Chapter Text
"Can we get this over with? I'm missing Days of Our Lives."
"I never pegged you for a soap opera fan, Charles." Dr. Emma Frost uncrosses her legs and smiles humourlessly at her patient. Charles Xavier has graced her office with so many broken bones that she's not even certain he has any left. She still remembers their first counselling session with unsettling clarity, after the DUI that took his father’s life and left his mother drowning her guilt in a cocktail of vodka and pain medication. Since then Charles has made his reputation at the Northern Westchester Hospital as their resident Impact Junkie, obsessed with walking in front of cars, minivans, motorcycles, hell he even managed to get hit by an ambulance he called for himself a couple of years back.
“You know there are only four channels here,” Charles is saying. “Besides, Stefano’s been murdered. Again.”
Emma shakes her head and focuses on the present, on this 24 year old nutcase that threw away an Oxford scholarship in exchange for what amounts to an almost permanent residence in this hospital. Maybe they should start charging him rent.
“How are you feeling today?” she asks, ignoring his sigh of impatience.
“Well,” he says, lifting a heavily bruised arm to brush chestnut locks from his eyes, “I’m sitting in this deathtrap of an ancient wheelchair with two broken legs, a broken wrist, a couple of cracked ribs, and the doctors still think I might have a concussion. Oh yes, and I have to listen to you ask me that for the thousandth time. How do you think I feel?”
“My, we’re in a snarky mood this morning,” Emma frowns. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here. But the fact is, this addiction of yours is getting worse, and you need to deal with it before I end up writing your eulogy instead of your prescriptions.”
Charles shifts slightly in the wheelchair, eliciting an ominous creak from its wheels. “First of all, although I’m certain yours would be very beautiful, Raven will most likely be the one to deliver my eulogy. But if you feel that strongly about it, I’ll make sure you receive an invitation to my funeral.”
“Charles, that’s not the point.”
“Secondly,” Charles continues, ignoring her interjection, “I’m not suicidal. I know what will kill me, and I studiously avoid it. And before you say what you’re clearly thinking, broken bones are not lethal. I’ve got eleven years worth of hospital bills and medical records to prove it.”
“And each time, you come back with more and more damage,” Emma retorts. “The first time you came in after the crash, you had a couple of broken toes, and the doctors thought nothing of it. Now here you are over a decade later with three broken limbs, and by the way, no, you don’t have a concussion. I scanned you when Azazel wheeled you in. I repeat, wheeled, not walked. How are you going to up your game next time, Charles? How far are you going to go for your next fix?”
Charles remains silent, fingering the stray fibres of his arm cast as he avoids Emma’s glare, but Emma isn’t finished with him. Eleven years, eleven years she’s dealt with him breezing in and out of her office, sporting broken bones and six-inch stitches like it was completely normal, and she’ll be damned if she’s going to sit idly by and let him keep up this idiotic “live fast, die young” routine.
“I can’t just sit here and give you pills and textbook advice in the vague hope that one day, maybe, you’ll stop trying to destroy yourself,” Emma continues. “I’ve tried prescriptions, grief counselling, rationalizing, shouting, hell I’ve even tried blatant disinterest in the faint hope that this might just be an attention thing. But quite frankly, I just don’t know what to do with you anymore.”
Charles drops the strings he’s been tugging at and slowly drags his eyes up to meet Emma’s own. “Then I think, Doctor Frost, that our sessions are at an end.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Because clearly, there is nothing more you can do for me.”
Charles wheels himself backwards using his one good arm and, with great difficulty, manages to travel the short distance to the door. When he glances back one last time, he looks almost remorseful, and then he’s carefully maneuvering through the doorway and into the whitewashed hospital corridor. Emma takes a deep breath and glances back at the open file on her death. XAVIER, CHARLES FRANCIS is printed across the top in large, bold lettering, right next to the outdated mug shot of a morose 13 year old, his usually unkempt brown hair obscured by the bandage wrapped several times around his head. She’d always meant to find an updated photo for her file, but, she supposes, his new therapist can deal with that. Emma slams the file shut and tucks it under her arms as she exits her office, locking the door behind her.
~
Emma breezes into the office of Dr. Sebastian Shaw, head of the medical psychology department, and tosses Charles’ file onto his desk.
“I’m done,” she announces, taking her usual seat on the leather Balmoral sofa adjacent to Shaw’s Gainsborough swivel chair. She still hasn’t figured out exactly how he’s been able to import such expensive furniture, but she learned a long time ago that it’s best not to question what Shaw really does at this hospital.
