10/22/07 - Hank
Excerpt from Charles Xavier's private journal
"...begin to sympathize with the landlords who put up those atrocious spikes to prevent pigeons from roosting on the ledges.
Hank reassured me that she suffered no lasting injury, a happy epilogue that I'm not entirely certain the young lady deserves. Doubtless it is all for the best, though I confess to having felt some exasperation rather than immediate concern when she fell out of the tree so abruptly. I am very much afraid I am turning into an old coot...."
"Speaking with Hank, while always relaxing, also brings into focus just how isolated I feel from not only the students, but also from the other faculty at the school. I'm certain Moira would say something brutal and pragmatic about it being entirely my own fault, and I cannot say that I could argue with her on that head; nonetheless, so it goes, and I find little urge in myself to correct the problem. Age increasingly brings itself to my attention in little ways, and I begin to wonder if it is not past time for me to retire and hand the reins to someone else. Isolation in the middle of company has always been a difficulty for a telepath, but beyond that, I am finding that the lack of peers makes me feel a certain regret. 'A lion among insects,' as Erik used to say in his overwrought way, or something along those lines. Melodramatic, but he has always had a way with the turn of phrase. The problem is not superiority, but commonality of mind, and similarity of perspective. Looking back now, I realize just how much I took it for granted in my youth that that would always be available to me...."
"...these bloody crutches have scratched my shoes."
---
Hank
Sensible wire-rimmed spectacles rest on a short nose set between intelligent blue eyes, and it is there that normalcy ends. Not particularly tall at 5'11, the slightest of hunches makes this simian Beast seem all the more compact, with broad shoulders and heavy muscles all protected beneath a thick pelt of blue fur. Occasionally accented with hints of a lighter grey, the dark cobalt of his coat is longer about his chest and arms, with clear effort placed into the styling of his coarse mane around and behind pointed ears. To what end is perhaps a matter of opinion, but there is a certain dignity about him despite sharp teeth and blunted claws, and it is not unusual for him to dress more formally than his bulky composition should really allow.
Xavier
Though the weight of years has left its mark on the strong face, sagging the skin around jowls and throat, an ageless vigor nonetheless informs this man. The well-shaped head is bare of hair, a polished crown over the regal features. Deep-set eyes of hazel are framed by crows' feet, smile lines etched deep into the aged skin. The graceful hands are long-fingered and free of calluses, tapered with an academic's delicacy; the deep baritone is likewise educated, rich with a lifetime's experience and training.
"--fell out of the tree right in front of me," Charles concludes, his eyes closed, the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger. "I inquired what she was doing. She informed me she was doing an interpretive dance called 'The Flight of the Bumblebee.' However, since the bumblebees are currently undergoing CCD, she was portraying a dead honeybee. I presume I am to be grateful she did not choose to be the entire hive."
The hour is advanced, and the Professor reposes in one of the visitor chairs, his crutches cross-legged beside the seat. Shadows ink their way around the pouches under his eyes; the fluorescent lighting is not flattering to a face already sagging and marked by the ravages of old age. A vigorous old age, to be sure -- but it is old age, nonetheless. Elegant in his customary suit (grey silk) and tie (blue) he sits straight-backed and proper beside Hank's desk. The expensive Italian shoes he customarily wears are absent, for the evening at least. Even Professor Xavier can occasionally find a need for a sturdy pair of Nikes.
Hank rumbles a rich chuckle and settles further back into his chair. He is much more casual and relaxed than Charles this evening, slumped down in his desk chair and legs stretched out in front of him, under the desk. His customary white lab coat is falling open to reveal a shirt losing its battle with wrinkles and a tie long since loosened. Seated beside Charles, he is a startling contrast to that trim and cultivated man. Something in his comfortably relaxed posture has highlighted the bulk of him, the sharp hint of teeth and the glint of his eyes. "I have heard some extraordinarily creative excuses, and genuine reasons too, for the cuts and scrapes I patch up down here. I often feel moved to wonder aloud, How on /earth/--?"
