Logs:Out of Perspective

Out of Perspective
CN: discussion of murder
Dramatis Personae Charles, Scott
In Absentia Elie, Lucien, Matt	2024-08-25 "He killed his brother! Did I mention that he killed his brother?"
Location <XAV> 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 with an elegant steel chess set in a bright nook beneath one of the windows, flanked by a single chair. Charles is losing this game in a leisurely fashion, stonewalled by his own tightly defensive pawn structure. He radiates cheerfully self-deprecating pessimism as evaluates his limited options. "Just when I thought I was getting over this preposterous habit." At least he's gotten over the reflex to bristle with protective anger every time he sees the bandaging on Scott's hand. Or, far more likely, he's just containing that reflex well enough now that it no longer bleeds through to disrupt his steady warmth. "You should rest up today. Leave the preparations for the coming week." He appends wordlessly his fond resignation that Scott will likely do no such thing. "There's little enough reprieve as it is. Take Jean out somewhere nice, else she'll be compulsively getting a jump on the work, too." With the start of the school year a scant week away, Scott indeed has no real inclination to rest up, though he politely pretends to entertain the idea for Charles's sake as he moves his rook. Once the move is complete he tucks his hand back into the crook of his elbow, his arms folded on the table (he has largely been keeping his bandaged hand tucked out of sight, also for Charles's sake, and consequently has hardly touched the no-longer-steaming coffee to the right of the board, next to the white pieces he's captured thus far.) "I can rest up," he says. "Can take Jean out, too. Go see the new Alien." He's a little amused by this idea, though he's not sure if Jean would be; he tilts his head to one side, now trying to pair a nice restaurant to this hypothetical dinner date with the same slow consideration he'd give to choosing a wine with his meal. Over this, and without a trace of self-reflection, he is adding, << She likes to work. >> Charles smiles, agreeing readily enough through the bubbling warmth of his own amusement. "At least pitch it to her. She'll have plenty of work to enjoy soon enough." He studies the board, shaking his head slowly at his deteriorating defenses, which Scott will probably dismantle in the next few moves. "I noticed Matt Tessier isn't on the faculty orientation list." He raises his eyes and one eyebrow to Scott. "Was that at his request? I realize his familial situation is somewhat..." It takes him longer than his wont to find the word. "...complicated, even with Lucien returned from the dead." His brows furrow as his gaze drops back to the board. "They do seem to have a tendency." "I can do that," though Scott is still not saying he will do that. The surface of his mind -- still and deceptively glassy as it usually is during a match -- is only slightly disturbed, by this change of subject, but it's enough to cause a spreading ripple of unease. It is easier than usual to spot when his gaze lowers to the chessboard, even behind his opaque glasses, but nothing else in his posture shifts. Not physically, at least; psionically, he's gone rigid, like his mind is frozen over rather than merely peaceful, and though Charles can sense his temptation to guess what word could possibly describe the Tessiers' familial situation, he doesn't actually venture anything. After a moment he lifts his chin again and clears his throat, and this unsticks a dense torrent of thought that pours with frustrating ease over the enforced quiet of his mind, months' worth of doubt and vigilance, suspicion and confusion, protectiveness and dread, anger and betrayal all blurring into each other and, somehow, mostly lending a vivid intensity to the thought that rises to the forefront, which is that he knew he would have to face this line of questioning someday but he still would have preferred not to. In spite of all this, Scott's voice is its usual almost-monotone. "He did not request it," he says. "I haven't spoken to him since he killed his brother." Charles starts to look up, his expression plainly surprised, but then lowers his eyes to the board again. The sense of his presence cools ever so slightly and grows soft around the edges with a sort of incongruously pleasant static. Though Scott is no telepath himself, decades of experience tell him this is a psionic other-defense technique intended to shield someone else's mind from eavesdropping. How much it actually obscures the torrent of his involuntary thoughts is an open question, since after that first unguarded moment Charles has schooled his expression to a gentle neutrality. He does finally advance one of his pawns, though it will do little to delay his inevitable defeat. "I had no idea this was causing you such distress, and I ought to have been more attentive. But..." He hesitates, lips compressing. "Whyever didn't you talk to me? I may not always be eager to acknowledge my faults," he appends his awareness that this is an understatement of problematic proportions, "but I have never pretended to be perfect. I value your insight a great deal, and I care for Lucien and Matthieu both." There is a powerful current of affection and concern and puzzlement beneath these words. "If I have wronged any of you, I should very much like to know." Scott has closed his eyes, though outwardly this is hardly visible; he gladly populates the psionic static with static of his own before he reopens them. Immediately after Charles moves the pawn, he responds with alacrity with his queen. He is slower to respond aloud -- amid the static he is having some difficulty parsing this reply, fixating on 'If I have wronged any of you,' with his own stark sense of confusion, which is morphing rapidly into anger the longer Scott sits with it. Eventually he wrests an answer into English, though it doesn't answer any of Charles's questions; his words come out halting and painfully enunciated. "Do you want Matt back here?" Charles frowns, perplexity