“You say that every time he’s admitted,” Shaw smirks.
“I mean it this time. Someone else can take him. I’m done babysitting Mr. ‘I’m not suicidal, I just like walking in front of speeding vehicles’.”
Shaw slides the file towards him and casually flips through the first few pages. “Well, if you’re absolutely certain, I’ll re-assign the Charles Xavier case this afternoon.”
Emma just shrugs and tucks a stray blonde hair behind her ear, trying her best to appear disinterested. “Fine.”
“And,” Shaw adds, “I’ll have Azazel deliver the Summers files to your office for your perusal.”
“The Summers boys?” Emma gapes at him. “The blonde one is a literal walking time bomb. My office is far from the ideal environment for those two.”
“Exactly,” Shaw replies. “That’s why you’ll be relocating to the east wing for their duration of their sessions.”
“Great.” Emma throws up her hands. “Well, I suppose if I have to choose, spending a couple of hours in McCoy’s lab twice a week is the lesser of two evils.”
Shaw stares at her. “You’re really serious this time, aren’t you?”
Emma sighs. “Yes, Sebastian, I am quite serious. There’s only so long you can watch someone destroy themselves before it becomes absolutely unbearable.”
“Oh I don’t know,” Shaw muses. “I find his case fascinating.”
“Then maybe you should treat him.”
“I’ll take him.”
Emma glances up in surprise. Another doctor is standing in the doorway, a few inches taller than Shaw and wearing a black turtleneck underneath his department issued white lab coat. Everything about him is defined at sharp, unforgiving angles – the cut of his cheekbones, his slim, almost impossibly tapered waist, even the way his russet-brown hair is smoothed against his skull projects a hardness that Emma’s only ever seen in Shaw himself. She’s surprised her telepathy didn’t pick him up sooner, but to be fair, Charles has been taking up most of her thoughts lately.
Shaw just flashes that devious smile of his and nods at the stranger. “Emma, meet Dr. Erik Lehnsherr, our newest clinical psychologist.”
“Charmed,” Emma says dryly, holding out her hand. She scans his mind briefly as he accepts it, casually leafing through memories of NYU, his deceased parents, and, most importantly, discovering his mutation.
“He also has quite the fascinating mutation,” Shaw continues, watching their brief exchange.
“I know,” Emma says. “You’re a metal bender. And you don’t appreciate being spoken about as though you’re not in the room.”
Erik raises an eyebrow. “Then you’ll also know to stay out of my head.”
Emma affords him a wry smile. “What interest do you have in my patient, Dr. Lehnsherr?”
“From what I gather, he’s not your patient anymore,” Erik replies. “But to answer your question, I’ve been searching for a way to reconcile my previous experience in physical therapy with this new position and, from what I’ve heard about this Charles Xavier, this is the perfect opportunity.”
Emma has to admit, she’s impressed. From what she’s seen in his mind, his attraction to extreme personalities and strong work ethic might just be what Charles needs.
“You’ve racked up quite the resume for someone who’s barely pushing 30,” she says. “Not much in the way of clinical psychology, however.”
“I’m still new to the field. And I told you to stay out of my head.”
Shaw laughs and holds up a hand. “As amusing as it is to watch your sparring match, I have a meeting to attend, and you, Dr. Lehnsherr, have eleven years worth of medical records to catch up on.”
Erik steps forward to take the file from Shaw and gives a slight nod in return. “Thank you, sir. Dr. Frost, it was…nice to meet you.” He tucks the file under his arm and exits the office, leaving Shaw, Emma, and Janos alone at the table.
Emma sputters. “What, you’re just handing Charles over to him?”
“What’s the matter, Emma?” Shaw asks, his tone sickeningly sweet. “Regretting your decision already?”
“No, of course not.” Emma attempts to regain her composure, painfully aware of both Erik and Shaw watching her. “It’s just a little…sudden, that’s all.”
“I wouldn’t want you changing your mind again,” Shaw replies smoothly. “Besides, our favourite patient’s next physical therapy session is tomorrow afternoon. I see no reason why Erik can’t take over his treatment immediately.”
“What about Logan?”
“Didn’t you hear? His gruffness with Charles on Monday earned him three hours in the pediatric ward under the belief that he was a six year old girl.” Shaw chuckles. “Although the children quite enjoyed it, Logan has since sworn off telepathic patients.”
“It seems Charles has had quite the attitude this week.” Emma taps a manicured fingernail to her lower lip. “He’s usually so compliant.”
