6/4/08 - Jameson
---
The appetizers are superb, for their type: expensive in appearance and taste without being so in their ingredients. Though the diners are of a caliber to tell the difference, there is nothing in their polished manners (mostly) or their elegant wit (somewhat) to indicate disapproval; politics makes strange bedfellows and the media is out in full force in The Lighthouse of Chelsea Piers, their slightly cheaper black ties mixing freely with the more authentic specimens worn by supporters and staffers of the current star.
Dull, golden light casts a flattering glow over the women in their evening gowns. It reflects more candidly off the polished head of Charles Xavier, dapper and prudently dignified in his lightweight wheelchair. A glass of something tawny rests in a hand, a prop to toy with while conversation lifts his baritone in polite chit-chat. Don Quixote? He was thinking of attending the performance. How was it?
Jameson mingles a little more adeptly than some of the lesser representations of the local media. His black tie is expensive, and so is the rest of his tux. Unfortunately, there is little money can do for the man's head. The buzzed flat-top and moustache are hopelessly out of place in a world of slick gel and styled curls, but he's having no trouble finding conversation for that. Like Xavier, he's managed to get a grab in at a passing tray of booze, and like Xavier, he's talking about Don Quixote. Sort of. "Donkey-who? That's his name? Seriously?" His voice is overloud, nearly to the point of obnoxiousness, and he keeps casting less-than covert glances back at the Professor's bald head.
The Professor's bald head is worth a second glance. He has neither gelled nor curled, but there is a stylishness to the shape of his skull nonetheless, one that suits the quality implicit in the lines of his suit and shirt. "Don Quixote," says a man on the periphery of both their conversations, amused by one and bored by the other. "You know. The Man from La Mancha."
"A ballet performance in this case," says Xavier's rich voice, the plush British accents lapping gently at similar amusement. His head turns; deep-set hazel eyes regard Jameson, eyebrows twitching upward in a fleeting mark of recognition. It does not noticeably alter his affect, whatever thoughts may move behind it. "I'm afraid ballet is not something I attend all that often."
"Oh, yeah. La Mancha." Clearly not a man of the theater, Jameson also clearly has no idea what the kind gentleman who corrected him is talking about. He gives him a suspicious look, not quite sure if he's being mocked, and decides that he doesn't care. A lull in the conversation is used to take a long drink, and Xavier's recognition is met with a look too direct to mean anything at all positive. "Must be hard to do ballet in a wheelchair."
It is a direct enough assault, and a twinkle dawns in Xavier's eyes, visible enough to suggest mockery to a certain kind of mind. "They do amazing things with wires and Japanese robots these days," he says amiably, as the rest of his little creche begins to discuss classical music, high-brow snobbery meant to exclude -- a certain kind of mind. His glass lifts; he offers JJ his other hand, courteous in greeting. "Mr. Jameson, I believe it is? Your reputation precedes you."
"I wouldn't know," says Jameson. His voice is that of a chain smoker, and his eyes are sharp, measuring Xavier more like one wolf to another than media man to random rich guy, for all his earlier ignorance. "But yeah. I'm Jameson. You can call me Jonah. Some guy was in my office earlier telling me how one of your psychics made him fly around naked. Have you tried the quiche?"
Dr. Xavier blinks, eyebrows rising again. "Fly around naked?" he echoes, curiosity mingling with a soupcon of surprise. Telepathy, surfing high and wide across the shoals of the party's minds, dips into a slightly more targeted investigation of the one before him. Light, still, it brushes gently across the sharp edges of personality and thought, tracing the initial pathways of surface thought. "What a bizarre idea. Of course, telepaths do tend to have the most unusual things attributed to them. Wishful thinking, I imagine."
At the surface, Jameson is thinking about the quiche. Mostly, how it wasn't very good. Sort of cheap, considering how much the suit cost. He'd wanted to rent one a few years ago and his wife wouldn't let him. By now it had probably paid itself off. Maybe if he found the receipt he could do the math and find out.
Just a shade below that, under a rough overhang that is a line of thought along the lines of how much he'd really like a cigar right now, Jameson -- Jonah -- is busily thinking of things to say that might piss Dr. Xavier off enough to say something unbecoming. He sips his drink again, and furrows his brow deeper than it was already furrowed. "I got his phone number. It was pretty detailed, for a fantasy. Apparently she made him think he was a cat. Wanted to neuter him. Sound like anyone you know?"