Charles lifts his head, the polished scalp gleaming, though not as brightly or as wryly as the amusement in the deep-set hazel eyes. "I must applaud her creativity," he allows, his hand falling to settle on the arm-brace of one of the crutches. No wheelchair arm, that; the fingers fold awkwardly across the plastic cuff, curling around the thin band meant to close around the forearm. "I enjoyed a quiet chuckle afterwards. As a diversion from the fact that she was climbing trees she was explicitly told she was /not/ to try, it had its merits. I trust none of her injuries were serious? The way she sped off when I ordered her back to the house was reassuring, if not definitive."
"No, nothing at all of concern. Bruises in main part. They are remarkably resilient, young as they are. Unlike you or I, sadly." Hank grimaces, then glances down to where Charles's hand rests on the crutches, pulled their by his train of thought. "In that vein, I must say I am glad to see you on those again, Charles." He looks quickly back up to his friend's face, to lift a bushy and mildly inquisitive eyebrow.
"Tedious things," Charles says lightly, a thin cover for more sincere vexation. Discomfort, rare for the man, interrupts the smooth flow of the rich baritone. He twitches a small frown down at the crutches before relaxing his brow and the wise old face to add, "Not that it is their fault, naturally. As you say, we are neither as young as we were. Or rather, to be more specific--" One of those long-fingered hands, now slightly cramped by arthritis, gestures self-deprecatingly. "--/I/ am not as young as I was. My mobility is an issue of some irritation to ... certain parties." His tone waxes dry. "Some very opinionated parties."
There is a list of possible people matching that description which Hank runs through before settling on, "Erik?" He reaches up one large hand to roughly tug the knot of his tie lower, and cocks his head a little to invite elaboration.
Charles gestures again, exasperation in the eloquent flick of fingers. "And Moira," he tacks on, to ameliorate the importance of that first, fraught name. Smile lines crease at the corners of his eyes, though not in a smile; the tug of his frown dips the corners of his mouth in shadow, a passing expression that disappears almost before it is done forming. "I am surrounded by people interested in my health. Whether their interest in my dignity is as compelling is another question altogether. I understand Moira's enthusiasm. Erik's -- I suspect is partly his counterpart's influence."
"Oh? You believe that affected him to such a degree that his counterpart's expectations of your condition would influence his attitude toward you?" Hank hmm's softly, considering the possible meanings and consequences. He sharpens his gaze on Charles and asks carefully, "If you believe so, then might not the lingering effects also be influencing other of his opinions and actions?"
"It is not impossible," Charles says back, with a promptness that labels it a thought considered and weighed long before the present conversation. The expressive mouth twists awry, hooking towards a grimace of resignation that somehow fails utterly in suggesting anything of the sort. His hand toys with the crutch, the aluminum gleaming dully against the softer grey plastic. "I will give him -- /our/ Magneto -- the credit of having the strength of mind to know who and what he is, without that other Erik's influence. But some bleedover is inevitable, and he is not, after all, a telepath."
"Yes," Hank agrees with an uncultured snort. "Strength of mind is certainly not something he lacks." Any hint of sarcasm is apologized for by a quick smile tossed over his shoulder to Charles. "Have you spoken to him lately?"
Habitually secretive as he is, the short pause before he speaks is telling. "Yes," Charles says at last. His gaze scopes across the lab, then returns to meet Hank's gaze with a forthright one of his own: an illusion of openness that gives away nothing. "The other day, in fact. In regards to Jamie and Monet's -- /adventure/, with Ellen Dramstadt." The crutch rolls in his hand, spinning down the line of his forefinger into the L of his thumb. Thoughtfully, he appends, "It did not go well."
"Ah. Not precisely common ground," Hank hazards, holding anything but a mild interest out of his expression and below the immediate surface of his thoughts, which rather slide briefly to his own arrangement with the prospective detectives. "Ms. Dramstadt, cannot be considered precisely well, as far as I am aware."
