10/20/06 - Mystique
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Friday afternoon. Even for the leader of a group of mutant superheroes there is a comfort in routine, jealously guarded from even the most persistent of reporters. Thus Charles Xavier, incognito in the small town near the mansion, garbed in telepathic concealment (a nondescript man with a full shock of healthy black hair; look elsewhere, friend-- ) and settled in comfort in a small coffee shop.
The chair gleams dully metal beside the old stone table; the man himself, dressed in a slate grey suit, drinks tea and reads the newspaper. Against all probability, he has a dog. A large german shepherd lolls at his feet and yawns.
The earpiece settled over the blonde's ear neatly slices through telepathic concealment. Useful, as following Charles Xavier is somewhat more difficult when one can't see him. The face she wears is familiar - a favorite for decades, and unchanged in the years that spread between the times when she was tolerated, if not exactly welcome, at Xavier's school, and today. She's dressed neatly but casually, long legs clad in deep grey slacks and paired with a brilliant blue cotton blouse. As she passes, she pauses to bend to the dog, offering him a flat-palmed hand to sniff.
The shepherd, formidable watchdog that it is, touches a cold, wet nose to Mystique's fingers and exhales, tail thumping once in idle acknowledgment against the floor. At the table, the corner of the newspaper tucks under to bare a deep-set, quizzical eye. Recognition is not untouched by surprise. "Raven," says Charles, curiosity lifting his voice. The paper folds over entirely, unveiling the tie and squared shoulders. "Forgive me for not rising," he adds with irony. "This is a pleasant surprise. And how are you?"
"What is it," Mystique wonders, turning her face upward to consider Charles Xavier, "With men and dogs?"
"Ajax," Charles says, and turns his gaze down to the dog. It yawns again and considers Mystique's crotch with sleepy interest. "He is not, I regret to say, mine. He belongs to the owner of the store, and sees fit to keep me company from time to time. I am informed that he has very poor taste."
Raven straightens with slow deliberateness and turns to face Charles, pausing a half moment before she helps herself to the chair opposite. "Ah. Perhaps you should have a pet. It might make you more tolerable."
The hazel eyes are touched with green today, shadowed under the greying brows. "Ask Erik," says Professor Xavier with dry humor. "I imagine he thinks I have an entire mansion full. What brings you to Westchester, Raven?"
Raven dips her head, half-acknowledgement, and then fixes keen blue eyes on the man in the wheelchair. "What did Erik say to you, in your conversation?"
"That," Charles says, mildly enough, "is between me and Erik. I saw his broadcast on the news. I take it that you managed to talk him out of his original plan?"
"You would not have contacted me if you were not worried about him," Mystique reminds, eyes bright and voice harsh in contrast to mildness.
The Professor inclines his head; the bald pate gleams. Ajax perks his ears at Mystique, stares somberly at her leg, then does something inappropriate to his nether regions. "That seems obvious enough. But it seems you were more than capable of handling the situation." Charles pauses. Eyes twinkle. Nicely. "Well done, Raven. I congratulate you."
"And now you are quite satisfied with the situation." Mystique's tone slides dry, disdainful, and she meets his twinkle evenly.
"Satisfied, no. However, I am a realist, my dear. Compromise -- a word that Erik, for all his learning, appears incapable of adding to his vocabulary -- is sometimes all that can be hoped for. Would you like something? Tea? A scone? Muffin, perhaps?"
"A scone," Mystique allows, "Would be lovely."
The room proper catches a glimpse of an arm lifting for the waitress. In person, Xavier wonders politely, "Cranberry, blueberry, pumpkin, or currant? Coffee?"
"Blueberry."
Behind the counter, the shop's owner busies himself with the display case. At the table, Charles smiles across at Mystique, the gracious host. "It has been quite some time since we've sat together. You never answered. How are you?"
"I am not here to discuss my state of being. Nor do I expect that you actually care." Mystique does not return the smile. "I cannot handle a situation fully with half information, Charles."
"It is civil to inquire," Charles tells Raven with a hint of schoolmastery reproach. He takes up his cup again, cradling it between sensitive fingertips. "However, that is beside the point. I do sincerely care. You are one of the chief architects of this war of Erik's, whether he chooses to acknowledge it or no. How could I not care about your state of mind and health?"
