OOC: Countdown Logs
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Saturday, August 16, 2008, 1:15 PM
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=XS= The Stables - Xavier Woods - Xavier's School
Smelling of time and tradition in the mingled warm scent of horses, the sweet scent of hay, a richness of leather and saddle soap, and the everpresent, if faint, undertone of equine by-products, the stables are a charming anachronism of old-country charm amongst a more modern age. Inside the airy whitewashed building, a T-shaped floor plan provides lodging for approximately sixteen horses in open box stalls with rubber mat flooring; iron grilles atop wooden board dividers keep neighbours' teeth to themselves while allowing socializing. Mares and geldings call the central aisleway their home, while the shorter one forming the base of the 'T' contains more heavily reinforced stalls for a couple of stallions, in addition to the tack room, feed room, and lounge that take up the majority of that wing. The lounge is a homey and comfortable place, decorated with old ribbons and plaques from horse shows and furnished with braided rugs, a small fridge that does double-duty for holding horse medication as well as snacks, and several large couches deemed too old and disreputable to stay in the house. Back out in the main space, individual halters and lead shanks are hung on neat hooks on the outside of each stall beside a brass name plate identifying their owner, and three large sliding doors lead out to paddocks, a riding ring, and trails through the woods.
[Exits : [W]oodland [P]ath]
[Players : Tim ]
Morning in the woods is crisp and clear, with the sticking heat of late August yet to intrude past the tops of the trees. The ground is still damp from recent rain, but dried enough to be pleasant walking. In the riding ring of the Xavier stables, a forest of another sort has grown: horse jumps. Oxers, uprights, combinations and walls, and even a liverpool water hazard have been arranged in a pattern of big jumps and challenging approaches, bright with their white-and-colour patterns and set to a height of three foot six. The footing is good and solid, and Jean's horse, the redoubtable dark bay Risky Business, is cantering with great impulsion around the edge of the ring, en route to the first jump.
Sensible people would suggest that participating in activities that lead to broken necks is a bad idea, the morning of the day before saving the world. Sensible people, Jean Grey would beg to differ, would not be about to strap themselves to a flying bomb. Jumping it is. (And besides, Scott Summers and a certain motorcycle didn't get back in 'til late.) The rhythmic chuffs and puffs of the horse, timed to the triplet beat of his hooves, pause for a second's perfection as he makes his leap, Jean shifting forward over his neck to take it with him in a flash of bright hair beneath her helmet. And then that pause in air is over, and he canters on.
There is a certain rare look of wonder that is almost entirely the propertied of youth. Bright open eyes, slightly open moth, and movements slowed in a desperate attempt to make a moment last forever. Right now, this rarest of rare expressions has found its home firmly on Tim's face as his head tilts and follows the arcing path of the animal and rider, and then... a moment later... laughter and glee.
The thunder of Risky's hooves rolls onwards, a precise seven long strides between the first jump and the second, and then a bouncing hop of a single stride between the second jump and the third. The loud clatter of a falling rail follows in the gelding's wake, victim of a rub from his back legs, but Jean does not look back. Her expression is intent, and intense, caught between grim and grinning as she revels in the feel of controlled power beneath her, and revels all the more at those brief moments of flight at the top of each jump. A run along the long wall finally brings Tim to her attention, though, and the horse is brought to a dancing halt before him as a slightly winded Jean flashes the young man a grin. "Tim! Planning on the horsemanship course for your fall credit?"
As the rather... large animal gets closer and closer, Tim's wonder and glee are joined with slight unease and fear. He takes a careful step back as Jean brings Risky closer, but to his credit he doesn't turn or run or flinch or jump. "I... hadn't thought of it before. That looks even more fun than driving a race car. Cause... cars don't jump." Conflicted by both enthusiasm and uncertainty, the boy has to also add: "But... cars... don't bite either."
"Neither do horses, if they're well trained and well mannered," Jean assures, with a bit of a laugh from atop the blowing bay. There's a brief conflicted look, as she studies the eleven jumps of the course still un-jumped, but a look back at Tim settles it, and Jean pops off the big bay to alight beside him, his reins in her hand. "Walk with me," she encourages. "I have to cool him down if I'm not going to keep cantering him."
Some of Tim's unease relaxes a little bit at the reassurance that the horse doesn't bite... or the hope that is what Jean meant at least. He nods and falls in line on the other side of Risky, and begins to waddle along. "Its a lot of work isn't it?" Tim asks, as he admires the horses coat and all too carefully extends a hand up to gently pet the animal's side. "Taking care of it him, and training him, but... wow..."
