex, who had joined them after Sean radioed down, was sticking his fingers one by one into his drink before sucking the chocolaty liquid off with a soft slurping noise. Charles watched this for a few minutes before asking politely, "Is this a Juniper tradition I'm not aware of?"
Sean snorted, kicking Alex's foot as the blond blushed. "It's too hot to drink," he mumbled. "And my fingers are freezing, man."
Looking down at his cup meditatively, Charles dipped his own finger in the hot liquid, humming appreciatively at the warmth that spread through the digit before popping it in his mouth. "I see," he agreed jovially, dipping another finger in. They continued this way, Sean even joining them in their habit. This was the scene Darwin walked in on: the three of them with cocoa dripping off their fingers, Sean guiltily sitting with three fingers shoved in his mouth.
"I don't want to know," Darwin assured them quickly, holding up a hand.
After a brief effort to convince him that their way of enjoying a hot beverage was less of a grossly unhygienic practice and more of a practical tactic, Darwin asked Charles about Sinister.
"Will he be returning soon?" He stirred the whiskey into his cocoa with his pinky before giving it an experimental lick. "I ran into Hank earlier and he seems to think that Sinister's milking the situation for all that its worth."
"Yeah, and he's eating all the pudding," Alex reminded him pointedly.
Cutting off a chuckle when he realized that Alex was being quite serious, Charles cleared his throat diplomatically and thought for a moment. "Soon, I believe. But not to stay there if I can help it," he added carefully. Three sets of eyes waited for an explanation and Charles took a deep breath before telling them about the library.
"With Sinister as the librarian," Darwin mused. "You know, I think that'd be great. And he could have help, maybe from the better behaved inmates."
"Like a reward system?" asked Alex.
"We don't have one," Sean cited, looking forlornly on as Charles poured a little more whiskey into his cocoa. He couldn't drink on the job obviously and had been jealously observing them guzzle down Irish whiskey brought by Louise from the mainland. "That never made much sense to me. Human prisons do it."
Alex looked dubious. "Don't you think that'd be dangerous?"
"I'll be addressing that concern tomorrow," Charles said, reading the label of the whiskey. Good brand. "Hank and I are going to start trials for a more effective sedative." He noticed the silence and looked up. They were staring at him like he'd grown not only an extra head but horns and a bunny tail. "You object?"
"Look," Sean started, and then stopped as his face seemed to get stuck in an expression of confusion.
Alex scratched the back of his head. "Hank's a good guy. Really smart. A good doctor, but..." He too petered off and looked at Darwin.
"If Hank wasn't such a caring person he'd be a mad scientist," Darwin affirmed. "So it's kind of disconcerting- "
"Coughcrazycough", Sean supplied elegantly.
"-that you'd put yourself willingly into his hands."
Pausing to take a liberal gulp of his much stronger hot chocolate, Charles crossed his legs. "It's a risk I need to take. Because of the lack of research and dependable subjects the sedatives for mutants with telepathic abilities has fallen seriously short. Do we really want Mojo to continue active possession of his powers?"
"No, you're right," Darwin consented, "and it'd be good to have something that would enable inmate participation in a project like the library."
"God be with you," Sean mumbled into his drink as Alex nodded morosely.
Grinning, feeling the slightest tease of a buzz on the fringes of his mind, Charles turned to Alex and asked, "How's Delilah the irreverent African Violet?"
Alex perked up immediately, even going so far as to set his mug down. "She's great! She's twice as big now"
"Creeps me out," Sean supplied disdainfully. "She has vines now. Pretty sure flowers shouldn't have vines."
Ignoring his roommate, Alex went on undaunted, "Her color's much richer and Louise even brought me a proper pot for her to sit in."
"And she gets her leaves polished every Wednesday and meets with the girls on Thursdays for a mix and mingle with the local bumble bees," Sean teased in a simpering voice, squawking as Alex placed a well-aimed punch on his shoulder.
"No wonder she doesn't like you," he grumbled darkly.
Darwin was laughing so hard he spilled cocoa down his front, cursing through the laughter as the mottled brown liquid seeped down the white cotton of his shirt. "Damn!" Smudging it helplessly, he gave up. "Well, don't forget the music I brought for her to listen to."
"I think she likes Nina Simone more than Frank Sinatra," Alex said solemnly.
Charles was quite sure the blond (who had brought the mugs and whiskey) had a lower alcohol tolerance than himself. He smiled secretly, reaching over to slip Alex's mug further away from him.
With his mug poised at his lips, Sean opened his mouth to make a smart comment when Darwin nudged the redhead's cup, cackling when Sean spluttered and coughed as he tried to drink the cocoa without spilling.