Raven's smile slices toward Charles. "Would it ease your mind if I shared that I am on the brink of collapse? Perhaps if I have contracted some deadly disease."
Charles's own faint smile does not waver. "We have the best of medical care," he encourages kindly. "And I am still practicing, if not as extensively as I once did. If you wish to place yourself in our hands, we will be delighted to look after you."
"I'm certain you would be." Mystique's expression settles into exasperation. "Does it also come with the sex, the inability to have a serious conversation without feeling the need to take it around in circles in a hapless attempt to be clever?"
Charles's expression, on the other hand, settles into one of slight pain. "Lacking the ability to be certain," he says apologetically, while the scone is delivered on a sturdy white plate, "I'm afraid I have to inquire: are you speaking of me? Or of Erik?"
Raven's tongue clucks mildly, and her chin lifts with a small smile. Amused. "Come now, Charles. There are other men of my aquaintence. At the moment, I am quite assuredly referring to you."
Ajax, finished with self-attention, sits up to plant a paw on Mystique's thigh. Hello. "I'm sure you are a very attractive woman, Raven. Many attractive women, as I recall," says Charles, grave. "However, I'm afraid that there are some things that Erik and I do not share."
Ajax goes firmly ignored, and after a moment's consideration of Charles, Mystique stands neatly. Palms brush against the fabric of her slacks and she tips the slightest of nods to Charles. "Thank you," she enunciates clearly, "For the scone." Which lies untouched on the table.
Amusement rustles behind the chiseled face. "Thank you," Charles says with equal courtesy, "for your company. Good day, my dear." Ajax sighs and leans into Xavier's leg. The paper flips up; Professor X reads the news.
Raven stands for a moment, watching Xavier with a quiet expression. She does not leave just yet. "I do wonder," she shares softly. "What it is you meant to accomplish with that conversation."
"There are times," says the rich burgandy of baritone behind the paper, "when the purpose of conversation is simply to converse." The paper folds. Charles's brow is lifted. "Even Magneto needs a friend."
"That is not," Mystique points out, "What I asked." Lifted brows meet lifted brows evenly. "You pretend to concern about him. And yet, when it comes to providing help, there is none to be found. "
"The ways of telepaths are mysterious," Charles says with somber sympathy. "Though Erik's choice of language is usually more ... robust. I'm certain if you ask him, he can provide you with a more full-bodied vocabulary."
"The ways of telepaths are meddlesome and high-handed. You pretend to a great deal of virtue, Charles Xavier. Tell me, do you honestly believe any of it yourself?"
Xavier's mouth curls faintly; the smile that never lurks far beneath the surface warms the telepath's face. "What do you believe in, Mystique?"
"I'm to answer questions you avoid yourself? I sleep satisfied at night."
"An interesting choice of word." Xavier touches cup to lips, inhales steam, and lowers it to the clink of china. Brows lower. "You, more than anyone, know the value of a mask."
"Who do you remove your mask for, Charles?" Mystique's lips curve in a quiet smile. "Or have you forgotten where it begins?"
The changeable eyes twinkle. "I might ask you the same question," Charles says. "As I occasionally strive to be a gentleman, I will not. The man, Mystique, is not the cause. We come and go and will, I imagine, for many years to come."
"Might you?" Mystique's gaze remains quiet, warmed by sudden amusement. "I do not wear a mask for everyone, Charles. That is the advantage of the path I have chosen. I am not forced to."
"Tell me," says Charles, and the cultured baritone lifts for a moment, an obscure sympathy plucked in its timbres. "How is Erik?"
"Erik," Mystique answers evenly. "Is no longer your concern."
Charles says nothing -- but the deep-set eyes are compassionate. And not for Erik.
"You cannot care for people halfway, Charles Xavier. You have made your choice when it comes to Erik. Polite inquiries and half-hearted, high-handed interventions will not change that." Raven's eyes are dark on Xavier, accusitory and disdainful, and finally, she turns to leave.
"Every man," Charles tells his newspaper, attention returned to the order of print and prose, "must live his own life and his own choices, Raven. And choose his friends wisely. When he can. Have a good day."
Perhaps Charles' newspaper is listening. Mystique, for her part, is not, and her stride carries her briskly away from the infuritating telepath. Onward. She has work to do.
[Log ends]
Mystique comes looking for Charles. One of them is a bitch. Guess which one.