The horse snuffles curiously, one dark eye glinting at Tim and both ears pricked forward, but beyond a turn to look at him as he comes up alongside, he keeps to himself, plodding along beside Jean with his head bobbing slow and contentedly even as sweat-slicked sides heave. "It is," Jean answers, "But happily, we have a trainer for him and the others, since I don't have the time, and there are approximately a small army of local girls who come up and ride them in exchange for cleaning stalls. If you took the course, you'd be assigned one of the school horses to be your responsibility for the semester."
When the head turns, Tim's hand leaves the horse and falls down slowly to his side, will forcing it still and away. "I would be so scared I'd hurt one of these guys..." Tim excuses at first, but the seed has already been planted, and the worry can't push it out. So when he asks his next question, the tone hints as much. "What... do you have to do? Feed him and... wash him? And take him out to ride and stuff?"
"Horses are pretty tough," Jean assures, with a hearty slap to Risky's shoulder that prompts nothing more than some rubbing of his head against -her- shoulder, thoughtfully-provided scratching post that it is, untill she pushes him away from it. A trail of dark brown hair remains. "Watch these guys loose in the pasture some time, and you'll see them bucking and kicking at each other like anything. But as for the course..." An elbow is discreetly applied to the gelding's ribs, getting him to scootch sideways and give her more room. "You'd start on the ground, learning to handle them and care for them safely and comfortably. Only after that, would you get to learn to ride."
Risky's playful attitude is met with another chuckle from Tim and a much more relaxed and settled attitude. "Is there... room to still get in the class? Like... are there still horses to take care of?" He asks with a sheepish smile, bending down to get a good look at Jean from underneath the horses head.
"You'll probably share with another student -- for some reason, people like hanging out with these big lumps," Jean notes, with a scratch of Risky's poll that drops his head and leaves his ears flopping. "But there's definitely still room. And if you want to swing by the stables and get aquainted with Risky here... I know I'd appreciate it while I'm gone."
Tim's hand reaches up to rub against the side of the horse again, this with more certainty in the movements, and more empathy and comfort attempting to find its way to the animal. He stands up proper again (which is a good thing as waddling while being bent over was dangerously close to sending him rolling head first into the grass!) and closes his eyes as wonder is set aside with a flood of worry and a new type of fear. "Its gonna be soon, isn't it?" is all he can manage to ask in a really soft voice.
Risky has certain opinions about humans who pet him and then stop. They are: Don't. There's an inquisitive nicker from the horse, and a subtle angling of his shoulder towards the teen as he walks, not -quite- bumping him. Jean, meanwhile, walks with her eyes ahead and unseeing, guiding the horse around the ring with motions automatic from practice. "Tomorrow," is her answer. "I'll be heading out with the others this afternoon. Incidentally, you may want to think about doing some packing yourself. I'll be making an announcement when I get back that will explain things." An indrawn breath, and she looks at Tim at last and at length, searching his face for something. "Have you guessed what we're doing, yet?"
Being refused by the horse is accepted, if awkwardly, and Tim's steps stutter to keep from being almost bumped. His pace stalls and slows. His eyes find the grass in front of him, his lips turn flat, and his breath becomes extremely controlled and measured. "You're... coming back." He states, mostly to himself than to Jean. "'Cause... you're gonna fix it, and you're gonna come back, cause we can't... we need you here."
"He wants you to pet him again," Jean translates from Horse into Human, shaking her head at the continued hopeful shoulder. "And... I'll surely do my best," she promises, quietly honest, if not entirely reassuring. "It's a big thing to fix. We might not get all of it. And there is some danger. But," she says, tone firming up, "I don't intend to die. I've got too many things to do, and people who'd miss me. I don't intend to let anyone else die either, if I can help it."
Tim's hand rises again at the Horseiess provided from Jean, and continues to pet the animal in much the same way as before. It takes quite a few silent steps before he can he can ask more questions, breath slow and steady, and a mind strangely silent. "You wouldn't do this if you thought you couldn't, right? I mean... if it was impossible... if you didn't know what to do... you would stay with us, right?"
"If it was impossible, we wouldn't spend time, energy, money and health on something this risky," Jean assures. The horse tosses his head, ears pricked at picking out his name, and a brief laugh escapes her, along with a brief pat. "But NASA and a lot of other government agencies have been working with us to put this together, and we all think it will work."
"You... you can do it. You always do it. I'm gonna worry." Tim answers back, honest, if a bit quicker than last time. "A whole whole whole whole whole whole bunch 'cause..." The words stop for a moment, more silent steps, more slow pets down Risky's side. "...cause I think I'd rather try and rebuild the world with you in it... than... live in it without."
