forgodssake | ic inbox } ataraxion.

god no, whole manners of things will get in. where?

[ A wise move, Professor Sass. ]

I can come to you.

I'm decent

[ There is no crack of Apparation moments after Charles's message is sent. He has several long minutes to spend waiting, or braiding his hair, or weaving a basket, or it's like 3am

while Severus walks from the laboratories. He doesn't teleport with potions.

Finally, after approaching (quiet) footsteps: a knock. ]

[ Right where he left him the first time, corridor fourteen is very quiet, Up in the dark rafters of the corridor, there's been some reconstruction, but one would have to be looking straight up (or be a telepath of even dimly erratic ability) to notice anything strange. Metal repurposed to cling to architecture like a second skin.

The door slides open. Charles is dimly just rolled out of bed in affect despite the swiftness of his reply -- sleepless in contrast to too much sleep.

Inside, the same clutter, in different configurations. The acrid layer of cigarette smoke has gone, mostly because he ran out. A datapad has been tossed aside, screen dimming around the scroll of text, and the wheelchair he'd squirreled out of the medical bay is collapsed to a vertical fold, leaning against the end of a bed.

He turns aside, allowing Severus entry. ]

[ There is less barely-restrained disgust radiating from Severus this time. He still looks like he's not getting enough sleep-- or maybe he's just always that ugly, and dim lighting is neglecting to do any favors today.

He's holding a glass laboratory flask; the contents are pale blue, and when he hands it to Charles as he steps inside, it seems to radiate heat. ]

For the record, [ he begins smoothly, ] I do not anticipate any ill-effects, but I know how wizards and to a large extent how muggles react to potions. I have no idea how a mutant who's gone and taken a hammer to his genetic code will react.

[ He could say it colder. Go in with something sharper meant to get in under his skin. But Severus says it plainly, pragmatic. ]

[ The container is accepted, switching it from one hand to the other and he evaluates mild blue reflection, warmth he make be mistaking as residual, and an attentive look to Severus hooks in slightly too early, just before the last few words land. Attentiveness dulls out.

Not unlike something crustacean retracting into its shell. Presently, with a somewhat half-hearted attempt at dry humour; ] What's in it?

[ For a moment Severus just looks at him.

And then he takes out his comms device to pull something up - without remarking verbally, perhaps because he doesn't think Charles will understand, or have any respect for his craft. Eventually he shows him the screen.

Page after page of instructions; close to four dozen ingredients (all natural, procured from the gardens) with twice that many methods of preparations, ranging from mundane slicing to seemingly inexplicable patterns to what is downright supernatural ritual.

Someone must have helped him scan it in. ]

[ He ducks his head to suggest at least reading some of the scrolling, but study is light and fleeting, the burn edge of curiousity gone by the time his posture improves. ]

Should be fine.

[ Probably, Charles shouldn't attempt banter. But humour has always been a final refuge, even in the dark. He doesn't check to see if Severus is reacting at all (just one moment, a twitch as if to indicate that he should drink all of it in one hit, yes?) before setting the lip of flask to his mouth and doing so.

The back of his hand presses where the flask had been, waiting a second to see if anything immediately terrible will happen to him. Then; ]

You made me sound as though I were desperate. You'd be right, mostly.

[ The potion will feel warm until it slips down his esophagus, where it will then feel cool. A half minute to settle in his stomach before expanding outward, unhindered by silly structures like organs or bones, feeling like crackled frost spreading through him before dissipating; shrugged off internally. It tastes like stale blueberries and grass, and will leave his mouth a little numb for approximately two minutes.

(Oh yeah and it works.)

Severus puts his communicator away. ]

You make yourself sound desperate.

[ He doesn't need anyone's PR help on that front. ]

[ Each sensation is catalogued as it comes, fingers curling tighter around glass. Hopeful, in the mean edged way that someone hopes something will die, and in this case, its pain, choked away. ]

And do you believe me.

[ The question comes out flat in his distraction, but cautious, too. ]

[ He doesn't answer right away. ]

I would rather you be desperate than be trying to appease me.

[ Severus holds his hand out for the empty flask. It's not a kind statement because he doesn't feel kind; he's not sure if he believes Charles is desperate, or if he's just keen on making people less mad at him. ]

How is the potion making you feel?

[ Fleeting attention settles direct, for a moment, gaze pulled narrow. Severus' hand is left to hover for the moment it takes Charles to not say anything even if he is visibly trying to figure out what he wants to say, and for question to be asked instead. He places empty glass in palm.