Friday afternoon. Even for the leader of a group of mutant superheroes there is a comfort in routine, jealously guarded from even the most persistent of reporters. Thus Charles Xavier, incognito in the small town near the mansion, garbed in telepathic concealment (a nondescript man with a full shock of healthy black hair; look elsewhere, friend-- ) and settled in comfort in a small coffee shop.
The chair gleams dully metal beside the old stone table; the man himself, dressed in a slate grey suit, drinks tea and reads the newspaper. Against all probability, he has a dog. A large german shepherd lolls at his feet and yawns.
The earpiece settled over the blonde's ear neatly slices through telepathic concealment. Useful, as following Charles Xavier is somewhat more difficult when one can't see him. The face she wears is familiar - a favorite for decades, and unchanged in the years that spread between the times when she was tolerated, if not exactly welcome, at Xavier's school, and today. She's dressed neatly but casually, long legs clad in deep grey slacks and paired with a brilliant blue cotton blouse. As she passes, she pauses to bend to the dog, offering him a flat-palmed hand to sniff.
The shepherd, formidable watchdog that it is, touches a cold, wet nose to Mystique's fingers and exhales, tail thumping once in idle acknowledgment against the floor. At the table, the corner of the newspaper tucks under to bare a deep-set, quizzical eye. Recognition is not untouched by surprise. "Raven," says Charles, curiosity lifting his voice. The paper folds over entirely, unveiling the tie and squared shoulders. "Forgive me for not rising," he adds with irony. "This is a pleasant surprise. And how are you?"
"What is it," Mystique wonders, turning her face upward to consider Charles Xavier, "With men and dogs?"
"Ajax," Charles says, and turns his gaze down to the dog. It yawns again and considers Mystique's crotch with sleepy interest. "He is not, I regret to say, mine. He belongs to the owner of the store, and sees fit to keep me company from time to time. I am informed that he has very poor taste."
Raven straightens with slow deliberateness and turns to face Charles, pausing a half moment before she helps herself to the chair opposite. "Ah. Perhaps you should have a pet. It might make you more tolerable."
The hazel eyes are touched with green today, shadowed under the greying brows. "Ask Erik," says Professor Xavier with dry humor. "I imagine he thinks I have an entire mansion full. What brings you to Westchester, Raven?"
Raven dips her head, half-acknowledgement, and then fixes keen blue eyes on the man in the wheelchair. "What did Erik say to you, in your conversation?"
"That," Charles says, mildly enough, "is between me and Erik. I saw his broadcast on the news. I take it that you managed to talk him out of his original plan?"
"You would not have contacted me if you were not worried about him," Mystique reminds, eyes bright and voice harsh in contrast to mildness.
The Professor inclines his head; the bald pate gleams. Ajax perks his ears at Mystique, stares somberly at her leg, then does something inappropriate to his nether regions. "That seems obvious enough. But it seems you were more than capable of handling the situation." Charles pauses. Eyes twinkle. Nicely. "Well done, Raven. I congratulate you."
"And now you are quite satisfied with the situation." Mystique's tone slides dry, disdainful, and she meets his twinkle evenly.
"Satisfied, no. However, I am a realist, my dear. Compromise -- a word that Erik, for all his learning, appears incapable of adding to his vocabulary -- is sometimes all that can be hoped for. Would you like something? Tea? A scone? Muffin, perhaps?"
"A scone," Mystique allows, "Would be lovely."
The room proper catches a glimpse of an arm lifting for the waitress. In person, Xavier wonders politely, "Cranberry, blueberry, pumpkin, or currant? Coffee?"
"Blueberry."
Behind the counter, the shop's owner busies himself with the display case. At the table, Charles smiles across at Mystique, the gracious host. "It has been quite some time since we've sat together. You never answered. How are you?"
"I am not here to discuss my state of being. Nor do I expect that you actually care." Mystique does not return the smile. "I cannot handle a situation fully with half information, Charles."
"It is civil to inquire," Charles tells Raven with a hint of schoolmastery reproach. He takes up his cup again, cradling it between sensitive fingertips. "However, that is beside the point. I do sincerely care. You are one of the chief architects of this war of Erik's, whether he chooses to acknowledge it or no. How could I not care about your state of mind and health?"
