Breakfast at Xavier's

October 11, 2015:

Welcome to breakfast, gang.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: None.


Fade In…

While Xavier's school is fairly well-funded, there are real logistical issues to bringing in craftsmen and repair teams. For one, the ever-present possibility that one of the laborers might be a spy requires a great deal of effort in terms of validating security on a daily basis. And there's always the chance that one of the workers might accidentally stumble on a secret hallway or a concealed computer— let alone the risk of having them around the children, which is so unacceptable that major repairs are only done during the summer when the kids are out of school or on field trips.

The long and short of this is that most of the long-term residents of the Institute are fairly adept handimen- or handi-women, as the case may be.

Betsy is kneeling on the stairway she's in the process of fixing. One of the children with talons had built up a bit /too much/ head of steam before scaling the steps and in her hurry had scored several slats to the point of weakening them. She frowns, eyeing her next board, and trying to figure out why the lip on the last one is two inches longer than the one she's currently halfway into hammering in place. Wearing good, durable cargo pants, good sturdy boots, and a tank top, it's one of the rare occassions when Betsy's attire is overwhelmingly practical over aesthetic.

"Five… minus… times… three…" she screws her eyes shut, trying to do the math in her head. "What's five inches plus three inches, times two, minus four?" she calls over her shoulder, holding a few brads in one hand and a framing hammer in the other.


"That would be zero, Elizabeth." Emma intones from the top of the stairs, looking down at the woman working like that. She's not dressed at all for such menial labor as repair and construction. No, her name is Emma Grace Frost, and she's dressed like a billion dollars, because she is the CEO of a billion dollar corporation and that's just how it's done. "Why do you ask? And whatever are you doing?" It's the tone of voice one would expect of a woman of such refinement, upon finding her partner in fashion so hideously attired, and covered with schmutz of manual labor and effort. That just cannot be right!


Betsy looks up at Emma, brushing a wrist against her cheek. "Zero? That can't be right." Betsy looks down at the piece of lumber in her hand and flips it over, casting around for a pencil, and starts laboriously doing the math by hand.

"It's… twelve," she concludes, finally, sighing. She looks up at Emma and shrugs, trying not to look totally embarassed at being in very practical if unflattering work clothing. "Marsha was running inside, which she's not supposed to do, and she tripped going up the stairs. Considering she's got two-inch talons…" Betsy gestures at the 'scrap' lumber at the bottom of the stairs, most of which might make good firewood. "This is nothing. Scott and Jean once spent most of a week re-tiling a bathroom shortly after Bobby Drake arrived." She brings the piece of lumber back into place and finagles with it, then 'ahhs' softly when she realizes it's not fit quite right and wedges it correctly in place. Bringing her gloved hand with the brads over, she starts driving the little nails into the wood to lock it down. "How are you today, dear?" she asks Emma. "I know the guest suites aren't quite the Park Barrington, but I've always thought they had a certain comfortable charm about them."


Oh Jean. Jean, Jean, Jean. Jean, Jean, Jean, Jean, Jean.

Danger Room workouts were always a blast especially after a very, very well and much needed sleep that had her snoring so loudly the crows tapped outside of Scott's window in hopes to work her up so she'd shut the hell up. She woke up, feeling like a million bucks, and after a hard workout, phew! She was ready to start cooking. Showered and another set of work-out clothes put on, hair wet but.. who cares, she surely didn't, long as she smelled like soap and vanilla lotion she was set and raring to go.

Save for the bite-marks that hang upon her mid-section in the form of bruises. Really, really huge bitemarks.

"She's probably doing something that she really, really doesn't need to do." Jean chimes in, passing Emma atop of the stairs, moving down halfway and -jumping- (which was flying and landing upon her feet to avoid Betsy's work) down towards the bottom to turn and watch. There was a slight shrug of her shoulders given, then a twist upon her heels and a happy march right into the kitchen, a soft song upon her lips as much as the delusional sorts could be, banging around the cabinents to bring out the items she needs for her start of the day.


Scott is not far behind Jean, though a young man follows along behind him. Eighteen, senior, ready to begin his training as an X-Man. Which, of course, means busy work. "I want you to begin documenting the breadth of her abilities," he tells the young man, his shock of green hair and all-black eyes a clear sign of his mutations. "Full details of her entire arsenal, so that we can better work with her in the field." Aside, to Emma, he says, "Pardon."

Then, Scott comes up short, looking down at Betsy and her blocking of their passage. "Oh."

