10/23/07 - Emma
A small brown paper package is delivered that evening to Emma Frost at the Hellfire Clubhouse.
It is innocuous, as paper packages go, but the name on the attached card is one on a List, so it goes straight to her by the most direct route. Inside is a children's book: The House at Pooh Corner, by A.A. Milne, with the original illustrations by E.H. Shephard. As a copy, it is one that has obviously been well-used; the red bound cover is frayed and battered. At some point in its history, someone has scribbled on the back with blue crayon. The pictures are faded, but still distinguishable. Owl, Piglet, Pooh, Eeyore, Rabbit, Roo, and Kanga are printed in yellow ink on the faded background.
The contents page reads:
Inside the front cover, a child's painstaking hand has written, "MiN E cHAR LEs xAviER AGE 4"
The '4' is underlined several times. This was a young man very proud of his years, though he has yet to fully master his E's. They are backwards.
E's are hard.
The enclosed card is simple stock, heavy white and rectangle. The lettering on it is in ink, slanted and elegant in an old-fashioned hand.
"For my dear Emma,
Because heft is not always the same thing as worth, and every child deserves a house at Pooh Corner, no matter her age.
Yrs, Charles Xavier."
---
=NYC= Library - Hellfire Clubhouse
The leaded-glass eyes of tall windows are nearly lost amid the taller bookcases that line all four walls of this secluded room. Heavy leather armchairs, dark burgundy and black, take advantage of the windows' light and view onto the grounds; delicate oaken end tables and antique brass lamps keep them company. Books are the focus here, however: modern volumes and folios older than the lamps, a collection spanning centuries and a rainbow of tastes, as befits the club's patrons.
Emma
Blonde and platinum tumble in a deceptively-careless, shoulder-length do, hair left free to be tossed over a shoulder or have fingers run through it--In other people's imaginations, of course. Thinly sculpted brows arch over oft-narrowed and ice-blue eyes that glint out from the ring of thick lashes, permanently darkened, shadowing their edges. The perfect nose, small and finely-shaped, slopes down to angle pertly over full lips that alternately flashes smiles brilliant, demure, sultry, prim... all as the situation demands.
If her face is chiseled sculpture, her body is molded art. Nature's charms are augmented with all that discipline and money can buy. Defined and toned muscle slide underneath curve of leg, hip, and breast, supreme, and not unjustified, confidence moving her body in carefully controlled liquid motions.
Crisp linen pants fall in wide legged lines, the upturned hem dusting the tops of wide-heeled and narrow-toed boots, and the waist band settling low on her hips. Silk, woven into a modern marvel of engineering, smoothes, without wrinkle, upwards, fashioned into the simple arrangement of a spaghetti-strapped camisole. A calf-length duster lies nearby, no doubt, ready to complete the picture of elegant indulgence to comfort. The colors? White, of course.
Charles Xavier is in the Clubhouse. That name has a note associated with it to notify the King, Queen, or any of a short list of names should he make an appearance. But to make an appearance with the apparently valid claim that he is a member in full standing is just too much. I mean, /really/. Emma sails toward his last known location, the library, under a full head of steam (a tightly shielded head). The library doors typically remain open, and thus she enters with no warning given the usual five senses.
There is a difference between the library at this hour and, say, a morgue. There are more books in the former. The dead bodies are prone in the latter. Barring that, the resemblances become more acute than the differences. The hush of the room is one conferred not so much by the virtue of silence, as by the post-prandial stupor that has overcome the more elderly -- some would say /dignified/ -- members who have taken refuge here.
Members in full, like (or rather, /unlike/, occupied as he is with removing books from one of the shelves) Charles Xavier. Elegant in grey, poised like a listing mast on his crutches, he directs one of the hapless servants in the retrieval of a book. "Higher," he says patiently. "The one with the blue spine. A little more to the left, young man. A little more."
The young man retrieves the book, but finds his hand over is intercepted by a another's hand. One slim and white and with demurely manicured nails. Emma glances at the cover and dismisses the servant with a movement of her head and a barely concealed mental command. She turns back to Xavier and lifts a brow as she holds the book out to him. "Interesting choice. I've not read 'Lolita' myself, but I understand it to be a favorite among some of our members."