Raven's smile slices toward Charles. "Would it ease your mind if I shared that I am on the brink of collapse? Perhaps if I have contracted some deadly disease."
Charles's own faint smile does not waver. "We have the best of medical care," he encourages kindly. "And I am still practicing, if not as extensively as I once did. If you wish to place yourself in our hands, we will be delighted to look after you."
"I'm certain you would be." Mystique's expression settles into exasperation. "Does it also come with the sex, the inability to have a serious conversation without feeling the need to take it around in circles in a hapless attempt to be clever?"
Charles's expression, on the other hand, settles into one of slight pain. "Lacking the ability to be certain," he says apologetically, while the scone is delivered on a sturdy white plate, "I'm afraid I have to inquire: are you speaking of me? Or of Erik?"
Raven's tongue clucks mildly, and her chin lifts with a small smile. Amused. "Come now, Charles. There are other men of my aquaintence. At the moment, I am quite assuredly referring to you."
Ajax, finished with self-attention, sits up to plant a paw on Mystique's thigh. Hello. "I'm sure you are a very attractive woman, Raven. Many attractive women, as I recall," says Charles, grave. "However, I'm afraid that there are some things that Erik and I do not share."
Ajax goes firmly ignored, and after a moment's consideration of Charles, Mystique stands neatly. Palms brush against the fabric of her slacks and she tips the slightest of nods to Charles. "Thank you," she enunciates clearly, "For the scone." Which lies untouched on the table.
Amusement rustles behind the chiseled face. "Thank you," Charles says with equal courtesy, "for your company. Good day, my dear." Ajax sighs and leans into Xavier's leg. The paper flips up; Professor X reads the news.
Raven stands for a moment, watching Xavier with a quiet expression. She does not leave just yet. "I do wonder," she shares softly. "What it is you meant to accomplish with that conversation."
"There are times," says the rich burgandy of baritone behind the paper, "when the purpose of conversation is simply to converse." The paper folds. Charles's brow is lifted. "Even Magneto needs a friend."
"That is not," Mystique points out, "What I asked." Lifted brows meet lifted brows evenly. "You pretend to concern about him. And yet, when it comes to providing help, there is none to be found. "
"The ways of telepaths are mysterious," Charles says with somber sympathy. "Though Erik's choice of language is usually more ... robust. I'm certain if you ask him, he can provide you with a more full-bodied vocabulary."
"The ways of telepaths are meddlesome and high-handed. You pretend to a great deal of virtue, Charles Xavier. Tell me, do you honestly believe any of it yourself?"
Xavier's mouth curls faintly; the smile that never lurks far beneath the surface warms the telepath's face. "What do you believe in, Mystique?"
"I'm to answer questions you avoid yourself? I sleep satisfied at night."
"An interesting choice of word." Xavier touches cup to lips, inhales steam, and lowers it to the clink of china. Brows lower. "You, more than anyone, know the value of a mask."
"Who do you remove your mask for, Charles?" Mystique's lips curve in a quiet smile. "Or have you forgotten where it begins?"
The changeable eyes twinkle. "I might ask you the same question," Charles says. "As I occasionally strive to be a gentleman, I will not. The man, Mystique, is not the cause. We come and go and will, I imagine, for many years to come."
"Might you?" Mystique's gaze remains quiet, warmed by sudden amusement. "I do not wear a mask for everyone, Charles. That is the advantage of the path I have chosen. I am not forced to."
"Tell me," says Charles, and the cultured baritone lifts for a moment, an obscure sympathy plucked in its timbres. "How is Erik?"
"Erik," Mystique answers evenly. "Is no longer your concern."
Charles says nothing -- but the deep-set eyes are compassionate. And not for Erik.
"You cannot care for people halfway, Charles Xavier. You have made your choice when it comes to Erik. Polite inquiries and half-hearted, high-handed interventions will not change that." Raven's eyes are dark on Xavier, accusitory and disdainful, and finally, she turns to leave.
"Every man," Charles tells his newspaper, attention returned to the order of print and prose, "must live his own life and his own choices, Raven. And choose his friends wisely. When he can. Have a good day."
Perhaps Charles' newspaper is listening. Mystique, for her part, is not, and her stride carries her briskly away from the infuritating telepath. Onward. She has work to do.
[Log ends]
Mystique comes looking for Charles. One of them is a bitch. Guess which one.