10/20/06 - Jean
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10/20/2006
=XS= Kitchen - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
A relic of Victorian times, this kitchen is vast, with more than one oven and several stainless steel work surfaces taking the space once claimed by coal hoppers, cooking hearths and cast-iron stoves. Walls still done in period plaster and tile, and the floor still the original fieldstone, fluorescent lights have been installed overhead to bring the lighting up to modern level. At meal times, kitchen workers scurry to and fro with pans and food and various other sundry items, under the watchful eye of the aging head cook, but once past, order is restored, with copper-bottomed pans hanging above the kitchen island, and a tray of cold snacks left out for foraging students and staff alike. Folding wood doors screen off a pantry capable of holding food for an large household's weekly meals -- or three days' worth of teenager food.
One universal fact amongst humanity's strange and varied forms: everybody's got to eat. While some may feast upon electromagnetic radiation or sunlight in this brave new world, most still visit conventional kitchens. Jean is one of these. Back to the school after a day spent in the city, she's missed dinner, and thus, at a quarter after midnight, is to be found half-buried inside an open fridge, rattling plates and inspecting leftovers.
To the attractant of noise comes Professor Xavier, warned by noise to make a light, cautious sweep of the kitchen before the chair broaches the hallway and the room itself. Metal gleams, polished and clean against the backdrop of cupboards and appliances. The bald crown does as well, if with less jaunty cheer. "Jean," baritone greets. Even at this hour, Charles is suit-clad and proper. "Is there anything promising in the refrigerator?"
"Lots of promise, even more vegetables," Jean replies, somewhat muffled as she doesn't bother to pull out of the fridge before answering. Sock-footed, clad in jeans and a grey sweat shirt that dates back to freshman days at Harvard, she looks anything but the polished political activist as she rummages around. "I think the kids beat me to the raiding. Sandwich?"
"Provided it is not tuna," Charles says with some resignation, following the trail of other kitchen patrons by steering his wheelchair past the primary preparation area toward the rear table. "I have a curious desire to attempt a -- banana and peanut butter, I believe it was? One of the younger students was practicing projection, and I'm afraid it's had an unfortunate effect on my appetite."
"High glucose," is Jean's medical take on the joys of banana and peanut butter in one. "Potassium, too." She retreats with a bag of white bread, locally baked but pre-sliced, and heads to the central island with it, dropping it off before turning to collect peanut butter, bananas, and assorted bits of cutlery and plates slowly, methodically and by hand. "And it's actually pretty good, too. One sandwich, or two?"
"One will be adequate. Thank you." Rote though the courtesy may be, there is a warmth to it that lends sincerity. Xavier glances over the emptied table. An abandoned newspaper, neatly folded, is turned for his idle glance before he abandons the distraction and turns his chair to watch Jean at work. "It will be something in the nature of an experiment. It sounds appallingly sweet."
Jean brandishes knife and peanut butter with the skill of a former college student. Two sandwiches soon appear, and Jean is left to face a recalcitrant banana. A few failed tugs leaving the top bit disturbingly mushy, she sets it aside for a moment to give Xavier a smile. "Better than glucose drinks. But I spent the day in the city today," she recounts. "Stopped by and saw Rogue, while I was at it."
The wheelchair steers closer with a throaty hum. Charles extends his hand for the banana. "Indeed?" he murmurs, gaze tipping up through the shadows that cling around the deep-set eyes. "And how is our young graduate? Well enough, I trust?"
Jean gives the banana a mild glare. Recalcitrant fruit. It shall taste the wrath of the PHOENI-- But Xavier extends a hand, and thus the banana is spared. "Well enough. Her boss figured out she was a mutant, and was worried about whether he'd get in trouble for hiring an unregistered one. She was planning to just go look for another job, but we went and talked to him. I'm hopeful," she concludes, nudging the squares of bread into a more even alignment with each other.
"And a blow for mutant rights is struck," Charles says gravely, but there is no mockery in it, for all the underpinnings of humor. He grips both ends of the banana, pulls sharply, and returns the fruit to Jean with it disassembled into two neatly ripped halves. "One person at a time. One generation at a time. Today's threats are tomorrow's friends."
"So long as we keep taking those steps," Jean muses, taking back the sundered banana and swiftly reducing it to coin slices arranged on two sandwiches. Shuffling them onto plates and cutting triangles, she hands one plate to Xavier and takes her own with her as she hops up to perch on the countertop. "The press aren't going away," she states the obvious, quietly and almost to herself.
