Bearer of Bad News
Roleplaying Log: Bearer of Bad News
IC Details

Emma stops by the Xavier Institute, looking for Jean Grey. She finds Wolverine instead.

Other Characters Referenced: Jean Grey, Warren Worthington, Alison Blaire
IC Date: October 25, 2019
IC Location: Xavier Institute, West Chester
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 25 Oct 2019 21:52
Rating & Warnings: G
Scene Soundtrack: [* ]
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

Only the worst news would have pulled Wolverine off of the trail, his time wandering around Gotham and wrangling up what leads he could had been partially fruitful. He'd met a variety of people, made some strong contacts, only a few of which had been insane…. and had killed relatively few people.

It would be considered a success except for the fact that the trail ran cold. Loss of leads, ending with a cold backtracking over old contacts that went nowhere.

And then his phone buzzed. Nothing on the public line beyond two simple words. 'Come Home.'

And that was it, the city of Gotham was left behind with the man returning, the black SUV he'd 'borrowed' rolled up the driveway and led him to enter the foyer with barely anyone present. Or rather… anyone in the know. It left him with a decidedly severe look of frustration on his features as he scowled at his phone, trying to send text messages to those concerned and then… waiting.

And that cloud of thoughts that floated around the man. They were not exactly nice ones.

Certain news brings all manner of creatures back to the mansion, although one of them is most certainly not one who calls these grounds 'home.'

The last time that Emma Frost stepped foot on the enemy soil was when they brought her back from Alaska. When they evaluated her and decided that the safest thing to do with her was to get her away from the grounds as quickly as possible, relinquishing her into her butler's care to take her own den in Manhattan.

That doesn't stop her, however, from walking up the front steps with all of the aires that she does indeed belong here. Her driver leaves the sedan's engine running, leaving one to wonder if she anticipates a very short stay or just hates a cold car that much.

Bundled up in her long wool coat with a thick shawl collar of white rabbit fur, she reaches out a gloved hand and does the most mundane thing possible for a place where the impossible happens with regularity: she rings the doorbell.

The doorbell rings, the chords hanging with a certain amount of ominous aspect to it. And Logan looks up from his place down the hall and near the foyer with its sweeping grand stairways. He takes a moment to scowl, features grim as he looks left, looks right, blue-eyed gaze sweeping his surroundings as that scowl grows all the more prominent when there's no reaction to the doorbell as far as he can tell.

Then, perhaps Emma might be able to hear it through the door, Logan lifts his voice loud enough to carry down the multiple hallways. "What's the point of havin' kids runnin' around all the time if they're not gonna do the crap jobs they need to ta earn their keep!"

Those words are delivered steadily as he strides down the hall and then grabs the handle of the door and /yanks/ it open. And suddenly Emma.

And suddenly there's a Logan, looking ragged and scowly as ever with his eyes sweeping over her, down, then back up. Then he tilts his head to the side slightly, as if pondering why she could possibly be there. He then says, simply, "Yer welcome." For saving her life.

Since of course that's the reason she's there. To say Thank You.

Or maybe that's just his way of reminding her that he had a hand in that. A brief glimpse at his thoughts and yes… it's the latter.

The blonde on the steps arches an eyebrow, frowns deeply, and then heaves a breath—deep and even and slow.

Because, of course, she is stretching her telepathy out to his surface thoughts and finds the repugnant truth: his first thoughts of her are her at her weakest, ugliest, and most dependent.

"Well, that's terribly presumptive of you," Emma replies. He backs up, and she takes full advantage to press into the space. Then her lips curl upwards into an unfriendly, mocking smile. "But if it makes you feel better about yourself, of course. Thank you."

The Canadian does a decent job of hiding the twitch at the corner of his mouth that might almost be a hint of a smile, but then he steps back as if /allowing/ her entry into the mansion, turning to the side and giving his back to her as he stalks into the foyer proper, letting her close the door behind her since he knows that might likely stick in her craw.

But then he says over his shoulder as he moves, "What do you want, Frosty?" He asks, at the least not giving away too easily that something is off or the matter, but she'll definitely get that subtle vibe from the man when he's on edge, the way he resembles a spring twisted too tight and doesn't know which way to jump.

If she was a normal person she wouldn't have a good handle on the man, but she is Emma so she can tell.

"Not exactly the best time." For whatever it is that she wants. Which he likely hopes will be explained shortly.

Except that she absolutely lets the door hang open because she sure as Hell won't let Wolverine be the boss of her. Even in appearances.

That is to say that Emma Frost is perfectly fine with letting the whole of the outdoors be heated on the X-Men's dime, it would seem, as she clears the doorway so that there's plenty of room for him to close it. But, to her credit perhaps, that is as far as she enters into the enemy territory with a military precision to the clack of her stiletto ankle boots.

"Actually," she continues with a sideways angling tilt of her blonde head, "It is the precise time that I meant to be here, so perhaps you might run along and tell your precious little Jean Grey that I'm here and I need to talk."