"Ah," says Xavier, and amusement deepens on the old face, not unmixed with an appropriate exasperation. "That would be -- let me think. I'm afraid I cannot recall his name at the moment. A young man who snuck into the girls' dorms in an attempt to spy on underage females. Two of our teachers caught him, at which point he assured one of them that he would much rather see her naked instead. He was turned over to the police, though in light of his age and the fact that he had not actually managed to do any harm, we did not press charges." The Professor's mouth curves into a faint smile. "If he is attempting to sell his story, one must admire his ... enterprise."
"Began with an A." Amadeus. Jonah knows exactly what the kid's name was, and looks a little flatly at Xavier, as if he doesn't think he's the only one. "Polite, for a raving lunatic." The last of his drink is drained, and in the same motion, he drops the empty glass on a passing tray of cheese and crackers, ignoring the dirty look he gets for his effort. "So, you're saying that the story's true. He mentioned a wolf girl, too. And a purple one. I think they were different people, anyway."
Xavier's eyebrow rises. "In fact, the story -- as you have described it to me -- is not true," he says mildly, while telepathy dips under the coverlet of Jameson's nicotine longing just long enough to bump the thoughts associated with the name. There is a bare moment of hesitation, veiled in the flicker of a frown that pushes the jaw under the sagging jowls. "For actual fact, if that is something that interests you, I would suggest you go to the police report," he adds kindly. "Credibility from a man with pedophilic voyeuristic tendencies might not be strong basis for an article."
"I've already read the report." JJ speaks with confidence, not looking away. He really did read it. He's even smirking a little. "I'm asking you. There's no such thing as telling the truth by omission, Doc. How'd some random pedo from New York manage to sneak unnoticed into the girl's dorms on the second floor of a mansion full of children whose parents trust you to protect them?"
The other eyebrow rises. "'Truth' is such a relative term, Mr. Jameson, as the press well knows. 'Fact' tends to be far less subjective, though inconvenient from time to time, I am told. If you read it," Dr. Xavier says, quizzical, "I can hardly imagine that you need to ask. The details should be in your hands already. /Do/ you eat quiche?"
"I do when it's free." Jameson has no dignity to blemish, and looks sidelong after a passing tray of the stuff with a considering eye. "Not that I recommend it. All of the food so far is crap. You'd think with all the tax money these people rake in they could afford actual hors d'oeuvre. I've seen homeless guys eating more expensive crackers out of their shopping carts." Despite the ease with which he speaks, annoyance has tightened into the lines around Jameson's mouth, and his eyes narrow. Just slightly. "If you have telepaths wandering around, why'd none of them notice that the cat was trying to play grabass with your students?"
Says Xavier, dryly, "In a normal situation, ethics would preclude exploring a stranger's mind. Telepaths -- those trained at my school, at any rate -- are taught not to invade the privacy of other humans without invitation. However, if you've read the police report, you might also understand why the occasion did not arise," he adds, inclining his head to the waiter with the passing tray, whose well-trained eye has caught Jameson's interest, sidelong or no. The silver tray dips invitingly towards both men, angled lower for the philanthropist's reach. He selects one, places it on the offered napkin, and settles it on his lap with a murmured word of thanks.
"What if he'd been a rapist or a murderer instead of a voyuer?" Jameson forces a smile at the waiter, and does not take anything for himself. He's only been here half an hour, and he's full. "You get your thumb too far up your ass with ethics and privacy and people could get hurt. Kids. Animals. Kids who turn into animals. Hey. Bring me another drink, would you?" The waiter is lingering in an eavesdroppy fashion, and Jameson flashes him another winning grin when he leaves to trudge for the bar.
"Hypotheticals," Xavier says with grave reproach, "are neither fact nor truth, Mr. Jameson. Surely your experience knows better than that. However, if that is how you feel, I will be interested in reading your editorials on the benefits of inviting telepaths to join the police force. For the public good." Smile lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes, an expression that tucks itself into the curl of his mouth with the semblance of sincerity. "You pose an interesting question, after all. What /if/ the person walking down the street is a rapist or murderer?"
