Logs:Bonne

Bonne
cn: allusion to abusive parenting
Dramatis Personae Charles, Kitty
In Absentia Lucien	the grand opening of le bonne entente I will remind him you are still my protégée. (after kitty's run-in with lucien; simultaneous with lucien and matt's discussion.)
Location <NYC> Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens
This hotel is the reincarnation of a condemned neoclassical cathedral, drastically yet skillfully renovated such that its majesty feels distinctly sacred but agnostic of any particular creed. The annexes and exterior redesigns harmonize stunningly with the original architecture, even moving the bell tower to the western end of the structure. By day plentiful sunlight streams in through tall stained glass windows. At night the white marble exterior is lit from below to faintly ethereal effect. The grounds are not extensive, but meticulously landscaped, with tables and seating arranged within a circular colonnade and benches scattered along paths through the surrounding gardens. In stark contrast, the interior columns are richly gold-veined black marble, relieved with lighter accents, softer furnishings, and a surprising amount of greenery. The lobby is magnificent yet welcoming, expansive but not imposing, The reception area is nestled between twin staircases ascending to a mezzanine that circles the grand ballroom to an expansive multi-leveled cafe in what was once the sanctuary. The gallery hallways that look down from the upper levels are lined with conference rooms, spas, gyms, and fifty guest rooms, many with external balconies and all sumptuously appointed. The crypt chapel and part of the crypt proper have been converted to a matched club and lounge respectively which manage to convey a sense of almost scandalous intimacy despite their considerable size. The crown jewel of this ambitious architectural endeavor is the sprawling restaurant that spans the airy clerestory to spill out onto a crescent-shaped grand balcony with a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline across the East River, especially at sunset. Above this, the soaring bell tower remains a mystery to most guests beyond the lush conservatory in its base, and though the original bells have been restored, they are not currently in use. Opening night here has been a rousing success, grand yet not stuffy, lavish yet not profligate. Everything from dress code to decor to food and drink has been carefully arranged for the comfort guests from an unexpectedly wide range of social classes, cultures, needs, and tastes. Among the Quality present, Dr. Charles Xavier appears at first blush to be dressing to expectations about not only his class but his age, and it doesn't hurt that the old man looks good in black tie. But upon closer examination, it's obvious he has taken the to heart the "creative" in Creative Black Tie, his personal touches subtle yet striking once noticed. There is a single blue contrast buttonhole on each cuff of his fine black jacket, his satin waistcoat an apparently sober dark blue to match, but from certain angles it flashes a startling gold. His solid bright gold tie is in a neat Eldredge knot, and there is a modest little white campion flower tucked into his buttonhole. He is riding a sleek, minimalist powered wheelchair, its clean satin titanium lines framing him to excellent effect, offsetting the black tuxedo that might otherwise diminish his already unimpressive stature. The chair's rear wheels are styled into large X's ringed with graceful curled handrims, and the armrests terminate in black glass control surfaces that curve away under his hands to avoid wrist strain. At present, the elegant mobility aid is conveying him at a rather generous clip down one of the garden paths outside the hotel, away from the glamorous colonnaded seating area. He slows his chair to a stop beside a bench tucked against the outer wall, and hastily removes his hands from the armrests to lace them together in front of him in a attitude of casual contemplation. Why the rush? All becomes clear just a few seconds later, when a young woman emerges at a fairly sharp clip of her own from the solid surface of said outer wall. This may have been a precognitive coincidence — or maybe, just maybe, one of the world’s most powerful telepaths picked up on Kitty’s unfiltered anger-distress-frustration, and followed it to its logical end. Somewhere between the tucked away balcony, the restaurant and here, Kitty’s outfit has gotten just a little more rumpled — there are tiny threads of tulle coming undone on the skirt of her black a-line dress, just a bit more sag in the too-long tights above the ankles of her star-embroidered boots. A point of her gold Magen David pendant pokes out through another gap in the tulle. A navy crossbody clutch swings from one shoulder, knocking against the jade bangle on her left wrist. Her right hand clenches tight around a soiled gold handkerchief, still damp where it had recently been pressed against her bloodshot eyes. Kitty’s mind is full of an overwhelming need to