9/3/06 - Jean
---
Xavier is at home, sealed up in his office: an isolation as carefully guarded as any nun's virtue, if somewhat less stifling. The door is closed on the outside world, as the mind within is shielded by the headset on the sculpted head. Fingertips careful on the delicate instrument, the Professor experiments, power slipping quicksilver and sharp through the dulling press of silence.
Jean's standard interrogative of << Charles? >> going quite, quite unheeded, and further explorations revealing a psionic blank spot where an Xavier should be, she's reduced to such completely mundane things as knocking on his door. "Charles," she calls, with just the faintest seasoning of impatience, like someone caught too long on hold. "Do you have a moment? I just got a phone call."
"Come in," comes the muffled voice through the wood, distraction hinging the closed eyes open. Xavier's hand lowers, a pen sketching a note across an already filled pad. The other drifts upward, trailing the line of metal as it meets the curve of skull. "The door is open."
Jean soon has the door open in the other meaning of the word, slipping in with one hand balancing a tray of sandwiches. (Madame Vargas' orders, foisted off on Jean as the only one willing to invade the lair of the master of Xavier House. ) She sets them down on a free corner of the desk, checks to see that the door is closed once again and that Cassy and her listening glass are elsewhere, and then stares for a moment at the shiny metal... something. "Can I ask what that is?"
"A prototype," Xavier says mildly enough, making one last note before sliding the headset off to replace it in the shaped foam and metal case sitting on his desk. "Erik's fashioning. He took it to Emma for manufacturing and distribution. A telepathic dampener, if not a perfect one. Adequate enough for most people, I imagine. --Ah. Sandwiches." Surprise is chased by warm approval in the cultured baritone, lifting the corners of the voice and eyes into their habitual smile. "Thank you."
As Xavier's mental awareness returns, there's a wave of intellectual curiosity rising from Jean to greet him, paired with a barely-restrained desire to reach over and fiddle with the new toy. "You missed lunch," is all she says aloud, before turning a contemplative look on the tray and calculating the number of sections of roast beef available. "Admittedly, so did I. So Erik continues his campaign of freedom of use for all mutant powers except telepathy then?"
The smile is firmly in place, and what thoughts regarding the absent Lensherr move behind them remain hidden, opaque in mind or expression. "There is a darker purpose to it, I'm certain," Xavier says wryly, firmly closing the lid on the container, "though there is an additional benefit to this as well, one I doubt he considered. More than one child coming into telepathic awareness will find this device a unique relief while he struggles to learn control and retain sanity."
There's a shade of dark ruefulness to Jean's smile as she nods agreement, negative nostalgia at its finest. "It might not help with the misdiagnosis of schizophrenia in too many cases, but once they're actually recognized... and it would certanly help allay fears that evil powerful telepaths are running around with our fingers in everyone's brains."
"Given a headset in every clinic," the Professor suggests, flattening a hand on the case's hard lid, face distant, "it would at least give the clinicians an opportunity to test and be certain before making their diagnoses. For every cloud, there is a silver lining. Whatever his true motives, Erik could well have done more for mutants than he realizes." Lips twist awry, eyes -- blue-touched today, from the deep, royal color of his tie -- refocusing on Jean. "I'm certain he would be infuriated to know I approve."
"Maybe you should send him a nice card," Jean suggests, entirely too solemn as she reaches for one of the roast beef sandwiches, swiss cheese poking shyly out from beneath the sliced baguette that contains it all. "I'm sure Hallmark would love a chance to get into the mutant greetings market. But if you manage to replicate it, I wouldn't mind one for my clinic in Hell's Kitchen."
Xavier pats the case with an obscure fondness, like a man saluting a forgotten childhood pet. "A task for Forge," he says with more vigor, humor ribboning through the decisive voice. "While I have no hesitation in commending Erik's inventiveness, I draw the line at paying the Brotherhood the royalties he is doubtless owed. --What brings you to my door, Jean? Aside from lunch, that is?"
