multiversallogs | [closed] weary and worn little monster is born

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[closed] weary and worn little monster is born

Who: Charles Xavier & Irene Adler.
What: Let's have dinner.
Where: The Witching Hour, East Gidd.
When: Misdi evening.
Notes: None yet.
Warnings: ...probably.

It had been several days since Erik had woken up, which meant that, finally, Charles had allowed himself to rest --at least to the best of his ability. The previous weeks still haunted him in terrible ways, but everyone was dealing with something, and so he tucked it away along with every other concern or feeling he didn't want to announce. Life goes on.

And he had promised a friend dinner. So he chose somewhere with good food, a great wine list and an indulgent but quiet atmosphere in order to toast shaky victories in a way that required as little effort as possible.

He's standing in the lounge area, which once was and still serves as a library room part-time, examining the spines of old books as he waits for Irene to arrive.

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Life goes on indeed. Everyone is dealing with something- and Irene is dealing with it by ignoring it, and carrying on. Perhaps she's carrying on while slightly more noticably clinging to company, avoiding being alone as much as possible and vaguely wondering- with no real conviction- whether taking up smoking again is a good idea, but she is carrying on nonetheless.

She's had some time to recover, though. Her nails are no longer bitten to the quick, though they are slightly shorter than usual; her bruises have mostly faded, and the stitches in her arm are nearly absorbed, though there's a visible mark where she was hurt. At the moment, her black fur coat (she checked to make sure it was actually mink before buying it, not liking her chances should she accidentally parade around in something formerly-xenian; the perils of life in Baedal) is hiding it, but the dress beneath it doesn't.

"Charles," she calls as greeting, to a backing track of her clicking heels as she walks closer. Her voice is warm; she's missed him. She isn't exactly worried, but she knows that he's been handling this by doing absurd amounts of work. In some strange way she rather feels it's her job to get him to slow down slightly; well, hasn't he already decided to trust in her to take the burden of the world off his shoulders in other ways? "And all in one piece, as well. What a treat. How have you been?"

At the sound of his name, he slides the spine he was looking at back in place and turns, already smiling. "As well as can be expected," he steps forward a few paces to meet her half-way, "and all the better for seeing you."

He's perhaps a little thinner, a little paler, but the dark circles under his eyes are receding and he's looking crisp in a grey three-piece-suit. Over her shoulder he makes eye contact with the waiting staff, clearly indicating that they're ready to be taken to their table as soon as Irene is ready, and as if on que, someone comes to relieve her of her coat.

"--dazzling as always." Although he notices --and picks up on in other ways-- small signs of recent distress, but deliberately chooses to inquire last, "And yourself?"

"Dazzling as always, you said it yourself," she tells him crisply. Well, he will notice, of course, that she wasn't exempt from the catastrophe of recent weeks, but is that really a reason to act that way? She's not trying to convince him, exactly- she just finds it easier to act untouchable.

She hands over her coat and then focuses all her attention on him; "Busy, though. People have been distinctly stressed out." She gives him a wicked smile, eyes glinting; "When things get difficult, people need fantasies- cue me."

Maybe she's being flippant about the crisis- but she has to be flippant about it, it's the way she deals with these things. Anyway, it's true. A number of her clients are distinctly influential, burdened with the job of rebuilding the city and her workings and her people; she's been taking them outside of her working hours at the Vault, taking the time and going to the trouble in order to prove herself...invaluable. Worth protecting. Necessary. And therefore shielded.

"Do I detect a subtle dig at my expense?" Purely rhetoric, of course, and his smile widens --he has a younger sister, after all, he was never allowed to take himself too seriously. In the meantime, he gestures ladies first through a particular entrance-way, where the staff will no doubt lead the way to a table in the Red Dining Room.

"Fantasies and indulgences seem to be common, yes. I'll take the latter right now; I've spent far too much time feeling untethered lately," and he pulls out a seat for her before taking his own. "And I can't tell you how I've been longing for some decent conversation."

"Only a very slight one," she tosses over her shoulder as she slips through to the dining room and takes the offered chair, smiling at him almost smugly in that way that she has which implies she knows absolutely everything- and has a plan for what to do with that information.

...which is quite often completely true.

"Well then, let's see how I can indulge you," she says lightly, plucking a menu from the table but not looking down at it, keeping her eyes trained on him. She taps her fingers on the cover for a moment, then-- "Did you ever read any Winterson?"