Charles lifts a brow at Jean, accepting his plate with a murmur of thanks: perhaps audible, perhaps not. "Did we expect them to?" he wonders, and answers himself with a rueful, "I had hoped they would find other grist for their mills, but I can understand the intrigue. I am grateful that things have been relatively quiet. At least we have not had any need for the jet -- and some good has come of all this."
"A lot of good," Jean agrees, nibbling delicately on one corner of her sandwich. "Two new students already, and Judith... but what do we do -next-?" Pensive a moment, she stares at one knee, head tiled and expression slack. "I didn't really think past the announcement," she admits.
Hazel eyes twinkle a little. "Strategy being my domain?" Charles quizzes. He takes a careful bite of his sandwich and chews. The shadow that drifts across his face could well be an accident of lighting. He finishes chewing. He swallows. Says, blankly, "--interesting."
"Milk?" Jean wonders, suppressing a laugh at Xavier's expression. Mostly. Eyes twinkling, she rolls herself off the counter and heads back to the fridge. "And someone's got to be the strategist. Reporters aren't exactly something I can culture in a lab and dissolve with chemicals to figure out... although..." Trailing off, she strikes a considering pose for a moment, one hand to her chin while the other holds a carton of 2% milk.
A pose that Charles ignores, in the painstaking operation of fishing peanut butter out of his tooth with his tongue. And with dignity. "I expected the media attention would continue," he says, accent less articulate than usual behind his raised and cloaking hand. "It will take some time for this to become less sensational than it is. However, I believe we will shortly have competition for the front page."
"What kind of competition?" Jean wonders over the top of this dignified peanutbutterectomy in progress. She pours him a glass of milk and hands it over with a look caught midway between worry and suspicion.
"It seems that our example has emboldened other schools," Xavier says, accepting the glass with an inclination of his head. The bulge of his tongue pokes its way across his cheek. A short second later, milk stops his voice. << I received a phone call from the Headmaster of Lakeside private school, in Seattle. And the Cathedral School for Boys in San Francisco. Both are preparing to announce themselves mutant friendly. >>
Palpable relief from Jean, visible and mentally tangible, although the physical is relegated to an easing of her shoulders as she pours a second glass of milk for herself, and then puts the carton back for the morning cereal rush. "Thank God," the lapsed presbyterian Grey sighs, leaning back against the refrigerator and half-closing her eyes. "I don't think I could take Magneto causing any more trouble right now. Not with his history here."
"A little good news does seem in order," Charles grants, smile lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. He ventures another bite of the sandwich again, though his mouth stops just short of actual contact with the concoction. "The competition for schools in San Francisco, in combination with its liberal tradition, means that Cathedral School will have little difficulty with consequences. Lakeside I am unsure about, but I have promised to lend support where I can."
"It's certainly rare enough, these days," Jean reflects, before the thin and black-humoured line to her lips is ruined by the sight of Xavier and his sandwich. " --I can make you something else, Charles," she interrupts herself to point out, dipping her head to her shoulder to half hide the smile that blossoms. "If Walter and Nisa opt to leave, I suppose Kate and Harmon will keep -our- numbers constant."
Charles lifts a hand in demural -- and discovers that it is full of milk. Brows lower in mild surprise. "No, thank you. This will do." The sandwich, this time, lifts in gesture. "I believe I've become accustomed to the taste. It's been longer than I realized since I had peanut butter as a -- in anything, come to think of it. Waste not--" And he takes another deliberate, stoic bite.
Jean just shakes her head, an offbeat fondness curving her lips and crinkling her eyes at the corners as she watches The Old Man and the Sandwich play out before her, sans Hemingway. "I'm going to take a turn through the woods, once I'm done," she reveals, nodding towards the patio doors and the dark and quiet grounds beyond them. "Scott was saying that some of the camera crews are getting ambitious and trying to scale the wall."
"Ambitious of them," Charles murmurs, debating between milk and sandwich to finally settle the latter on its plate across his lap. The freed hand drops to the controls, steering the chair towards the door. "I believe it's time we purchased some dogs, Jean. Large, terrifying dogs. I think I might speak to Forge."
"Pickles would be very put out," Jean points out, conjuring up an image of a saddened and mournful golden retriever. "In the meantime, I could take Logan out on my little patrol with me?"
The wheelchair coasts through the door. "You do not require permission from me for a walk in the woods, Jean," the baritone finishes, lingering behind in the echoe chamber of the kitchen. << Please try to restrict yourself to walking. At least in public. >>
<< -Charles-. >> Jean replies, although shock is superceded by amusement. << There would be -cameras-. >> With that, and a snort of laughter, she turns her attention to her own sandwich, eaten with a good deal more relish than Charles Xavier could muster. -Jean's- college student days are a good few decades closer.