"A classic, though misunderstood by the uneducated," the Professor says mildly, accepting the slim volume with a crutch-cuffed hand. "Most people remember the controversial subject and assume that it is pornographic, when in fact Nabokov was really a brilliant ironist. As it happens however, the school library already has several copies of the book. It is assigned reading for 11th graders. A little /more/ to the left is the Tao of Pooh." The servant dismissed, Emma is plainly expected to serve as dogsbody. Charles blinks solemnly at the White Queen. "If you wouldn't mind," he adds politely.
"A brilliant ironist. Really." Emma is unconvinced, and her expression says as much. She holds the book out for a fraction of a second longer, then turns and reaches up to return the book to its vacated space on the shelf. Her fingers walk over a few more spaces and she stretches, her arm and body making a clean, pleasing line of white curves and planes, to pull the indicated tome from its position. She settles back onto her heels and turns again, Pooh's wisdom laying across the flat of her hand. She says nothing, but curiosity lightening-skips across her shields.
"A commentary on American culture, in fact." Charles draws spectacles out of his breast pocket, unfolds them between careful fingers, and settles them on that well-defined nose. They are an old-world, fragile affair of gold wire and glass; he peers through them at the cover, the hazel eyes grave, then over them at Emma. "The main character rewrites the character of the young woman he is obsessed with, negating her real self and personality by imposing on her person the ideal that he has concocted in his mind. --Yes, this is the one I want. Thank you."
Forced blandness creeps into Emma's face. "I'm so glad that our shelves could meet your needs. Though perhaps I might suggest a bookstore for next time? The Clubhouse premises are restricted to members only, I'm afraid."
"Ah," Charles murmurs, claiming the book with a hand to thumb open the front cover, then several pages more. "I will be certain to pass the news on to non-members, then. Let me think. There's a charming little passage with Piglet that I'm certain you would enjoy--" Where is it? Tsk. Oh, yes. Courtesy. He glances up, face kindly. "I hope you are well?"
"Ah," Emma echoes, falling back a mental step though she refuses to give ground physically. "As always, darling. And yourself?"
Charles says benevolently, "Quite well, thank you. --Aha! Here it is. "'Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind--' no, that isn't the one I was thinking of." He clucks quietly to himself, closing the book around a long finger, and smiles at Emma. "You're looking well, my dear, which I'm told is the important thing. Would you care to sit with me for a while? Or are you off on one of your Very Important Tasks, a la Rabbit?"
"Each of our guests is a Very Important Task," Emma simps in reply, closing in to slide past him enroute to a pair of chairs in a nearby corner. A simple round table stands between them. "I am pleased to hear you are well. I understood you to be quite out of temper."
An eyebrow rises in question. Charles makes his awkward way after Emma, the book obstructing his grip on the crutch. He makes do, if without grace; the eventual seat he takes is a complicated thing, attained by degrees and not without pain. "I am never out of temper," he says with solemn equanimity. "At my age, one learns that there are better uses for one's energy. I am, if you will excuse me for saying so, Pooh-like."
"Oh?" Emma sits with much more ease, landing on her hip and crossing one knee over the other. She tugs the hem of her skirt down over her knee demurely, as if hiding a national treasure between her knees, and leans an elbow on the nearest chair arm. "I must have misunderstood. Erik was certainly irritable after your last visit." She gives him a Mona Lisa smile and lifts her hand to curl under her chin.
Charles positions the crutches beside his chair, allowing them to lean against the padded arm. "He has very Eeyore characteristics," he says regretfully. "Always looking on the dark side of things -- understandable, of course. I am unable to blame him for it. It must be very disconcerting to realize from time to time that one is surrounded by thistles. Not to mention the entire issue with a removable tail. A donkey's very identity is wrapped up in his tail."
Emma's brows lift and she blinks twice before responding that, "Eeyore? I'm afraid my familiarity with children's stories is rather limited. Father didn't believe in catering to lowered expectations, even for five year olds." Curiosity flashes him before darting back behind shielded thoughts and she leans forward. Cleavage pushes, as expected, against the neckline of her jacket. "Just what /did/ you say to upset him so?"