overwhelming his studied calm. His psionic aura, still sensible through his proxy-shielding, wavers with disquiet. "I meant to discuss that with you," he replies carefully, "and it's quite evident you do not think it would be wise." He castles for no discernible strategic reason; perhaps it's just comforting. << To be frank, I hadn't even realized you knew Matthieu had killed Lucien. >> His telepathic voice sounds a little more distant than usual, but still perfectly comprehensible. << Ms. Tessier explained everything and impressed upon me this was a most painful and private family matter. If you found out some other way I can see how it might be upsetting, out of context. >> His frown deepens, and he sounds uncharacteristically dubious when he continues aloud, "Or if you have some context that I do not." He does not say "as improbable as that seems", but Scott knows him too well to miss the implication of it in his tone. "I do not," Scott confirms at once, clipped and decisive; his brow has furrowed over the glasses. He sits back in his chair, unfolding his arms, and wrings his hands together just once, smoothing his thumb over and over the neat edge of his bandage until the stiff cottony texture mingles harmoniously with the rest of the mental static. Though he wants to reply to telepathic speech in kind -- though he honestly longs to move this conversation into his own head -- he wills himself to keep having it out here, between them, in the open air over the chessboard. "What context do I need to know?" he says. "He killed his own brother. I don't want him on the team. I don't want him around the kids. I don't trust him." "I promise you, there is context." Charles sounds and feels distressingly earnest. "But it would violate their privacy to tell you." << I ought not to have known to begin with. I cannot now fathom how I thought it was acceptable to rifle through her mind, but once I saw her memories, she had to explain. >> Even without reading Scott he seems to clock the determination to speak aloud, and switches back himself accordingly. "Please believe I would not have even suggested bringing him back if I thought he were a danger. I'd have fired him months ago." He clasps his hands together. "Nevertheless, you don't trust him, and I do trust you. So he will stay gone, until Ms. Tessier permits me to tell you all, or does so herself." He sighs. "Until then, trust me back. I have learned from Prometheus, and will not stand idly by even when the threat comes from our own people." His eyes drop to the bandage, and the protective bristling is back, though dampened now. "I ought to have learned that long ago. Have you ever known me to lie about something like this?" His eyes tick up at the ceiling, and a shiver of something passes through him, but Scott only feels it peripherally and distorted beyond recognition. "Oh dear, I did lie about it. To you. I hadn't even thought of it that way." Scott's tension eases at the reassurance that Matt will stay gone, though only marginally -- "Until then," he repeats a little flatly. Even under the borrowed mental shield his mind is quiet, any idle wonderings that thread away from Charles's words smoothed quickly back down. His gaze is very steady, now, on the professor. "You said there was nothing to look into," he says -- this is neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Charles's assessment. "I don't know if you lied, or if you really believed that. But you must have thought there was something there, at some point. We both did, or you wouldn't have gone to investigate, you wouldn't have read their mother's mind like that, you --" he cuts himself off with a short, huffy exhale, one hand darting up to run through his hair. "This is nuts, why am I -- you're acting like I'm the weird one for having a problem. He killed his brother! Did I mention that he killed his brother?" Charles is still, to judge by the slightly upward focus of his eyes, rifling through his own mind. "Oh, I didn't think there was anything further to look into," he confirms abstractedly, "but I misled you by implying it was an accident." He shakes his head, and looks back at the board, eyes narrowing on his imperiled queen -- polished steel like her elegantly metalworked court, but fashioned from nuts and bolts instead. "And you are right, we must've both had reason to think it warranted investigation before I went down to Greenwich personally. Only, I cannot seem to recall why, and that is exceptionally unusual. Perhaps..." This is very reluctant, as he focuses on Scott again. "...my conclusion was premature." His hands grip each other tighter. "Certainly he did kill his brother, and I don't think you are weird -- at least, not on this count -- I just don't understand. But I am a scientist, and I --" He looks at Scott, his expression softening. "Oh, stuff the science. I refuse to dismiss you. I said I would get to the bottom of it, and I shall." Scott has dropped his hand back into the other, but though his brow is still knit with frustration and confusion, he has stopped fidgeting for the moment. "You'd remember better than me," he says, somewhat automatically; his brow scrunches down a little further, then smooths back into -- well, still scrunched, actually. "I can't understand what you don't understand," he says -- finally, tentatively, he's quieting the mental static to append this with a self-deprecating acknowledgment that this is an exceptionally circular and self-defeating statement, then follows it with a plainly delivered, << this has never, ever happened to me before, >> 'this' referring simultaneously to the extremely specific situation of the Tessiers, and to the unsettled, missed-step uncertainty in where, or how, their perspectives could have misaligned themselves this much (this feeling is all the more lurching for how sacred Scott holds Charles's opinion usually.) Then, he tames his mind back into peaceable, shimmery, chess-playing quiet, and he nudges his bishop to threaten the white king. "You did say that," he says, and though he is not sure he accepts it, he's reassured by it anyway. "Check."