Easily holding Sean away as the gangly young man attempted to swat at him and spill his drink even more, Darwin looked at Charles with a smirk and asked, "So have you placed your bets yet?"
Alex chortled uncharacteristically, keeling over slightly to lie bonelessly against the wall. Charles abducted the guard's cup and hid it. Considering Alex's rather daunting ability, it wouldn't do to get him properly drunk. Returning his attention to Darwin, he shook his head. "Bets on...?"
"Whether or not the Captain and Wolverine are boinking," Sean announced, accompanying his comment with an explanatory hand movement.
"Ah, thank you for that clarification," Charles said dryly. His gut clenched unpleasantly when Logan's name came up. "And what is the basis for this betting pool?"
"U. S. T," Sean crowed with obvious delight as Darwin flicked him unceremoniously in the side of the head.
Alex leaned over to Charles and stage-whispered, "Unresolved sexual tension."
Charles had to bite his lip, meeting Alex's wobbly blue eyes with mock seriousness since the boy was looking at him so stoically. "Oh."
"You're his roommate," Darwin hinted conspiratorially, "Do you have any idea?"
"I could always just ask him," he said lightly, intending to do just that. Considering the level of involvement he had with the man's penis, Charles figured he had every right to pry.
"That's not as much fun as blindly guessing without any real proof," Sean pouted.
"Then I won't tell you," Charles tutted, grinning as Darwin laughed. It was then he realized that Alex had stolen his cup and downed the rest of his drink.
The rest of night carried on in the manner of a slumber party. During the spontaneous lulls in conversation when the four men were silent, reflective, Charles found himself hoping that it would never end. In all his life he'd only ever had one true friend. Mind shying around her name, he looked at each of his friends, committing them to memory. Sean's face was beet red as he laughed and laughed at a joke Alex fobbed, the blond glaring at him in a way that only accentuating the angular shape of his jaw. Darwin was more meditative, handsome and oddly graceful as he intervened as needed while Alex and Sean swatted at each other like toddlers. A tightening in his chest warned Charles that he best stop with the alcohol before he found himself voicing his sentimental thoughts. It was difficult though to stay silent as he was the happiest he had felt in a long, long time.
...
Early the next morning, before his appointment with Hank, Charles had decided to pay Mojo a visit down in solitary. After his conversation with Sinister, Charles realized the value of understanding the nuances of another telepath's abilities. And as Mojo's were still a mystery - and still a threat - Charles needed to interact with the inmate directly to glean any information that might assist Hank's research. Of course he'd have to do it subliminally given Mojo's uncooperative nature. A small part of him warned against any contact with Mojo at all, but the stubborn academic pushed him onwards. Sometimes successful research required a risk. If he and Hank wanted to achieve the most effective result in their experiments then meeting with the violent mutant was necessary.
When he saw the remodeled well sitting like a monstrous mouth in the middle of the room Charles felt a distinct shiver chase itself down his spine. The walls and floor of the circular room were stark white, but the well itself had a rim of gray-paint metal before the original stone spiraled down into dark. The guard accompanying him wouldn't come through the door, choosing instead to point out the platform elevator currently lowering from the ceiling. Climbing onto the platform when it was level, Charles observed bemusedly the lack of any railing. Chains connected to four parts of the wide metal circle that was only slightly smaller than the opening of the well.
"Hold on," was the extent of the warning he got as the mechanism roared to life and cranked him down into the abyss.
As he dropped, clinging to the center chain anchoring the others for balance, he sneezed in the shift of space. The air was opening into a colder atmosphere as the shaft of the well widened to a point that Charles couldn't see the walls anymore. All the feeble light shed into the shaft came in ghostly gray swaths from the distancing mouth of the vertical tunnel. Looking up uncertainly, Charles again found himself questioning his presence here. But this time there was no inner voice of assurance to quell his anxiety. Though it was too late to turn back now.
He'd been briefed on Mojo's environment in solitary. Light was removed to obstruct the vision he might use to target a guard. He was placed so far down below to put enough distance to ensure his abilities were as blind as his sight. Charles would be the only interaction Mojo would have since his banishment, as he was also the only one with an ability to properly handle Mojo at his most aggressive. And aggressive he would be. It had come to his attention as the guard elaborated Mojo's situation that the inmate saw Charles as the reason for his harsh exile.
"He yells your name constantly," he mentioned warily, "every day. To be honest, counselor, it freaks us all the hell out."
Those words traveled with him as the chain gave a horrid jerk, nearly throwing him into the black. The elevator had come to a standstill. Holding his breath, Charles waited for his eyes to adjust in the cloying moistness of the air, his vision dyed with bleak grayish murk.
There was movement below him and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as a slithering, gravelly voice crackled up through the lightless air like a curse.