Xavier is an open book. A book of Tao. Whereas Eeyore might have taken a gander at the Twin Hills of Venus, Pooh remains mildly distracted by other things. Generational shortcomings, for instance. "Another classic that has managed to slip you by," he says regretfully. "I cannot think what the education system has come to. --As it happens, I spoke to him about Ellen Dramstadt." The deep-set hazel eyes are as limpid as sunshine. "A sensitive subject."
Emma dismisses the criticism of her education with a lift of her head and a flip of her hand. "The private school I attended focused on subject with more... literary heft. I understand it was one of your proteges who apprehended her."
"'One' is inaccurate," Xavier says, crossing his legs comfortably in the high-backed chair. Whatever his status at the Hellfire Club, he has arrogance's ability to claim its surroundings as a matter of inevitability: a hand in a glove made for him. "'Two' would also be understating the case. However, in general you are correct. My proteges did apprehend her. Do you have an interest in Ms. Dramstadt?"
"I have an interest in Erik. More specifically, what prompts him to do costly electrical damage to my home." He may lay claim, but it is a temporary thing, soon evaporated under scrutiny.
"Inconvenient, isn't he?" Xavier says sympathetically. "I hope it wasn't anything important." He peers at Emma over his spectacles.
"Nothing of consequence, but yes. Inconvenient." She smiles blandly back at him.
Xavier says kindly, "Well, I'm sure he was sorry afterwards. And it's all in a good cause, after all." Isn't it? He folds both hands over the cover of his book and looks solemn.
<< Is it? >> Emma straightens, pulling her weight off her elbow to free her hands. She rubs them together, trying to warm them. "You know Erik better than that," she says with a mirthless laugh.
<< It is your cause, >> Xavier says in mellow silence. << Perhaps you should tell /me/. >> He gestures with one of those hands, deprecating. "I knew /an/ Erik." His mouth twitches; it is a social smile that does not reach his eyes: deliberately so, for the master deceiver. << Not both. They have the advantage of me, I think. >>
Emma lowers her lashes. << My cause? I have no cause, Dr. Xavier, >> she refutes, tucking her memories of the results of the dual Eriks into a discreet pocket of her mind.
Dr. Xavier looks amused; the lucid pool of his mind reflects Emma and shares nothing. << Emma Frost is her own cause? How very inspiring. >> Aloud, he says with pedantic civility, "Do be sure to pass on my greetings to Erik. You should ask him about Taoism. It is not entirely in his worldview, but he is a well-educated man." The lack of emphasis is pronounced.
Emma sits back, lacing her fingers in her lap. << Don't sound so surprised, darling. You don't /honestly/ persist in believing everyone to be altruistic and noble, do you? >> She looks down at her hands and lifts one to inspect her nails. "I will inform him you believe his education to be lacking."
The Professor continues to look amused. It is, some would say, his default setting. << I do not expect anything of the sort from you, Emma, >> he says mildly. << In all honesty, I do not expect anything from you at all. >> Aloud, he simply chuckles, settling his shoulders and spine in his chair, and regards her with the pointed patience of a man who has a book. One about stuffed animals, admittedly, but nonetheless. Book.
Emma simmers into banked irritation mixed with a measured degree of amusement and rises. Half-formed retorts bubble to the top and coagulate briefly before being pulled back down. In the end, she simply nods, and moves for the door.
Behind her, the cultured, beautiful baritone rises in a cordial farewell. "A pleasure as always, Emma," says Charles Xavier. And he opens the book at random.
"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"
"What's for breakfast? said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?""
"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting /today/?" said Piglet.
Pooh nodded thoughtfully.
"It's the same thing," he said.
[Log ends]
Xavier and Emma have a nice cosy little time together. There is talk of Lolita. In no way whatsoever does that reflect on the type of relationship they have. Except for the way that it does. But not THAT way.
It is innocuous, as paper packages go, but the name on the attached card is one on a List, so it goes straight to her by the most direct route. Inside is a children's book: The House at Pooh Corner, by A.A. Milne, with the original illustrations by E.H. Shephard. As a copy, it is one that has obviously been well-used; the red bound cover is frayed and battered. At some point in its history, someone has scribbled on the back with blue crayon. The pictures are faded, but still distinguishable. Owl, Piglet, Pooh, Eeyore, Rabbit, Roo, and Kanga are printed in yellow ink on the faded background.