"Technically, if he wanted to claim royalties, he'd have to send it through the court systems, which he's declared himself outside the jurisdiction of. It could be interesting," Jean muses, nibbling at her sandwich and spinning images of Magneto, cape, helmet and all, marching at the head of a legion of lawyers. She shares them, before her mind turns more serious, and turns back to memories of a recent phone call. "I just got off the phone with our friend Agent Mauritz. He's trying to keep a lid on it, but a lot of people are starting to notice a lot of citations for unregistered mutants are being addressed to 1407 Graymalkin Lane. I'm not sure how much longer the secret's going to hold, such as it is."
Eyebrows lift, quiet amusement dampened for more incisive consideration. "I'm surprised it has held this long," Xavier admits, fingers drumming a cadence on the heavy antique desk, "though we have had good friends helping us keep this secret. Nonetheless, it's only a matter of time. Perhaps it's time to make the secret less of one."
"It would probably make several 'good friends' happier with us. Rossi's going to get a bleeding ulcer one of these days," Jean predicts, her own fingers occupied by her sandwich. "Of course," she admits, "He's probably going to get a bleeding ulcer anyways. But one less secret can't hurt. And if we go public in the right way, we might even attract -paying- students."
"People are less likely to probe the public," Xavier grants, leaving the subject of the good Detective Rossi be. He sinks back in his wheeled chair, gaze drifting along the length of the sandwich without pausing for purchase on the continental extravagence of its fillings. "Xavier's School for the Gifted may announce itself as mutant-friendly. It may attract more of the curious, but our enemies already know well enough what we are. A reputable newspaper, and ample warning to our students--"
"And Rossi. He was -unreasonably- cranky that we didn't give the police advance warning about Jubilee and Rogue moving into the city," Jean states, attempting prim before admitting that "Granted, Jubilee and Rogue... I can almost see his point. Do you think the Times would be interested? They've been losing out to the Post on the mutant beat, thanks to that Harvey Roarke guy."
"I sometimes marvel that Detective Rossi is one of the protectors, when he seems far more suited to be one of the protected," Xavier says with a singular lack of sympathy for an otherwise sympathetic man. "The New York Times will do quite well for a start, I think. Its reputation is solid, and its distribution broad. I am acquainted with some members of the board. Given a head start, I think we can be assured their coverage will be fair enough."
"Maybe he's got a mutation for Sheer Outraged Stubbornness," Jean muses, with audible capitalization, before she too lets Rossi rest for the moment, and takes a large bite of her sandwich. Raised by Elaine Grey to have Manners about things like chewing with her mouth closed, she adheres to some of Xavier's raising instead, and chats mentally. << If the Times went well, we could probably get some television coverage. I -bet- Anderson Cooper would love to do some sort of fluffy, hopeful tour of the grounds. >>
The corners of Xavier's mouth curls, slipping back to the smile that is so often his default. "I would prefer that the children's faces remain safely out of photographs and television coverage," he says aloud, sliding a new piece of a paper towards him to jot a quick note as its header. "The school may be a target, but it need not follow that we should volunteer them as fodder for the easily incited. We should strengthen security before breaking the news -- on a Friday, I think."
"Exactly. I don't mind my face being shown, for obvious reasons," quoth Dr. Jean Grey, owner of a presidential medal gathering dust in the back of her sock drawer. "But there's enough here for them to see without having to harass the students. Friday definitely sounds good."
Lines crinkle at the corners of eyes, webbing wide into deep-grooved wrinkles. "Then it is decided, then," Xavier congratulates, attention firming on Jean. "It may be best to speak to the publicist for the Xavier Foundation on any recommendations of how to proceed. This is not a field either of us are expert in. I'm afraid we've somewhat of a learning curve ahead of us."
"Well," says Jean with a cheerful smile, and a brief pause to suck some mustard off the knuckle of her left pinkie, "That's what you pay the publicist for, isn't it?"
