ataraxionlogs | oo2. partially open.

Entry tags:

oo2. partially open.

CHARACTERS: Charles Xavier + Natasi (Caprica Six) + Peter Parker; and others as they happen.
LOCATION: To be added.
WARNINGS: To be added also.
SUMMARY: Only one of these people is getting anything done, turns out.
NOTES: Monthly catch all! This is only partially open because I'm not providing a fixed narrative thing to reply to. Hence, please let me know if you'd like to do anything, and I'll be happy to set up a thread (unless you feel ambitious).

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[ Her scrutiny is met placidly, unconsciously attempting not to give too much away. There is a lot he hasn't settled on for himself, a lot that makes him uneasy about what to say and what not to say with regard to Erik Lehnsherr, and what it means to have him here.

Emma is on the shortlist of people who might need that extra caution, anyway. He'll leave it at that, for himself.

When she moves on, he breaks gaze away, down at his meal which he has only half-finished. Left overs. ]

Mission accomplished, then. I've a few tricks, if we're to do this again.

I hope we do.

[ It's only after the words come out that her heart hits a double-beat in her chest, realizing what it sounds like. Her lips part, ready to qualify that with something, and then she decides not to. Slowly, she looks back down at her food, then grabs her glass and drinks from it. Yeah. Leaving that alone. ]

[ It's a fine enough sentiment, Charles would have thought. Maybe he isn't the best litmus test, being one of those people who do not draw very many lines of graduating intimacy, shit happens, like kissing or handjobs or intimate dinner dates, and so

really her reaction, inward and outward, underscores it for him. She leaves it alone. He thinks about letting her. ]

It isn't much, I know. I'd normally offer to take you to the pictures, and I have this slight feeling that if I proposed a jaunt to a disco, I'd sound incredibly outdated.

[ Of course he doesn't actually let her leave it. At least with that phrasing, she can just laugh it off—and she does. A real, honest laugh. The first in longer than she'd care to admit. Nodding, she affirms that belief. ]

Well, if it makes you feel better, I've never been big on dancing anyway. [ Or perhaps that's lack of experience. (It's definitely lack of experience, or perhaps even the right partner, but she can't know that. Yet.) ] And we call them movies.

[ All of which, of course, deliberately evades actually acknowledging what they've both identified this as. Her tongue darts out to press between her lips, and she offers herself a beat. Beneath every wall she's put up, she does feel something for him. Care for him. Wonder, at times, what this could be in a different context. But the context is what it is, and there's something else. Someone else. Beyond her usual level of deflection lies the Hook Problem.

Pushed securely to the back of her mind, he's indubitably still present there. And some small part of her wonders if Charles is merely her solution—or, more accurately, her avoidance. Run from what she feels for Hook by indulging the very real, but safer feelings for someone more …

normal? He's a telepath. Yet less threatening, all the same. So as much as she wants to tell him not to get the wrong impression, to cower behind some emotional cover, she doesn't. ]

This is more up my alley, either way.

Good.

[ As a telepath, there is only so much you can do with the information under the surface. He had to learn that what someone chooses to say in spite of it, how someone chooses to present outwardly, are all as equally important, not to mention holding their own quality of truth, as the thoughts that run beneath the current, contradictory or not.

Charles isn't responsible for Emma, what she chooses to avoid, what solutions she opts to try. Conveniently, that means he gets to go out to dinner with her sometimes.

And he'd made her laugh, which mirrors from him a thin half-smile, crows feet shadowed deeper at the corners of his eyes. Maybe they should talk about Hook. Maybe they should talk about Erik, in the context of Problems, instead of just problems. Maybe Charles should just airlock himself now before he ever feels the compulsion to do so.

He opts to break the moment by reaching to take her plate, and pick up his less empty one. Clean up. The wine glasses can stay, still half-charged as they are. There is no dessert coming, but wine and increasingly slurry chatting can count. ]

[ When his back turns, she glances away from him, distant and thoughtful. As if now that he's looking away, she can be more honest with herself, in her own mind. As if telepathy doesn't project backwards or something. While she can't quite put her finger on why, she feels some sense of guilt.

Lifting one hand, she brushes her thumb over her bottom lip, then steadies her hand under her chin, fingers pressed over her cheek. After another moment of chewing it over, she grabs her wine glass. Because alcohol helps mental processing so much. ]

How's Raven doing?

Haven't the faintest.

[ The clatter of Emma's empty plate being shoved into receptacle for cleaning makes for good punctuation, although Charles doesn't sound particularly angry about anything. He moves, then, to stow his half eaten dinner in the refrigerator, a habit of conservation that speaks more to student days than filthy rich toff ones, and the fact he isn't especially wild about having to sort out meals for himself every time.