LEAVE, to ESCAPE and go HOME (though that is drawing complicated simultaneous images of an apartment in Manhattan, a dorm room long since turned over to other young mutants, and to a house in Illinois that hasn’t been in for something like 15 years) with as much haste as possible. Once there? Call — who? The people she wants to call are busy writing dissertations or imprisoned for Terrorism or possibly busy writing dissertations WHILE avoiding being imprisoned for Terrorism. And then if they were available — what would she say that wouldn’t sound trite or petty or like she’s trying to one-up what they’ve been through? She’s still spiralling when she sees Charles, << Hi, Professor! >> spilling out of her mind automatically. Stutters on that, << ?!?! >>, freezes, trips and stumbles before actually stopping to look at her mentor. << FUCK is there ANYWHERE in this hotel a girl can be ALONE (is that gold or blue this is the dress all over again) (looks good though) (I’m underdressed should have asked for more help) (wouldn’t have helped) >> Under this, a twinge of embarrassment at the crudeness of her thoughts, the years of reassurances that usually soften that instinct far from mind at the moment. Kitty wipes the handkerchief ( << oh fuck my life how do I give it back now >> ) under her eyes and tries to look like she’s Not Running Away from the hotel’s owner or her own father, even though she knows that he knows that she definitely was. “Hi,” comes small, embarrassed, tired. “Sorry I was just —“ << — running away because people are mean? That’s pathetic — >> “heading home.” << (could just leave he’ll know already why) (don’t be fucking RUDE) >> “Did you have a good night?” << statistically someone must have and it was NOT me >> Charles doesn't feign surprise, and his quiet "Good evening, Kitty" isn't necessarily a response to her thoughts under the circumstances, but it certainly feels like one. "I've had some fascinating conversations with people I wouldn't normally expect to meet at these sorts of galas. I'm sorry the night doesn't seem to be treating you quite so kindly." And then his voice is in her mind, though it still sounds just like him, and just like it's coming from him, << I doubt I'd look half as good in that dress as you do in this one, though I suppose I might draw more attention. >> There's a gentle amusement behind his unspoken words, and a soothing warmth ever so slightly more literal than in his spoken ones. << Out of sorts or no, I promise you are no more underdressed than I am overdressed. >> "I'll not detain you if you'd rather just get out of here, but if you'd like to talk..." He tips his hand toward the bench beside his chair. "...or even just sit a spell, I'd be glad of the company." << We've some modicum of privacy here, even aloud. >> “Oh, good!” << please don’t mean Dad please don’t mean Dad >> “It’s a pretty varied crowd, isn’t it?” << why am I small talking!!! Stop it!!! >> The flush rising in Kitty’s cheeks is one part embarrassment, one part self-conscious compliment acceptance, one part the physiological response to the warm comfort in her mind. << …it can’t go any worse than anything else this evening, right? >> The mental question being posed, earnestly, to herself is somehow also a declaration of Kitty making up her mind. She sits down on the end of the bench, shoulders slumping forward almost immediately. No words come out at first — in her head there is a lull, a mental breath, where she’s only hearing the lullaby of Queens at night and feeling the warmth wrapped around her senses. It doesn’t quiet down the roil of this evening’s events for long — a painful reunion << “…he did pass muster with me…” >> rubbing up against against her father: an appraising, disappointed glance over her outfit, a pointed comment about her meal order, an introduction to some wealthy so-and-so << “She’s so brilliant, now maybe you could be the one to hire her away from all this star-stuff into something actually useful…” >>, a too familiar hug that made her skin crawl. Kitty glances sideways at Charles. “He says he’s going legitimate.” The small huff of bitter laughter is probably enough to convey how much she does not believe that even without telepathy. “For real this time. Like that means something.” "It's been rather refreshing, really," Charles says conversationally, and beneath it, steady and quiet, << Not him. >> "I met a young man who rides a wheelchair and drives stunt vehicles for films. If I were ever inclined to be smug about my own prowess behind a wheel, I have been duly humbled." When Kitty sits down, he taps the control surface at his left hand, and with a faint whir of servos even quieter than the chair's propulsion, a caddy uncouples from the back of the chair and swings down into a more easily accessible position at its side. From this he extracts a neat roll of fabric and passes it to Kitty. The plaid is soft and thin and surprisingly warm, familiar to Kitty and probably anyone else who spends a winter at Xavier Mansion, as Charles has a seemingly endless supply and