The contents page reads:
- In Which A House Is Built At Pooh Corner For Eeyore
- In Which Tigger Comes to the Forest and Has Breakfast
- In Which A Search is Organdized, and Piglet Nearly Meets the Heffalump Again
- In Which It Is Shown That Tiggers Don't Climb Trees
- In Which Rabbit Has a Busy Day, and We Learn What Christopher Robin Does in the Mornings
- In Which Pooh Invents a New Game and Eeyore Joins In
- In Which Tigger Is Unbounced
- In Which Piglet Does a Very Grand Thing
- In Which Eeyore Finds the Wolery and Owl Moves Into It
- In Which Christopher Robin and Pooh Come to an Enchanted Place, and We Leave Them There
Inside the front cover, a child's painstaking hand has written, "MiN E cHAR LEs xAviER AGE 4"
The '4' is underlined several times. This was a young man very proud of his years, though he has yet to fully master his E's. They are backwards.
E's are hard.
The enclosed card is simple stock, heavy white and rectangle. The lettering on it is in ink, slanted and elegant in an old-fashioned hand.
"For my dear Emma,
Because heft is not always the same thing as worth, and every child deserves a house at Pooh Corner, no matter her age.
Yrs, Charles Xavier."
---
=NYC= Library - Hellfire Clubhouse
The leaded-glass eyes of tall windows are nearly lost amid the taller bookcases that line all four walls of this secluded room. Heavy leather armchairs, dark burgundy and black, take advantage of the windows' light and view onto the grounds; delicate oaken end tables and antique brass lamps keep them company. Books are the focus here, however: modern volumes and folios older than the lamps, a collection spanning centuries and a rainbow of tastes, as befits the club's patrons.
Emma
Blonde and platinum tumble in a deceptively-careless, shoulder-length do, hair left free to be tossed over a shoulder or have fingers run through it--In other people's imaginations, of course. Thinly sculpted brows arch over oft-narrowed and ice-blue eyes that glint out from the ring of thick lashes, permanently darkened, shadowing their edges. The perfect nose, small and finely-shaped, slopes down to angle pertly over full lips that alternately flashes smiles brilliant, demure, sultry, prim... all as the situation demands.
If her face is chiseled sculpture, her body is molded art. Nature's charms are augmented with all that discipline and money can buy. Defined and toned muscle slide underneath curve of leg, hip, and breast, supreme, and not unjustified, confidence moving her body in carefully controlled liquid motions.
Crisp linen pants fall in wide legged lines, the upturned hem dusting the tops of wide-heeled and narrow-toed boots, and the waist band settling low on her hips. Silk, woven into a modern marvel of engineering, smoothes, without wrinkle, upwards, fashioned into the simple arrangement of a spaghetti-strapped camisole. A calf-length duster lies nearby, no doubt, ready to complete the picture of elegant indulgence to comfort. The colors? White, of course.
Charles Xavier is in the Clubhouse. That name has a note associated with it to notify the King, Queen, or any of a short list of names should he make an appearance. But to make an appearance with the apparently valid claim that he is a member in full standing is just too much. I mean, /really/. Emma sails toward his last known location, the library, under a full head of steam (a tightly shielded head). The library doors typically remain open, and thus she enters with no warning given the usual five senses.
There is a difference between the library at this hour and, say, a morgue. There are more books in the former. The dead bodies are prone in the latter. Barring that, the resemblances become more acute than the differences. The hush of the room is one conferred not so much by the virtue of silence, as by the post-prandial stupor that has overcome the more elderly -- some would say /dignified/ -- members who have taken refuge here.
Members in full, like (or rather, /unlike/, occupied as he is with removing books from one of the shelves) Charles Xavier. Elegant in grey, poised like a listing mast on his crutches, he directs one of the hapless servants in the retrieval of a book. "Higher," he says patiently. "The one with the blue spine. A little more to the left, young man. A little more."
