#would be more but tumbler refused to safe my drafts

[if-weshadows-haveoffended]

Sleep No More- Charles X Reader- Prompt Fill

Title: Sleep No More (source) Prompt fill: Helpless, Longing Prompt List: Here Masterpost Ask: here Words: approx 1,800 A/N: Feel free to send in anymore requests :)

There had been a short while when you'd thought that perhaps things may turn out for the best. Somewhere in 1964 or so. There had been students for a while. Small things, hardly older than five or six, running about Charles' wheels like he was their new father. Older kids, boys mainly, trailed behind, doing their best to listen to Charles' advice. But of course, a fucking Proxy War had to get in the way. Vietnam now, was it? As if the failure of Korea wasn't enough. You knew too many boys from university classes who had died or worse yet, been left off worse than dead.

The Cold War was simmering once again, though with levels nowhere near as dangerous as Cuba had been. For a while mutants dropped off the undesirable radar as they were replaced with red targets. You watched the students vanish one by one. First it was little pig-tailed Cecile, sucking her thumb and with a tremulous lower lip, wailing for the inhabitants of the mansion to hear and for the house itself to bear scars of cracked wood and shattered glass. Cecile's mother thought it was for the best to have her daughter home now that all three of her sons and her husband had been drafted. Their little inner-city apartment seemed too empty she said, besides it seemed cruel to deprive the girl of what may be the only memories she'd have of her family. The older boys who populated your history class began to vanish too, being drafted and deciding to volunteer once all their friends had been surrendered to the need ending war machine. It seemed prudent to die together rather than separated in a drawn-out fashion. And as always Charles sat in his wheelchair at the Mansion's grand mahogany doorway, waving goodbye and holding back tears in his blood-shot eyes, drooping from equal amounts of tired and misery. You supposed what made it worse was the brave faces those boys gave as they waved back, promising they were alright. Charles knew different. He knew the truth. The girls followed not soon after, deciding they wanted none of their family's sympathies. They went off, nurses and studying to become doctors. Reporting back of loss after loss after loss. Then radio silence, their units hit and they too became casualties. They were children. Charles would sob at night, throwing crystal tumblers against dusty carpets soaking with half-finished scotch. They were his children above all else. Eventually Hank informed you of your inevitable redundancy. After all there were no more students and with slight bitterness; no more professor. It was years before you returned, deciding to hid behind a facade of normalcy once again. Something about being a librarian, useful for a mutant who could remember everything. Maybe that’s why you drank, so you could forget and feel human for once. There were too many books to keep you intrigued from dwelling on every painful jolt of emotion sent through you as you remembered hazy remarks and hushed laughter of the past. Your boss had once found you clutching a textbook in your arms, slumped to the floor as water trickled past your eyes- the last you'd taught your seniors. Their jokes and groans and essays imprinted in your mind. Of your class of twenty, twelve had gone; and of those,  five remained. Of that five, three were severely injured, one was irreparably traumatised and another declared MIA; perhaps taken prisoner by the Viet Cong. You weren't sure. The rest objected and protested and fought on home soil for those who remained to come home safe. It wasn't as if you could ask Charles. No, you doubted he'd use Cerebro let alone pull a favour for you. It was worth a shot, perhaps. Just to ease your mind. Just to help you sleep at night. A smaller, more traitorous part of your mind whispered that you were longing to see Charles's kind face again. At close quarters, face-to-face rather than through a rear-view mirror. You could almost trace the familiar crevices of wrinkles and smile-lines in the eye of your mind. That image was what pulled at your heart, what forced your hands to the steering wheel and your feet to the pedals, driving down a road you thought you'd never return to. The destination was known yet somehow unfamiliar. The tangled vines around the wrought-iron gates should have been the first indicator that something was wrong. Not even bothering to drive past the gates, you pulled the clutch, turned off the engine and exited in a hurry.

The dirtied sign of the school broke your heart in a wrenching, tearing fashion.

Still you continued, pebbles entering your shoes as you now sprinted down the lane, arms pumping and breaths increasing.

By the time you’d pushed the heavy mahogany doors open, your head was spinning. Your feet felt as if they weren’t making contact with the crisp black-and-white tiles, or even able to remember the pathway to any of your favourite haunts. The old panelled classroom, Charles’ favourite spot by the patio, or even your old dormitory. In fact, it was quite by chance that you heard muffled steps from the flight above- the direction of Charles’ old study.