"By some standards, neither can Erik. Or," Charles continues with a small hook and pull of humor, "Erik. I am uncertain which one of them is more dangerous, at this point, not to mention how. I do not /think/ Erik will go after Jamie and Monet, but I confess I am not as certain as I would like. Jamie has a certain amount of charm, and at least some common sense that could help him. Monet, on the other hand--" He pinches the bridge of his nose. Ms. St. Claire has a gift for provocation. Even in absentia.
"Ah, yes. She practically possesses a talent for giving offense." Hank however seems more amused than offended, his smile wry as he remembers barbs exchanged. His tone returns to the serious as he observes, only half questioning, "I understand your own last encounter with her did not go well, either?"
Charles's brows draw together, furrowing the high forehead. It is a lot of forehead to furrow. "As you say," he says, stiffly. "She made certain crude comments regarding my relationship with Moira."
"Ahh. Yes, she does so often know which buttons to push. Or perhaps it is more that she pushes all possible buttons, and so eventually discovers the efficacious ones. I am perhaps lucky she has not happened upon my own, or felt much need to search for them." Hank holds up one clawed, blue, leathery hand at arms length, saying clearly enough what buttons he refers to. "I fancy that she might easily provoke Erik into more drastic action than he had originally intended, if he were to follow after her and Jamie."
"As I say," Charles says tartly. "A talent." He draws the crutch up to his chin and rests his chin on its cuff, his eyelids lowering to hood the glimmer of his pale eyes. He considers for a long moment, lips pursing. Then his shoulders twitch and he chuckles, quietly. "I just had the most appalling thought."
"Oh dear." Hank chuckles low in his throat and turns to Charles with a sardonic eyebrow lifted. His smile widens further, more genuine, as he observes his friend's casual lean on the detested crutches. "Ought I to inquire?"
Says the Professor, succinctly, "Det. Rossi." His eyes twinkle. "They rather deserve each other, don't you think?"
Hank laughs, his true booming laugh, with the easy volume of a powerful voice often restrained, letting his head fall back just slightly. "I can just imagine their fights. Goodness." Hank careful forms and holds a clear impression of the bickering couple, some innocent bystander caught between, in the forefront of his mind for Charles to pick up. "I think even I might fall behind in such an epic duel."
"I should introduce them," Charles says thoughtfully, and if there is a little satisfaction at the prospective meeting, surely he can be excused. Quite restored to good humor, he sounds another small chuckle before straightening again to slide his arms into the crutch cuffs and close his hands around the padded handles. "It is a thought that will keep me warm tonight, I believe."
"If you do, I implore you to call me first. I will bring popcorn and a comfortable chair." Still chuckling, Hank straightens hastily in his chair, pulling out of his slouch and lifting his feet back underneath him in preparation for standing. "Are you thinking you will retire to bed now, then?"
The rubber tips of the crutches dig into the cold floor. The act of rising is neither an elegant procedure, nor a dignified one. Nor a painless one, for that matter; Charles's face goes blank, carved from living, breathing stone as he struggles to regain his feet with limbs that are still only slightly less ornamental than functional. "I believe I will," he says, the words sighing through breathlessness. "I have some reading I would like to finish tonight, while it's quiet. And you?"
Hank stands with Charles, a gesture of respect, but carefully refrains from offering any assistance. By way of answer he nods down at the small drift of paper covering one end of his otherwise neatly organized desk. "I have a number of papers to finish grading, but then yes, I will be following you up."
Charles nods, straightening cautiously, the crutches like ski poles at angles to either side. The small kindness of restraint is answered by the murmur of telepathy, before a more vigorous baritone bids farewell. "I wish you luck with your grading." The Professor cants a glance down at Hank's desk before turning away to make his ungraceful way out of the medlab. Humor skates lightly across his baritone. "The other day I received a paper that compared Napoleon's Waterloo campaign to a bowl of alphabet soup. I won't appall you with the rest of it. Good-night, my friend."
[Log ends]
Charles has a nice, quiet chat with a sane colleague. It goes without saying that said sane colleague is Hank. Are there any others? NO. He likes Hank BEST.