"I said don't shove your thumb up your ass. I didn't say to yank it out and use it to finger paint on the Bill of Rights." A drink is pushed into Jonah's hand by that same waiter, spitless only because this is high society, and the newspaper man takes a step back. "You smile too much."
Dr. Xavier says meekly, "My apologies. It goes with the wheelchair." And he does not smile, though the twinkle in his eyes returns. "It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Jameson. Er, Jonah. I admit I am not a regular reader of your publication, but I will make a point of reviewing it in the future, now that I have met the man behind the content."
Jameson changes glass hands from right to left, where it clanks against his wedding ring despite a certain lack of company. He doesn't quite /lean/ to offer the right, but it is offered, anyway, in the same brusque business manner that he seems to be incapable of shaking. He doesn't notice the joke -- his mind is already racing after what tomorrow's headlines are going to look, now that the whole school thing hasn't panned out. "Yeah, sure. Let's get our picture taken together sometime. I can put it on my wall."
"What an interesting notion," Dr. Xavier murmurs, blinking with the barest of ruffling in the smooth voice, the crack of an imminent chuckle reined in by strict discipline. His grip is dry, firm without being challenging, the skin of the long, lean hand unmarked by calluses beyond that of the pen. Telepathy whispers in more staid pursuit after Jameson's mind, notes the direction of its path, and drifts back up towards the party's surface pool in satisfaction. "A position of honor. Enjoy the dinner and the speeches. I'm told there will be lamb."
Jameson's grip is firm, and his one hand rough. Not as rough as he might like to think these days, but none of that sissy pen-is-mightier bullshit. "What better to seal the deal on a democratic dinner than dead baby animals. Have fun, Doc. Don't drink too much and speed out to the parking lot or anything." A paragon of moral sensitivity encased in a mind that blazes up down and around new ideas at uncomfortable speed, JJ turns and immediately begins to seek out someone else he might be able to aggravate.
[log ends]
Xavier and Jameson encounter each other at a political fundraiser. They immediately become BFF and run away to Maui together.
The appetizers are superb, for their type: expensive in appearance and taste without being so in their ingredients. Though the diners are of a caliber to tell the difference, there is nothing in their polished manners (mostly) or their elegant wit (somewhat) to indicate disapproval; politics makes strange bedfellows and the media is out in full force in The Lighthouse of Chelsea Piers, their slightly cheaper black ties mixing freely with the more authentic specimens worn by supporters and staffers of the current star.
Dull, golden light casts a flattering glow over the women in their evening gowns. It reflects more candidly off the polished head of Charles Xavier, dapper and prudently dignified in his lightweight wheelchair. A glass of something tawny rests in a hand, a prop to toy with while conversation lifts his baritone in polite chit-chat. Don Quixote? He was thinking of attending the performance. How was it?
Jameson mingles a little more adeptly than some of the lesser representations of the local media. His black tie is expensive, and so is the rest of his tux. Unfortunately, there is little money can do for the man's head. The buzzed flat-top and moustache are hopelessly out of place in a world of slick gel and styled curls, but he's having no trouble finding conversation for that. Like Xavier, he's managed to get a grab in at a passing tray of booze, and like Xavier, he's talking about Don Quixote. Sort of. "Donkey-who? That's his name? Seriously?" His voice is overloud, nearly to the point of obnoxiousness, and he keeps casting less-than covert glances back at the Professor's bald head.
The Professor's bald head is worth a second glance. He has neither gelled nor curled, but there is a stylishness to the shape of his skull nonetheless, one that suits the quality implicit in the lines of his suit and shirt. "Don Quixote," says a man on the periphery of both their conversations, amused by one and bored by the other. "You know. The Man from La Mancha."
"A ballet performance in this case," says Xavier's rich voice, the plush British accents lapping gently at similar amusement. His head turns; deep-set hazel eyes regard Jameson, eyebrows twitching upward in a fleeting mark of recognition. It does not noticeably alter his affect, whatever thoughts may move behind it. "I'm afraid ballet is not something I attend all that often."