"Xavier," he croaked, opening his eyes for the first time in hours. He sensed the psychologist like a shark senses blood.
Squinting into the shadows, Charles bit back a cry when twin yellow orbs rolled open, shining eerily. Mojo's lurking shape was a blacker shadow across the floor, roughly six feet below the hanging platform. Shadows seemed to collect around the convict like a gathering storm and Charles had to swallow down a dry throat before he said, "Mojo."
"I've been calling for you, counselor." His voice sounded like an angry hive of bees. "If only I could reach you up there, sitting pretty like a sweet caged bird. They're so delicate," he said, voice slipping like a snake through the air. The faint echo really did give physicality to his words and he was sure the psychologist could feel them slide over his soft pale skin. "Come down, Xavier."
"I don't think I will, Mojo," Charles replied calmly.
"I would like it so very much if you would," Mojo husked, the hoarseness of his voice sounding like each word was clawing up the stone walls. "It's lonely down here, Xavier. Where you put me."
"Mojo, you committed a crime," he corrected sternly, "You put yourself here."
"Dear Sinister is no angel," he scoffed. "I'd always thought the pot and kettle sat on the same stovetop. But here I am put away in the dark, dank cupboard."
"Perhaps if you displayed signs of remorse-" Charles began.
"Don't, Xavier," he growled, a flash of visible anger stinging his tone. After a beat he groaned, "I want to touch you, Xavier. I never got my chance to... touch you."
Raising his eyebrows, kneeling down on the platform to lean over the edge, Charles pointed out wanly, "I'm not here to be touched, Mojo. I am here to help you."
"You can help me," Mojo suddenly roared, claws lunging through the air to grasp at nothing; the creepy click of his elongated nails the only result, "By taking me out of this shit hole!"
Frowning, Charles rested his chin on his palm. "You're in no shape to be among the other inmates, Mojo."
"Ants, cockroaches," he sneered.
Crossing his legs, Charles stared thoughtfully down, his blue eyes drawing wrathful yellow orbs like moths to a flame. "And what are you, Mojo?"
"Every time you say my name, little psychologist, I wonder how it would sound instead if you screamed it. I think it would be very exciting." The flash of rage dwindled down to a slow burn. He cocked his head to the side, pupils dilated as if he could suck the pretty doctor's face into them. He could make out Xavier's alluring features after so long in the dark. What once was an urge to tease had turned into rage, and had then changed in the dark; into a dangerous obsession.
"I'm afraid I'll have to withhold such a privilege," Charles said dryly, ineffectively hiding his disgust.
"And who may command that privilege then? I can smell it on you. Someone touches you." Sniffing, Mojo grinned toothily, the faint light reflecting off his teeth. "I know when someone is being fucked. Virgins always fetched a higher price, and I wanted a guarantee of authenticity before I broke them." Pausing in the minute ringing of echoes, Mojo asked, "Who's bent you over, Xavier?" He laughed coldly. "Lensherr, perhaps? The man who would shed blood in your honor."
That took him by surprise. "What do you mean by that; who shed blood?"
"Say my name again, counselor. Say it with that pretty, pretty voice. Once more, come on. Quid pro quo, yes?" he teased, letting his arms lower again to his sides, flexing his fists in a series of agitated movements that conjured a disturbing rustling sound.
Curiosity tugged at his chest. Erik had shed blood for him? Going against his better judgment, Charles craned closer to the wicked voice and said deliberately, "Mojo, tell me."
Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the firm cadence of Xavier's smooth British accent. The little thing thought he was ordering him, running the show? He almost laughed. "Your knight, guilty in his lust, fell prey to a trick of mine."
Now Charles felt and saw flickering pictures before him, like a roll of film cycling too fast. They were coming from Mojo. Through it Mojo's voice continued.
"I sent him some lovely thoughts. You've seen manikins, Xavier?"
"Yes," he said carefully, ears straining not to miss a word. Maybe it was the absence of voices, of company, that made Mojo's tongue so loose. Tell me your secrets, how it ticks, Charles urged silently. Once the quiet stretched Charles scowled slightly, realizing his mistake. Rolling his eyes, he obediently added, "Yes, Mojo."
Chortling, the mutant licked his teeth. "Those are the thoughts I send, blank palettes waiting for a painter to come along and give them shape. I sent some to Lensherr and he quite lost his temper, naughty boy." He tutted, then turned his eyes up to fix on Xavier's face. "Would you like to see?" he drawled, walking lazily over until he was directly under the elevator, staring up into Xavier's pale face looking down from over the edge.
