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FIC: He Is The Friend (1/1) - rated PG/R - Xavier

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  • Donna Bevan
    Title: He Is The Friend (1/1) Author: Donna Rating: R (but only because of my headers LOL) Category: Xavier Summary: What did Xavier see when he was
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 27, 2000
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      Title: He Is The Friend (1/1)
      Author: Donna
      Rating: R (but only because of my headers LOL)
      Category: Xavier
      Summary: What did Xavier see when he was lying in the medlab, stuck inside
      his head?
      Disclaimer: Oh, blow me. <grinning cheekily>

      ~~x~~

      Voices everywhere, and yet silence. Everything and nothing, all at once, a
      confusion so crippling that it keeps him locked inside his own head,
      disabled by his own power.

      What knocked down all his walls?

      Charles can't remember. All he can recall is the pain--

      --dear Jesus the pain--

      --streaming through his mind like a wildfire, spreading and spreading and
      blocking everything.

      Everything but a silence so loud he can't see.

      He stumbles, and deja vu grips him. He's been here before, in this mass of
      fog. He knows this place, knows it like his own name. It is his domain,
      the one place where he is all-seeing, all-powerful. His body cannot fail
      him here, cannot fall victim to infirmity or handicap. He can do anything
      in this place, and this miasma once comforted him.

      --I knew this once--

      Now, he is merely confused.

      Slowly, the fog clears in places, revealing pieces of himself through the
      damned haze.

      --I can know it again--

      He has friends, comrades.

      Students.

      Where are they?

      A flash of red hair, and of red quartz.

      He reaches out for it.

      He knows them.

      The strong, steady pulse of a leader, a man dedicated to guiding others.
      He feels the presence around him, beside him. A friend. The man is a
      friend, and Charles is suddenly sure that he weeps, for he smells the salt
      of tears through the strength.

      Yes, he is the strength.

      The red hair. A more powerful presence, that of one who is gifted like he
      is, who knows what it is to travel into a mind that is not your own.

      He smiles in the fog.

      He feels that she must have always been there, steadying those around her
      with an inner light, the one that shines from her like life itself.

      Warming.

      His favorite, the one student who truly understands every lesson he has to
      teach, every piece of wisdom he offers.

      She beckons him back.

      [We need...]

      Yes, she's there, but the thought is gone before he can draw it in.

      She is the conscience.

      Deep, dark eyes that have seen the world's cruelty, but choose instead to
      focus on the kindness. She's a mother to everyone, like the earth herself,
      never hesitating to hold the lost souls close.

      There is no judgement in her, merely acceptance. Even when faced with
      those who would destroy her, she remains steadfast, knowing that without
      dark there can be no light.

      Everything exists in equal measure, and there is balance. This is what she
      has shown him, in the wind and the rain, in his heart and mind.

      This is what she accepts.

      She is the peace.

      Another being, further away than those before, but not always so, and
      stronger. Older. A man he once called friend, but who now seeks a twisted
      justice that is not justice at all.

      Together with the strength, the conscience, and the peace, he has been
      battling this man.

      He remembers now, some things, long ago. Smiles and laughter, easy and
      forced in turn... Then, as time--

      --yes there is always time--

      --passed, never easy, and the moment came when they could no longer be
      bothered to try.

      So they drifted in two directions, opposite from each other.

      North and south, east and west.

      There is pain in this man; it bleeds from him in brick-colored waves, along
      with the black sting of betrayal. He does not believe that Charles should
      be of a different mind.

      But he is.

      Then, he feels the newer forces, wilder, the catalysts for everything that
      has--

      --what has happened?--

      --built over the past days.

      Days.

      Time. Now he knows time, can measure it in distinct units rather than
      nebulous concepts of long ago, recently, and soon. Seconds wind into
      minutes and then into hours...

      There is a structure there, and it steadies him.

      One into another into another, always.

      --parts of a larger whole--

      It steadies him.

      The newer forces, like two hands tightly twisted together, never one
      without the other. An old man who seems young, one who is tortured and
      chased by the demons of a past so horrific he cannot comprehend it.

      --why does he want to find it?--

      The man is an unstable force, strong but impulsive and rash. He is drawn
      to the woman who is the conscience, though he knows not why. He can't be
      bothered to wonder if it's something more--

      --or less--

      --than pure lust. For him, that is all that exists. It is all he will
      allow himself to see, to feel.

      He is the passion.

      That man is almost like an animal; he sees nothing but what is before him,
      knows nothing but the keen instinct to kill or be killed, to live, one way
      or another. He has nothing to keep him level, no anchor with which to
      secure himself.

      Nothing but the girl.

      Charles has seen her in this fog; he knows this, and it calms him further.
      It is a piece of the puzzle, and it is clicking into place.

      --parts of a larger whole--

      The girl, who seems delicate but must not be, for she was able to survive
      on her own for nearly a year--

      --such a very long time to be alone--

      --without breaking, without giving up the innocence she holds to a world
      that craves the destruction of such things.

      She is strong, but in a different way from the animal-man who stands beside
      her, inside her.

      She is the innocence.

      In the haze, Charles sees the need they dare not acknowledge, the way they
      are more powerful as one than as two. It tears at him, for he has seen
      that solitude is all either knows, and old habits are hard to break. But
      break them they will, and it almost seems that Charles can already sense
      the old tendencies tossed aside, discarded in favor of bonds that have
      already been forged, of decisions that have already been made.

      For those two are the devotion.

      It is his place to find a way. He must make his team--

      --there was a fight--

      --a working whole, with all its pieces melded smoothly together, seamless.

      Strength, conscience, and peace alongside passion, innocence, and devotion.

      --but what am I?--

      His head hurts. Not the vague ache of the fog pressing in on him, but a
      throb that he recognizes.

      Pain.

      Red.

      --Jean--

      [There was a fight.]

      She's beckoning again, and this time Charles feels the pull. He can feel
      the gentle push of her mind against his, the thoughts she is feeding into him.

      [We need you, Professor.]

      He smiles.

      That is what he is.

      Teacher, mentor, father.

      Friend.

      It all comes rushing back, every last broken bit of his mind coming back
      together, making him whole.

      He opens his eyes.

      "Welcome back." The words are soft, husky with relief, and he looks up
      into Jean's eyes, the eyes that reflect everything she is.

      "I had you to guide me," he replies, his voice a little hoarse from disuse.

      And it's true.

      He had all of them, his team, to guide him.

      ~~ The End ~~


      ~~x~~

      There's a fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."
      -- Dave Barry
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