7/11/06 - Emma
---
Lennox Hill Hospital - Hospital Ward(#1938R)
This ward is used to keep recovering, and non emergency surgery patients. The ward is split into private, semi-private, and shared rooms, 1 bed, 2 bed, and 4 bed rooms respectively. The same white walled, and black and white checkered tile pattern carries on from the waiting room, giving the whole area a cold, sterile feeling to it. Long, flourescent lights line the hallway, that runs between rooms, set along either side of the hallway. Near the entrance to the Emergency room, there is a nurse station, with several nurses always on call behind the desks.
Much like yesterday, the hall housing the guest of unidentified identity is largely deserted, though the loiters seem a little more attentive tody than yesterday. The telepathic presence at the the end of the hall is banked and distracted by the physical.
For Xavier, attention is a thing to be diverted and ignored, droplets of water with telepathy the hot pan. Power moves through the long corridor, drowsing like marbled oil through watchful minds. Look this way. Look that. Wheels gleam, passing open doors; the squeak of a medical gurney, nothing more. At the one important, guarded entrance, the wheelchair stops. A pawn, reminded of courtesy, opens the door. "Thank you," says the nurse in his imagination, kindly. "And people say the young have no manners."
Emma looks up at the unannounced visitor, the warning of a powerful approaching presence tugging her awareness outward only seconds before the door opens, and that gives her little time to prepare for a meeting rarely contemplated and never looked for. "Well..." The laptop on the swingtop table is closed, and she pushes with some difficulty into a straighter seat. "This is unexpected." White and blue, mix together across her lap and she twitches the collar of the green silk robe into more modest lines.
The wheelchair steers into the room, its sleek lines -- /Xavier's/ sleek lines -- gleaming polished and elegant in reflected light. "I imagine it is," says the Professor, amusement as rich as pleasantry on the buttery, British voice. "I trust that you are doing well?" he adds as the door closes quietly behind him. A pawn's doing. Eyes twinkle. "That is to say, as well as can be expected, Miss Frost?" << White Queen? >>
A brow lifts, coolness and suspicion glazing piqued curiosity as she dips her head in a tiny, acknowledging nod. "Well enough, thank you." << Mr. Xavier. Or do you prefer Professor? >>
<< You are no student of mine, my dear, >> Xavier replies, the mental touch as deft and humorous -- dryly so -- as the vocal one. << Or you would have been a very different person. I would like to think I would have served you somewhat better than the one who /did/ have a hand in your creation. >> "I imagine," he adds aloud, steering the chair to settle by the bed's side, "that you are quite tired of well-wishers by this point?"
"Of well wishers?" Emma laughs, bitterness chasing across voice and throat before it is trapped in the smooth lines of a marble facade. "No. Well wishers are not in abundant supply around here. I would think that would be obvious," << if you are as well informed as you seem to be. >> She curls forward toward him, favoring her right shoulder. << Oh? And who would /you/ have shaped me into, Idealist? >>
<< Someone with choices, Emma, >> murmurs telepathy, layered rich with all the implications and meanings which human speech is too frail to communicate. << Someone not alone. >> "Isolation can be one route to healing, I am told," Charles adds, folding restful hands on his lap. Tailored grey complements the white of hospital sheets, though more vibrant than their sterile hue. His gaze drifts towards the deeper blue, quizzical, before returning to attend on the patient. "You are well guarded, at least."
<< But never the choice to be anything other than what you wish. You are not so different after all. >> Emma sits back, irritation at an answering yearning turning her composure into a spiderweb of fractures. "Not well enough, it seems."
"Some of us," Xavier concedes, an eyebrow lifting, "have advantages. I have no doubt your excellent gargoyles would have been pleased to deny me access. As it happens--" His mouth turns; smile lines deepen afresh. << Arrogant as I may be, my child, I am not so foolhardy as to imagine myself God, nor so unwise as to demand my students conform to my design. The world would be a dull place if ruled by one man's vision. >> "And I was curious to see yours," he finishes aloud, attention straying towards the bandages. "Or at least -- the fruits of it."
Emma's lips turn down into a well-practiced pout. "You would judge me by the occasional blemish without ever having sampled the other? Tsk." Sapphire glints through the veil of demurely lowered lashed. << Don't, darling. Of course you consider yourself God. It's our prerogative to believe that we know better than those who are able to ignore the depths of their own minds. >>
<< Knowledge, >> Xavier points out, << is not the same as /understanding/, Emma. Or else there would be no surprises. >> No /treachery/. "It is easy enough to lie to people without telepathy," he observes, gaze hooding over that glimmer of changeable color, "but there are both advantages and disadvantages to our power. Willful self-deception is harder to shake when you have built it up in spite of all you /know/ to the contrary."
