Thanks to hippiechick2112 and feathered moon wings for reviewing!
The trouble with a power like Charles's was that it could never fully be stopped. He could as easily turn off his telepathy as he could turn off the faucet to stop the rain. So he always felt pieces of those around him. He often felt frustration from Ororo, a constant racing hum of brilliance from Hank, an unnerving mix of darkness and low-level arousal from Alex…
What woke him was a mix of terror and self-loathing so strong he wasn't certain if he wanted to howl or weep. He had felt something like this before, but never so strong. For a moment he laid on his back, just breathing.
Charles had been depressed and he had been ashamed. How could he not? He had spent weeks drunk, it wasn't something one was proud of. This was different. He had never felt this level of disgust with himself. It washed over him in waves.
He knew Scott struggled, but Charles tried to be respectful of others' minds. He didn't go rifling through their thoughts constantly. During the day, Scott was usually busy, distracted. Charles knew there was a pained undercurrent.
It did not seem terribly different from the memories of embarrassment Hank would always carry. Hank had been teased in the few years he bothered with school.
Charles sat up. It was something he had learned to do all over again when he lost the use of his legs. Part of physical therapy, the part he stayed for, was simply learning how to sit up. He never before considered how much he used the muscles below his waist for it. Now he laid his arms on the bed and pushed himself upright.
"Charles?" Ruth asked, half-awake.
"Another nightmare," he murmured.
"I'll go—"
"No, you stay. Get some sleep. I'll take care of it."
Charles rather felt he had to. He loved Scott like his own, but currently felt a kinship with him from the pain they were both experiencing.
Charles was halfway out the door when the wailing started. He had never heard a sound like that before, even during the nightmares. Hurrying was not easy for him. He sped up as much as he could.
When he reached Scott's bedroom, he pushed the door open.
"Oh, Scott."
The state of the room…
Charles truly wished Scott could be a normal teenager whose room was an unholy mess. That would explain the sheet and pillow on the floor. Not only did Scott keep everything in its place, he dusted and swept—things Charles had not known how to do at Scott's age. (Things he could not do now, for that matter, which was wholly unrelated to his paraplegia.) The room was neat as a damn pin and Scott had been sleeping on the floor.
The boy himself sat with his back against the bed, curled up, rubbing his arms. He couldn't stop crying. He could barely breathe through it.
"Scott?"
He didn't respond. He choked on sobs as he tried to press words around them. Then, almost incomprehensibly, "Matthew."
Of course. Even in this horrid moment he remembered the lie.
"Please just go." Now that Scott had begun speaking, it seemed he remembered himself capable of more. "Leave me alone."
Not a chance.
"You know I am not going to do that."
"I don't want… please…" Scott trailed off, dissolving into sobs again.
"No."
When he was first adjusting to his new life, Charles had certain preconceptions about being a cripple. He was broken. He could no longer help anyone—something the students had disproved. No one would love him, let alone desire him—something Ruth had disproved. His friends would abandon him—something Hank had disproved a hundred times over, and Alex and Sean would have if he hadn't telepathically pushed them away. Charles would never forget that. Hank had stayed by him, helped him… admittedly, because he was blue and had nowhere else to go, but there had always been concern, caring.
In some ways, however, he was limited. "I can't go to you." And he would, if he could. He would sit on the floor and hold his son… but he couldn't. It was the first time in a very long time that he felt crippled on a personal level. As someone who could no longer go on missions with the team, he had dealt with that for a while. As a man, it was new and all too old.
"I can't go to you, I need you to come to me.
"It's not far.
"Matthew."
He didn't respond to any of it.
Charles had known tonight was different. He didn't need to hear Scott's nightmares; he felt them. Strong emotions were like psychic screams. He couldn't not feel them. He felt an awareness of Scott's fear and tonight, something else.
He could see it now, quite clearly. Something had broken. He didn't know why and he wasn't happy about that, but he didn't know that he had seen Scott this low before. He had been afraid when he first arrived, frustrated with the newer students… this was different.
"Scott."
He whimpered, maybe in response to his name.
"Come here. Please."
It wasn't like parallel parking.
Talking Scott over to him took several minutes. As he did, Charles found himself thinking about the paraplegia, the man it made him. He had cared for the first team, but this was different. It wasn't Scott's youth. It was something of himself he saw in the pathetic boy he met in the police station.
Charles stroked Scott's hair while he cried, rested his free hand on Scott's shoulder.
This was a sort of cry that would have embarrassed him, but was heartbreaking from Scott. He wasn't crying, the crying was happening to him, was the excess too-much escaping his body. He shook and coughed. It was a compulsion. A need.
Maybe Charles should have sent Ruth. She could have held him properly.
For a while, he didn't try to prompt Scott into speaking. Not while he was crying like that, sobbing and gasping and choking himself on tears. Even when he had stopped crying, Charles waited patiently. While Scott was trying to piece himself together, Charles noticed two minds nearby. Ruth's he would have known anywhere, and… Alex, perhaps? He hoped so. No one could reach Scott quite like his brother.