"Oh, yeah. La Mancha." Clearly not a man of the theater, Jameson also clearly has no idea what the kind gentleman who corrected him is talking about. He gives him a suspicious look, not quite sure if he's being mocked, and decides that he doesn't care. A lull in the conversation is used to take a long drink, and Xavier's recognition is met with a look too direct to mean anything at all positive. "Must be hard to do ballet in a wheelchair."
It is a direct enough assault, and a twinkle dawns in Xavier's eyes, visible enough to suggest mockery to a certain kind of mind. "They do amazing things with wires and Japanese robots these days," he says amiably, as the rest of his little creche begins to discuss classical music, high-brow snobbery meant to exclude -- a certain kind of mind. His glass lifts; he offers JJ his other hand, courteous in greeting. "Mr. Jameson, I believe it is? Your reputation precedes you."
"I wouldn't know," says Jameson. His voice is that of a chain smoker, and his eyes are sharp, measuring Xavier more like one wolf to another than media man to random rich guy, for all his earlier ignorance. "But yeah. I'm Jameson. You can call me Jonah. Some guy was in my office earlier telling me how one of your psychics made him fly around naked. Have you tried the quiche?"
Dr. Xavier blinks, eyebrows rising again. "Fly around naked?" he echoes, curiosity mingling with a soupcon of surprise. Telepathy, surfing high and wide across the shoals of the party's minds, dips into a slightly more targeted investigation of the one before him. Light, still, it brushes gently across the sharp edges of personality and thought, tracing the initial pathways of surface thought. "What a bizarre idea. Of course, telepaths do tend to have the most unusual things attributed to them. Wishful thinking, I imagine."
At the surface, Jameson is thinking about the quiche. Mostly, how it wasn't very good. Sort of cheap, considering how much the suit cost. He'd wanted to rent one a few years ago and his wife wouldn't let him. By now it had probably paid itself off. Maybe if he found the receipt he could do the math and find out.
Just a shade below that, under a rough overhang that is a line of thought along the lines of how much he'd really like a cigar right now, Jameson -- Jonah -- is busily thinking of things to say that might piss Dr. Xavier off enough to say something unbecoming. He sips his drink again, and furrows his brow deeper than it was already furrowed. "I got his phone number. It was pretty detailed, for a fantasy. Apparently she made him think he was a cat. Wanted to neuter him. Sound like anyone you know?"
"Ah," says Xavier, and amusement deepens on the old face, not unmixed with an appropriate exasperation. "That would be -- let me think. I'm afraid I cannot recall his name at the moment. A young man who snuck into the girls' dorms in an attempt to spy on underage females. Two of our teachers caught him, at which point he assured one of them that he would much rather see her naked instead. He was turned over to the police, though in light of his age and the fact that he had not actually managed to do any harm, we did not press charges." The Professor's mouth curves into a faint smile. "If he is attempting to sell his story, one must admire his ... enterprise."
"Began with an A." Amadeus. Jonah knows exactly what the kid's name was, and looks a little flatly at Xavier, as if he doesn't think he's the only one. "Polite, for a raving lunatic." The last of his drink is drained, and in the same motion, he drops the empty glass on a passing tray of cheese and crackers, ignoring the dirty look he gets for his effort. "So, you're saying that the story's true. He mentioned a wolf girl, too. And a purple one. I think they were different people, anyway."
Xavier's eyebrow rises. "In fact, the story -- as you have described it to me -- is not true," he says mildly, while telepathy dips under the coverlet of Jameson's nicotine longing just long enough to bump the thoughts associated with the name. There is a bare moment of hesitation, veiled in the flicker of a frown that pushes the jaw under the sagging jowls. "For actual fact, if that is something that interests you, I would suggest you go to the police report," he adds kindly. "Credibility from a man with pedophilic voyeuristic tendencies might not be strong basis for an article."
"I've already read the report." JJ speaks with confidence, not looking away. He really did read it. He's even smirking a little. "I'm asking you. There's no such thing as telling the truth by omission, Doc. How'd some random pedo from New York manage to sneak unnoticed into the girl's dorms on the second floor of a mansion full of children whose parents trust you to protect them?"