The young man retrieves the book, but finds his hand over is intercepted by a another's hand. One slim and white and with demurely manicured nails. Emma glances at the cover and dismisses the servant with a movement of her head and a barely concealed mental command. She turns back to Xavier and lifts a brow as she holds the book out to him. "Interesting choice. I've not read 'Lolita' myself, but I understand it to be a favorite among some of our members."
"A classic, though misunderstood by the uneducated," the Professor says mildly, accepting the slim volume with a crutch-cuffed hand. "Most people remember the controversial subject and assume that it is pornographic, when in fact Nabokov was really a brilliant ironist. As it happens however, the school library already has several copies of the book. It is assigned reading for 11th graders. A little /more/ to the left is the Tao of Pooh." The servant dismissed, Emma is plainly expected to serve as dogsbody. Charles blinks solemnly at the White Queen. "If you wouldn't mind," he adds politely.
"A brilliant ironist. Really." Emma is unconvinced, and her expression says as much. She holds the book out for a fraction of a second longer, then turns and reaches up to return the book to its vacated space on the shelf. Her fingers walk over a few more spaces and she stretches, her arm and body making a clean, pleasing line of white curves and planes, to pull the indicated tome from its position. She settles back onto her heels and turns again, Pooh's wisdom laying across the flat of her hand. She says nothing, but curiosity lightening-skips across her shields.
"A commentary on American culture, in fact." Charles draws spectacles out of his breast pocket, unfolds them between careful fingers, and settles them on that well-defined nose. They are an old-world, fragile affair of gold wire and glass; he peers through them at the cover, the hazel eyes grave, then over them at Emma. "The main character rewrites the character of the young woman he is obsessed with, negating her real self and personality by imposing on her person the ideal that he has concocted in his mind. --Yes, this is the one I want. Thank you."
Forced blandness creeps into Emma's face. "I'm so glad that our shelves could meet your needs. Though perhaps I might suggest a bookstore for next time? The Clubhouse premises are restricted to members only, I'm afraid."
"Ah," Charles murmurs, claiming the book with a hand to thumb open the front cover, then several pages more. "I will be certain to pass the news on to non-members, then. Let me think. There's a charming little passage with Piglet that I'm certain you would enjoy--" Where is it? Tsk. Oh, yes. Courtesy. He glances up, face kindly. "I hope you are well?"
"Ah," Emma echoes, falling back a mental step though she refuses to give ground physically. "As always, darling. And yourself?"
Charles says benevolently, "Quite well, thank you. --Aha! Here it is. "'Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind--' no, that isn't the one I was thinking of." He clucks quietly to himself, closing the book around a long finger, and smiles at Emma. "You're looking well, my dear, which I'm told is the important thing. Would you care to sit with me for a while? Or are you off on one of your Very Important Tasks, a la Rabbit?"
"Each of our guests is a Very Important Task," Emma simps in reply, closing in to slide past him enroute to a pair of chairs in a nearby corner. A simple round table stands between them. "I am pleased to hear you are well. I understood you to be quite out of temper."
An eyebrow rises in question. Charles makes his awkward way after Emma, the book obstructing his grip on the crutch. He makes do, if without grace; the eventual seat he takes is a complicated thing, attained by degrees and not without pain. "I am never out of temper," he says with solemn equanimity. "At my age, one learns that there are better uses for one's energy. I am, if you will excuse me for saying so, Pooh-like."
"Oh?" Emma sits with much more ease, landing on her hip and crossing one knee over the other. She tugs the hem of her skirt down over her knee demurely, as if hiding a national treasure between her knees, and leans an elbow on the nearest chair arm. "I must have misunderstood. Erik was certainly irritable after your last visit." She gives him a Mona Lisa smile and lifts her hand to curl under her chin.
Charles positions the crutches beside his chair, allowing them to lean against the padded arm. "He has very Eeyore characteristics," he says regretfully. "Always looking on the dark side of things -- understandable, of course. I am unable to blame him for it. It must be very disconcerting to realize from time to time that one is surrounded by thistles. Not to mention the entire issue with a removable tail. A donkey's very identity is wrapped up in his tail."