Emma's palm closes over a drop of gold, and the feel of sharp edges and curving lines digging into sensitive flesh blossom and fill her mind. << Do you teach that little lesson to your students, Professor? Do you anguish over whether or not /they/ understand? >> Images of those of her acquaintance in all their human foible accuse him of hypocrisy and self-deception in turn.
<< I teach them to think and to choose for themselves, then step back to give them the freedom to do so. It is difficult to let go. >> Xavier's gaze drops to the press of skin on uniform, and fleeting imagery twines with the voice: policemen in dress uniforms, ranked and saluting their dead; Law, with all its attendant mythos: security, comfort, reassurance, protection. Fidelis Ad Mortem. << I am not infallible, nor are they. Their choices are not those I would have made -- but they are their own. >> "I may influence, Emma. But I do not rule."
"Then perhaps yours is the more ineffectual method of creation after all," Emma replies, twitching at that recognition and releasing the button with a surge of disgusted fear. << They make those choices in your name. In the name of your ideals and teachings. It's subtler, but it is still ruling, but you rule without controlling. >>
"All Kings die," Xavier says, eyes and mind opaque. His lips turn back towards that warm smile, a familiar expression warm with sympathy -- but a mask, nonetheless. "All creations change. My hope is that my students will prove greater than their teacher." << Does your teacher wish the same? >>
An aborted laugh bubbles up on a breath, and Emma tips her head back to release it into the air above her head. "What my teacher wishes of me doesn't matter. He may have molded this clay, but I am still the one who makes it live."
A long-fingered hand -- an academic's, tapered, graceful, still strong despite the marks of age that dapple the skin and draw veins under it -- reaches to pat the feminine one. "You will have to excuse me," Xavier says, and again there is sincerity -- but of a truer sort, this time, echoed between minds. "I have a tendency to lecture. I'm afraid it's a failing of mine, as quite a few would attest."
Emma glances down at the contact, mild befuddlement creasing her brow and dulling the edged defensiveness slightly. She looks back up at him and rakes a considering look over his genial expression before unleashing her powers and letting them slowly snake out to return the contact.
His is an old and disciplined mind, powerful, canny -- and willing, breathes the gentle touch of reply, to teach. If she wishes. Idealist, yes: pragmatist, also. A bedrock of ruthlessness shapes a foundation for the dream, and a glimpse of less savory darkness of hands dirtied to further it. With that hint comes knowledge. Even Jean does not know the lengths to which he will go. << Erik is right in one thing, at least, >> Charles says quietly, in that private, intimate caress of power. << Some of us must shoulder the burdens and pay the prices, so that others need not. >>
There, in that contact that is both less and more familiar that that of hand on hand, like recognizes like, and knowledge becomes understanding. Emotions too tender and weak to allow further intrusion flares bright, and Emma withdraws, reluctance outweighing desire. The computer pings an incoming message, and Emma glances at it instead of Xavier's too shrewd eyes. << Indeed. I doubt that my methods of payment would be considered any more acceptable than Erik's, however. >>
"He is," Charles says, accepting the retreat with philosophic courtesy, "an /intensely/ irritating man." Exasperation in the whimsical voice invites her to share in annoyance, affection for the absent Lensherr subsumed (for a while, at least) in recollection of his obdurate, obstinate, /outrageous/ behavior.
Magneto's behavior towards her does not quite qualify as tea time tidbits, and Emma offers a wan smile of appreciation for the olive branch, but does not take hold. "He is what he is, as we all are," she deflects, looking down and smoothing a wrinkle in the blue fabric folded across her lap with her fingertips.
Eyebrows lift. Lips curve. Hand retreats; the wheelchair does as well. "So he said," Charles observes, inclining his head in courteous leavetaking. "If he must plagiarize, at least he chooses a respectable book to steal from -- though his choice of character to paraphrase gives one pause. I will bid you good day, Emma. I wish you well." Motors hum, turning to his command: towards the door, and the sharp-eyed, deluded pawns beyond it. << Feel better, my dear. It is not supposed to be this hard. >>
<< The challenge is part of the charm, >> she replies in half-hearted whimsy, turning her head away and letting tension she'd not even realized drain away after his departure.
[Log ends]
Charles goes to visit Emma and is a bit of a patronizing, manipulative ... uh, sweetheart. Really. Sweet. Heart.
