Logs:What We Owe

What We Owe
Dramatis Personae Charles, Marinov
In Absentia Shane, Taylor, Scott	2024-10-20 "Where would he even fit a sixteen hour nap?"
Location <XAV> Charles Xavier's Study - Xs Third Floor
The reading room tucked into the corner of the suite is much smaller than the one in the mansion's library proper, cozily appointed in polished dark wood and plush burgundy upholstery. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling mobile bookshelves, including a climate controlled case beside the antique writing desk and one behind it that conceals a private elevator. A sideboard by the door holds a silver platter with a crystal decanter of scotch and two old fashioned glasses, a pitcher of water, a crystal bowl of peppermint starlights, and a rather space age looking coffee machine(?) beside a fine white porcelain tea set at the far end. There is a small table set in a bright nook beneath one of the windows, flanked by a single chair. The Mutant Mongrels' solemn if unconventional funeral procession has wound out of view and down into Salem Center, and other mourners are trickling out of the Great Hall in more haphazard fashion, lingering to reminisce or catch up, leaving in small groups to do more of the same. Charles had mingled for a while, himself, playing both gracious host and venerable elder with aplomb, but he does seem faintly relieved to be away from the slowly thinning crowd. He's wearing an understated black suit impeccably tailored not only to his frame but to the way he navigates the world -- today, that's in a deceptively spare and simple-looking wheelchair, its motor cunningly hidden and its control pads seamlessly built into the armrests. "Please, have a seat," he's telling his guest as the door closes quietly behind them, "and I'll put the tea on." It seems improbable that the chair for his guest should just happen to be one well-suited for tail-having individuals, and if it was swapped out just now, Charles's valet (who has a valet?) must be quick indeed. Charles fills the teapot and brings the entire service over to the nook. "I do hope this is not too informal," he says, sounding perhaps just a touch self-deprecating in his formality. "It's quieter here than it is in my office." Marinov is wearing a pinstripe charcoal suit that is certainly appropriate for mourning, with a silk blue tie in a trinity knot and aquamarine cufflinks. During the event, they were brightly relating stories about Shane, wearing their affection for the sharkling openly. Now, in this quieter environment, their thoughts have turned a bit more stormy, with their foot bouncing (though some surprise at the chair being actually comfortable shines through). "Informal?" says Marinov, looking about the study appraisingly, "I think it's a perfectly appropriate level of formality." While their perception of the smellscape in the room has been rather packed with information, as they lift their chin, the comforting scent of the tea focuses in and brings them some more calm. "How've the students been doing? I imagine all this--" <<shit>> ""--stuff has been weird for them." "They've been greatly distressed since the beginning of all this...stuff." Charles glances out the window, where a small knot of the students under discussion are ambling across the grounds toward the lake. "The return of their teachers has helped, and may help more yet once things resume some semblance of normality. Shane's loss has been harder on some than others. " He bows his head, and when he lifts it again he regards Marinov with solemn steadiness. "I daresay not just the students." Marinov's eyes follow the Professor's gaze out to the campus grounds, and they are silent a few moments with their own memories on the grounds. "Yeah... Yeah. Shane meant a lot to a lot of people. And how could he not? Owning Evolve, part of the Mongrels, member of the X-Men, mentor to students. Extremely sharp dresser." They raise their hands in a regretful shrug. "And it's already been a tough year or so for our community." Flashes of memory and emotion passes through their mind. The clack of plastic against cardboard, of keyboard clattering, of wingbeats, of the metallic scent of blood. The comforting smell of hot beverages, the slick sound of so many limbs rustling and clinking, of fresh earth, of an undertone of sewage and motor oil. Of the click of teeth, of tearing flesh, of violin, of the scent of velvet, of saline water, of machinery, of, of, of. But this swirl of thought passes in an instant, with a shiver down the feline mutant's spine that ends in staccato twitches of their tail. "There's a hole, there, yeah? And, I guess, a hole here." Charles gives only a minute nod, but the sense of agreement that comes with it is more profound, distantly edged in grief and remorse. He picks up the teapot and decants the pale green tea into matching white porcelain teacups. "He and Taylor both dedicated so much love and attention and work to so many people. It is galling how much I have discovered about the extent of their care until their deaths, and I am sure I do not know the half of it even now." He sets one cup down in front of Marinov. He does not flinch at the rapid burst of memories, odd though it probably feels to someone without keen olfactory senses and processing. He lets it wash over him and echoes it with what must be the equivalent for him, an ineffable psionic imprint that perhaps should feel odd to someone without telepathic senses and processing, but it's just a quiet indefinable whisper of Shane's presence. "Yes, and I fear it is a tear in the fabric of our community that will be difficult to mend. If you have any thought as to how I can best assist in that process, I should be grateful to know." He gives a wry twitch of a smile. "Grateful, too, for it to happen over tea. I've a history of receiving such lessons from students under less pleasant circumstances." With a soft laugh, Marinov admits, "I guess I've been less than hospitable when asking something of you before." They pick up the cup and hold it between their hands, waiting with anticipation for the porcelain to warm up their hands. They take a deep breath, "They both did so so much. It makes me tired to think about, really, imagining Shane's schedule. Where would he even fit a sixteen hour nap? And yet..." There's a vague sense of owing something, of some debt unpaid, while they pause to sniff at the vapour from the tea. "I want to take on some part of that schedule. He took on mentorship of some students here, yeah? And the X-Men has a vacancy, down someone with a good bite." "You are part of a proud legacy," Charles assures Marinov. "A few months ago some students literally broke down my door to tell me how I could help. Mind you, there were circumstances, but it certainly underlined their point dramatically." He raises his own cup to breathe in the aroma of the tea, and though he doesn't laugh outwardly, amusement ripples through the subtle warmth of his psionic presence. "It makes me tired to think about it, and I can get by on four hours of sleep." He finally takes a sip and sets his cup down, lacing his fingers together in front of him. "He was an advisor and mentor to students with physical mutations, yes." His lips compress, but only briefly. "We do have a dearth of physical mutants on our faculty, and his assistance was invaluable. Yours would be, as well, if you can spare the time for it. As for the X-Men..." He unclasps his hands and turns them palm-up in front of him. "Given recent events, I find that offer courageous indeed. Recruitment is ultimately up to Mr. --" He chuckles softly. "-- Scott. I should warn you he is a demanding team leader." "Well, the odds of one alien abduction in a group is small, but two? It's probably the safest time to join!" says Marinov, though even they know that they are committing the gambler's fallacy. "I've got no doubt that Mr. Summers is demanding, he's always struck me as a seriously serious guy. I'll speak to him about it..." There's a pause and they scratch their neck lightly. "They sieged your office? That's crazy." Though there a certain amount of pride in this last word that their carefully neutral tone. "Shane's advice and advocacy meant a lot to me. And I owe it to those students to at least help shape a world that they feel like they belong in. I don't want anyone to feel like they're a write-off." Charles lifts his brows slightly as though skeptical, but after a moment's thought nods. "There's certainly very little chance you'll be abducted by the same aliens. I suppose that's not nothing." He laces his fingers together again, tighter. "We don't write off any of our students. I have come to recognize that is not enough, and perhaps never has been." He shakes his head. "Understanding the reasons for that is hard, and knowing how to remedy it even harder. It should not fall to concerned alumni to make up the difference, but if that is what keeps happening in any event, the least we can do is support your efforts. And to listen." He raises his cup again, a kind of rueful half-toast. "Even when you don't kick the door down."