10/20/2006
=XS= Kitchen - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
A relic of Victorian times, this kitchen is vast, with more than one oven and several stainless steel work surfaces taking the space once claimed by coal hoppers, cooking hearths and cast-iron stoves. Walls still done in period plaster and tile, and the floor still the original fieldstone, fluorescent lights have been installed overhead to bring the lighting up to modern level. At meal times, kitchen workers scurry to and fro with pans and food and various other sundry items, under the watchful eye of the aging head cook, but once past, order is restored, with copper-bottomed pans hanging above the kitchen island, and a tray of cold snacks left out for foraging students and staff alike. Folding wood doors screen off a pantry capable of holding food for an large household's weekly meals -- or three days' worth of teenager food.
One universal fact amongst humanity's strange and varied forms: everybody's got to eat. While some may feast upon electromagnetic radiation or sunlight in this brave new world, most still visit conventional kitchens. Jean is one of these. Back to the school after a day spent in the city, she's missed dinner, and thus, at a quarter after midnight, is to be found half-buried inside an open fridge, rattling plates and inspecting leftovers.
To the attractant of noise comes Professor Xavier, warned by noise to make a light, cautious sweep of the kitchen before the chair broaches the hallway and the room itself. Metal gleams, polished and clean against the backdrop of cupboards and appliances. The bald crown does as well, if with less jaunty cheer. "Jean," baritone greets. Even at this hour, Charles is suit-clad and proper. "Is there anything promising in the refrigerator?"
"Lots of promise, even more vegetables," Jean replies, somewhat muffled as she doesn't bother to pull out of the fridge before answering. Sock-footed, clad in jeans and a grey sweat shirt that dates back to freshman days at Harvard, she looks anything but the polished political activist as she rummages around. "I think the kids beat me to the raiding. Sandwich?"
"Provided it is not tuna," Charles says with some resignation, following the trail of other kitchen patrons by steering his wheelchair past the primary preparation area toward the rear table. "I have a curious desire to attempt a -- banana and peanut butter, I believe it was? One of the younger students was practicing projection, and I'm afraid it's had an unfortunate effect on my appetite."
"High glucose," is Jean's medical take on the joys of banana and peanut butter in one. "Potassium, too." She retreats with a bag of white bread, locally baked but pre-sliced, and heads to the central island with it, dropping it off before turning to collect peanut butter, bananas, and assorted bits of cutlery and plates slowly, methodically and by hand. "And it's actually pretty good, too. One sandwich, or two?"
"One will be adequate. Thank you." Rote though the courtesy may be, there is a warmth to it that lends sincerity. Xavier glances over the emptied table. An abandoned newspaper, neatly folded, is turned for his idle glance before he abandons the distraction and turns his chair to watch Jean at work. "It will be something in the nature of an experiment. It sounds appallingly sweet."
Jean brandishes knife and peanut butter with the skill of a former college student. Two sandwiches soon appear, and Jean is left to face a recalcitrant banana. A few failed tugs leaving the top bit disturbingly mushy, she sets it aside for a moment to give Xavier a smile. "Better than glucose drinks. But I spent the day in the city today," she recounts. "Stopped by and saw Rogue, while I was at it."
The wheelchair steers closer with a throaty hum. Charles extends his hand for the banana. "Indeed?" he murmurs, gaze tipping up through the shadows that cling around the deep-set eyes. "And how is our young graduate? Well enough, I trust?"
Jean gives the banana a mild glare. Recalcitrant fruit. It shall taste the wrath of the PHOENI-- But Xavier extends a hand, and thus the banana is spared. "Well enough. Her boss figured out she was a mutant, and was worried about whether he'd get in trouble for hiring an unregistered one. She was planning to just go look for another job, but we went and talked to him. I'm hopeful," she concludes, nudging the squares of bread into a more even alignment with each other.
"And a blow for mutant rights is struck," Charles says gravely, but there is no mockery in it, for all the underpinnings of humor. He grips both ends of the banana, pulls sharply, and returns the fruit to Jean with it disassembled into two neatly ripped halves. "One person at a time. One generation at a time. Today's threats are tomorrow's friends."
"So long as we keep taking those steps," Jean muses, taking back the sundered banana and swiftly reducing it to coin slices arranged on two sandwiches. Shuffling them onto plates and cutting triangles, she hands one plate to Xavier and takes her own with her as she hops up to perch on the countertop. "The press aren't going away," she states the obvious, quietly and almost to herself.