The other eyebrow rises. "'Truth' is such a relative term, Mr. Jameson, as the press well knows. 'Fact' tends to be far less subjective, though inconvenient from time to time, I am told. If you read it," Dr. Xavier says, quizzical, "I can hardly imagine that you need to ask. The details should be in your hands already. /Do/ you eat quiche?"
"I do when it's free." Jameson has no dignity to blemish, and looks sidelong after a passing tray of the stuff with a considering eye. "Not that I recommend it. All of the food so far is crap. You'd think with all the tax money these people rake in they could afford actual hors d'oeuvre. I've seen homeless guys eating more expensive crackers out of their shopping carts." Despite the ease with which he speaks, annoyance has tightened into the lines around Jameson's mouth, and his eyes narrow. Just slightly. "If you have telepaths wandering around, why'd none of them notice that the cat was trying to play grabass with your students?"
Says Xavier, dryly, "In a normal situation, ethics would preclude exploring a stranger's mind. Telepaths -- those trained at my school, at any rate -- are taught not to invade the privacy of other humans without invitation. However, if you've read the police report, you might also understand why the occasion did not arise," he adds, inclining his head to the waiter with the passing tray, whose well-trained eye has caught Jameson's interest, sidelong or no. The silver tray dips invitingly towards both men, angled lower for the philanthropist's reach. He selects one, places it on the offered napkin, and settles it on his lap with a murmured word of thanks.
"What if he'd been a rapist or a murderer instead of a voyuer?" Jameson forces a smile at the waiter, and does not take anything for himself. He's only been here half an hour, and he's full. "You get your thumb too far up your ass with ethics and privacy and people could get hurt. Kids. Animals. Kids who turn into animals. Hey. Bring me another drink, would you?" The waiter is lingering in an eavesdroppy fashion, and Jameson flashes him another winning grin when he leaves to trudge for the bar.
"Hypotheticals," Xavier says with grave reproach, "are neither fact nor truth, Mr. Jameson. Surely your experience knows better than that. However, if that is how you feel, I will be interested in reading your editorials on the benefits of inviting telepaths to join the police force. For the public good." Smile lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes, an expression that tucks itself into the curl of his mouth with the semblance of sincerity. "You pose an interesting question, after all. What /if/ the person walking down the street is a rapist or murderer?"
"I said don't shove your thumb up your ass. I didn't say to yank it out and use it to finger paint on the Bill of Rights." A drink is pushed into Jonah's hand by that same waiter, spitless only because this is high society, and the newspaper man takes a step back. "You smile too much."
Dr. Xavier says meekly, "My apologies. It goes with the wheelchair." And he does not smile, though the twinkle in his eyes returns. "It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Jameson. Er, Jonah. I admit I am not a regular reader of your publication, but I will make a point of reviewing it in the future, now that I have met the man behind the content."
Jameson changes glass hands from right to left, where it clanks against his wedding ring despite a certain lack of company. He doesn't quite /lean/ to offer the right, but it is offered, anyway, in the same brusque business manner that he seems to be incapable of shaking. He doesn't notice the joke -- his mind is already racing after what tomorrow's headlines are going to look, now that the whole school thing hasn't panned out. "Yeah, sure. Let's get our picture taken together sometime. I can put it on my wall."
"What an interesting notion," Dr. Xavier murmurs, blinking with the barest of ruffling in the smooth voice, the crack of an imminent chuckle reined in by strict discipline. His grip is dry, firm without being challenging, the skin of the long, lean hand unmarked by calluses beyond that of the pen. Telepathy whispers in more staid pursuit after Jameson's mind, notes the direction of its path, and drifts back up towards the party's surface pool in satisfaction. "A position of honor. Enjoy the dinner and the speeches. I'm told there will be lamb."
Jameson's grip is firm, and his one hand rough. Not as rough as he might like to think these days, but none of that sissy pen-is-mightier bullshit. "What better to seal the deal on a democratic dinner than dead baby animals. Have fun, Doc. Don't drink too much and speed out to the parking lot or anything." A paragon of moral sensitivity encased in a mind that blazes up down and around new ideas at uncomfortable speed, JJ turns and immediately begins to seek out someone else he might be able to aggravate.
[log ends]
Xavier and Jameson encounter each other at a political fundraiser. They immediately become BFF and run away to Maui together.