"No problem, Mister Summers," says the young man at his side. "Hang on." From his hands, two long and prehensile tentacles whip out, one wrapping around Scott's waist, the other shooting out and sticking to the ceiling. Then, he pulls Scott right off his feet and sets him down, following a wide swing, in the clear opposite where Betsy is working.

The tentacles withdraw back into his hands, and he looks to Scott with a meek grin.

"That's enough, Derrik."


Emma makes a face of disgust at watching Betsy doing such manual labor, unable to help herself and her judgemental behavior. Of course, she knows the total was 12; but she honestly doesn't feel Betsy should be doing this, and isn't about to help her. How ridiculous!

"The guest suite is fine, dear. The hammering racket was less than desirable, of course, but I shan't complain; no one is asking /me/ to do such a thing, and it is after ten in the morning." Which means that even the laziest bones should be out of bed. Even privileged lazy bones like a Frost.

"Of course, Mister Summers." Emma offers, stepping aside without complaint as he comes around, clearly not caring as she assumes he'll be as non-plussed by the British roadblock as she is. But then Derrick sweeps him up and past the blockage, and Emma is still left sick at the top of the stairs. Do none of these people understand about proper civilized behavior?!

"Elizabeth. I do apologize, dear, but I have a need to get down these stairs. Do you think you could perhaps permit my passage, since I am unable to /fly/, or swing on stretching tentacles like other residents?" Emma inquires. Oh, the snark floweth.


"No, that's… that's fine," Betsy says with dry British sarcasm as first Jean, then Scott and Derrik vault over her. She flings her hands into the air in disdain. "Pardon me for causing any inconvenience to you fine individuals. Bloody Yanks," she growls, driving a few more brads into place with too-heavy swings of the framing hammer.

At Emma's question, though, Betsy slowly narrows her amethyst eyes at her friend, and rather dramatically points from her eyes to Emma and back again, though she ruins it with the bare hint of a smile that few people in her company would properly identify as such. "Fine. I'll just set this all aside for now, anyway. I could use a fresh beverage." She sets the hammer aside and strips off her gloves, then offers a hand to Emma. It's nowhere near as effortlessly graceful as the way Jean hop/floats down the steps, but she brings herself and Miss Frost over the missing steps and floating down to the base of the stairwell.

"Jean, dear, are you making bloaty carbs for breakfast, or preparing real food?" Betsy calls, following the flow of traffic towards the kitchen area.


Once the items she needs were manually set aside, Jean hits the fridge. The hub bub of the talk of Derrick, Scott, Betsy and Emma in the background of her little humming creates a nice atmosphere for the woman as she busies herself like a true Suzie Homemaker. Bacon was soon tugged from the fridge, and a few sausages, eggs and all of the fixings coupled with mixing bowls.. spoons.. frying pans. Even a swath of fruit was set aside for a smoothie, or yogurt if anyone preferred, the bumble bouncing of the redhead possibly something highly annoying to those of a deeper brood.

It was all just for show, anyways. Happy thoughts, happy mind, happy atmosphere..

"What? Of course. Though one would only need to worry about carbs if one intends to loaf around all day and proclaim tea time at high noon." Her own snark was there, but she doesn't turn around from behind busy. Butter was in the pan, so was the bacon and everything else. She was starting to smoke and sizzle, for sure.


Elizabeth gets a rueful smirk at her offhand remark about Americans. Fortunately, Jean is quite more adept at the return fire than he, so he merely follows her into the kitchen.

"Alright, Derrik, that's all," he says, dismissing the young man from their company with a gesture. "And no more swinging around the mansion! Christ. You're not Tarzan, and I sure as hell am not Jane." He shakes his head as the young man departs. "Children." He glances Emma's way, offering, "I'd have thought to give him a lesson in manners, but I don't believe any of us want to be swinging around with tentacles wrapped around us."

Least of all Emma Grace Frost.

At the smells coming from the kitchen, Scott smirks. He goes for a glass of water, asking, "Drinks, anyone?"


Most certainly NOT Emma Grace Frost. The paragon of manners accepts Elizabeth's hand and steps lightly, carefully around and over the mess, even daintily toeing the carpet at the bottom of the stairs to clean away anything that may have clung to her pristinely white high heels. She will wait for a private moment to clean her hand. "Thank you kindly, Elizabeth." she offers, eyeing Scott and Jean as they approach the kitchen.