He'd had one hand in his pocket and the other resting on the loop of his jeans, his expression distancing for a moment as his thoughts started to slip back to that cryptic text message. Then she speaks and he turns to face her again, but whatever she says is initially lost by that slow exhalation that gives life to a scowl and the look of frustration that takes over his features.

He steps back toward her, and then turns his shoulders to slip past her, not quite moving enough that if she at least doesn't turn a smidge he might bump her out of the way slightly… accidentally of course. But she gains the small victory in that he grabs the door and pulls it closed. With a /bang/.

Then he steps back, facing her, arms folded over his chest. His irises flit between her own, as if trying to gauge which one might be the more trustworthy one. Neither is the answer.

"That's funny. Maybe you're still not quite up and with it yet after yer recent convalescence but there're these things called phones." Though she can feel the slight irritation in the man's thoughts there's weirdly enough a positivity to it. As if he always enjoyed a small joust at Emma's expense.

"Yes," Emma agrees with an arch of eyebrow, one gloved hand dusting off the place where he 'accidentally' made contact with her coat. Her eyes drop there momentarily, as though to ensure that he didn't leave fur or dirt behind. But he closed the door, at least, so she'll take her victory where she can find it. "There are these things called phones, which in no way are very easy to hang up before one is finished speaking."

Her eyes come back up, cold and unbothered by all appearances, although there is certainly the twitch of irritation at the corner of her mouth. "So, once more, where is Jean Grey? I have business that needs discussing in light of present circumstances."

A small 'heh' slips from him as he seems to take some pleasure in the image of Jean hanging up on Emma, and if she were to pry into his thoughts she might well see a subtle swiftly composed image of the two of them with Emma 'squawking' angrily into her phone and Jean (looking beautiful as ever) just rolling her eyes and hanging up on her, which makes Emma go all wide-eyed and infuriated.

But then he holds up a hand and waves her off, as if trying to get her to settle down. Which is a srange sentiment coming from Logan. "Don't know where she is. Not right now at least. Something is up." That said he draws in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly as he succeeds in getting past his negative impulses and growls reluctantly.

"If ya want, you can wait in the library. I'll take a look around." Though he's not doing her a favor as he was about to do so anyways, "I'll tell her that you're there. Mebbe she'll come by."

He flares his hands then, as if expecting to endure a berating tirade as he then adds, "S'best I can do."

The sentiment of 'settle down' does remarkably little to Emma post's demeanor, save to inspire her to lowering her ever-rising eyebrows. "Fine," she concedes with what some may deem to be far too little protesting.

Maybe she sees the little fantasy playing in Logan's mind, and maybe she doesn't. She could look herself with the way of the psychics, but - for whatever reason - doesn't.

She looks to the watch on her wrist, and then recrosses her arms. "I have a few minutes that I can wait."

A pause, and then she adds on, making her psychic presence very much known, «And I'm perfectly up and with it. Thank you so very much for asking.»

That way she can keep tabs on him as he turns and starts to walk around the mansion, starting to check the normal areas, stepping down the hallway and only now replacing his phone into his back pocket. She likely can get a good angle on the school from behind Logan's eyes if she felt like piggy-backing that way, if not then she'll just get to enjoy his charming company as he shares that mental link while she waits.

// Everything alright otherwise? // In this form of mental communication there's much less dissembling, much less posturing. It's a purity of back and forth that only a telepath like herself or Jean or the Professor can present some strength of illusion to their sentiment. But Logan, he can somewhat protect himself, but there's no hiding his true feelings.

Which, to be fair regarding Emma… aren't entirely bad. Sure there is suspicion, and wariness. But there's a respect there, a regard for the sharp edged side of the woman that reminds him of the practical aspects of himself. Not quite attraction, though she is a beautiful woman and there's no hiding what appreciation there is of that. But unlike many others it's not an over-riding theme in his thoughts.

// I got a message, seemed like things were goin' down. Still don't know what all has happened. // He pushes open the door to the kitchen and steps peers inside. Nothing.

Emma, meanwhile, unlike Jean or the esteemed Professor Charles Xavier, leaves so very little of herself available for observation in the tethering. It's like a sheet of dark glass - where she lets her presence be known but it's hard to gather any real details about it or what may lurk on the other side. This is certainly true of the feelings that he holds for her, the bad and the good; he may have no idea that she has sensed anything at all about it.

She knows parts of the halls he wanders, from brushes with other X-Men, from entanglements with Jean Grey. It doesn't mean, however, that she doesn't take advantage of the opportunity to observe the twists and turns of the estate and grow that much more familiar with them.

« Everything else is well in hand, » she tells him in a glass-smooth lie, not bothering to shed the cryptic aspect of it. « You know about Worthington and Blaire, then? »

His footsteps falter slightly, most wouldn't pick up on it, but then he redoubles his stride and starts the ascent up to the dormitories. Still, not likely to be fruitful. It's a few moments, however, as he walks before he responds to that question. // No. Tell me. //

It's all he states, even as he continues with the seeking. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scents on the air and finding no tell-tale hints to the presence of Jean Grey, perhaps Emma picking up on exactly how that feral X-Man 'sees' the world with those enhanced senses. The different shades of perception his sense of smell brings to the fore.