"I have the distinct feeling that this is a rhetorical question," Charles answered drolly, the ends of his mouth turned downwards. A dark laugh scaled the walls, clamoring all around and Charles stiffened. Regretting his decision to come down into the depths that held Mojo captive, he waited for the mutant's next move.
Cocking his head to the side, his dirty dreadlocks slid over his shoulders to hang like dead limbs. "You might recognize the star of these lovely gifts I delivered into Erik Lensherr's mind. What a pity he didn't appreciate them as I continue to," he said suggestively. Then he focused on Charles, reaching out to hook onto his consciousness, acting like a wire cable transferring a signal. With an abrupt push, he projected a flurry of images into Charles mind, cock hardening in his pants when the psychologist rolled away from the edge abruptly as if he'd been struck.
They were terrible. Scenes of torture, rivers of blood, shredded flesh. And his own face in such painful detail; his features sharpened like a wooden spear by the knife of Mojo's obsessive hatred. Struggling to control his breathing as Mojo shrieked with hysterical laughter below him, Charles caught the lines of Mojo's connection and followed them. Flanked by his own manufactured screams, Charles sunk deep into Mojo's mind, tracking, mapping, memorizing. The longer Mojo was directly linked to Charles the better he could understand. He cursed as the images began to shift, turning perversely sexual in nature. Partially blocking the vision of unseen pursuers shoving him, naked, into the ground, Charles doubled his efforts, tracing each tendril of Mojo's overexcited mind. He was sweating profusely, luckily too determined in his task to fall into the panic that was edging in. It helped that Mojo's laughter had fallen silent, the elevator swinging with an eerie creaking from Charles movements. Rolling up to his knees, Charles abruptly cut the connection, satisfied enough to report to Hank. Expecting at least a jeering comment or two from the other mutant, Charles craned over the edge of the elevator. But Mojo was gone.
That was when a freezing cold hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked. Charles yelped as his chin cracked into the metal of the dumbwaiter, splitting his lips. His hand scrambled frantically to catch hold of something as he was dragged over the edge, falling through the air for a second before the floor slammed into him.
Mojo was on him in an instant, claws wrapping around his throat, cutting off his voice as the guard from above called down in alarm. Staring down into the wide blue eyes of the psychologist, Mojo licked his lips, fingers tightening. Now bloodshot, those blue eyes were frantic, weak fingers scratching ineffectively to break his grip. Lips pulling back from sharp yellow teeth, Mojo grinned wolfishly down, lifting himself to kick the doctor's legs apart.
In that moment something snapped. Similar to Sinister, Charles lashed out at Mojo with a razor sharp mace of mental power. He followed the path he'd memorized, burning and wreaking havoc in his wake. Saliva sprayed his face as Mojo screamed like a wounded beast, flying back from Charles and clawing the side of his head. Blood spattered the ground as he tore out a dreadlock, Charles scrambling back until he hit the wall. With a final bludgeoning sweep through Mojo's mind, Charles watched as the albino mutant's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped over to lie still on the ground.
...
It was easy to twist the water pipes until they burst within the walls, leaking out to flood the lower B level cellblock. Erik happily held his wrists together behind his back, grinning at the black guard's suspicious look while he clicked the cuffs on. The bite of metal on his skin was always a strange pleasure to Erik and for a moment he rolled his eyes shut.
He was ushered into the general mess hall along with his block mates, all jostled together in a subdued manner. Mojo's absence had made such a difference. The tension in the air was practically absent, most inmates just looking bored or cracking jokes to each other.
But Erik wasn't concerned with them. He'd caused the evacuation for one reason; he wanted to talk with Sinister. The mutant had been returned to his cell only a few hours ago. Listening with his augmented pipes as his spies, Erik heard the blond guard lecturing the inmate about pudding. Though the pudding was entirely inconsequential, Erik's attention had been arrested by the mention of Charles. The psychologist had visited Sinister after leaving the roof.
Sidling through the group of men, avoiding the guards linking their ankles at random to prevent escape, Erik spotted Sinister and stepped up beside him right as the blond guard knelt to fasten their right ankles together. Sinister was looking at him thoughtfully, and Erik would be damned if he didn't see the smugness in the other mutant's expression.
"I gathered you might want to speak with me," Sinister murmured. "I suppose you're the one responsible for this impromptu gathering?"
Grunting in response, Erik glanced around as he spoke out the side of his mouth, "You saw Ch - Xavier."
"I did," Sinister chuckled, expression coy. The other man appeared agitated. "But I'm curious, Lensherr; however does that concern you?"
"It concerns me," he growled quietly, eyes snapping up when the black guard walked past.