Inscrutable. ]

Cold.

Tell me if you develop hives, [ he says with the air of someone who's not going to stick around long enough to see for himself, apparently ignoring that significant look. ] The analgesic effect should last for about six days. It has properties meant to promote regenerative healing but the drug you took may counteract it. If not, it'll still be a slow process.

[ Delicate injuries left to mire for years; Severus doesn't think anything more aggressive will help - and may actually hurt. This has been a careful brewing process. It took him weeks to finish it for a reason. ]

If you decide you want to proceed with this as a treatment, you know where to find me.

Why are you doing this.

[ It doesn't quite cut across Severus' last words, just swift at the end of them. The potion is bleeding comfort through him, and there's an intake of breath as that webbed feeling of aching distraction is drawn away, clear eyes unfocusing for the moment numbness settles in.

Refocusing again. ]

If you don't think it's important.

[ Black eyes catch blue ones. His expression shifts, slow and fluid, from cold distance to the brittle edges of a frown. Not quite anger. Annoyance. Offense. ]

Just because you could never fathom doing any work that didn't immediately intellectually entertain you doesn't mean I'm the same.

Edited (sometimes i remember grammar sometimes not ) 2014-08-09 05:13 (UTC)

[ --that gets a disbelieving scoff, but that gaze is held all the same. It's easier to just allow it go pass by. Yes, fine, obviously. But maybe he wants an answer to his question. ]

If you didn't think the pain is something to warrant desperation [ is restated, clear, sharp ] regardless as to how personally fascinating you may or may not find it, then why are you treating it seriously.

I already know your work ethic. That's not what I'm asking.

Because I'm not an arsehole who sees no middle ground between desperation and not important, Charles.

[ Is that really a question? Really? Severus just stares at him, fully incredulous. ]

[ Incredulity is blandly accepted, jaw setting firm in low level frustration. Maybe their first conversation and this attentive assistance should not feel as incongruous as it does.

It makes more sense, however, when he considers that he is Snape's work. ]

I was, though. Desperate. You said it yourself, a hammer. Maybe not desperate, I was-- I wasn't well. The things I said, Severus, they're not-- they're not why.

[ Already the thread of his point feels like he's groping in the dark, and eye contact breaks. ]

And I was afraid, when you found me.

[ Severus is immediately angry that Charles is choosing right now to suddenly have a breakthrough in emotional honesty-- or manipulation, frankly Severus isn't sure, and furthermore isn't sure if he cares. ]

Is that supposed to change something for me? [ Fear. He almost laughs. As if Severus could be moved by pandering to something he's not sure he remembers how to feel. ]

[ He has a lot of time on his hands. A lot of arguments to have until repetition starts to show itself. Eye contact regained, there's a flare of visible anger, couched as it is in whatever stops him from making his case more articulately than he is. ]

I don't know. It could. Why wouldn't it.

Motivation doesn't make what you did any different. The way you presented it to me doesn't change what it is.

[ Excuses are meaningless. No one's ever gone easier on him because he had reasons - even completely justifiable ones - fueling his mistakes. ]

Alright.

[ It's a little like giving in. There has always been a barrier behind Severus' eyes, and he can feel it, now, telepathy returned only to touch those boundaries with all the force of a hand checking the texture of a brick wall. Removal, now, in more ways than one.

Ironically, it's the Charles of ten years ago that would have argued, just now. That people are more than what they've done. That context and intentions matter. Hard lessons mean he can't really fight the point, now can he? People sometimes don't change. Maybe he won't either.

His gaze switches from one black eye to the other, before focus hollows out. ]

It works brilliant, the potion. Thanks for it.

[ He could loop the conversation back around to future treatment, agreement that he'd keep Severus updated on his intentions, but he doesn't think to. ]

[ Someone else can give Charles a hug and tell him it's all right. Emma, maybe, if she thinks it'll help. Severus doesn't work that way.

All the tools are right here for Charles to help himself. If Severus has to draw a map and hold his face against it, he'll never actually improve.

The wizard gives him a flat look. Because of course it's brilliant, he made it.

Severus turns, waves the door open, and leaves. ]

[ In fairness, he doesn't quite have the look of a man who wants (or, indeed, truly needs) a hug; the tracking of Snape's progress out of his room is vaguely hungry and hostile, if passively so. They fought. He lost his space job. According to Charles' understanding of the universe, even from down here, there should be a conversation with a resolution in sight.

There isn't one. Just five long hours til the next jump to kill, anyway, and as he did before, he spends his new found painlessness doing fuck all. ]

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