There's a glance back at her, an almost-smile meant to be assurance. It's fine. ]

All healthy, that much I know. We ran into each other at the lockers, on the day of the jump, but I've not seen her since.

I thought you two were close.

[ She doesn't buy into his 'fine.' Not one bit. With Charles, it never seems to be that simple, and Emma doesn't make a habit of letting that stuff pass without comment. All the same, she looks casual and unaffected as she needles him. ]

Is this because of the Erik thing?

[ Mystique certainly seemed to have Opinions on the subject when Emma had spoken with her. ]

[ It's not as though Charles can complain, Emma's tendency to pick and needle at things that don't add up. He's the one that invited her in specific to dinner. Dirty dishes put away, Charles ranges back to sit down, picking up his glass, a twitch of eyebrows up at mention of Erik as he goes to take a sip. ]

We were. Now--

[ He tips wine glass, sets it down, emptied down to a penny-sized circle of wine at the bottom. ]

It's been a very long time, and she's different too. She's bought a lot of Erik's nonsense.

A lot, but not all.

[ An observation on Charles' phrasing: she can't speak to Raven's actual mental state. Emma finishes off her glass and stands to grab it, and Charles', for clean-up. She can pull her weight. ]

Sounds like a reason to build bridges, not burn them.

[ Charles surrenders glass, dragging the wine bottle closer to cap it. ]

Bridges are one of those things that take more than one person to achieve, unfortunately. I'll try, [ is added, so as not to imply otherwise. ] But I have a sense they both consider me put to pasture, and they're very important participants in the fate of mutantkind, and so on.

[ That sounded glib. Because it was, a bit. He feels moved to add, in the interests of self-awareness; ]

I don't wholly blame them.

I do.

[ She takes a break from rinsing the glasses, setting them lightly in the sink and turning to him. Her lips lean back against the countertop, and she rests her hands on either side of her body, holding to the edge. ]

Maybe it's easy for me to say when I grew up with—with … [ She wants to say normal people. And he'll know that's what first came to mind. Sighing, she seems to acknowledge that, and amend (even if it's the first phrasing to pass her lips); ] People without powers. But they're not the enemy just because they don't get it.

And I know I don't get it, either, at least not for you guys specifically. But historically speaking, the extremist opinion is never the right one.

Well observed.

[ He agrees. It's an easy agreement. There was a gentle almost-smile at her slip, not a mutant with the sort of backstory that warrants much hackling where his friends are concerned. Charles steps by to store opened wine in the fridge. ]

I do know that in the near future, apparently I'm going to stop him doing something terrible -- but so is Raven, so perhaps you're not wrong about bridges.

[ That is actually a rosy tinted version of the truth, but Charles only has fleeting impressions to go on, and choosing optimism for the sake of this particular conversation seems more helpful. You know, even if it's the kind of optimism that is sprung from stopping your once best friend from provoking war, and all that. ]

Reassure me that you have just as much of this sort of carry over dramatic shite to deal with as I do, please. At least my mother probably won't ever arrive, touch wood.

[ Emma's ready with a throaty laugh. At this point, what else she can do with her life but laugh at it? The whole thing is ridiculous, start to finish. ]

Oh, you haven't heard the best part.

[ Reaching into her pocket, she grabs the communicator from it. She takes a moment to flip through a series of photos, and then holds it out for Charles to consider. In what is indisputably a selfie (don't judge), Emma and Mary Margaret are grinning alongside each other.

The resemblance in the face is rather uncanny, even if the coloring is off. ]

That's her.

[ The exact same age as her daughter. The long hair doesn't seem particularly 'Snow White,' either, but that's less staggering, perhaps. ]

[ Charles brightens a little as Emma goes to show off pictures, because of course he does. The photo is regarded with a crooked smile, all the way genuine. ]

You know, she almost looks as I'd expect, your personal age disparity aside. I've only dim recollections of the film, mind.

[ It's nice that some things had the decency to exist prior to 1973. His posture straightens from the subtle lean to study. ]

That must be incredibly strange. Is she very, you know. Very parental?

She tries.

[ A heavy sigh follows the admission. ]

I don't— I mean, it's complicated. I never had parents growing up. Finding a place for them when I'm turning thirty is … [ Her head tilts. Her eyes widen, and she puffs out another breath, shaking her head finally and moving to sit across from him again. ] I don't even know where to start.

When I met her, she was Mary Margaret. [ She gives the picture a steady look, then pockets the comms device. ] School teacher. Kinda mousy.

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