"One needs worry about carbs, Ms. Grey, if one has no intention of gaining empty pounds. And only an American with no sense would declare tea time at noon. Does Charles teach you nothing?" Oh, Emma's snark will be in rare form, to be sure.

"I can prepare tea, Mister Summers. I would not wish to put anyone out any further." Emma is already staying in a guest room. Isn't that enough of an imposition? Besides, these people likely have no idea how to properly brew tea, and Elizabeth would need to wash her hands first. Pardon her if she also takes the time to stare intently at Jean, wondering what it is the woman is playing at; she can already tell that this domestic tranquility is but a paper-thin veneer over much more turbulent thoughts. Surely a telepath of the redhead's caliber would know that?


The bite marks- which don't remotely resemble the fun kind- draw a concerned eye from Betsy, and she shifts her gaze to Scott, then to Emma. A minute twitch of head head, shoulder lifting and falling slightly.

Still, it's a nice enough day, and Betsy's riding high on the endorphins from exercise and the satisfying reward of building something real and durable. "Carbs are evil," Betsy says stubbornly, sliding onto a stool and stretching her arms languidly out on the counter to relax her shoulders, head almost touching the cool countertop. "Would you please throw two of those banger- er, sausages, onto that skillet dear?" Betsy says, sniffing the scent of butter sizzling. "And yes, Scott, thank you. I think I've some diet soda in the fridge." Of course she does. Betsy has soda squirreled away in every refridgerator the X-ers own. She rolls sideways and rests her elbow on the counter, propping her head up with her fist on her ear.

"Brian skyped in yesterday," she says, sourly. "Again. Columbia offered to let him pursue his doctorate here in the States. He's seriously contemplating moving here."


Jean takes a step back from the stove as everything continues to fry, her mind working upon the spatula to allow it to move as she will, the fruit soon attended to so that her smoothie could be made. "I'll take water for now, Slim." Jean murmurs, her back still turned towards the rest as her head lifts and she grows completely still.

A glance over her shoulder at Emma is given, a frown marking upon her face as she turns yet again, drawing in a breath to let loose a few hums to put on the aire of working. Why, she even lifts the sausage from it's package to put the appropriately named bangers into their own skillet to not mix the taste. Or grease.

"Charles has taught me a lot but not much about tea time at high noon." She grins a little, though it was half-hearted.. for through the ethers that flow within the room she began to roam. Part of her.. per usual.

-There is always that little corner of awareness in a psychics mind, Jean effectively taps into that because there was no diamond form to block the transmission. It would come in as light static, a voice flickering and fading in after a few test runs of the name of whom she's addressing. 'Emma.' *static* 'Emma, Emma Frost. I do notice when someone pries. Back in England, you've done the same. Very light. And that stare carries more weight than you know.'-


"Please." Scott shakes his head at Emma, and commences with the proper preparation of tea. Charles did, in fact, teach him; being what equates to his foster father, he knows quite well how to properly prepare it. "I insist."

(The writer has no clue, so, we shall gloss past the details.)

"Anyone else?" he asks, before retrieving the soda from the fridge while giving Emma's tea time to steep. He's also noticed the bite marks; he knows Jean well enough to allow her to tell the tale on her own, should she wish to do so.

Soon enough, water is provided for Jean as well, and Emma's tea is taken. "One lump or two?" he inquires, trying to hide a small smirk. Odds are, Emma isn't familiar with the artistic creations of Def Leppard.


~ Yes, Jean? ~ Emma responds, her mental voice crystal clear, direct, crisp and cold, without even a hint of emotion to the psychic connection. It's rather unlike anyone else's telepathic communication, to be sure. ~ It is not prying, Jean, to be keenly aware of another's truth, however she might choose to hide it. Were I prying, I would already know /why/ it is you are hiding your true feelings. ~ And Emma does not pry, though doing so is the most natural thing in the world to her. She does not pry, because she made a promise to Jean. A wordless promise offered to an unconscious woman who could no longer be sure of her own name and identity. She will keep that promise, even when no one else even knows it was made.

"No lumps at all, Mister Summers. I believe Elizabeth prefers hers with one lump, and no cream." Emma offers the ruby-glassed man. If she is shocked he knows how to make tea, she does not show it. But she probably is; she so often finds fault with what Charles has managed to teach folks here. She has well earned the reputation she carries around this place.