"For fuck's sake, Hank; I thought I told you not to bother me with any more questions about what groceries I want!" You heard him through the panels of his mahogany study and he in turn must have heard your footsteps. Your heart leapt a little before shrivelling in it’s place, unsure about going further and knowing more "No, seriously Hank, fuck off." That simply wasn't right. He'd have known who it was, he'd have been able to read you mind and tell- You quickened your footsteps, not even bothering to knock on his door and simply barging in. "Oh god, what have you done to yourself?" You stopped in your tracks to see Charles in his study. Or what could barely be described as his study. It seemed far too littered with built-up pieces of junk and things that were never returned to their rightful places, the overwhelming scent of dust and sharp alcohol assaulted your nostrils and you struggled a little to breathe. However the most shocking of changes was the fact that Charles Xavier now stood again, stopped in his tracks and brushing away over-grown hair away from dulled eyes. "I thought I'd told you that your redundancy was permanent," Charles stated slowly, moving towards you in shuffling steps, putting down his half-finished scotch. You noticed with unease the dirtied stains on his shirt. "And I thought you promised me to smile," You countered back, wanting to stand your ground but too worried over what was happening. "What did you do to yourself?" "Everything." He answered, now facing you head-on. The past few years seemed to have aged him immensely. His usually cheerful lines seemed far too creased and far too sad. "How have you been? Are you married yet?" "We both know the answer to that question," you bit down an angrier retort and decided upon crossing your arms. "If you'd read my mind, you'd know for certain." "I-I don't do that anymore." He interrupted suddenly, his gaze piercing and hot as you felt yourself shrink a little at the sudden flash of scalding anger. But he relaxed a little, shoulders slumping and picking up his scotch- he drained it. You moved away, continuing with your purveyance of the room. "It's more that I can't," he admitted, wanting meeting your eyes with his own before darting away again, unable to face the truth. "How has life treated you?" "The same as always. It always hurts, but at least I know I'm alive." "Unlike our students," he spat bitterly, "I-no, never mind." "Did you ever think of us Chuck?" The smile Charles received must have been weak as you felt it watery as it pulled against your cheeks and lips. "Yes, but I tried not to."

“Why not?”

“It hurt too much.”

“But, Professor-“ You couldn’t believe it at all, “You can’t just hurt yourself like that, it’s not healthy. I don’t understand-“

"I did it so I could sleep! So I could forget all of their young faces. So I could stop this pathetic longing for you-for all of them." He was frantic, arms akimbo and his tone unnaturally harsh. "For me?" Charles barely heard the shocked exhale that escaped your lips.

“Yes you, always you,” he spat out, you took a step back in terror, angry at what could have taken over him. "The first time we met, you kissed me and the last time we saw each other, you couldn't meet my eye. Tell me what on earth I was meant to think?" Your mind was blank, unable to remember the fuzzy circumstances of your first meeting. But you assumed that Charles wouldn't lie, not with something like that. "I was helpless sitting there, unable to stop them from going. Now I can walk." Charles laughed bitterly, pushing hair away from his face. "I could run after them if they were still alive-" "They went, Charles, because it was you who taught them to care. To love. To give a shit. Half of them were running off because their brothers were and the other half followed because they refused to be divided. Who the fuck taught them that? It wasn't me, it wasn't Hank and it certainly wasn't President Johnson in this political environment." You stopped your spitefulness for a moment, letting the hot tears break their bursting banks. "It was you, Charles. They went out there to make you proud, to be everything you taught them." "I taught them to die," "You taught them to live. And if they must die, it was in protection of those they loved-"  "Say it again," Charles cut you off bluntly, his voice almost distant. "Say what?" "My name. You never call me by my name." He looked at you directly now, for what felt like the first time in centuries, tired blue eyes meeting yours. "It's always been Charlie and Carlos and-" "Chuck," You finished quietly with a smile. "Say my name again, please," Charles' worn hands now held desperately onto your upper-arms. Pure instinct overtook as you pulled him close by his hips, Charles' head dropping down to rest upon your forehead. You wouldn't dare believe that such happenings were real. "Charles, you weren't helpless. You aren't, rather." You continued on quietly, the warm breath of your words practically against his lips. "You equipped your children with everything they needed. They were X-men more than you or me or Hank or Raven. They were everything we should have been." "Do you promise me that?" "Always," Your hand moved to cradle Charles' jaw. "My darling Charles, I promise."