"Then I guess I'll just have to do my best to come back, huh?" says Jean, with another laugh, but also with a reassuring smile over the horse's neck, that trails off into thoughtfulness. "I do want you to be sure to -live-, if something happened to me, though," she says, quiet and just enough to carry over the noise of the forest and the horse. "I want you to promise me that, in fact. Because that's the sort of thing worth giving my life for -- a world where all of you can live."
"Its a pretty ugly world right now to try and live in." Tim answers back with just a small chip in that little armor of hope he's gotten fond of wearing right now. "And... its getting uglier all the time. I'll... live, and I'll try, but I'm not sure what kinda world it'll be without you fighting to make it better." His eyes dart up to try and lock onto hers, if only from the side. "It seems like the school's the only place left anymore, and everything outside is scary and bad."
"Well, it's not like we're sending -all- the teachers into orbit," Jean assures, again with a faint flicker of humour, but without sharing the mental image that prompts it. "But you're right, Tim, it -has- gotten darker out there in recent years. I know when I took my sabbatical a couple years ago, I saw a lot of mutants who were isolated. Sanctuary was a bit of a refuge in the urban jungle for them."
"I... I tried to do it." Tim answers, petting Risky again with a nice slow stroke followed by another. "I tried really really hard to make it work and... it still kinda feels like I just gave up. Like... I dunno... " But the mention of Sanctuary pushes down Tim's self doubts long enough for curiosity to cross his face and his lips. "Sanctuary? That was where Walter and Cassy were before... they burned it down, right?"
"That was Worthington House," Jean corrects gently. "Sanctuary was a coffee shop on top, and a bar in the basement. And yes, it was hit with a firebomb," she does admit, with a quirk of her lips. "But before it was, there were several years of peace. It's a shame nobody's done anything its equal, since, although I think the Wee Book Inn is trying."
"I dunno." Tim answers with a quick shake of his head and some awkward doubt still in the words. "I mean, it sounds like it was a really nice place. And... it would have been great to know there was a place I could go just to /be me/ out there. But... I don't think just a Coffee Shop is gonna help people like Jenny..." Tim's head ducks down to look under the horse again so that his face is visible again. "Its really scary out on your own... especially... before I had someone to turn to that knew what to do and how to help. Before Mr. Summers met with me the first time... I really think I would have just gone crazy."
"The coffee shop wasn't the point, really," Jean ponders, moving off the rail to make a diagonal cut across the middle of the ring, all the better to keep the thoroughbred gelding from falling asleep on his feet. There's a pause as she slackens his girth a little, apparently giving up on finishing the ride. "It was more that it was a contact point. I could meet people there who'd never have come to me, but still might need help. A little like the clinic, except in a better part of town."
"I think there are still a whole lotta people like that out there." Tim answers as he watches Jean's work with the horse with some interest and attention. "With the kinda stuff I've heard 'bout the city right now... I would be really really scared if I was still living there. Kinda wish we could just turn the clock back 'couple years. Is, uhm, he getting tired?"
"Just bored," Jean answers, paired with a long equine sigh as Risky idly kicks a back leg at an errant fly. "He has a thing for speed, what with being a track rescue, and he was expecting to be indulged. But I'm going to have to think about what to do about the city people," she reflects. "Assuming we make it back in one piece, I'll need something to do."
And a shudder flies up Tim's spine and arms and hair and toes and nose and eye lashes and ears and even his sneakers a little bit as he is reminded of the initial worry once more. "Just... do what you do best. Just... someone out there wanting to /do something/ and help... that's what kept me from just breaking down." Tim answers back, trying to not think about space dead Jean. "It usually works out, dunnit it? But... if you save the /whole wide world/... you can take a week off from saving it, I think. Maybe."
"-If- I can take a week off after saving the world, I'm going to disappear to a Carribbean island, and the rest of you can muddle on for a while without me," Jean warns, with a tip of her chin. "Professor Summers promised me the Bahamas, last year, and I still have a plane ticket for Martinique that was a present from Professor Logan. But I'll put some thought into what we can do for the other mutants out there, if you will. It might give you something to do besides worry."
"Just tell me what the beach is like when you get back, then, alright? And... what space is like. And... I'll try. And if I could I'd go book the flight and hotel for you myself." Tim answers with some finality, as he quits petting the horse at lase with one long slow pet down his back and steps back. "But... I'm still gonna worry a whole bunch. I'm sorry. You would, too, right?"
"Oh, of course. As well as fretting at being not being able to do anything," Jean assures, giving Tim's shoulder a squeeze before he can step out of range. "Now," she wonders, terribly serious all of a sudden. "I have to know before I go: Do you want me to bring you back a piece of asteroid."
Tim nods at this last point, takes a deep breath, and smiles lightly. "Uh huh, long as you're the one bringing it back."