"...begin to sympathize with the landlords who put up those atrocious spikes to prevent pigeons from roosting on the ledges.
Hank reassured me that she suffered no lasting injury, a happy epilogue that I'm not entirely certain the young lady deserves. Doubtless it is all for the best, though I confess to having felt some exasperation rather than immediate concern when she fell out of the tree so abruptly. I am very much afraid I am turning into an old coot...."
"Speaking with Hank, while always relaxing, also brings into focus just how isolated I feel from not only the students, but also from the other faculty at the school. I'm certain Moira would say something brutal and pragmatic about it being entirely my own fault, and I cannot say that I could argue with her on that head; nonetheless, so it goes, and I find little urge in myself to correct the problem. Age increasingly brings itself to my attention in little ways, and I begin to wonder if it is not past time for me to retire and hand the reins to someone else. Isolation in the middle of company has always been a difficulty for a telepath, but beyond that, I am finding that the lack of peers makes me feel a certain regret. 'A lion among insects,' as Erik used to say in his overwrought way, or something along those lines. Melodramatic, but he has always had a way with the turn of phrase. The problem is not superiority, but commonality of mind, and similarity of perspective. Looking back now, I realize just how much I took it for granted in my youth that that would always be available to me...."
"...these bloody crutches have scratched my shoes."
---
Hank
Sensible wire-rimmed spectacles rest on a short nose set between intelligent blue eyes, and it is there that normalcy ends. Not particularly tall at 5'11, the slightest of hunches makes this simian Beast seem all the more compact, with broad shoulders and heavy muscles all protected beneath a thick pelt of blue fur. Occasionally accented with hints of a lighter grey, the dark cobalt of his coat is longer about his chest and arms, with clear effort placed into the styling of his coarse mane around and behind pointed ears. To what end is perhaps a matter of opinion, but there is a certain dignity about him despite sharp teeth and blunted claws, and it is not unusual for him to dress more formally than his bulky composition should really allow.
Xavier
Though the weight of years has left its mark on the strong face, sagging the skin around jowls and throat, an ageless vigor nonetheless informs this man. The well-shaped head is bare of hair, a polished crown over the regal features. Deep-set eyes of hazel are framed by crows' feet, smile lines etched deep into the aged skin. The graceful hands are long-fingered and free of calluses, tapered with an academic's delicacy; the deep baritone is likewise educated, rich with a lifetime's experience and training.
"--fell out of the tree right in front of me," Charles concludes, his eyes closed, the bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger. "I inquired what she was doing. She informed me she was doing an interpretive dance called 'The Flight of the Bumblebee.' However, since the bumblebees are currently undergoing CCD, she was portraying a dead honeybee. I presume I am to be grateful she did not choose to be the entire hive."
The hour is advanced, and the Professor reposes in one of the visitor chairs, his crutches cross-legged beside the seat. Shadows ink their way around the pouches under his eyes; the fluorescent lighting is not flattering to a face already sagging and marked by the ravages of old age. A vigorous old age, to be sure -- but it is old age, nonetheless. Elegant in his customary suit (grey silk) and tie (blue) he sits straight-backed and proper beside Hank's desk. The expensive Italian shoes he customarily wears are absent, for the evening at least. Even Professor Xavier can occasionally find a need for a sturdy pair of Nikes.
Hank rumbles a rich chuckle and settles further back into his chair. He is much more casual and relaxed than Charles this evening, slumped down in his desk chair and legs stretched out in front of him, under the desk. His customary white lab coat is falling open to reveal a shirt losing its battle with wrinkles and a tie long since loosened. Seated beside Charles, he is a startling contrast to that trim and cultivated man. Something in his comfortably relaxed posture has highlighted the bulk of him, the sharp hint of teeth and the glint of his eyes. "I have heard some extraordinarily creative excuses, and genuine reasons too, for the cuts and scrapes I patch up down here. I often feel moved to wonder aloud, How on /earth/--?"