Emma's brows lift and she blinks twice before responding that, "Eeyore? I'm afraid my familiarity with children's stories is rather limited. Father didn't believe in catering to lowered expectations, even for five year olds." Curiosity flashes him before darting back behind shielded thoughts and she leans forward. Cleavage pushes, as expected, against the neckline of her jacket. "Just what /did/ you say to upset him so?"
Xavier is an open book. A book of Tao. Whereas Eeyore might have taken a gander at the Twin Hills of Venus, Pooh remains mildly distracted by other things. Generational shortcomings, for instance. "Another classic that has managed to slip you by," he says regretfully. "I cannot think what the education system has come to. --As it happens, I spoke to him about Ellen Dramstadt." The deep-set hazel eyes are as limpid as sunshine. "A sensitive subject."
Emma dismisses the criticism of her education with a lift of her head and a flip of her hand. "The private school I attended focused on subject with more... literary heft. I understand it was one of your proteges who apprehended her."
"'One' is inaccurate," Xavier says, crossing his legs comfortably in the high-backed chair. Whatever his status at the Hellfire Club, he has arrogance's ability to claim its surroundings as a matter of inevitability: a hand in a glove made for him. "'Two' would also be understating the case. However, in general you are correct. My proteges did apprehend her. Do you have an interest in Ms. Dramstadt?"
"I have an interest in Erik. More specifically, what prompts him to do costly electrical damage to my home." He may lay claim, but it is a temporary thing, soon evaporated under scrutiny.
"Inconvenient, isn't he?" Xavier says sympathetically. "I hope it wasn't anything important." He peers at Emma over his spectacles.
"Nothing of consequence, but yes. Inconvenient." She smiles blandly back at him.
Xavier says kindly, "Well, I'm sure he was sorry afterwards. And it's all in a good cause, after all." Isn't it? He folds both hands over the cover of his book and looks solemn.
<< Is it? >> Emma straightens, pulling her weight off her elbow to free her hands. She rubs them together, trying to warm them. "You know Erik better than that," she says with a mirthless laugh.
<< It is your cause, >> Xavier says in mellow silence. << Perhaps you should tell /me/. >> He gestures with one of those hands, deprecating. "I knew /an/ Erik." His mouth twitches; it is a social smile that does not reach his eyes: deliberately so, for the master deceiver. << Not both. They have the advantage of me, I think. >>
Emma lowers her lashes. << My cause? I have no cause, Dr. Xavier, >> she refutes, tucking her memories of the results of the dual Eriks into a discreet pocket of her mind.
Dr. Xavier looks amused; the lucid pool of his mind reflects Emma and shares nothing. << Emma Frost is her own cause? How very inspiring. >> Aloud, he says with pedantic civility, "Do be sure to pass on my greetings to Erik. You should ask him about Taoism. It is not entirely in his worldview, but he is a well-educated man." The lack of emphasis is pronounced.
Emma sits back, lacing her fingers in her lap. << Don't sound so surprised, darling. You don't /honestly/ persist in believing everyone to be altruistic and noble, do you? >> She looks down at her hands and lifts one to inspect her nails. "I will inform him you believe his education to be lacking."
The Professor continues to look amused. It is, some would say, his default setting. << I do not expect anything of the sort from you, Emma, >> he says mildly. << In all honesty, I do not expect anything from you at all. >> Aloud, he simply chuckles, settling his shoulders and spine in his chair, and regards her with the pointed patience of a man who has a book. One about stuffed animals, admittedly, but nonetheless. Book.
Emma simmers into banked irritation mixed with a measured degree of amusement and rises. Half-formed retorts bubble to the top and coagulate briefly before being pulled back down. In the end, she simply nods, and moves for the door.
Behind her, the cultured, beautiful baritone rises in a cordial farewell. "A pleasure as always, Emma," says Charles Xavier. And he opens the book at random.
"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"
"What's for breakfast? said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?""
"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting /today/?" said Piglet.
Pooh nodded thoughtfully.
"It's the same thing," he said.
[Log ends]
Xavier and Emma have a nice cosy little time together. There is talk of Lolita. In no way whatsoever does that reflect on the type of relationship they have. Except for the way that it does. But not THAT way.