"Duly noted," Jean promises, before adjusting her girth again, setting foot to stirrup, and mounting the horse once more. Risky Business dances in place, before he's once again turned upon the course, warming swiftly from a walk to a trot as Jean goes in pursuit of just a little more life.
Horses, beaches, and averting the end of the world.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Sunday, August 17, 2008, 5:34 PM
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=XS= Blackbird Hangar - Lv B3 - Xavier's School
This cavernous room holds the legendary SR-71X Blackbird jet, the X-men's primary method of tranportation. A large metal X-door forms the sole schoolside entrance to the hangar, the same style as that of the Cerebro chamber's. The walls of the hangar are made out of a smooth ceramic surface to withstand the heat of the Blackbird's engines, with the ceiling covered with more, although there are several air vents to vent the jet fuel fumes. The ceiling itself has a line that traverses the width of the room, the purpose becomes evident when the ceiling itself splits and opens for VTOL take off and landings of the supersonic plane. A large set of double doors are inset against the wall at the far end of the room, where the Blackbird can exit through a tunnel for stealth launch through an exit far away from the mansion. Also along the walls are several sliding panels leading to storage areas for all of the equipment and parts needed to maintain the Blackbird. The room itself is kept immaculate, due to the importance of the jet in carrying out the missions of the X-men.
[Exits : [M]ain [H]allway and [R]eady [R]oom]
It's past curfew when a quiet mental page is sent to Tobias: << Meet me at the elevator, please. >> is in the unmistakeable mental tones of Dr. Grey, << I'd like to show you something, if you're not too tired. >>
Unexpected to say the least, Tobias quickly throws on a shirt and his sneakers to jog, or well, fog, down to the elevator. Going as smoke being quieter, and just as fast, as running would be. << There in a sec. >> being the only thought from the teen. The gaseous form becomes solid again once inside the elevator.
Fortunately for Jean's nerves, she's gotten rather used to the strange ways of students entering and exiting over the years. She's waiting in the elevator, dressed in something matte and black and unremarkable instead of her usual quiet styles, hair back in a simple ponytail at the nape of her neck. "Thanks for coming," she murmurs to him, as the doors shut and she reaches down to lift back a recessed panel, and expose a small fingerprint scanner. "The government will have a fit if they know I'm showing you this," she prefaces, as the scanner chimes a soft affirmative, and the elevator starts to descend. "But since you were the cause of it happening, I think you deserve to see."
Tobias was getting ready for bed at least. Just a pair of bleak sweatpants and the Kansas shirt he grabbed on his way to the elevator. He's cleaning off his glasses as he nods to the professor. "Yeah, no problem," he says, before watching the fingerprint scanner, and hearing Jean's words. "I," he starts, losing track of words as he sticks his glasses back on his face. "Honored, but so very confused," he admits, looking to the professor for more explanation.
"Oh, just let me be mysterious for a bit," Jean bids, eyes twinkling despite the fatigue that rings them. "I get so little opportunity these days, and it will all be clear soon." Down, down, down the elevator goes, the doors finally opening on what looks much like the b2 sublevel, all metal panels and white lights. The floor plan is subtly different, however, and there's a faint tang of fuel to the air, not quite gasoline. "This way," directs the Jean.
Tobias raises a skeptical eyebrow to Jean, but gives it up with a shrug and good natured smile of 'why the hell not?'. He eyes the hallway in all its metallic glory with interest when the elevator opens up and he steps out. "Honest with you a moment," he tells Jean, "I feel like I should be wearing some kind of dark suit and sunglasses right now."
"Well, I could see about fetching you some," Jean offers, mock-solemn and mock-thoughtful with a purse of her lips. "But to be honest, they do tend to make you stick out more than look anonymous... ah, here we are," she says, pausing before another one of the myriad circle-doors that line the hallways, somewhat sparser in their appearances on this level. "I'm sure you've heard the rumours of the jet, for all that we haven't had cause to take her out lately until now, but I think they should be still be loading cargo... ah, there." This time it's a hand scanner that's chimed, and with a whoosh-hiss straight out of Star Trek, the hangar doors open to reveal a very dark jet in a pool of very white light. Around it, no people at this hour, but several final crates to be packed in the morning. One is open. Inside it are some rather familiar hexagons.
"I always thought they were to make you look cool," Tobias remarks with a grin. He nods about the jet, of course he's heard the rumors. They're all over the school. His face takes on a disbelieving tone at Jean's words until the doors actually open and he can see the jet itself. The teen just sort of stands staring dumbfounded at the plane, and the crates. After a while he does speak, "What in the hell does this school's budget look like?" Even in the face of an awesome jet, Tobias is still Tobias.