"Hmm." This time Sinister's words were tinged with melancholy. "At this point, I'm afraid, I can't treat you to the tidbits of information you seek, Lensherr. I have a sneaking suspicion that Xavier has tampered with me." He scraped a fingernail lightly over his temple. "Masterful job really. I hadn't noticed until I looked. Like handwritten pages rinsed by the rain."
"Get moving," the black guard ordered. The inmates grudgingly started marching, a slow moving glob of people lapping the cafeteria. This was a further measure against unrest and possible conflict. They'd learned from last time.
"What is most interesting," Sinister resumed, red eyes glimmering as they scanned Lensherr's face while they fell into line with the others in rows of two, "is that I get the overwhelming sense that he did this to protect you, Lensherr. I know that, even if I can't quite tell you why."
His heart clenched. "What did you talk about?"
"Me, mainly. Sly fox that he is," he chuckled. "He's so clever, though his heart-" he slid a look up to Lensherr's face "-is his weakness." Ignoring the dark glare he received for that, Sinister's sighed, "What a delightfully dangerous creature that Xavier is." Meeting the other mutant's eyes firmly, he added, "Know this, Lensherr. I am no enemy to the counselor. But he should tread softly. Keep your apt hearing sharp. I know you have ears everywhere - you may as well be a telepath." Openly laughing at Erik's surprise, Sinister quieted when the guards showed too much interest in their conversation. Three or for of them had gathered at the doors and as Sinister and Erik marched past Sinister was able to catch a few words.
"... like someone had twisted them and then they just burst."
Narrowing his eyes with an amused smile, Sinister chuckled. Erik glanced back at the guards and saw the black man staring at him with uninhibited skepticism.
"Think he knows something," Sinister murmured. "You should also be careful, Lensherr, if you want to keep that interesting ability of yours a dirty secret. Twisting pipes isn't very subtle. It doesn't take a rocket scientist."
Frowning, Erik shot another look over his shoulder at the guards. "I'll manage. Don't get any ideas, Sinister."
"Be a gentleman, Lensherr," he suggested mockingly, "I have Xavier's ear, you know."
Erik was incensed. "Bullshit," he protested in a flare of jealousy.
"Keep quiet," Alex barked. He was alone; the rest of the guards had returned to rounds or were assisting the groundskeepers with the burst pipes. Darwin had told him to keep his eye on Erik Lensherr. The inmate was chained to Sinister, their heads bent together. Shuffling of just under a hundred pairs of shoes filled the wide room with a hushed, shifting noise. Alex glanced at the clock and then ordered, "Pick up the pace!"
Now jogging, Erik was glaring at Sinister, who somehow managed to make jogging in a jumpsuit majestic. "What do you mean, you have his ear?" he grumbled.
"I mean that he and I are partnering on a project - or at least will be. You see, Erik," he said, voice simpering, "Those of us on good behavior get rewarded. Your psychologist is working on getting a library for the inmates, and I am quite positive I'll be the inmate to help run it."
"Why you?" he bit out.
"I practically volunteered myself, and I have a flawless behavioral record save that nasty little Mojo-induced incident."
"That doesn't mean anything," he argued sourly. The guard's sharp eyes observed them menacingly and Erik kept his voice low between panting breaths.
Pursing his lips, Sinister tactfully avoided rolling his eyes. "What I am implying, you ape, is that when I will inevitably need assistance in the library I could possibly - possibly - throw your name in the hat."
"Why would you do that?"
"Have you given me a reason not to? You'd like to see more of the counselor, and though he may have edited my memory, I am fully aware of the tension between you both. Call me an old biddy, but I do love my neighborhood gossip." He was grinning now; almost laughing at the other man's baffled expression. "That and I know you will return the favor when the time comes," he suggested meaningfully. He held Erik's gaze in his red depths and a look of wary understanding alighted on the man's angular features. Looking away the mutant worried his lower lip and Sinister couldn't help but treat himself to a pleased little smile. He had Lensherr right where he wanted him.
"If you," Erik started slowly, each word articulate and weighted, "can get me into that library, nearer to… to him, then I will be in your debt."
"Consider it done," he returned.
At that moment Logan entered the cafeteria. The loose ring of inmates looping the border of the room paid him no mine. Well, except for one. Erik Lensherr was looking at him with no less than a murderous stare. Logan snorted, turning to Alex and slapping him on the shoulder. "Summers. They got you on baby-sitting duty?" He kept glancing back at Lensherr, who was jogging closer. If possible, his look had grown even darker.
"Just until they fix the pipes, or shut the water off. See how these boys enjoy a couple days without running water," Alex said, voice rising so that a few inmates offered him the finger in salute.
"Hey, I was wondering if you've seen Charles aro-OOF!"