Charles lifts his head, the polished scalp gleaming, though not as brightly or as wryly as the amusement in the deep-set hazel eyes. "I must applaud her creativity," he allows, his hand falling to settle on the arm-brace of one of the crutches. No wheelchair arm, that; the fingers fold awkwardly across the plastic cuff, curling around the thin band meant to close around the forearm. "I enjoyed a quiet chuckle afterwards. As a diversion from the fact that she was climbing trees she was explicitly told she was /not/ to try, it had its merits. I trust none of her injuries were serious? The way she sped off when I ordered her back to the house was reassuring, if not definitive."
"No, nothing at all of concern. Bruises in main part. They are remarkably resilient, young as they are. Unlike you or I, sadly." Hank grimaces, then glances down to where Charles's hand rests on the crutches, pulled their by his train of thought. "In that vein, I must say I am glad to see you on those again, Charles." He looks quickly back up to his friend's face, to lift a bushy and mildly inquisitive eyebrow.
"Tedious things," Charles says lightly, a thin cover for more sincere vexation. Discomfort, rare for the man, interrupts the smooth flow of the rich baritone. He twitches a small frown down at the crutches before relaxing his brow and the wise old face to add, "Not that it is their fault, naturally. As you say, we are neither as young as we were. Or rather, to be more specific--" One of those long-fingered hands, now slightly cramped by arthritis, gestures self-deprecatingly. "--/I/ am not as young as I was. My mobility is an issue of some irritation to ... certain parties." His tone waxes dry. "Some very opinionated parties."
There is a list of possible people matching that description which Hank runs through before settling on, "Erik?" He reaches up one large hand to roughly tug the knot of his tie lower, and cocks his head a little to invite elaboration.
Charles gestures again, exasperation in the eloquent flick of fingers. "And Moira," he tacks on, to ameliorate the importance of that first, fraught name. Smile lines crease at the corners of his eyes, though not in a smile; the tug of his frown dips the corners of his mouth in shadow, a passing expression that disappears almost before it is done forming. "I am surrounded by people interested in my health. Whether their interest in my dignity is as compelling is another question altogether. I understand Moira's enthusiasm. Erik's -- I suspect is partly his counterpart's influence."
"Oh? You believe that affected him to such a degree that his counterpart's expectations of your condition would influence his attitude toward you?" Hank hmm's softly, considering the possible meanings and consequences. He sharpens his gaze on Charles and asks carefully, "If you believe so, then might not the lingering effects also be influencing other of his opinions and actions?"
"It is not impossible," Charles says back, with a promptness that labels it a thought considered and weighed long before the present conversation. The expressive mouth twists awry, hooking towards a grimace of resignation that somehow fails utterly in suggesting anything of the sort. His hand toys with the crutch, the aluminum gleaming dully against the softer grey plastic. "I will give him -- /our/ Magneto -- the credit of having the strength of mind to know who and what he is, without that other Erik's influence. But some bleedover is inevitable, and he is not, after all, a telepath."
"Yes," Hank agrees with an uncultured snort. "Strength of mind is certainly not something he lacks." Any hint of sarcasm is apologized for by a quick smile tossed over his shoulder to Charles. "Have you spoken to him lately?"
Habitually secretive as he is, the short pause before he speaks is telling. "Yes," Charles says at last. His gaze scopes across the lab, then returns to meet Hank's gaze with a forthright one of his own: an illusion of openness that gives away nothing. "The other day, in fact. In regards to Jamie and Monet's -- /adventure/, with Ellen Dramstadt." The crutch rolls in his hand, spinning down the line of his forefinger into the L of his thumb. Thoughtfully, he appends, "It did not go well."
"Ah. Not precisely common ground," Hank hazards, holding anything but a mild interest out of his expression and below the immediate surface of his thoughts, which rather slide briefly to his own arrangement with the prospective detectives. "Ms. Dramstadt, cannot be considered precisely well, as far as I am aware."