uses them for everything from shawls to lap blankets when he isn't pretending he doesn't feel the cold. Perhaps he might have broken it out for himself already, if the fiery Kinross tartan wouldn't look absolutely garish with his dapper outfit. But probably not. To Kitty's explanation he gives a noncommittal hum. "If he means it, and if he does it -- would you want him back in your life?" There's no skepticism in his tone, no sense that he's fishing for any particular answer, and no judgement. His psionic presence grows almost imperceptibly warmer when he adds, "And if so, would you feel safe?" "Sounds like that guy could pop a sick wheelie in pretty much anything." Kitty takes the offered tartan and wraps it around her shoulders, where the tulle is letting far more of the February chill raise goosebumps across her skin than her tights, and lets the very cool image of someone doing a multiple-rotation spin in a manual wheelchair fade from her mind. "...Maybe?" She sounds far less sure of herself out loud than she sounds in her head, where << (no no absolutely no) >> thrums loud and insistent underneath a list of reasons why she might owe her father another chance to be in her life. << He doesn't belong here >> feels less petulant unvoiced, more clear in how here means the entirety of Kitty's New York life. << (safe?) >> Kitty rubs her thumb against the smooth surface of her bangle. << (what does safe mean) >> An accounting of times she felt safe begins -- a long trip back from Chicago with a stranger who could have been her grandfather, a terrorist and a large cat person keeping watch over her during a fever addled haze, a kitchen warm with the smell of baked goods, a thrumming jet full of tired but alive allies. Somewhere, long ago, the glow of Shabbat candles, a woman holding her so-small hands and teaching her how to shield her eyes for a blessing. Somewhere therein must be Kitty and Carmen, but for him Kitty can only find distrust, apprehension, and fear, a sense that eventually the other shoe will drop, again. "Professor, can I feel safe around him?" She's asking earnestly, not rhetorically, with a strong sense that Charles knows her own mind better than she does on this score, and might, tonight, know Carmen's. "No doubt some people -- not the least he himself -- will expect you to want that, and seek to make you feel their expectation." There's an edge to Charles's words. "For what it's worth, I suspect he will stay in line so long as he's employed here. But you'll likely have shoulder the work of reconciling with him, and you may not feel safe around him for a long time even if he does rise to the challenge." His lips compress, and his voice is a little softer when he admits, "But I do fear he may hurt you again." Unspoken beneath this is an acknowledgement his fear is not founded in any specific knowledge, telepathically gleaned or otherwise. "Kitty, you are brilliant and competent and strong, but that man..." Not "your father", not even "Carmen Pryde", but "that man." Charles shakes his head and clasps his hands together just a bit tighter. "You must know you will have my support, however you choose to approach him, and he cannot turn me against you even at his most glib." The edge creeps back into his voice, and something else, low and dangerous. "If it eases your mind, I will remind him you are still my protégée." A tension eases from Kitty's shoulders -- she's not pleased at this assessment of her father, exactly, but she is relieved that someone in this hotel sees him for who he is. That someone is trusting her judgement ( << "... violent racists that meet your typical standards...">> ringing under this, aggrieved) and her memory ( << "You and I clearly remember our last meeting very differently," >> tinged with just a touch of shame) to be right on this subject, if nothing else. That someone here is actually on her side, not just claiming to be. Kitty leans a little more towards the chair, resting her hands lightly (but deliberately solidly) on the armrest. "Thank you," << CharlesProfessor(dad)(stop it!) >>, "maybe... that would be good. Especially since he's in our neighborhood now?" Under that, just a little bit of idle curiosity, still unanswered, about what Charles said and did, exactly, to Carmen all those years ago to allow her to return to Xavier's. She doesn't actually want to know, of course. "Just a reminder, though. That this isn't Chicago." << that he can't trap me here >> "It sounds like you got into it a bit with the proprietor, as well." Charles raises one eyebrow slightly -- curious, but not all that concerned, though perhaps that's only in contrast to the instigating altercation. "We can talk trash about him, too, if you like." The self-deprecation is exceedingly light. His embrace when he curves an arm around Kitty's shoulders, less so. His psychic presence grows warmer, too, whispering affection and protectiveness. "Just a reminder, of course." Though he adds, a little prim but with the suggestion of a smile, "It's hardly our neighborhood, though. This is Queens."