"Oh, the Blackbird isn't in the -school's- budget," Jean assures, conscientious words somewhat marred by the fact that she's standing to one side with her hands at the small of her back, and a vast sense of appreciation for Tobias' reaction in her smile. "We're not spending your tuition money on this. But Charles was fortunate enough to have an in when they decommissioned them for the last time, as well as managing to find some engineers to modify her a bit. She's not got -much- cargo capacity, but she's a safe and fast way to get the repulsors transported."
"Damn," Tobias says, looking over the hexagons that are the repulsors. "I was going to ask who your accountant was, send the name along to my father," he says in a half joke. The utterly total smile of accomplishment on his face at seeing the hexagons is more than clear. "This is, this is just, wow," he says, stammering for words and laughing a bit. "I just hope it works."
"The few simulations we've had time to run have been promising," says Jean, bets properly hedged, but not without a glimmer of hope to her tone. "Mr. Stark's team managed to take your idea and the mission timeframe and get them to meet in the middle. They're quite impressive... and no doubt," she reflects, with a vein of dry humour curving her lips "No doubt if this works, he'll be sewing up contracts for them for the next twenty years. You did good, Tobias."
Tobias turns back to look at the plane, then to the repulors, then to Jean. "Glad you've prepared," he says, not even trying to hide the wide smile on his face and the happiness in his tone. "/If/ they work," he adds, ever the optimist, even with his borderline ecstatic mood. "Then I'll have done well. And some good for this world." He looks down a moment and fixes his glasses as they slip on his nose. "Thanks, Dr. Grey," he tells the professor, "Thanks for telling me to call Mr. Stark. I wouldn't have otherwise."
"Hey," says Jean, with a small flash of a grin at her student. "I'm your teacher. Giving you guidance and encouragement is part of my job." With a vague pat to the crate'o'repulsors, she pushes off and away from them, trailing a little closer to the jet. "That's pretty much what I wanted to show you," she admits. "We'll be leaving tomorrow, and I thought you might like to hear about it before the news talks about it."
Tobias shrugs, accepting Jean's explanation as good as any. When she moves, he moves, following along and generally taking in the hanger for all he can. "Good luck. Not to put too much pressure on you, but we really are all counting on you," he tells her. "A jet. We have a jet here," he repeats, still amused and amazed at the whole scenario.
"And here I thought the holodeck in the basement would be the impressive part," drawls Jean, amusement a fine overlay for a base state of day-before jitters as she takes a circle of the hangar to let Tobias get a good look, before heading back to the doors out into the hallway. "Keep the repulsors and our involvement with them under your hat until there's a general announcement," she requests, before adding on a more cryptic suggestion of "And also, you may want to think about packing a week's clothing to have on hand."
"Training with professor Logan has sort of made it less impressive, more daunting now," Tobias admits, still observing everything he can in the little tour. "Of course," he agrees nodding about keeping things mum. "Pack how? Are we talking light? Heavy? Hot? Cold? Water? Basic supplies?" Simple rule, don't be open ended about travel with someone from the business.
"Warm weather," is Jean's direction, the doors hissing open again as she gets within range of the sensors. "Beyond that, well, I don't want to spoil the surprise."
"Ayuh," Tobias makes a mental note, nodding for visual affirmation. "I'll get on that and get some sleep. Again, good luck up there," he says once more. "And I won't ask you to spoil the surprise," he tells her, though it doesn't take a telepath to figure out he's already trying to think of why he's to be packing.
Jean sees Tobias to the elevator and into it, with a brief touch of off-kilter humour in her waving of him inside, but she herself doesn't head back upstairs, instead bidding him a "Good night. And keep coming up with ideas to save the world."
Hey Tobias! Us can has repulsors!
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Monday, August 18, 2008, 12:43 AM
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=XS= Xavier's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
This is a quiet, gracious room, wood panels and polished wooden floor giving warmth to a great and high-ceilinged study. A large fireplace claims the inner wall, a mantel lipped wide under a 16th century painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Colors are rich, glowing with life and vigor; the room itself is adorned likewise, thick rugs laid underfoot to draw together the hues of curtains and prints. A large desk dominates the far end of the room, framed behind by high windows that look out across the lawn. Closer to the door, bookshelves curl around the corner, framing a small nook for heavy, butter-soft leather chairs and sofas circled around a small tea table and chessboard.
[Exits : [Li]brary and [X]avier's [R]oom]
[Players : Xavier ]
It is the hour of night when all good little students are in their beds, and all bad little students are being hunted down and dragged to them by the hunting pride (Or Pryde) of the RAs. Out in the library proper, wooden chairs creak and crack occasionally, cooling from the heat of the day and the steady parade of bottoms gracing them, and threading between them come the soft footsteps and carefully-subdued mind of Jean Grey, a bottle of something aged and scotch in one hand, and a pair of tumblers in the other. Carefully subdued the mind may be, buttressed behind a telepath's training, and a Grey scion's stubbornness, but the sense of it is one of turmoil and concern, if shaded in muted hues rather than screaming neons. Knock, knock, knock, goes Charles' office door.