"I did," he says, taking his seat. "Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit and The PowerBook. They were...unusual --in a good way." The style and subject matter were very different from the contemporary fiction in his own world, but he expected that. It's probably one of the reasons why Irene recommended them.

"I liked them both for different reasons, but the second... Parts of it stuck with me." The strange, tumbling words that spoke about love and made a narrative look more like poetry.

"'Love cleaves through the mind's mathematics'," she quotes, her smile like she's telling an obscure joke she expects him to get. She reads- especially Winterson- for the moments when a phrase strikes a chord, fitting whole worlds of feeling into a few words.

The only selfish life is a timid one has stuck with her, too.

"They're bizarre books," she agrees. "It's why I like them so much."

"It's why they appeal to me. Bizarre, but it's the linear structure in most fiction that's really strange. Nothing has a clear beginning, middle and end. I like her stylistic tangle; it's much more accurate to what people are really like." Referring, of course, to their minds, thoughts and emotions.

He looks thoughtful for a moment, then recites, "The truth is that love smashes into your life like an ice floe, and even if your heart is built like the titanic you go down. That's the size of it, the immensity of it. It's not proper, it's not clean, it's not containable." It applies to life as much as it applies to love. Looking more clearly at Irene, he says, "That's much more truthful than the hero and heroine riding off into the sunset."

"I don't think many people know that," she muses, leaning back in her seat and touching the second knuckle of her index finger to her lower lip- thoughtful.

"Everyone wants a happy ending, don't they? No loose ends. And everyone thinks they're the hero. But real life's full of plot holes and dreadfully structured, to boot," she says with a grin.

Which makes things easy for her. Because lying, and acting, and pretending to be something, they all hinge on the fact that people are desperate to believe in something bigger and better than real life.

"Not that I'd bother trying to educate you on what people are like, though I do tend to get a particular side of them that other people don't," as she adjusts her perceptions of him and takes his abilities into account. She's fascinated by how Charles must see the world, honestly. It's a little like her interest in how Sherlock must see it.

Which reminds her- she's going to have to introduce them.

Of course; he needs Sherlock to complete the set.

"Plot holes, structure and hard work." The problem with Charles' particular happy ending was that he dreamed big --world peace, for heaven's sake, but with the tools to try and make it a reality-- and that was less of an ending and more of an ongoing process. And anything on a more personal note, well. It would be nice. He wasn't sure how, or what, and he would never quite get his hopes up. But every now and then he caught himself wondering.

"I, ah --tend to look the other way, in respects to that particular side." He does, however, shoot her a mischievous look as his hand wanders for a menu.

"Gentlemen," she says, joke-exasperatedly. "What am I going to do with you?" --something fun, no doubt.

"I just think people are more honest when they want something, no matter what that something is."

And she glances down to her menu, skipping past the cruorvore options without even a flicker of surprise by now- she's taken well to Baedal, all things considered.

"Oh, definitely. And it's interesting coming from my world, to this one, and looking at the differences in what people want." As you can imagine, early 1960's English and American society vs. Baedal is something of an eye opener.

"Not that there are huge variations." People will always be people, after all. "But if there's one thing to be said about this city, at least people are at liberty to be themselves. There are always difficulties, yes, but...it's good to see that it's possible."

It's also given him a lot to think about regarding his own ideals and views. And a lot to look forward to in the latter 20th century.

"I'm glad to see you aren't clutching your pearls," she says, with a slightly mischievous grin. Well, of course he isn't. He's far too clever for that- and, she suspects, far too adventurous, as well.

(Word gets around, and Irene's very good at picking things up, snippets of idle gossip and discussion and goodness, Mr Xavier, you do get around a bit, don't you? --is a thought she is not at all trying to hide, and may in fact be attempting to do the opposite with.)

"In some areas, it's even more liberal than Britain circa 2011- the legality of my profession is much less of a grey area, for instance." Her smile turns even more devilish. "I'm not sure about the Vault, though. The blind eyes that get turned are more to do with corruption than a liberal society, which we have plenty of back where I came from."

...And she would know.

And it's a thought that he definitely picks up on. Please ignore the fact that his cheeks have gone slightly pink and that he's biting his bottom lip while he smiles. "I hope you're not speculating on my propriety, Ms. Adler." His menu is raised just a touch.

"I could guess as much." It is Baedal, after all: a corrupt society that allows some liberal thinking here and there, so long a it makes thing easier for them. "Not that I went around actively looking."

Being a telepath in The Vault is akin to mental tightrope walking.

Irene gives a delighted laugh, scanning her own menu idly.

