Yesterday!
=XS= Storm's Room - Lv 3 - Xavier's School
Spacious and furnished in sable and sand, the room is airy and draws light from the broad glass windows. The decor is subtly modern, suggesting sleek efficiency in its smooth lines. There is art in the room -- minimalist, a single piece of African art on one wall. The clock that hangs above the desk serves as complement to it, blown glass black and marked with golden Roman numerals.
The afternoon sun settles in oppressive and humid heat in the room belonging to the Storm Mistress, bathing the solitary inhabitant in a stifling cacoon, though no more stifling than the body housing her. She stalks the perimeter of the room like a jungle cat, lithe and nervous.
Stifling humidity, meet a psychic storm front. In this stolen form, Emma's spared the hearing of it, but despite Jean's intermittent efforts to shield herself, things roil and crackle across the mansion mindscape, centered on the good doctor, currently feeling not-so-good. She pauses outside the door to Storm's room, a tray bearing tea, gingerale and buttered toast in hand, composing her features to something serene and glacial. Knock, knock, knock.
Skin crawls and head lifts at the knock, telepathy unneeded for good, old fashioned paranoia. The mind housed in the body inside, normally wrapped in glacial strength to match the good doctor's feature, vibrates with tension, images and words humming unformed. "Come in."
And in Jean comes, eyes unreadable to match a mind that's utterly so. She closes the door behind her, and stands for a time, sinply staring at Ororo's face with someone else's mind behind it, noting the subtle differences and not-so-subtle ones, the shifts in body language as the mind controlling that body belongs to someone very different than its usual owner. Eventually, after her jaw works a few times, selecting words and then discarding them, she extends the tray of light food and states that "You've got a case of West Nile Virus. I thought you might like to know."
Emma stiffens and eyes her 'visitor' with narrowed eyes, hostility and defensiveness not normally on the face distorting it now. "West Nile? How... darling," she sneers.
"It explains how you can be laid up in bed, but no-one else in the school will come down with it," Jean states, the telepath's mask firmly in place. Allowing her emotions to show on her face out of courtesy... isn't a courtesy Emma's going to be getting, it seems. "It's the right season for it. And, if you happen to decide to prove Charles' faith in your good behavior wrong, there's a certain percentage of people who show mental imbalances. Tea?" The tray rattles as she sets it on the bedside table.
"Mental imbalances? That's convenient. After all, of course I will misbehave," she accuses, closing in and snatching the buttered toast from the tray. "It's so refreshing to know exactly where I stand, Jean, love. Thank you. There is only so much of Xavier's good faith and optimism one can take."
"Charles wants to save your soul," Jean drawls, pouring two cups of tea and adding an inordinate amount of sugar to hers before leaving the second to Emma. "He believes you're just a scared little girl underneath. -Is- love all you need?" she wonders, widening her eyes as sarcasm seeps past the serenity.
Not that Emma would ever admit to being such. She pulls stolen features into a facsimile of composure, though an uncomfortable tension hovers just under the surface, as if Emma would scratch herself bloody in trying to remove the skin she is in. "Isn't it what everyone needs? I thought that was the mantra of the 'good guys,' she replies. "And you are convinced I have no soul to save." She smiles in private amusement. "I wonder which of you is right.""
"Oh, I'm sure you have a soul," Jean offers, with edgedly cheery benevolence. She, notably, isn't looking at Emma any more than absolutely necessary, and there's a slight twitch of one cheek muscle in a clenched jaw whenever that velvet-chocolate voice, so familiar, uses speech patterns all -wrong- for it. Around the teacup, her knuckles are going pale. Her voice remains stubbornly even all the same. "But I'm also sure that you have to -want- it to be saved. You've made yourself a nice little empire by doing exactly all the things the good guys don't -- why would you give that up?"
"Who said I was," Emma shrugs, the shoulders of her host thinner and detailing the connections of the bones underneath the skin. She lets the cup of tea on her side of the tray cool untouched, but does take up the second slice of toast. "Go away, Grey. I'm not here because I wish to be, and I have no intention of playing secret agent to discover your boring little secrets. Accept that or pare me down to /my/ basest mental elements. /I've/ not hidden behind delusions of sainthood."