Charles lifts a brow at Jean, accepting his plate with a murmur of thanks: perhaps audible, perhaps not. "Did we expect them to?" he wonders, and answers himself with a rueful, "I had hoped they would find other grist for their mills, but I can understand the intrigue. I am grateful that things have been relatively quiet. At least we have not had any need for the jet -- and some good has come of all this."
"A lot of good," Jean agrees, nibbling delicately on one corner of her sandwich. "Two new students already, and Judith... but what do we do -next-?" Pensive a moment, she stares at one knee, head tiled and expression slack. "I didn't really think past the announcement," she admits.
Hazel eyes twinkle a little. "Strategy being my domain?" Charles quizzes. He takes a careful bite of his sandwich and chews. The shadow that drifts across his face could well be an accident of lighting. He finishes chewing. He swallows. Says, blankly, "--interesting."
"Milk?" Jean wonders, suppressing a laugh at Xavier's expression. Mostly. Eyes twinkling, she rolls herself off the counter and heads back to the fridge. "And someone's got to be the strategist. Reporters aren't exactly something I can culture in a lab and dissolve with chemicals to figure out... although..." Trailing off, she strikes a considering pose for a moment, one hand to her chin while the other holds a carton of 2% milk.
A pose that Charles ignores, in the painstaking operation of fishing peanut butter out of his tooth with his tongue. And with dignity. "I expected the media attention would continue," he says, accent less articulate than usual behind his raised and cloaking hand. "It will take some time for this to become less sensational than it is. However, I believe we will shortly have competition for the front page."
"What kind of competition?" Jean wonders over the top of this dignified peanutbutterectomy in progress. She pours him a glass of milk and hands it over with a look caught midway between worry and suspicion.
"It seems that our example has emboldened other schools," Xavier says, accepting the glass with an inclination of his head. The bulge of his tongue pokes its way across his cheek. A short second later, milk stops his voice. << I received a phone call from the Headmaster of Lakeside private school, in Seattle. And the Cathedral School for Boys in San Francisco. Both are preparing to announce themselves mutant friendly. >>
Palpable relief from Jean, visible and mentally tangible, although the physical is relegated to an easing of her shoulders as she pours a second glass of milk for herself, and then puts the carton back for the morning cereal rush. "Thank God," the lapsed presbyterian Grey sighs, leaning back against the refrigerator and half-closing her eyes. "I don't think I could take Magneto causing any more trouble right now. Not with his history here."
"A little good news does seem in order," Charles grants, smile lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. He ventures another bite of the sandwich again, though his mouth stops just short of actual contact with the concoction. "The competition for schools in San Francisco, in combination with its liberal tradition, means that Cathedral School will have little difficulty with consequences. Lakeside I am unsure about, but I have promised to lend support where I can."
"It's certainly rare enough, these days," Jean reflects, before the thin and black-humoured line to her lips is ruined by the sight of Xavier and his sandwich. " --I can make you something else, Charles," she interrupts herself to point out, dipping her head to her shoulder to half hide the smile that blossoms. "If Walter and Nisa opt to leave, I suppose Kate and Harmon will keep -our- numbers constant."
Charles lifts a hand in demural -- and discovers that it is full of milk. Brows lower in mild surprise. "No, thank you. This will do." The sandwich, this time, lifts in gesture. "I believe I've become accustomed to the taste. It's been longer than I realized since I had peanut butter as a -- in anything, come to think of it. Waste not--" And he takes another deliberate, stoic bite.
Jean just shakes her head, an offbeat fondness curving her lips and crinkling her eyes at the corners as she watches The Old Man and the Sandwich play out before her, sans Hemingway. "I'm going to take a turn through the woods, once I'm done," she reveals, nodding towards the patio doors and the dark and quiet grounds beyond them. "Scott was saying that some of the camera crews are getting ambitious and trying to scale the wall."
"Ambitious of them," Charles murmurs, debating between milk and sandwich to finally settle the latter on its plate across his lap. The freed hand drops to the controls, steering the chair towards the door. "I believe it's time we purchased some dogs, Jean. Large, terrifying dogs. I think I might speak to Forge."
"Pickles would be very put out," Jean points out, conjuring up an image of a saddened and mournful golden retriever. "In the meantime, I could take Logan out on my little patrol with me?"
The wheelchair coasts through the door. "You do not require permission from me for a walk in the woods, Jean," the baritone finishes, lingering behind in the echoe chamber of the kitchen. << Please try to restrict yourself to walking. At least in public. >>
<< -Charles-. >> Jean replies, although shock is superceded by amusement. << There would be -cameras-. >> With that, and a snort of laughter, she turns her attention to her own sandwich, eaten with a good deal more relish than Charles Xavier could muster. -Jean's- college student days are a good few decades closer.