“Yes, well he’s not your problem anymore,” Shaw says airily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”
Emma stands and smooths the crease in her white designer dress pants, avoiding Shaw’s gaze as she leaves his office. She will not allow him to see her displeasure at being dismissed so curtly, or her concern for Charles’ erratic behaviour. After all, he’s not her patient anymore. She smiles to herself as she presses the button for the elevator. Dr. Lehnsherr has no idea what he’s getting into.
~
Erik has reviewed all eleven years of medical documentation cover to cover. He spent most of yesterday afternoon pulling Dr. Frost’s old records and reading over her meticulously kept reports before moving on to the most recent x-rays and CT scans. The only thing he can’t find is a more recent photograph. The hospital doesn’t seem to have one on file, which Erik finds more than a little bizarre, especially since he Googled his patient’s name and nothing more recent than the original car crash came up in the search.
The door to Erik’s tiny office opens and Azazel wheels in a sullen looking Charles Xavier exactly on time.
“He’s all yours,” Azazel grumbles, affording Erik a quick nod before teleporting from the room, leaving a cloud of dark smoke in his wake. Erik starts at the demonic mutant’s abrupt departure, but Charles appears unperturbed. Despite the numerous injuries, or perhaps because of them, Charles Xavier is an imposing young man. He sits perfectly straight in his wheelchair, though Erik notes that his posture seems a little too rigid, and his unnaturally bright blue eyes pierce directly into Erik’s own.
Unlike Dr. Frost’s icy touch, Charles’ telepathic intrusion is warm and curious, seeking permission even as he dives in and takes what he wants.
“I’d prefer if you left my mind alone,” Erik says.
Charles pauses his browsing, but doesn’t release his hold. “Why? You know everything about me from my files. It’s only fair that I am afforded the same courtesy.” He presses on a bit further, finding everything that Dr. Frost had and more, before he withdraws, apparently satisfied for now.
“You could have just asked, you know.”
“Likewise,” Charles replies. “I see you’re taking over my physical and psychological therapy. Shaw must be cutting costs again.”
“From what I heard, you traumatized Logan and ended things with Dr. Frost personally.”
“And do you always believe everything you hear?”
“Only when it’s true.” Erik pauses, considering. It’s a long shot, but he may as well ask. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Alright, then. Why don’t we talk about why you crossed on a red light in front of an SUV?”
Charles shrugs. “The Camry ahead of it was crawling pitifully below the speed limit. Hey, here’s an idea,” he adds, before Erik can respond. “Why don’t you skip the preamble and sign my release papers so that we can both go home early?”
Erik raises an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I can make you.” Charles taps two fingers to his temple.
“You could,” Erik admits. “But you won’t.”
Charles stares at him for a long moment, brow furrowed. “No,” he says finally. “I won’t. But I could make you,” he adds, mostly to himself. “I could do a great many things, if I wanted to.”
“What exactly do you want, Charles?” Erik asks carefully.
Charles snaps back to attention. “I want to get out of here. I want to see my sister, and I want to sleep in a room that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and starched linens.”
Erik leans forward. “If that’s really what you want, then I will make you a deal.” He gestures to Charles’ leg casts. “Lift your legs up.”
Charles glances down at his legs, then back to Erik. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Not at all,” Erik replies. “Lift them both – for a few seconds at least, mind you, I want to see some real effort – and I will sign those papers. Of course,” he adds, “you’ll have to get yourself here four times a week for your sessions.”
Charles smirks. “Done.” He returns his attention to his legs, while Erik stands and walks around the desk for a better view. Charles’ certainty vanishes after only a few seconds and he scowls at the offending limbs before glancing up at Erik. “You knew I couldn’t move them.”
Erik crosses his arms. “Try again.”
Charles glowers, but does as he is told. This time, he manages to wiggle a couple of toes. He exhales heavily and leans back in the chair. “I can’t do it.”
Erik feigns surprise. “But I thought you wanted to get out of here.”
“Do you even realize how much pain I am in right now?” Charles retorts angrily. “Especially after Emma had them take me off the morphine drip last night, probably out of spite.”
“Yes, actually, I do,” Erik replies, ignoring his jab at Dr. Frost. “I’ve broken a few bones in my lifetime. Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he continues, using a tendril of his power to draw his metal chair towards him. “You’ve already taken the grand tour of my memories. Now then, let’s take a look at that wrist.” The chair slides up soundlessly behind him and Erik sits down next to Charles, who resignedly offers his casted arm. Erik takes Charles’ hand in his own, and is immediately distracted by the state of his fingers. Each one is disfigured and decorated with a patchwork of scars and fading bruises.