"You always say that," Jean turns to Emma suddenly, and then just as suddenly turns away again. Her shoulders hunch in manifest unhappiness, and her knucles are a fine shade of white now. "Saint Grey. You're headblind now, but you've gone rummaging through my mind enough to know that's something I don't claim. But I doubt you -intend- to go hunting for secrets. You'll just start toying with people because your're bored, or they irritate you. Or maybe Jubilee will mouth off to you again."
"Who?" The question is dismissed immediately, and she turns away to slink back toward the window. "What else should I say? You're not a martyr, because you're still alive. And you /must/ talk to God quite frequently, because you are /always/ willing to pass judgment as to who is worthy and moral, and who is a lost cause." She stops, and turns back, and smiles again, this one edged and malevolent. "Or is that just for me? Am I the only one you would condemn?"
Jean twitches, hearing that accusation in that voice, from those lips. Mental barriers drop, just enough to take a light feel and know that the mind behind the words is not, is -not- her best friend. The tea sloshes across one hand, causing her breath to hiss sharply and her teeth to catch at her lower lip. "Don't flatter yourself," she bites out, swiping her hand across the thigh of her jeans to dry it and remove the heat. Bright pink skin, sensitive and swelling slightly, remains in the wake of the spill. "The only -judgement- I make on you is based on what I see. Someone who's happy where she is and doesn't want saving. Tell me I'm wrong on -that-."
The familiar face sneers and turns away, refusing to answer, refusing to admit anything to the woman standing across the room. She marshals the mental disciplines taught to flat scans and attempts to keep thoughts focused on a chipping corner of the window frame.
Silence. Pregnant with things left unstead, it stretches long and tense, Jean's jaw tightening still further until there's a grinding squeak from her back teeth. Eventually, she falls back on hostessing with a nearly audible thud and unleans from her perch against the bedside table. "Naturally, you won't have Ororo's level of access to the school network, but there's internet and email. I can have a TV brought up if you want DVDs, and we get the Times and other papers. The senior staff know the situation here, so you can ask any of us for anything. I'm sure Scott has a few things to discuss," she concludes, lips compressed after this.
Emma twitches, a wash of emotions too complicated and inextricably twined to piece out easily tidalwaving, then sucking back into the sea of her control and not returning. "I will need a fax machine," she adds to the list of... amenities.
Half-turned, there's a most unsaintly smirk of satisfaction at catching that wash of emotion. Score. Jean 1, Emma... somewhere north of ten thousand. "I'll discuss it with Charles,"
"Don't bother. I anticipate having the opportunity to ask him myself." She grips her arms and leans against the frame, back turned and announcing her end to this conversation quite clearly.
"Repent, repent.. free fax machine with every soul saved." Wriggling her fingers in some sort of holy sign against evil. (FRUIT OF THE DEVIL.) Jean mutters something under her breath and takes her leave. Click, goes the door. Slump, goes the Jean, leaning her head against the wall of the hallway before hiding it in folded arms.
The walls feel as if they are closing in on me. Perhaps there is residual memory left in this body. Her residual memory. And perhaps it is merely the weight of her displeasure. I don’t need my powers to sense that.
I need a diversion. I also need to use a facility.
8/15/06
Logfile from Emma.
=XS= Staff Wing - Lv 3 - Xavier's School
In a small hallway around the corner of, well, the other small hallway, the rooms of most of the staff of the school are to be found. While there is no particular change in decor from the main hallway, there are more doors here, spaced widely enough apart to suggest that the staff here certainly have a few perks that come with the job.
Storm is standing in the middle of the hallway. Storm is looking rather perplexed. Storm does not want to open another door without knowing what is on the other side. She folds one arm across her to provide a shelf for her other elbow and curls her fingers over her chin, hooking the index finger up on her lip.
The elevator door hisses open and Piotr steps through, ducking slightly under the frame. Fresh from the shower, his hair hair is still slightly wet, and a few drips spatter the neckline of his shirt. He strides along quickly with the purpose of a man who is looking for something in a particular place, but slows at the sight of a confused Storm, offering her a smile and a nod of greeting. "Everything is well?" he queries.