At the least, however, it lets him finish that upstairs search fairly quickly.

« They're dead. » The delivery of thought is cool and to the point. It doesn't rush, and it holds a resoluteness - a steadiness - to it that might be hard to describe. A dim shape of feeling through that dark glass. « At least, that's the story according to the Bugle. »

The animalistic view of the world doesn't really bother Emma. Very few things do. …Or so she'd have everyone believe, anyway. It reminds her of a student she once had, in some ways, but she staves off the train of thought before she gets too far down the rabbit trail.

« That, in part, is why I'm here. »

With her viewing from afar she can likely feel the onset of anger, that low rumbling growl more felt in the man's thoughts than heard. She'd likely be surprised to imagine the severity and weight of regard with which he holds Worthington and Alison in for this to trigger such a controlled anger in the man. Though it might in some ways be less an anger for them in particular and more enraged against others coming against what he may claim as his own. Or in his sphere of influence.

But then he pushes those feelings to the side as best he can, perhaps knowing that Emma is likely keeping watch, since she… is not often troubled by bothersome things like ethics. For a brief second there's an image of a polar bear in a snowstorm, as if that would shut her out of his thoughts. But then a scowling angry snort, that in better times might be a laugh, comes from him, knowing the futility of that thought.

// I'm not havin' much luck. And people weren't answerin' their phones. We might be SOL. // He stops at one of the display panels for the underground base and keys up a feed on it to check those that might be in the lower levels… and nothing.

In reality, rather than move to the library, Emma simply found a chair in the foyer and hasn't moved out of it. She sits there with eyes closed, legs crossed, and wrists draped fluidly over her wool-covered knee. For every bit that an X-Man might not want to invite her in, she doesn't particularly care to get lost in the interior halls. She'll let him know as much with a sampled bleed of her own sight, showing her not fifteen feet away from where he'd left her.

« Ah, well, » Emma replies after a long moment of silence, trying to not seem at all amused by his realization of the pointlessness of trying to keep her out when she'd want to be in. It's so nice, after all, to be recognized for one's talents. « I suppose I'll have to torture you lot with my presence again on another day. Lucky you. »

// Mmmhmm. // Logan scowls as he gets a glimpse out of Emma's own perspective as he starts to make his way back to the foyer, hands sliding into his pockets. His thoughts are a whirlwind of distractions now, and she can likely filter through them, but they're expected. The kind of imagery that she likely sees whenever there is an aspect of grief entering one's thoughts.

// Ya know, Emma. If you wanted ta play a different role than persona non grata at some point ya might try and make it see like you don't enjoy it so much. // Though she can likely tell he thinks the way she is… is an act in a lot of ways. But then again maybe she just hasn't hammered it home hard enough yet.

Then there's a delay as he continues to walk, starting to make it back to the foyer when he says simply across that mental barrier, // If I hear anything I'll let you know. If you'll do likewise. //

By the time that Logan arrives back to the foyer, Emma has risen to her feet and smoothed her hands over her coat as though there were wrinkles to smooth. She cinches the sash of her coat a little tighter around her waist, and then turns her features towards him to take him in. It's her turn now to offer a half-hearted chuckle and a luke-warm smile. She didn't expect to have to play the bearer of bad news, but she won't apologize for it. And she could try to be something other than persona non grata, but she's fairly certain that there's not enough broken glass in all the world to please some people… so why start crawling down that trail?

X-Men take care of their own. So she needn't bother, right?

"Yes, of course. Either way, do let your Miss Grey know that I came to call. And that I'll just keep calling until she's here, so it's in everyone's best interest that she just get the visit over with quickly. I'm fairly well known for my persistence."

"Mmmhmm," Logan's voice is a low rumble as he steps toward her, and then past her, moving back to the door. He draws one hand out of his pocket and grabs the handle, pulling it back open then turning to face her. His mind is clouded with the myriad trails his thoughts are running along, but in regards to her she can see some small aspect of him trying to figure out what to say to her.

He lets a small humorless laugh slip from him as he meets her eyes with his own, just slightly shaking his head as he holds the door open. Then he looks down the hall again, and back to her before he says, "Just get outta here, Emma."

Though the way he says it, it's not mean nor cruel, she can sense that. It's perhaps exasperated and meant more to cover whatever emotional stress is going down. And to give her an easy out since she might well want one.

Then he adds, "I'll tell her when I see her."

Get out of here, he tells her. And Emma has at the ready an indignant, "Hmph." Although, like his comment, it lacks any real heat.

He moves on to the promise that he'll pass the word along, and she ducks her head forward under the guise of adjusting her gloves to a more comfortable fit. "Good. Then maybe we'll only have to do this once more."

With that, she pushes back out into the brisk autumnal air and descends the front stairs with her long and unapologetic stride. The sharp breeze picking up her flaxen curls to whip about her face as she makes her way back towards the car. Her driver is swift to get out and open the door for her, and she folds herself inside and only looks forward as he shuts her in.

It's moments later that the driveway crunches under the sedan's tires and they're gone, leaving the grounds themselves to heave a collective sigh of relief.

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