Charles points at his slightly shorter index finger. “This little piggy went to market. And this little piggy stayed home.” He points to the middle finger, and then the ring finger, whose tip is bent in an unnatural direction. “And this little piggy got himself smashed in a car door twice in the same week and went crying all the way home.”
Erik lightly traces the misshapen contour of Charles’ thumb. “How did this happen?”
Charles lowers his eyes. “You’ve seen my records.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
Charles takes a deep breath. “Very well. My left thumb was an accident, if you can believe it. The first time, I mean. Body-checked at precisely the wrong angle during a lacrosse match.”
“Lacrosse?”
“I was 15 and it was the only high impact sport that would take me. I was too small for football and rugby.”
Erik nods. “And after that?”
“After that I went through a phase where I was angry and violent all the time, and I ripped my thumb out of my cast in the hospital. You should have seen Emma’s face.” Charles laughs bitterly. “She was furious.”
“And this one?” Erik touches the thin white scar outline the tip of Charles’ index finger.
“Funny story, that one,” Charles says. “I was standing on a kitchen chair trying to reach my prescription pills- oh don’t give me that look, it’s not my fault my sister decided one addiction translated to all of them. Anyway, I lost my balance, I landed on my arse on the floor, and the chair landed on my hand, crushing my index finger. The entire thing just exploded outwards. I didn’t even do that one on purpose, but I was quite pleased with the effect. And look,” he adds, pressing down on the tip of his finger, “it’s barely got any padding now, and the nail grows in differently.”
“You say that as if it’s a good thing,” Erik comments. “How about this middle finger?”
“Smashed in a car door. Twice.” Charles refuses to meet his eyes. “Next.”
“Hang on,” Erik says. “I get the impression you enjoy telling these stories. Why are you avoiding this one?”
“It’s not important. The ring finger, on the other hand—”
“I’d like you to tell me about this one,” Erik interrupts. “Please.”
Charles’ free hand grips the arm of the wheelchair so tightly that his knuckles whiten even beneath the bruises. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Charles,” Erik keeps his tone gentle. “We’re going to get through this, whether you like it or not. It’s long past time for you to face this addiction.”
“You want the truth?” Charles’ gaze travels back down to the finger in question. “That little mishap had nothing to do with my ‘addiction’. It was the beginning of the injuries I would endure at the hands of my step-brother, Cain.”
“He blamed you for his father’s death.” Erik frowns. “Why didn’t you speak up? And how many other injuries resulted from his abuse?”
“Why do you think?” Charles demands angrily, his voice cracking. “All I am to these people is the ‘Impact Junkie’. Every time I get hurt, it’s because I brought it on myself. Cain would have just been an excuse to them.”
“But if he started this right after the accident, before you were diagnosed with an addiction, you could have said something,” Erik presses. “Not to mention with your telepathy—”
“With my telepathy,” Charles interjects, “I could have saved them. I could have taken control of the other driver and forced him to swerve out of the way. I could have slipped into my stepfather’s mind and sped up his reaction time. Hell, I could have turned off his pain receptors, slowed down the blood flow in his brain to prevent clotting, the possibilities are endless.” He shakes his head and glares down at his hand. “I could have done so many things. But I was stupid and scared and maybe some part of me wanted him gone because he was just as bad, if not worse than, his son.”
For a moment, Erik is at a loss for words. None of this was mentioned in Charles’ medical history, or in Dr. Frost’s reports. He can’t help but wonder why Charles would bring it up now.
“Who else knows about this?” Erik asks finally.
Charles starts and withdraws his injured hand from Erik’s palm. “I haven’t…I haven’t told anyone.”
“What about Dr. Frost? Your sister?”
“I haven’t told anyone,” Charles repeats, more firmly this time. “And I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know why I…” he trails off and inhales sharply. “I don’t want this on record. If I have to I’ll make you forget. I can do that, you know.”
“That’s the second time you’ve threatened to ‘make me’ do something,” Erik notes. “You know that isn’t really necessary. If you want this conversation off the record, then it will be.”
Charles blinks. “Really?”
“Really,” Erik offers what he hopes is a comforting smile and reaches for Charles’ hand. “Now, why don’t you tell me about that ring finger.”
The corners of Charles’ mouth twitch, but he quickly suppresses the impulse to smile back. “Well, first there was the incident with automatic doors…”