Log: Scott and Charles Who; Scott Summers and Charles Xavier When; Tuesday, March 18th, morning Where; The hospital in Washington, DC What; The first real moment we've seen after Scott's return and Magneto's defeat, in which they don't really talk about their problems. But that's okay.
Charles Xavier had been severely injured in the battle against Magneto but it looked like it was over. Magneto was dead and the battle was ending. There would be chaos, but if Xavier and Donald Blake had anything to say about it, they would manage to organize things. But in the end... Charles wasn't cut out for any of this. He never intended to rule nations or fight wars. He wanted to change the world, sure, but this was not what he meant. He hoped to change individual lives by being a teacher, by lecturing about peace, and somehow he'd become a general in a war. He was forced to make decisions like sacrificing his adopted son to save the country. The coward in him wished that he hadn't survived the beating Magneto gave him, but... he had to keep going. The problems weren't over----they were just beginning.
He was sitting up in bed now, propped up against pillows. There were thick layers of gauze around his torso, covering snapped ribs and protecting a scar from surgery. Another bandage covered the gash on his head, and another on the bridge of his nose, but the other bruises were uncovered for everyone to see. A blackened eye, a split lip, more bruises along his collarbone and across his right shoulder. The ones on his side were covered by the bandage and the blanket he sat under.
His wheelchair had been destroyed and the one by his bed was a hospital-issued one, without motor----something that Charles didn't have the ability to use right now. So, bed it was, unless someone was willing to take him for a walk around the wing. The hospital was a safe place for him now, doctors willing to treat him whether they thought he was a hero or a villain. He couldn't return home to Westchester, not when there was so much work to be done here. He couldn't be responsible for destroying Washington without working to put it back together again.
And so, even though he looked at rest, Charles had many pressing, terrible thoughts racing through his mind. He wasn't going to get any rest.
The last couple weeks had been hectic at best. Scott was really in no position to be up and around; he'd suffered and taken little time to recover. He'd isolated himself, and while that let him restore his health and take in some peace and quiet, it hadn't really fixed much. He should have gone to David, but Scott didn't know David all that well. Sure, to an extent, Scott opened up to people -- but it was more to protect themselves. Like he had with Mary Jane, telling her what he thought was useful for her, not to alleviate him.
There were two people that Scott was comfortable honestly sharing with, and one was dead. The other, as it were, had been ready to sacrifice him. Not a wonderful place to be, but Scott wasn't bitter. He was hurt, but he wasn't angry. Charles was injured, and that took precedence over Scott's problems.
Scott had refused to leave Charles unless he'd been asked to do so by Charles himself, so he was in one of the hospital chairs. He slept when he could, but it was fitful when he did. He hadn't slept well in a long time, but Scott liked to think he was used to it by now. He seemed completely unwilling to get too far away from Xavier -- as if he felt ... almost guilty for fighting alongside Alex instead of being with Charles when he confronted Magneto. Or maybe it was as if staying close to him would ensure himself that, despite the decision he'd made, Charles still loved him. It had just been necessary. Scott would have made the same choice.
So they tended to stay in relative silence; it was difficult to tell whether Scott was dozing or awake, and Scott didn't dare disrupt any semblance of rest Charles had. If there was ever a person who saw Scott hesitant to bother them, it was Charles, and he tended to wait for cues, when they came.
It was quiet, not demanding too much attention, but just trying to ascertain whether Scott was awake and willing to listen. "I'm sorry," he said. "About the choice I had to make. You know why I did it and I know you would have done the same thing. I sent Alex in after you and that was the best we could have done... and it worked out. You're still here." He was on painkillers, his manner of speech a little more roundabout and convoluted than he might have liked under normal circumstances.
"Don't apologize," Scott returned softly, raising his head to show that he was listening. "It was necessary. You did nothing to apologize for." No matter how much it hurt, no matter how bad the situation had been with Mystique, Scott seemed to firmly believe himself when he said he would have gladly died for Charles' dream to live.
"That doesn't mean it was a choice I wanted to make," said Charles, his hand turning over on the mattress to face palm up. An offering. "Scott, things aren't going to be easy... not for a while. I don't know how we're going to move forward from this place. There's... hn. There's a lot to do and a lot to think about, and we're going to need all the help we can get... I don't want us all to become public sorts of people, that's not what I ever intended for you... I wanted you all to live quietly, in peace, and look at all this. I don't know what to make of it. All I know is that Magneto is gone." It was said softly, like he was sort of stunned with himself.
Reaching over, Scott touched Charles' hand before laying down his own, taking solace in it. It was something simple that no one else was allowed to see, in any case. "No one ever wants to," Scott assured him. "We'll do what we have to do. It wasn't easy before, and it won't be easy now, but at least we're healing, rather than fighting."
"That's what we hope, anyway," said Charles quietly. "Hope that this doesn't perpetuate fighting... hope that this might end things, hope that whatever we help to put in place will be better than what's come before----this..." He was a little overwhelmed, lifting his eyes up to the ceiling. "Please tell me I did what I had to do. Tell me I did what I should have done years ago."
Scott squeezed his hand. "You did the right thing. Maybe you should have stopped him before he formed the Brotherhood, but you can't help that now. All you could do was react to the present, and you did it. ---At any cost," he added softly. "The right decisions aren't always the ones that feel the best."
Charles smiled grimly. "He was the one who taught me to play dirty," he murmured. "In hindsight I shouldn't have let this go on as long as it did. There are so many people dead because I was slow, because I couldn't... because I thought that Eric would have more sense. Because I held out hope that perhaps one day he'd actually realize what he was doing. Or perhaps I didn't have enough faith in my own methods to think that I had a right... I don't know, Scott. I don't know."
"Hope is nice," Scott admitted. "But it doesn't change people." He closed his eyes, grateful for his glasses just then. Faith in one's abilities had shown, to Scott, to save people -- and to kill them. He wasn't sure what to say to that, exactly, though he knew he could certainly hope that this decision didn't end with Charles losing his life the way Jean had. "You did what you thought was right. And..." Scott hesitated. "None of us are immune to wanting to keep the people we once loved safe, even after we've lost them."
Charles glanced at Scott like he was about to say something important, and instead he just chuckled softly. "No... no, none of us are immune to that," he whispered quietly, clearing his throat and then looking down. "Scott, I should rest."
"Of course." Scott seemed as if he'd add to it, even that he was a little more upset than he was letting on, but when his eyes didn't tear up, it was hard to tell if he was about to cry or just tired. "I should go find something to eat. Try to sleep."
Charles knew how Scott felt. Being psychic did that to a person. But Charles had enough on his mind and he really did need the rest. He wanted to show Scott sympathy, affection, but saying too much wasn't a good idea. And so, not enough was said. "Please," he said. "Go eat something. Don't stay here watching over me. I'll be fine. Take time for yourself."
"I feel useless when I'm alone," Scott admitted, but he stood anyway, heading for the door. It was statement, rather than something thrown on there for Charles' attention. They both had things to do, Charles needed to recover. They both needed to heal, and Scott was far more concerned for Charles' health.
Charles shifted carefully, smoothing his blanket over his paralyzed legs. "Don't we all, Scott," he murmured in return. "Don't we all."