Alex jumped as an inmate head-butted Wolverine, throwing him to the ground. Immediately the rest of the bunch broke into chaos, hooting and pushing at the guard. Growling, Alex concentrated his energy and sent a few bolts at the feet of the prisoners, warning them back. When they had huddled against the opposite wall Alex turned and attempted to wrestle the man off of Logan.
Metal claws about a foot in length jutted from his knuckles and a bruise was already healing under Logan's eye. A deep set of slashes had shredded the front of Lensherr's jumpsuit, the cloth already tingeing red from the flesh he'd cut. Both men glared at each other, Lensherr panting like an animal. Logan spit out a glob of blood, teeth bared, "You do not want to start this game, boy."
Before anyone could do anything, Juggernaut stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around Erik, lifting him entirely off the ground in some kind of protective bear hug, the man's feet dangling freely. In his calm, deep voice he rumbled, "That won't do you any good."
Sinister, manacles dangling from his ankles where Erik had undone them, stormed over. His eyes were practically spitting venom. In a clipped tone he spoke to Erik, "You are an idiot. He's fine now, Juggernaut. Thank you for interjecting."
Lowering the smaller man to the ground, Juggernaut kept a warning hand on his shoulder.
Erik was seething, still shooting daggers at Logan, who in turn was glaring back at him as Alex radioed for backup.
"What the fuck was that for?" Logan demanded, claws still out. The other inmates were murmuring to each other. No one was stupid enough to start a fight with Wolverine. There was a reason he was banished to the office as a pencil-pusher. He'd asserted himself one too many times with riotous inmates, earning him a serious reputation. Lensherr, usually on very good behavior, had no reason to attack him. Gazes still locked, Logan barely registered as Darwin and a couple of other guards came running.
"Jesus," Darwin exclaimed, walking right up to Lensherr and tugging aside the cotton of his torn clothing to inspect the wound. "What did you do to him?"
"He started it!" Logan protested.
"Well, shit," Darwin sighed. "I'll need a full report to give to Captain M. Lensherr," he barked. "You just earned yourself a night in solitary."
Sinister was scowling at him while Juggernaut held him still for the guards to secure his wrists and ankles. Erik waved the giant inmate off. "Look, Jug, I'm not going to do anything else, okay?"
"Maybe you should see the counselor," Juggernaut said, the sincerity of his voice almost touching. "You haven't got to see him yet. He sure helped me."
Darwin looked like he was considering Juggernaut's words. "That might not be such a bad idea. Charles can figure out why you're such a crazy fuck, huh, Lensherr?"
Erik was stupefied. Even as Sinister was rolling his eyes and the blond guard was ushering Juggernaut back to the others, he couldn't help but feel sudden elation. It didn't matter the circumstances, he was going to see Charles.
…
"Eventful night," Darwin remarked amiably as he checked Charles over in the blaring light. Guards were currently bringing Mojo out, strapped like someone off to an insane asylum, complete with a muzzle and a heavy blindfold, which in turn covered coin-sized half-spheres fitted over his eyes. Huge headphones covered his ears and for all intents and purposes, Mojo's senses would have been dead to the world if he had not already been unconscious. Darwin watched Charles watching Mojo. "You all right?"
"Actually, better than I could be," he replied. Seeing the mutant in the full light was unnerving. As with Sinister, there was part of Charles that was disturbed by the results of his abilities when used for violence. "Even though he's not the best person-"
"He's an evil maniac," Darwin cut-in.
"Well, I just... It isn't pleasant to see."
"He would've killed you. Or tried."
Only that wasn't his goal, Charles mused. He suppressed a shudder. Tingling rivulets of fear itched under his brow. He'd been afraid when the mutant was holding him down, but it wasn't paralyzing. His fear had turned into a weapon and enabled him to save himself. A flash of violent, almost animal determination had directed his mutation. Now that the feeling, something akin to rage, had subsided, Charles felt restless.
"Where will you take him?" he asked.
Darwin shrugged. "Captain McTaggart wants him in solitary still, but a surface cell that is easily monitored. I'm sure he'll be moved back down in the well once he's regained consciousness."
Once the guards had emptied out Charles hung back, meandering over to the edge of the well. Looking down was like looking into dead space. Stepping back, he glanced at his watch and realized he was late for his meeting with Hank. Turning and jogging out the door, Charles made his way to Hank's lab.
"I... had no idea this was here," Charles observed, looking around at the unfortunately medieval-esque qualities of the underground lab. As a whole, the effect was much akin to being present in a torture chamber. Charles swallowed uncomfortably and thought for the umpteenth time, What did I get myself into? Sighing heavily, he touched his lip, still swollen and bruised from his scuffle with Mojo. Remembering the wet heat of the mutant's breath on his face and the skeletal grip of his powerful fingers, he shuddered with disgust.