"Mm." Xavier's brow furrows. His hands spread across the desk's blotter. "So it would seem. I cannot imagine she anticipated this when she agreed to take on the foundation's responsibilities, however. Life is full of surprises."
"I'll slip her Charisma's number, and they can go commiserate over beers," Jean suggests, lips crooking a half smile before she dabs at one corner of her mouth with a thoughtfully-provided napkin. Mustard is a sneaky and relentless foe indeed. "You should have seen her face when I finally handed her our actual accounting records to take over... but I think that's all the news I had."
Eyes warm again towards a smile, feigning an attention that has already moved elsewhere. Xavier inclines his head towards Jean, allowing, "In which case, she should be gratified to know that paying students may eventually be in the offing. At some point we may reach an acceptable balance between our income and expenses."
"You're still going to be stuck with transfers to and from corporations in the Caymans to cover for the jet fuel and parts, though," Jean predicts, before rising to her feet and taking her sandwich with her, now halfway to beefy oblivion and with the teeth marks in it to prove it. "But I'll let you get back to the new toy. Eat a sandwich, though, or Madame Vargas' going to cut off my cheesecake supply."
"A harsh mistress," Xavier says gravely, turning an assessing glance towards the plate of sandwiches. Already the idle hands stretch towards the closed case; already the active mind seeps thoughtfully through remembered cracks in the dampener's curtain. "I will have my lunch, rest assured. Pass along my gratitude to Madame Vargas, if you would? Assure her I will be more prompt to dinner."
"Duly noted... although if you keep being late, you -know- she's going to show up in person." With that grave prediction of imminent doom in the form of no-nonsense Hungarian octogenarians, Jean smiles once more, and takes her leave. An afterthought later, a second sandwich lifts from the tray to dart out of the closing door after her.
[Log ends]
Jean and Xavier decide the future of Xavier School. Oh. And there's that little matter of the telepathic dampener.
Xavier is at home, sealed up in his office: an isolation as carefully guarded as any nun's virtue, if somewhat less stifling. The door is closed on the outside world, as the mind within is shielded by the headset on the sculpted head. Fingertips careful on the delicate instrument, the Professor experiments, power slipping quicksilver and sharp through the dulling press of silence.
Jean's standard interrogative of << Charles? >> going quite, quite unheeded, and further explorations revealing a psionic blank spot where an Xavier should be, she's reduced to such completely mundane things as knocking on his door. "Charles," she calls, with just the faintest seasoning of impatience, like someone caught too long on hold. "Do you have a moment? I just got a phone call."
"Come in," comes the muffled voice through the wood, distraction hinging the closed eyes open. Xavier's hand lowers, a pen sketching a note across an already filled pad. The other drifts upward, trailing the line of metal as it meets the curve of skull. "The door is open."
Jean soon has the door open in the other meaning of the word, slipping in with one hand balancing a tray of sandwiches. (Madame Vargas' orders, foisted off on Jean as the only one willing to invade the lair of the master of Xavier House. ) She sets them down on a free corner of the desk, checks to see that the door is closed once again and that Cassy and her listening glass are elsewhere, and then stares for a moment at the shiny metal... something. "Can I ask what that is?"
"A prototype," Xavier says mildly enough, making one last note before sliding the headset off to replace it in the shaped foam and metal case sitting on his desk. "Erik's fashioning. He took it to Emma for manufacturing and distribution. A telepathic dampener, if not a perfect one. Adequate enough for most people, I imagine. --Ah. Sandwiches." Surprise is chased by warm approval in the cultured baritone, lifting the corners of the voice and eyes into their habitual smile. "Thank you."
As Xavier's mental awareness returns, there's a wave of intellectual curiosity rising from Jean to greet him, paired with a barely-restrained desire to reach over and fiddle with the new toy. "You missed lunch," is all she says aloud, before turning a contemplative look on the tray and calculating the number of sections of roast beef available. "Admittedly, so did I. So Erik continues his campaign of freedom of use for all mutant powers except telepathy then?"