Emma straightens like a startled rabbit and turns to look at the tall Russian. Wait. She knows this one. "Um..." Illyana's brother. What is his name... "Just fine. Fine. Um." She sucks in her lower lip and bites it, crinkling her nose as she looks back down the hallway over her shoulder. The normally melodical tones of her voice sound pinched and strained. "Though... You will never believe this. I think I have gotten a little lost...."
"Lost?" repeats Piotr, dark eyebrows lowering slightly in a look of concern, taking a small step towards his former teacher and extending a hand towards her in an offer of support, should there be any physical disorientation coupled with the loss of sense of direction. "Are you certain you are all right?" he asks, fixing his gaze closely upon the familiar features.
Emma turns around once, rolling her eyes and nearly growling with the need that has driven her into the middle of the hallway to begin with. Still. She lets her eyes drift down his frame before sweeping upwards and topping a small smile. "Just fine. The medicines. I'm just a little out of it." Sudden inspiration strikes and lights her eyes oddly. She reaches out to drop her hand atop his offered one. "I would like a glass of water."
This explanation is apparently sufficient, although it does little to ease the look of concern on Piotr's stern features. He nods slightly, beginning to move slowly in the direction of Storm's room, guiding its occupant with him. "If you would like to sit down, I could bring you one," he offers, opening his free palm skywards in a gesture of willingness.
Emma digs her heels in against the gentle guidance, urgency almost setting her feet dancing. "No." A pause and a less strained, "No need. I was just going to get some out of the bathroom faucet." << Please, please, please show me, >> she begs mentally, cursing again her host body's lack of psionic abilities.
Tilting his head to the side at the urgent tone of voice, Piotr's look of concern deepens slightly, but he acquiesces, changing his direction to head towards the bathroom instead. "Of course," he says, nodding his head back upright, still watching his companion closely. "Though I think perhaps you should be sitting down nonetheless, if your thoughts are confused." This triggers another thought. "Would you like me to find Jean to check that you are all right?"
"No! I mean," << Damn it! >> "Thank you... Piotr! But she has already checked in on me. Just a stomach bug." Relieved to sense a change in direction, she gambles and steps ahead of him to push against the handle of the targeted door, drawing herself straight and lifting her chin, attempting to project composure by sheer force of will. She does have a good deal of will, though. "Please, do not concern yourself. "
"Ah, professor!" calls Piotr, lapsing into the familiar form of address in what could potentially be a minor crisis: she is opening the door to Logan's bedroom. He hastens forwards but is too late, and the door opens, revealing not neat porcelain bathroom fittings, but Wolverine's bedroom. It is, fortunately, currently empty. "This one," he says, gesturing to the next door with an open hand, reaching behind her to close the door with the other, just in case its owner should appear.
Storm gapes slightly, eyes widening to bovine proportions as he closes in on her. Mmmhmm. And then she twitches and huffs, sliding sideways down the wall and sidling up to the proper door. "Oh. Of course."
Concern returns to Piotr's face after its brief lapse into mild panic. Storm is acting very strangely indeed. He follows her, coming to a stop just before the frame of the bathroom door. "I will wait for you and help you to somewhere you can sit down," he says with a polite smile and inclination of his head, although it is not a suggestion.
"I can sit down in here," she points out, /not/ teasingly. /Not/.
"It would not be comfortable for long," Piotr points out, an amused smile momentarily breaking through the mask of concern, oblivious to all teasing. "And I am thinking it would be safest for you to take a rest, sleep perhaps."
"Well, if you insist." Other things insist however, and Emma turns her little dancing steps into a spin away from the door which closes on his face. A few minutes pass, with all the appropriate sounds of flushing and running water. When the door opens again, apparent mental fog has evaporated, and Storm is gracious and serene.
As the door opens, Piotr eases himself off the wall from which he had settled back against to wait and stands straight, smiling a little, heartened by Storm's return to her usual poise. "Taking a drink has helped?" he asks, just to be certain.
Her nose tips down to hide the answering smile, but it remains in the glint of eyes that caper toward and about him. "Immensely, thank you." She pauses, then glides out into the hallway and turns with forceful certainty in the direction of 'her' room.
Piotr steps forwards to keep pace with Storm in case she should suffer a sudden relapse, though his mild expression suggests he is reassured by her new ease and purpose of motion. "This is good," he says with a slight nod of his head as he takes a step ahead to open the door for his companion, a gentleman through and through.