Nobody volunteered themselves after Scott began to breathe evenly again, so it was left to Charles to ask, "All right now?"
Scott nodded, then shook his head. "No." His voice sounded rough and scratchy. "I'm sorry."
"You don't need to be sorry."
He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Charles winced, but pretended not to notice.
Are you going to get rid of me.
He hated that thought—was sick of hearing it. "No, never. You're my son and nothing will ever change that."
Scott shivered. "I'm sorry. I know, don't be. I keep thinking about how you can't trust me. How I'll never be an X-Man like Alex, never go on missions or…"
Charles once more reached out to the minds nearby. Ruth hated this—he wasn't surprised. He wasn't sure how anyone survived feeling emotions the way she did.
"I do trust you and you will be an X-Man one day if that's what you want. If you'll recall, I don't allow you on missions now because you're a child."
For once, Scott didn't argue. He felt like a child. Not as much of a child as he wished he were—when he was four and slept in his mother's bed when he had bad dreams—but not an adult, either.
"I want it to stop," he said, softly. "I'm—scared and—ashamed," it was like pulling teeth to get those words out. "I don't know what to do."
I wish I could tell you, Charles thought. Scott looked to him for guidance and he would provide it, truly he would—if he could. This was beyond him.
"I don't know what I am."
That Charles could help with.
"You're my son. A brother, a friend. You are important to the people around you who trust you and rely on you."
Although he was not in a place where he knew how to say as much, Scott was moved. Charles knew that—and he knew it did not solve the biggest problem.
"What am I going to do?" Scott asked.
"We'll think of something. I'll talk to Ruth."
Suddenly he realized that it wasn't Alex in the hallway.
Scott flinched. His nightmares were no secret, nor that they were getting worse. But he didn't like having them mentioned. His thoughts were poorly concealed. They were too overwhelming to be hidden: the fear that people would stop loving him.
"For now, try to sleep."
Scott nodded and went to lie down.
Charles resisted the urge to sigh. "In bed."
"Right."
"I can ask Ruth to stay with you until you fall asleep."
Scott shook his head.
"I could stay."
Scott paused. "I'm okay."
No, he really wasn't.
"Would you talk to me?" Scott asked, settling under the covers.
"What would you like me to talk about?"
"I don't know. Anything."
"All right, then."
With Ororo, it was somewhat different. They always had their book to read and (almost) always had Ororo's opinion about it. They really were such different children.
Now Charles faltered. What was he going to say? What could he say? He supposed he could talk about evolution and the history of humanity's ancestors. He recalled Raven's claiming it always put her right to sleep. (Rather unfairly, in Charles's opinion, since this was fascinating stuff! Beside the point now.)
"Have I ever told you about the Soviet checkpoint, and how I fooled two guards into letting us pass? A whole truckload of American agents?"
"Did you use your telepathy?" Scott asked.
"Yes," and that rather spoiled the story, "but these men didn't know I was capable of such things. They sat in the truck, terrified, but doing as I told them and sitting still. Sometimes all a person needs to do is sit still and not interfere.
"When the Soviet guards opened up the back of the truck and peered inside, those men had every reason to expect they would be captured. They were in enemy territory, in Russia, and I could only fool humans. Their dogs kept barking at us.
"Finally, seeing nothing of note—nothing but the empty back of a farmer's truck—they closed the doors and let us pass. And the looks of relief on those agents' faces helped me see that it was okay to tell people about mutation. My mutation probably saved their lives."
Well, the story had not quite done its job! Scott was in bed now, his head sinking into the pillow, but Charles realized that story had interested him. Now he had a reason to stay awake.
Charles took a breath and diverted his attention to another topic.
"There is a mathematic sequence known as the Fibonacci sequence. The sequence is formed by, having begun with zero and one, forming the next integer always through the sum of the previous two…"
That did the trick. A little math theory and Scott relaxed. Charles reached out and felt the peace emanating from his mind. After that earlier outburst, he had finally settled in for a rest.
It was better for now. Soon something needed to be done. He glanced at the door, then back to Scott. Then his gaze fell on something else. Scott had been sleeping on the floor and lying there under the bed was something Charles absolutely needed to retrieve... but could not reach.
Charles headed for the doorway. He truly had no idea how he could help. He had known things were getting worse, he just hadn't realized this bad was an option!
Charles glanced at Ruth. They exchanged looks—they understood one another's lostness in this situation and the pain of watching their child suffer—before he said, "He had his bear." Both knew Scott had to be low to sleep hugging that teddy bear again. "It fell under the bed, would you?"
"Of course."
Ruth slipped into the bedroom and Charles turned to Chris.
"This is your fault," he stated. "He wasn't like this until you arrived and this has gotten well out of hand, so I must ask, what have you done to my son? What have you done to Scott?"