The smile is firmly in place, and what thoughts regarding the absent Lensherr move behind them remain hidden, opaque in mind or expression. "There is a darker purpose to it, I'm certain," Xavier says wryly, firmly closing the lid on the container, "though there is an additional benefit to this as well, one I doubt he considered. More than one child coming into telepathic awareness will find this device a unique relief while he struggles to learn control and retain sanity."
There's a shade of dark ruefulness to Jean's smile as she nods agreement, negative nostalgia at its finest. "It might not help with the misdiagnosis of schizophrenia in too many cases, but once they're actually recognized... and it would certanly help allay fears that evil powerful telepaths are running around with our fingers in everyone's brains."
"Given a headset in every clinic," the Professor suggests, flattening a hand on the case's hard lid, face distant, "it would at least give the clinicians an opportunity to test and be certain before making their diagnoses. For every cloud, there is a silver lining. Whatever his true motives, Erik could well have done more for mutants than he realizes." Lips twist awry, eyes -- blue-touched today, from the deep, royal color of his tie -- refocusing on Jean. "I'm certain he would be infuriated to know I approve."
"Maybe you should send him a nice card," Jean suggests, entirely too solemn as she reaches for one of the roast beef sandwiches, swiss cheese poking shyly out from beneath the sliced baguette that contains it all. "I'm sure Hallmark would love a chance to get into the mutant greetings market. But if you manage to replicate it, I wouldn't mind one for my clinic in Hell's Kitchen."
Xavier pats the case with an obscure fondness, like a man saluting a forgotten childhood pet. "A task for Forge," he says with more vigor, humor ribboning through the decisive voice. "While I have no hesitation in commending Erik's inventiveness, I draw the line at paying the Brotherhood the royalties he is doubtless owed. --What brings you to my door, Jean? Aside from lunch, that is?"
"Technically, if he wanted to claim royalties, he'd have to send it through the court systems, which he's declared himself outside the jurisdiction of. It could be interesting," Jean muses, nibbling at her sandwich and spinning images of Magneto, cape, helmet and all, marching at the head of a legion of lawyers. She shares them, before her mind turns more serious, and turns back to memories of a recent phone call. "I just got off the phone with our friend Agent Mauritz. He's trying to keep a lid on it, but a lot of people are starting to notice a lot of citations for unregistered mutants are being addressed to 1407 Graymalkin Lane. I'm not sure how much longer the secret's going to hold, such as it is."
Eyebrows lift, quiet amusement dampened for more incisive consideration. "I'm surprised it has held this long," Xavier admits, fingers drumming a cadence on the heavy antique desk, "though we have had good friends helping us keep this secret. Nonetheless, it's only a matter of time. Perhaps it's time to make the secret less of one."
"It would probably make several 'good friends' happier with us. Rossi's going to get a bleeding ulcer one of these days," Jean predicts, her own fingers occupied by her sandwich. "Of course," she admits, "He's probably going to get a bleeding ulcer anyways. But one less secret can't hurt. And if we go public in the right way, we might even attract -paying- students."
"People are less likely to probe the public," Xavier grants, leaving the subject of the good Detective Rossi be. He sinks back in his wheeled chair, gaze drifting along the length of the sandwich without pausing for purchase on the continental extravagence of its fillings. "Xavier's School for the Gifted may announce itself as mutant-friendly. It may attract more of the curious, but our enemies already know well enough what we are. A reputable newspaper, and ample warning to our students--"
"And Rossi. He was -unreasonably- cranky that we didn't give the police advance warning about Jubilee and Rogue moving into the city," Jean states, attempting prim before admitting that "Granted, Jubilee and Rogue... I can almost see his point. Do you think the Times would be interested? They've been losing out to the Post on the mutant beat, thanks to that Harvey Roarke guy."