Scotch is already present, if lowered in the decanter. What Jean brings is reinforcements to the level in Charles's glass, two fingers' depth trapped and level in the cut crystal dangling between his fingertips. His arm hangs over the edge of his wingtipped armchair, the limb a long and lax angle across the padded support; his other, crooked, supports his chin on the backs of fingers. He broods in solitude, and dispenses with rigid propriety to do so: the customary suit is absent, replaced by a rare, open blue shirt with no tie, and grey slacks. His feet rest on an ottoman, ankles crossed. His socks are black.
It takes barely a second for him to rouse and identify the visitor. It takes longer to decide what to do about it. His invitation, when it comes, is a remarkably neutral thing. << Come. >>
The neutrality of the invitation prompts a slight unfurling of Jean's mind, a quick little sweep of thought to see whether Charles' brooding has the accompaniment of an old friend. But there is no Magneto to be found, and thus it's a moment later and a telekinetic juggle to get a hand free for the door that sees Jean slipping into the office in softly slippered feet. She is casual herself, for all this is less of a rare occurance, dressed in dark jeans and a fitted tee which features a caffeine molecule in silver silk screening. (The provenance for it is 'Christmas present'.) Her posture is anything but relaxed, however, for all it is likewise possessed of a high brood quotient. "I come bearing gifts," she murmurs, lifting the bottle of scotch in indication.
The slight lift of a smile tugs at the corners of Charles's eyes as he straightens; not much, just enough to lift his head and ping with the back of a finger and fingernail's edge the decanter seated at his elbow. The small side table bears signs of other hospitality: the whiskey is telltale, lower than the household staff considers appropriate for the start of a day. "Not unwelcome," he says, answering the sweep of the other telepath's mind and the question implied by its check. "Join me, if you like. I am," he offers, apology furry on his mellow baritone, "a trifle worse for wear."
"It seems a proper time for such things," Jean answers, long legs carrying her to an accustomed chair of her own. She pauses to see ownership of the scotch safely transferred, although she keeps a yet-unfilled glass for herself. There's a sigh as she folds herself into her seat, one hand lifting to touch gentle fingers to a temple, a gesture both to soothe herself and to focus, attempting to dim the surface of her mind all the more. "Down to the wire, my bags are packed, and the younger people have been yowling the Armageddon soundtrack at odd moments all day."
"Comforting," says the man who has kept himself to sound-proofed rooms for the bulk of the day. Pop-culture familiarity aside, it would require a more willfully oblivious mind than Xavier's to avoid the references to that particular Hollywood travesty in this day and age. He rolls his glass thoughtfully between his fingers, lifting it to balance its base between his fingertips. "I admit to not knowing the end result of that particular -- movie, is it? Does everything end well for the protagonists?"
"Bruce Willis dies to save the world," Jean reports, with another sigh and a slight shake of her head, "So that his character's daughter's lover, who he conveniently spent the movie disapproving of, doesn't have to sacrifice -himself- to do it." Her own glass, empty, is eyed, and she decides that this state of events must be altered, with a cant of a glossy head and an interrogative flick of an eyebrow at the decanter. "I'd say that doesn't bode that well for the older age group, but Deep Impact featured New York being destroyed."
Charles trails his middle finger down the side of his head, lightly massaging the hollow of his temple before following the line of his skull down to his jaw. "Ah," he says, noncommittally. And: "Bruce Willis is -- let me think. The bald actor, is he not? I wonder if that means I should consider accompanying you. From a purely practical perspective I cannot think what I could contribute, but there is always the, er, sacrificial lamb component." His eyes twinkle. "Quarreling with me might also keep Erik thoroughly distracted until the necessary moment."
"You'd also have to bring Logan along, rather than Scott, for the disapproved-of lover," Jean reflects, tapping a finger to her chin before reaching for the decanter to pour herself a precise two fingers of the scotch. Setting it back in place, she does not drink from her glass, but instead studies the light filtered through it. "And he'd really trouble the weight calculations, although no doubt he, too, would divert Erik. But my former teacher seems diverted enough by suggesting I'm going to go mad and kill everyone on board," she shares, tone trying for light, and ending up more of a fallen souffle of conflict. There is a sidelong look from her chair. "That's a different genre of space movie, right there."