Again, Charles was surprised to find that he hadn't shut down in panic - this time he could defend himself. He cheered silently at his personal progress. After the attack at the Academy he'd felt so weak, pathetic - a child unable to defend himself. By immobilizing Mojo, hurting him, a fire had ignited within Charles. He could stop it. Do even more than protect himself. The strangeness of the aggressive quality to his newfound confidence was alien, but he didn't dislike it. On a selfish note, he hoped the news got to Logan. That would show him who was naive.
Licking at the tinny, still hot cut over his lips, Charles poked at a couple of unfamiliar tools. By the time he'd found Hank the young doctor knew all about the attack and insisted on an inspection of his superficial wounds. It was the newest fodder of the rumor mill. Charles was just a little proud of that.
Hank was busy cleaning up, merely throwing a nod over his shoulder as he selected a set of bottles and other tools to set out on a tray. He motioned Charles to sit somewhere, pulling out a series of notebooks before loading up his arms. When he turned around Charles was sitting primly on the very edge of the holding table, looking small and decidedly nervous. Frowning, Hank went over to him and set down the tray and the notebooks, arms resting on his hips. "Charles?" he asked.
Looking up at the young man, Charles chuckled self-deprecatingly, "Oh, Hank. I'm fine."
"Um," Hank looked confused, "That's good... I was just going to say that I'll need you to remove your shirt and take off your shoes and belt."
Deflating, Charles made a face at Hank's back as the scientist returned to fiddling with the equipment. Darwin's words from last night echoed around his head and the psychologist had to shake them away. Mad scientist or no, this study was necessary. "Hank?" he called, leaving his clothes on the chair next to the examination table. "I was thinking we'd just... talk today. Plan, maybe."
"Mmhmm," Hank answered distractedly. , tapping the side of a syringe. Charles jumped when a gold liquid squirted out of a fat needle. Hank blinked at him. "All right, Xavier?"
"Fine," he squeaked, subconsciously leaning away as Hank approached. Now he carried another tray, on it an array of what would otherwise be a pretty display of colorful concoctions if not for their carriers; sinister syringes of varying size. One even seemed to have a pump on it. Dear lord. Charles felt woozy. "And those would be what exactly?"
"The sedatives specifically geared towards subduing telepathic abilities," Hank informed him proudly, setting them beside a very pale Xavier. "I'll run a customary physical on you and if nothing is out of the ordinary we'll test the first sedative. It would be wisest for you to have a foundation for comparison when we analyze the powers of the inmates. Don't you agree?"
Eyeing the needles with obvious contempt, he grunted.
He'd aced the physical, which was a disappointment in his opinion. Charles felt like a student trying to get out of gym class, but unfortunately his morals were of too solid a stock to allow him a mental persuasion. Besides, Charles reminded himself firmly, You agreed to this.
The first injection (the smallest on the table) made the puncture site itch terribly. It was distracting as Hank sat down, pen and paper in hand to take notes. Charles didn't miss the way Hank was looking at him and he humorlessly wondered whether he should grunt and hoot in the manner of a lab ape. After five minutes of Hank's unnerving staring Charles narrowed his eyes. "I feel something." He reached out with his power and felt Hank's mind. Not bothering to hide his presence, he mirrored Hank's frown.
"No effect then?"
"Not on my powers," he said miserably, hand going to his stomach. "Though I suppose there is relevance in making me feel too sick to do anything, including use my powers."
Approaching him with a concentrated expression, Hank carefully set his fingers on Charles' head, feeling his skull like he was testing the ripeness of a piece fruit at the grocer's. "How does this feel?" he asked quietly, pressing his thumb against the side of Charles' head. Though blue eyes were closed, Hank caught the knit of the other man's brow. "Does it hurt?"
"No, but it is a bit more sensitive than I'm used to," he admitted, opening his eyes to look at Hank. The doctor went to scratch a few things out on his notepad before going back to poke and prod at Charles' skull.
"Unlike the regular sedatives that dull physical sensors of the brain," Hank explained, "the telepathically motivated tranquilizers are trying to hush the subvocalized thoughts used to communicate with another mind." Tilting Xavier's face up to peer into his eyes, Hank gently pressed the middle of his forehead, waiting for a reaction. "Telepaths would theoretically have a higher degree of gyrencephalization than other people, focused mainly in the temporal lobe. That's why your perception and recognition of sub-auditory stimuli even exists, and why your memory can function as a literal filing system."
As the sedative sunk deeper into his system, Charles allowed Hank to lower him back on the table. "I'm sorry Hank; it looks like my understanding of multi-syllable words is stunted presently. Gyren - what?"