"I sometimes marvel that Detective Rossi is one of the protectors, when he seems far more suited to be one of the protected," Xavier says with a singular lack of sympathy for an otherwise sympathetic man. "The New York Times will do quite well for a start, I think. Its reputation is solid, and its distribution broad. I am acquainted with some members of the board. Given a head start, I think we can be assured their coverage will be fair enough."
"Maybe he's got a mutation for Sheer Outraged Stubbornness," Jean muses, with audible capitalization, before she too lets Rossi rest for the moment, and takes a large bite of her sandwich. Raised by Elaine Grey to have Manners about things like chewing with her mouth closed, she adheres to some of Xavier's raising instead, and chats mentally. << If the Times went well, we could probably get some television coverage. I -bet- Anderson Cooper would love to do some sort of fluffy, hopeful tour of the grounds. >>
The corners of Xavier's mouth curls, slipping back to the smile that is so often his default. "I would prefer that the children's faces remain safely out of photographs and television coverage," he says aloud, sliding a new piece of a paper towards him to jot a quick note as its header. "The school may be a target, but it need not follow that we should volunteer them as fodder for the easily incited. We should strengthen security before breaking the news -- on a Friday, I think."
"Exactly. I don't mind my face being shown, for obvious reasons," quoth Dr. Jean Grey, owner of a presidential medal gathering dust in the back of her sock drawer. "But there's enough here for them to see without having to harass the students. Friday definitely sounds good."
Lines crinkle at the corners of eyes, webbing wide into deep-grooved wrinkles. "Then it is decided, then," Xavier congratulates, attention firming on Jean. "It may be best to speak to the publicist for the Xavier Foundation on any recommendations of how to proceed. This is not a field either of us are expert in. I'm afraid we've somewhat of a learning curve ahead of us."
"Well," says Jean with a cheerful smile, and a brief pause to suck some mustard off the knuckle of her left pinkie, "That's what you pay the publicist for, isn't it?"
"Mm." Xavier's brow furrows. His hands spread across the desk's blotter. "So it would seem. I cannot imagine she anticipated this when she agreed to take on the foundation's responsibilities, however. Life is full of surprises."
"I'll slip her Charisma's number, and they can go commiserate over beers," Jean suggests, lips crooking a half smile before she dabs at one corner of her mouth with a thoughtfully-provided napkin. Mustard is a sneaky and relentless foe indeed. "You should have seen her face when I finally handed her our actual accounting records to take over... but I think that's all the news I had."
Eyes warm again towards a smile, feigning an attention that has already moved elsewhere. Xavier inclines his head towards Jean, allowing, "In which case, she should be gratified to know that paying students may eventually be in the offing. At some point we may reach an acceptable balance between our income and expenses."
"You're still going to be stuck with transfers to and from corporations in the Caymans to cover for the jet fuel and parts, though," Jean predicts, before rising to her feet and taking her sandwich with her, now halfway to beefy oblivion and with the teeth marks in it to prove it. "But I'll let you get back to the new toy. Eat a sandwich, though, or Madame Vargas' going to cut off my cheesecake supply."
"A harsh mistress," Xavier says gravely, turning an assessing glance towards the plate of sandwiches. Already the idle hands stretch towards the closed case; already the active mind seeps thoughtfully through remembered cracks in the dampener's curtain. "I will have my lunch, rest assured. Pass along my gratitude to Madame Vargas, if you would? Assure her I will be more prompt to dinner."
"Duly noted... although if you keep being late, you -know- she's going to show up in person." With that grave prediction of imminent doom in the form of no-nonsense Hungarian octogenarians, Jean smiles once more, and takes her leave. An afterthought later, a second sandwich lifts from the tray to dart out of the closing door after her.
[Log ends]
Jean and Xavier decide the future of Xavier School. Oh. And there's that little matter of the telepathic dampener.