Lennox Hill Hospital - Hospital Ward(#1938R)
This ward is used to keep recovering, and non emergency surgery patients. The ward is split into private, semi-private, and shared rooms, 1 bed, 2 bed, and 4 bed rooms respectively. The same white walled, and black and white checkered tile pattern carries on from the waiting room, giving the whole area a cold, sterile feeling to it. Long, flourescent lights line the hallway, that runs between rooms, set along either side of the hallway. Near the entrance to the Emergency room, there is a nurse station, with several nurses always on call behind the desks.
Much like yesterday, the hall housing the guest of unidentified identity is largely deserted, though the loiters seem a little more attentive tody than yesterday. The telepathic presence at the the end of the hall is banked and distracted by the physical.
For Xavier, attention is a thing to be diverted and ignored, droplets of water with telepathy the hot pan. Power moves through the long corridor, drowsing like marbled oil through watchful minds. Look this way. Look that. Wheels gleam, passing open doors; the squeak of a medical gurney, nothing more. At the one important, guarded entrance, the wheelchair stops. A pawn, reminded of courtesy, opens the door. "Thank you," says the nurse in his imagination, kindly. "And people say the young have no manners."
Emma looks up at the unannounced visitor, the warning of a powerful approaching presence tugging her awareness outward only seconds before the door opens, and that gives her little time to prepare for a meeting rarely contemplated and never looked for. "Well..." The laptop on the swingtop table is closed, and she pushes with some difficulty into a straighter seat. "This is unexpected." White and blue, mix together across her lap and she twitches the collar of the green silk robe into more modest lines.
The wheelchair steers into the room, its sleek lines -- /Xavier's/ sleek lines -- gleaming polished and elegant in reflected light. "I imagine it is," says the Professor, amusement as rich as pleasantry on the buttery, British voice. "I trust that you are doing well?" he adds as the door closes quietly behind him. A pawn's doing. Eyes twinkle. "That is to say, as well as can be expected, Miss Frost?" << White Queen? >>
A brow lifts, coolness and suspicion glazing piqued curiosity as she dips her head in a tiny, acknowledging nod. "Well enough, thank you." << Mr. Xavier. Or do you prefer Professor? >>
<< You are no student of mine, my dear, >> Xavier replies, the mental touch as deft and humorous -- dryly so -- as the vocal one. << Or you would have been a very different person. I would like to think I would have served you somewhat better than the one who /did/ have a hand in your creation. >> "I imagine," he adds aloud, steering the chair to settle by the bed's side, "that you are quite tired of well-wishers by this point?"
"Of well wishers?" Emma laughs, bitterness chasing across voice and throat before it is trapped in the smooth lines of a marble facade. "No. Well wishers are not in abundant supply around here. I would think that would be obvious," << if you are as well informed as you seem to be. >> She curls forward toward him, favoring her right shoulder. << Oh? And who would /you/ have shaped me into, Idealist? >>
<< Someone with choices, Emma, >> murmurs telepathy, layered rich with all the implications and meanings which human speech is too frail to communicate. << Someone not alone. >> "Isolation can be one route to healing, I am told," Charles adds, folding restful hands on his lap. Tailored grey complements the white of hospital sheets, though more vibrant than their sterile hue. His gaze drifts towards the deeper blue, quizzical, before returning to attend on the patient. "You are well guarded, at least."
<< But never the choice to be anything other than what you wish. You are not so different after all. >> Emma sits back, irritation at an answering yearning turning her composure into a spiderweb of fractures. "Not well enough, it seems."
"Some of us," Xavier concedes, an eyebrow lifting, "have advantages. I have no doubt your excellent gargoyles would have been pleased to deny me access. As it happens--" His mouth turns; smile lines deepen afresh. << Arrogant as I may be, my child, I am not so foolhardy as to imagine myself God, nor so unwise as to demand my students conform to my design. The world would be a dull place if ruled by one man's vision. >> "And I was curious to see yours," he finishes aloud, attention straying towards the bandages. "Or at least -- the fruits of it."
Emma's lips turn down into a well-practiced pout. "You would judge me by the occasional blemish without ever having sampled the other? Tsk." Sapphire glints through the veil of demurely lowered lashed. << Don't, darling. Of course you consider yourself God. It's our prerogative to believe that we know better than those who are able to ignore the depths of their own minds. >>
<< Knowledge, >> Xavier points out, << is not the same as /understanding/, Emma. Or else there would be no surprises. >> No /treachery/. "It is easy enough to lie to people without telepathy," he observes, gaze hooding over that glimmer of changeable color, "but there are both advantages and disadvantages to our power. Willful self-deception is harder to shake when you have built it up in spite of all you /know/ to the contrary."