Stemma eases through the door, turning her shoulder in to lead her steps as she moves past him, closing in to clear the doorframe behind her. On the other side, she spins slowly and tips her head at the tall ex-student, arching a brow. "I suppose I /should/ lay down. But I'm so tired of the bed. I'm afraid I'm just a little bit bored."
"You should sit, at least," says Piotr with a small smile down at his former teacher, indicating her chair with a minute tip of his head. "Read, perhaps?" he suggests. "Certainly you should not be up and about if the medication is causing you to think strangely."
"Am I thinking strangely? I would swear I'm perfectly clearheaded." Stemma sits and crosses her leg before looking up at him demurely.
"You were lost a few minutes ago," Piotr reminds her, watching her with mild concern once again. Could she be another victim of the memory loss epidemic, he wonders. "It is well to be safe."
"A momentary lapse. Disorientation, only. Perhaps I stood up too quickly," she murmurs, keeping wide eyes focused on him disconcertingly.
"Ah, well then," he replies with an inclination of his head, the gesture serving both as a respectful apology, and to break the eye contact which has left him mildly embarrassed for reasons totally unknown to him. A slight tint of pink creeps unbidden to his cheeks.
How /adorable/. And unexpected to find a man over thirteen who still has the capacity to blush. Rather like Sc-- Emma drops her own eyes and the smooth darkness of her borrowed skin tone covers any answering changes. "You are a good man, Piotr."
Piotr's light chuckle in response comes just a second too late to be natural, and is accompanied by the drastic deepening of his blush to crimson. He raises an awkward hand to rub at the nape of his neck as an excuse to keep his eyes down, fixed on his shoes, and mutters, "I was concerned..."
Stemma rises from her chair, the wispy folds of a dark blue skirt falling into place around her calves. Very nice calves. Not her though. Boo. She crosses and tucks a finger under his chin, guiding it up just enough to bring his eyes to hers. "That is what I meant. You are a very kind and thoughtful man," << And so naive >>. "I appreciate your concern. Thank you." Though she says nothing more, she forms he lips into the best approximation of 'kissable' that she can mange in this body.
"I-" mumbles Piotr, a tight, strangled little syllable that he is unable to follow up. A rush of awareness that his former teacher is a very attractive woman, and that she is standing very close by, suddenly hits him at a level not coherent enough to be called thought, and before he can stop himself he is leaning in to close the kiss. Realisation of what he has done hits him like a steam train and he breaks the contact immediately, turning his head away to the side with a gasping exhalation, blinking rapidly and muttering, "Bozhe moi..." under his breath as he attempts to regain his composure. The screams of his logic and the pounding of his blood compete for attention within him.
Hollow triumph warbles inside Storm's head and Emma trails her finger from his jaw to up high on his cheek, pushing his face back to her for a return kiss, this one longer and decidedly more practiced.
Piotr allows himself to be drawn into the kiss, feeling his heart thumping hard in his chest and a weakness of confusion settle through his arms and shoulders. His eyelids drift downwards over unfocussed blue eyes, almost closing before they widen suddenly and he jolts upwards, pressing himself back against the door frame, away from his former teacher. "Professor..." he says quietly, his voice shaking a little, incomprehension, perhaps fear on his face.
Emma releases him, and watches his stumbling incomprehension with dead bemusement. "Perhaps I'm tired after all. Forgive me, Piotr," she states, rather tritely, and turns back into the room, leaning heavily on the back of the chair she'd just vacated.
"I-" mumbles Piotr again, but it appears his English has momentarily failed him and he cannot continue. He shakes his head to try and clear it, then stands and fumbles for the handle of the door. "I hope you are feeling better soon," he recovers, speaking with some difficulty, politeness even in the face of massive confusion.
Emma doesn't respond, and Storm's body stays stonily silent and still long enough to communicate intentional dismissal before it moves to bend over the side of the bed and smooth sheets and covers.
With an unhappy grimace, Piotr steps out into the hallway and pulls the door softly shut behind him, pausing with his hand still on the handle. For a moment he is utterly motionless, then he blinks slowly and turns to walk away, treading softly to avoid disturbing anyone, to avoid attracting attention.