A finger lifts. It is not the middle one. "I have seen that movie," Charles discovers, to his apparent satisfaction. "It was called ... something about a dance, I think. Carrie? Or was that the one about the car? I believe it was something like that. It was a lesson in poor parenting, from what I recall, though I am not necessarily a proponent of nurture taking ultimate responsibility." He passes a quizzical glance to Jean's glass and lifts his own, tipped, in an invitation to a toast. "To success, without self-sacrifice of either the follicularly-challenged or otherwise?"
"Carrie," Jean confirms, with a crook of her lips. "Repressed schoolgirl with a religious and domineering mother develops telekinetic powers with puberty, and is tormented by her peers into setting the school on fire at her prom." (Jean is a child of the 80s. Pop culture is woven into her -soul-, if it's of a certain era.) She leaves off the movie summaries to toast, however, touching her glass to his with a long arm's reach across the space between chairs. "Hear, hear," she murmurs, and finally takes a sip. The art of rolling it over her tongue takes some time, (Because one does not grow up with Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr as surrogate father figures, not to mention Moira MacTaggart, and mistreat a good scotch.) and with it comes a renewed whirl of thought, twisting in the vortex already visible beneath the muting shields. "I can't say he might not be right, though. I'm a mess in here, Charles."
Charles's eyebrow rises, curious, and telepathy eases across the space between them with the ghostly nostalgia of a song remembered from childhood. In here? In where? << 'He?' >> he asks, a question voiced more in an understanding of gender rather than an actual, spoken word. << Nerves are understandable. The stakes are higher than any we have ever been engaged with before. Not to mention the -- we might as well admit it, /Hollywood/ quality of this particular enterprise. >>
"Here," is Jean's answer, a tap to a temple giving a physical location. Mentally, she is more informative still. A little thought-vesicle buds from the surface of her mind, packed full of imagery and emotion, memory and imagination: Magneto is the face of the unnamed 'he', and memory plays out in flashes supportive of just what the old storm crow predicts: The Brotherhood island in wreckage along with its leader, the visceral glory of feeling Creed skinned alive by her hand, the wild joy of freedom from all the constraints of law, of order, of people -getting in her way-. Inward, it turns, ending beneath all the memories with the knowledge that it is all still there, hardly integrated, simply biding time and whispering in the darker and the weaker moments. "It's all tangled up with the areas of my abilities that were shut away with it. And I'm going to have to call on those reserves." This, all parts of Jean agree on, is a wonderful time for a drink. She takes one.
A not unreasonable impulse. Thoughtfully, Charles follows her example. "Do you think there will be difficulties?" he asks aloud, answering speech with speech in careful, non-specific wording that detaches the possibility from immediacy. His free hand returns to prop up his head, knuckles curving loosely into the sagging slope of his jowl. << I'm afraid, >> adds light, dryly flecked humor, << that I can be of little help there in the heat of the moment. At least ... I am not entirely certain. I have never tried Cerebro's reach in that direction. I can shore up your defenses before the fact, but in the face of actual temptation-- >>
"It will be a time for experiments of all sorts," Jean suggests with a wry grin, receptive to shared thoughts, but taking refuge in the remove of the spoken word herself, as the walls reform in the wake of that shared bubble. "But... I can't say. I can't rule out the possibility. I told Erik," she reflects, the first name sitting odd on her tone, but neither Magneto 'nor Dr. Lensherr fit any better now, "That we didn't have Emma and Jason lurking to put me through two weeks' hell. But the strains from this may be just as bad. I'm not worried that I won't save the world -- even at its worst, it was still me, still driven to try and protect, to clean things up -- but I'm worried that the world will be watching. And if I snap while the cameras are rolling..."
The hazel eyes crinkle, the smile lines folding into the looser folds of drooping eyelids. "The publicity may be complicated," Charles grants, lowering his gaze to study the level of scotch in his glass. He shifts in his seat, reallocating his weight from one hip to the other; one foot slides off the ottoman, settling gingerly under the base of the heavy chair. "On the whole, given who will be accompanying you in the shuttle, that would likely be the least of our concerns. Your concerns," he corrects after a split-second's thought, a small sliver of pain at the disassociation darkening his voice.
"Our concerns," Jean demurrs, with eyes still troubled, but with a small smile across the space between them all the same. "Unless you're proposing that mission control isn't just as invested in things as their astronauts." The sense of her mind is like some Jovian planet's storm systems, with the knotted hurricane of fears and worries sinking beneath the surface swirls of care and affection that are now ascendent. Also swirling is the scotch in her glass, unconscious expression of nerves not yet smoothed alcoholically away and setting her hand to twitching.