"Gyrencephalization," he repeated, taking Charles' pulse, "Is the cortical folding of the brain. The cerebral cortex as a whole is very..." he paused, searching for the word, "Wrinkly."
"Brains are wrinkly, yes," Charles slurred.
Tapping the front of Charles' head, smiling slightly at the sleepy glare the psychologist gave him, Hank clarified, "The brain has a very large surface area. Just like an isolated intestine could stretch for upwards of 7 feet."
Frowning as the thought of intestines made his stomach churn, Charles nodded sharply. "Got it."
"It really is fascinating what mutations do the brain. Juggernaut, for instance," he said excitedly, "Has an emphasized parietal lobe."
Movement, orientation, recognition, perception of stimuli, Charles recited in monotone, feeling nauseous. Hank frowned. Charles frowned back, realizing that he hadn't moved his mouth. Then he burst into laughter, apologizing between hiccups as Hank's face crumbled.
"So instead of curbing your ability to use telepathy," Hank deduced mournfully, "the sedative makes you so tired that all you can do is use telepathy. Fantastic."
Still laughing, Charles turned over onto his side. "Why don't we make some sort of grid while this drug wears off?" he suggested diplomatically. "In speaking to Mojo and Sinister it's come to my attention that the nature of our mutation is far more diverse than I'd initially perceived."
Looking a bit perkier at the mention of a grid, Hank hopped up to retrieve larger sheets of paper, pinning them up on the wall with thumb tacks. Across the top of the paper he wrote Xavier. Mojo. Sinister. Looking expectantly back at Charles, he waited with pen poised to fill in the vertical elements of the chart.
"Let me see," Charles said, stretching out along the table. "Telepathist, suggestion, images, force. That'll be a good start." Once Hank finished, the chart divided up into neat boxes, Charles pointed, "You can mark each one under my name. Definitely 'suggestion' and 'images' under Mojo. 'Force' and 'telepathist' under Sinister. To my knowledge that is accurate."
Stepping back from the wall, Hank stood with his arms akimbo. "Ascending degrees of severity, then."
"We must also be mindful of the precision under pressure. What is a feather in consciousness can become a razor when panicked or subconsciously lashing out. The more primal the ability the more dangerous.
"Because it's uninhibited," Hank mused. "It becomes much more base and emotionally-linked."
"Correct," he said, nodding. It seems the dose of drugs had been small. He was becoming more alert by the second. "And while some of us were able to receive training to curb the turbulence of our mutation, I'm assuming the majority of the telepaths in Juniper have not."
"So the current design of the telepath sedatives and the generic sedatives are actually primed to make a telepath more dangerous. Damn," he said vehemently, scowling at the row of syringes. "I've missed the mark on the occipital lobe. So a telepath is almost the polar-opposite to the makeup of a normal tranquilizer, where the frontal and parietal lobes are the objectives."
"Our mind is our muscle," Charles affirmed, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the table. "There have been recorded instances of mutants being shot while under anesthesia. The mind was still quite awake when put under, and their ability reacted with the instinct to survive."
Hank gulped. "It's lucky that you shut down every lobe in Sinister's mind then."
"Yes," Charles said, averting his eyes. He didn't need to tell Hank that Sinister's telepathic abilities were usually dormant beyond purposeful reach. "And Mojo, too."
Picking up a syringe near the end of the line, filled with a hypnotically intense blue substance, Hank hefted it in his palm.
It was the syringe with the pump. Charles fought the urge to slap it out of Hank's hand. "Jumping ahead a bit, aren't we?"
"The others are just varying levels of the first tester," he said. "This one has been tested on the known telepaths and is most commonly used on Mojo. There haven't been any physical side-effects besides a fluctuating thyroid."
"Hot flashes," he deadpanned. "Well, it could be worse."
"I'm giving you a regular dose," Hank warned. "As this shouldn't debilitate your body, I'll need you to keep a detailed account of everything that you feel. Strange as it might sound, I'd like it if you tested every perimeter of your ability. Distance, the pattern of subvocalized wavelengths, et cetera."
Charles was still staring at the needle like it was a snake about to sink its fangs into his flesh. "If you're going to do this Hank I would suggest you do it now. Quite honestly, I am not very fond of needles-OUCH." Hank had stuck him in the meat of his bicep without warning. He hadn't been prepared for the depth of the needle, and when Hank pumped the syringe Charles felt the liquid shoot deeper into him like icy venom.
Pulling the needle out, Hank watched Charles' face earnestly. "Some physician's say that surprise dulls the pain because your body doesn't have time to build up an expectation of it."
Charles corrected through gritted teeth, "Some physician's are twats."
…
A/N: Research for this chapter was awesome. Brains are fascinating.
-Villain