"Clever. Information's dangerous- I ought to know. If it wasn't, it wouldn't be so useful, but there is such a thing as being too sharp for your own good. As I think I've said to you before." She flicks a page over, and adds in a nonchalant murmur, "-you unlikely hedonist, you."

'Hedonist' is an exaggeration, of course, and she's very much aware of it, but she doesn't think it's wrong to call him a thrill-seeker, not considering how they met. And she does love the contrast between his gentlemanly manners and academic and political interests- which she doesn't believe are anything but genuine- and his extracurricular activities. Not that she's ever thought they were incompatible. It's just a pleasant break from expected norms.

Anyway, she likes making people blush.

Definitely an exaggeration; one that makes Charles give a momentary laugh that calms into a chuckle.

"You did indeed. Although you should know," and he shoots a little glance towards Irene, "I can do a lot more than that. In fact, I think it might be time for a quick demonstration."

He picks up the wine glass that's sitting to his rest elbow and appears to crush and roll it in his hands. It looks --and sounds-- very real, although there's no blood or cuts forming on his hands. When he opens his palms and lays them on the table for Irene to inspect, the shards have seemingly transformed into well-cut, clear diamonds.

"What I can do goes beyond reading minds." And he examines one of the little jewels for a moment, clearly reminded by the state of things in his own world before he was called to Baedal. "Luckily, I do my best to use my abilities for good. There are others in my world that --well. I'm glad they're not here."

She blinks and sits back, eyes widening slightly, at first wondering if this is some new, entirely unrelated power he's only just now seen fit to mention. And yet...what I can do goes beyond reading minds.

"I don't-" Understand. But then she thinks she might, and cuts herself off.

Is it really happening?

For a moment, she actually ignores what he's saying to stare at the diamonds, distinctly unnerved by the idea that what she's seeing might be wrong, but urging herself to deal with it rather than let it rise to the surface.

By thinking about the possible applications for that kind of power. Dear God.

"Luckily," she says, eyes on the diamonds before she glances up and grins at him, knowing fine well he knows she's thinking things that aren't nearly so heroic- well, he's a grown up, he can deal with it, and it's amazing what you can dilute with a charming enough smile. "You would be terrifying. But I'm a bit bored of terrifying, you know- it almost seems too easy- so thank goodness for your morals."

He tilts his head at those thoughts for a moment, then shakes his head smiling. It's not shock so much as oh, you.

"I try to veer away from terrifying." That's not to say he can't be --of course he knows how much his abilities unnerve people. "I prefer to be a shameless show-off instead." At every available opportunity so far. Honestly.

At that point, a waiter comes over and asks if they're ready to order drinks, or anything else for that matter. Charles looks over to Irene, asking, "Shall I order us a bottle of wine?"

She puts her chin on her hand and all but flutters her eyelashes, as if to agree; oh, me.

If you've got to be a horrible person, you should at least be exceedingly charming about it, because it's amazing what people will romanticise- though in his case, she's not sure that's what he does. She supposes he's seen worse than her. It's both vexing and amusing.

"Oh, I know your type, no need to explain. And yes. A dry white, I think." In a tone which implies and therefore, that's what will happen.

"I have a type." His eyes flick up from the wine list as he points out something to the waiter, before settling back into their conversation. He seems a little curious by what Irene has just said --he's used to figuring out other people, and he's used to their assumptions about him. But for once, there's someone in front of him who might get it right, or at least hit closer than others.

As a result, he refrains from reading her mind. It's not often something like this happens.

"What would that be?"

"Mm," she purrs, closing her eyes for a few moments as if it's going to help her her think, then opening them to show a renewed, slightly ferocious intensity.

"The clever sort of man no one really gets to," she says, her chin still on her hand; there's something a little unnerving about the edge in her expression. She almost looks hungry, as if she's trying to get something out of him. "Not because he doesn't have friends, or because of any failing of his own, but because he's not the same as anyone else. And he doesn't want to be. Ever. It'd kill him. And on one hand, you see, he gets a lot of admiration for his abilities, and he likes that- but it's not the same. It's not...equal. It's not real connection. It's not with somebody who can grasp all those dreadful, wonderful things locked up inside that head of his, which is what he wants, because there has to be an understanding or it's good but just...not...good enough. It's a big, lonely universe when you're that clever, Mr Xavier."

--she says, describing Sherlock and herself and almost everybody she thinks is halfway interesting.

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[closed] weary and worn little monster is born

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