Emma's palm closes over a drop of gold, and the feel of sharp edges and curving lines digging into sensitive flesh blossom and fill her mind. << Do you teach that little lesson to your students, Professor? Do you anguish over whether or not /they/ understand? >> Images of those of her acquaintance in all their human foible accuse him of hypocrisy and self-deception in turn.
<< I teach them to think and to choose for themselves, then step back to give them the freedom to do so. It is difficult to let go. >> Xavier's gaze drops to the press of skin on uniform, and fleeting imagery twines with the voice: policemen in dress uniforms, ranked and saluting their dead; Law, with all its attendant mythos: security, comfort, reassurance, protection. Fidelis Ad Mortem. << I am not infallible, nor are they. Their choices are not those I would have made -- but they are their own. >> "I may influence, Emma. But I do not rule."
"Then perhaps yours is the more ineffectual method of creation after all," Emma replies, twitching at that recognition and releasing the button with a surge of disgusted fear. << They make those choices in your name. In the name of your ideals and teachings. It's subtler, but it is still ruling, but you rule without controlling. >>
"All Kings die," Xavier says, eyes and mind opaque. His lips turn back towards that warm smile, a familiar expression warm with sympathy -- but a mask, nonetheless. "All creations change. My hope is that my students will prove greater than their teacher." << Does your teacher wish the same? >>
An aborted laugh bubbles up on a breath, and Emma tips her head back to release it into the air above her head. "What my teacher wishes of me doesn't matter. He may have molded this clay, but I am still the one who makes it live."
A long-fingered hand -- an academic's, tapered, graceful, still strong despite the marks of age that dapple the skin and draw veins under it -- reaches to pat the feminine one. "You will have to excuse me," Xavier says, and again there is sincerity -- but of a truer sort, this time, echoed between minds. "I have a tendency to lecture. I'm afraid it's a failing of mine, as quite a few would attest."
Emma glances down at the contact, mild befuddlement creasing her brow and dulling the edged defensiveness slightly. She looks back up at him and rakes a considering look over his genial expression before unleashing her powers and letting them slowly snake out to return the contact.
His is an old and disciplined mind, powerful, canny -- and willing, breathes the gentle touch of reply, to teach. If she wishes. Idealist, yes: pragmatist, also. A bedrock of ruthlessness shapes a foundation for the dream, and a glimpse of less savory darkness of hands dirtied to further it. With that hint comes knowledge. Even Jean does not know the lengths to which he will go. << Erik is right in one thing, at least, >> Charles says quietly, in that private, intimate caress of power. << Some of us must shoulder the burdens and pay the prices, so that others need not. >>
There, in that contact that is both less and more familiar that that of hand on hand, like recognizes like, and knowledge becomes understanding. Emotions too tender and weak to allow further intrusion flares bright, and Emma withdraws, reluctance outweighing desire. The computer pings an incoming message, and Emma glances at it instead of Xavier's too shrewd eyes. << Indeed. I doubt that my methods of payment would be considered any more acceptable than Erik's, however. >>
"He is," Charles says, accepting the retreat with philosophic courtesy, "an /intensely/ irritating man." Exasperation in the whimsical voice invites her to share in annoyance, affection for the absent Lensherr subsumed (for a while, at least) in recollection of his obdurate, obstinate, /outrageous/ behavior.
Magneto's behavior towards her does not quite qualify as tea time tidbits, and Emma offers a wan smile of appreciation for the olive branch, but does not take hold. "He is what he is, as we all are," she deflects, looking down and smoothing a wrinkle in the blue fabric folded across her lap with her fingertips.
Eyebrows lift. Lips curve. Hand retreats; the wheelchair does as well. "So he said," Charles observes, inclining his head in courteous leavetaking. "If he must plagiarize, at least he chooses a respectable book to steal from -- though his choice of character to paraphrase gives one pause. I will bid you good day, Emma. I wish you well." Motors hum, turning to his command: towards the door, and the sharp-eyed, deluded pawns beyond it. << Feel better, my dear. It is not supposed to be this hard. >>
<< The challenge is part of the charm, >> she replies in half-hearted whimsy, turning her head away and letting tension she'd not even realized drain away after his departure.
[Log ends]
Charles goes to visit Emma and is a bit of a patronizing, manipulative ... uh, sweetheart. Really. Sweet. Heart.