"By some standards, neither can Erik. Or," Charles continues with a small hook and pull of humor, "Erik. I am uncertain which one of them is more dangerous, at this point, not to mention how. I do not /think/ Erik will go after Jamie and Monet, but I confess I am not as certain as I would like. Jamie has a certain amount of charm, and at least some common sense that could help him. Monet, on the other hand--" He pinches the bridge of his nose. Ms. St. Claire has a gift for provocation. Even in absentia.
"Ah, yes. She practically possesses a talent for giving offense." Hank however seems more amused than offended, his smile wry as he remembers barbs exchanged. His tone returns to the serious as he observes, only half questioning, "I understand your own last encounter with her did not go well, either?"
Charles's brows draw together, furrowing the high forehead. It is a lot of forehead to furrow. "As you say," he says, stiffly. "She made certain crude comments regarding my relationship with Moira."
"Ahh. Yes, she does so often know which buttons to push. Or perhaps it is more that she pushes all possible buttons, and so eventually discovers the efficacious ones. I am perhaps lucky she has not happened upon my own, or felt much need to search for them." Hank holds up one clawed, blue, leathery hand at arms length, saying clearly enough what buttons he refers to. "I fancy that she might easily provoke Erik into more drastic action than he had originally intended, if he were to follow after her and Jamie."
"As I say," Charles says tartly. "A talent." He draws the crutch up to his chin and rests his chin on its cuff, his eyelids lowering to hood the glimmer of his pale eyes. He considers for a long moment, lips pursing. Then his shoulders twitch and he chuckles, quietly. "I just had the most appalling thought."
"Oh dear." Hank chuckles low in his throat and turns to Charles with a sardonic eyebrow lifted. His smile widens further, more genuine, as he observes his friend's casual lean on the detested crutches. "Ought I to inquire?"
Says the Professor, succinctly, "Det. Rossi." His eyes twinkle. "They rather deserve each other, don't you think?"
Hank laughs, his true booming laugh, with the easy volume of a powerful voice often restrained, letting his head fall back just slightly. "I can just imagine their fights. Goodness." Hank careful forms and holds a clear impression of the bickering couple, some innocent bystander caught between, in the forefront of his mind for Charles to pick up. "I think even I might fall behind in such an epic duel."
"I should introduce them," Charles says thoughtfully, and if there is a little satisfaction at the prospective meeting, surely he can be excused. Quite restored to good humor, he sounds another small chuckle before straightening again to slide his arms into the crutch cuffs and close his hands around the padded handles. "It is a thought that will keep me warm tonight, I believe."
"If you do, I implore you to call me first. I will bring popcorn and a comfortable chair." Still chuckling, Hank straightens hastily in his chair, pulling out of his slouch and lifting his feet back underneath him in preparation for standing. "Are you thinking you will retire to bed now, then?"
The rubber tips of the crutches dig into the cold floor. The act of rising is neither an elegant procedure, nor a dignified one. Nor a painless one, for that matter; Charles's face goes blank, carved from living, breathing stone as he struggles to regain his feet with limbs that are still only slightly less ornamental than functional. "I believe I will," he says, the words sighing through breathlessness. "I have some reading I would like to finish tonight, while it's quiet. And you?"
Hank stands with Charles, a gesture of respect, but carefully refrains from offering any assistance. By way of answer he nods down at the small drift of paper covering one end of his otherwise neatly organized desk. "I have a number of papers to finish grading, but then yes, I will be following you up."
Charles nods, straightening cautiously, the crutches like ski poles at angles to either side. The small kindness of restraint is answered by the murmur of telepathy, before a more vigorous baritone bids farewell. "I wish you luck with your grading." The Professor cants a glance down at Hank's desk before turning away to make his ungraceful way out of the medlab. Humor skates lightly across his baritone. "The other day I received a paper that compared Napoleon's Waterloo campaign to a bowl of alphabet soup. I won't appall you with the rest of it. Good-night, my friend."
[Log ends]
Charles has a nice, quiet chat with a sane colleague. It goes without saying that said sane colleague is Hank. Are there any others? NO. He likes Hank BEST.