Charles adds his bit to the marbling of the surface, deep-rooted serenity (hard-won and not /entirely/ born of fumes) adding texture and further less tempestuous color to the cloud cover. "Our concerns," he echoes, letting the smile move to the sonorous, Shakespearean instrument of his baritone. His accent curves like a hand around the consonants and vowels, molding them into a new, rounder shape. "In the event, if you have serious concerns, there are steps we can take -- that I can take -- to preempt it, if you like. I am reluctant to do so. In the balance between success and failure, it might be the featherweight that makes the difference."
"It might indeed," Jean agrees, the swirl of the storms lessening slightly at the touch, surface thoughts open and the darker knot all the more tightly sealed as Something batters hard against it, shedding spiky irritation at interference at a level on the fringes of the conscious. Her hands are tense despite her tone, and a moment's stray thought sees her tumbler set safely on an end table for the time. "And I have serious concerns, but I'm also concerned about whether more interference, on top of everything else, might not just make it worse. I want help," she says, very quietly indeed. "I'm not sure the world can afford to let me get it now."
"A point," Charles says, and tips his head a little further to regard Jean from under those heavy, drooping eyelids. "I might add that worrying about it at this point can hardly make it better. Not," he allows wryly, "that I have ever found logic to be particularly useful in restraining those kinds of thoughts. There is not much time between now and your departure, admittedly, but I think I see a way to cut off disaster at the head, if it happens. Do you trust me?" A twinkle slips through the shadow of eyelashes. "You may not want to answer that."
An answering twinkle gleams in green eyes, but Jean's answer is slow in coming, and thoughtful when it does. "Not like I used to," she admits, with a slight quirk of her mouth that acknowledges the pain the statement could bring with it. "But I trust your intentions. And I trust that you care both for me and for this mission's success, which is more than I can say about many."
There is no pain at the reply. Rueful acknowledgment, perhaps. He reaps what he has sown. "The path to hell, as they say," he murmurs, "but if nothing else, you can trust my vested self-interest. Having survived this long with--" The scotch-bearing hand gestures, indicating the school and its chaotic elements around them, "--I am loathe to see all that time and effort rendered moot by the celestial equivalent of flotsam."
"The path to Hellfire certainly was," Jean murmurs in return, because she is a superhero, and not even brooding can derail the instinct for a good quip. Her scotch is rescued from its exile on the end table by a hand that's still tense, but less threateningly so. She sips, and finds a smile. "I admit to a certain amount of affront. All my -stuff- is here, so why can't it just go hit Mars like a good piece of rock? But what's your solution?"
"You will have to trust me," Charles says, and twinkles gently again. He leans to tap the base of his glass against Jean's, pointing out with some clipped matter-of-factness, "After all, what you know, so does your ... alter-ego. Precautions would hardly make sense if you knew what they were. Nothing fatal or undignified, I promise you."
"Mm," says Jean, but nods acceptance of the logic all the same. "I suppose it can't be helped... although how are you proposing to tell if I've lost it? I didn't start -out- by putting people through walls and rampaging out to terrorist strongholds. And it surely won't have much interest in telling you."
Charles draws a fingertip across his brow, the scotch in his hand rolling lightly across the high canvas of his forehead. "A very good question," he acknowledges and smiles a little, a wrinkle of anxiety tucking into the edges of his expression. "Consider it a -- precautionary measure, then. In case you choose to start out where you left off, in space. Protection for your colleagues in the shuttle. Once you return, I can check and deal with it as needed, if you consent." He considers. "Ahead of time."
"I... think that sounds like a good compromise," says Jean, although not without a frisson of mingled curiosity and unease at the thought of unknown precautions. Electric shocks? Crazy glue? A large mallet? Various images flicker across her mind's eye, but with a sigh, she opts to bury them in drink. "I also think I need at least another glass of scotch. For medicinal purposes, of course."
The old man's glass, raised for another inspection, yields the information that he, too, could use another glass. "For medicinal purposes," Charles says gravely, and stretches an arm for the decanter. "Not too much, though. The last thing you need before liftoff is to fail your physical. Do you remember--" His voice changes, lifted into the lighter registers of reminiscence free of weightier concerns: a deliberate choice, to distract the mind in distant history. "Was it Scott? Or was it Warren, who read a short story about the Alamo and decided to reenact it in the wine cellars?"
"Scott," is Jean's answer, warmed with memory and affection as well as the drink. "I think. I remember it was one of the first times he felt at home enough to be a little bit less than stiff. Of course," she admits, with a smile equal parts for her glass and for her mentor, "I also remember Warren being put out about the state his feathers ended up in." Distraction and reminisce work best when mutually agreed upon, and with careful firmness, Jean joins in. "Of course, I have my own stories about the wine cellers... did you ever find out about the time when--"
A slight case of end of the world nerves.