"Just because he intends to cross the Pond does not mean he will foist himself upon you, Elizabeth. Surely you can tolerate the man being within the same timezone without such great drama?" Emma admonishes her purple-haired, purple-eyed friend, despite knowing how hard it is for Betsy to deal with her brother at times. She cannot help the light ribbing, as it is in her nature. "No other visitations, I do hope?" she inquires, curiously, before daring to sip the tea.


"No, because he's a great, wanking poncy /git/," Betsy moans theatrically and sprawls bonelessly onto the counter again, banging her forehead softly against the granite. She folds her arms up and rests her chin on her forearms, scowling. "He was a terrible nerdling until he got to uni and discovered protein shakes and the weight room. Then suddenly, it's 'Betsy, take me with you to the club.' 'Betsy, introduce me to your friend Meggan.'" The purple-haired Brit pulls a face. "Then my phone is constantly blowing up with my gelfriends asking me for his number or wanting me to find out about his favorite TV shows so they can stalk him." She glares at Emma, eyes narrowing. "You are /not/ allowed to fall in love with him," she says, with an uncharacteristic stubbornness and irrationality.

"And no, no new visits," she says, forcing her irritation aside and shoving a straw back and forth across the counter before folding it against her thumbnail. "Though Brian's arrival might count as a portent of doom."


Ravager has at least been keeping busy, and keeping busy means keeping paid as well as out of trouble(ish). An off day brings her to Xavier's to check on friends and this Uncanny family of sorts that has adopted her. How to find them?

Follow your nose, and arriving through the doors with Nate already has her passing the lounge and heaading for the more private kitchen where students wont get an ear ir eye full. Some things bleach will not even undo, just burn more.

Heavy boots carry her silently through the hall and into the kitchen of grease and merry tea time. Hip thrusts to the side and presses against the door and fingers flick to push it open and out of her and Nate's way, but having that air of ready to flee if they come upon a mess deserving of aforementioned bleach.

"Okay, just tea and a little bit of Chicky-fried. Clear." She states after that mismatched gaze flicks from one to the next with a small nod.


- Perhaps the same reasons you do, Emma. We all know that this cold exterior that you constantly put forth.. no. I know that the cold exterior that you often put forth is not truly who you really are. -

The glass of water was taken from Scott as Jean turns to take a sip, her eyes dancing towards the three with an uprisen brow. "Personally, I rather like Brian. He's not all that bad." Jean admits, taking those few steps forward to rest a hand upon the counter top, finishing up the water to lay it there as she watches Scott and his.. making of tea.

The flapjacks were soon flipped, the cabinent doors fly open as plates begin to filter themselves along the row. The fruit was left alone for now, and soon the eggs were cracked and spilt onto a clean pan. And more plates were added to the row.. as well as more food..

"Honestly Elizabeth, your brother is fine. I think he'd be a joy to have around." It was then that Jean slides up next towards Scott to give him a slight hip bump. "You two would get along great."

Rose's arrival with met with a glance and a lift of her hand to wave her and Nathaniel in. Take a seat, have some breakfast. But no beer. Not today.


Nate has been keeping busy, but that doesn't mean he gets paid much, if ever. He could do better as a stage magician, because he is good and his powers make him amazing. But 'Nate the Great' career never quite takes off as he often has to deal with mutant problems or gets shot at inconvenient moments.

Good thing he has no need for money. And a high-paid mercenary girlfriend. And the school cafeteria. And then mansion kitchen fridge to raid. That was his plan. He didn't expect a crowd, honestly. "Folks," he greets with half a smile, and looking for the coffee pot. "Hmm… not interrupting a plotting teacher session, I hope?"


The platinum blonde offers a telepathic snort of derision towards the redhead. ~ Then you 'know' something quite false, Jean. I am precisely this cold, and all the better for it. ~ That would be two lumps of denial, please, with that tea. No warmth, humanity or human kindness to be found in Emma Frost, damnit. None! No weakness shall be tolerated!

Emma makes a face of mock if utter horror. "Elizabeth Braddock. I have no intention whatsoever of indulging in your self-destructive fantasies by mooning over your brother. Neither of them is my type, thank you very much." Emma offers to the purple-haired asian Brit, with a tone that implies Betsy of all people should have known better. Damnit.

The door to the kitchen opens, and Emma glances up, nodding to Nathaniel and Rose. "Hello. Tea, anyone? It seems Mister Summers can actually make a passable cup, color me shocked." Yes, she just volunteered Scott's services. Wanna make something of it?


Betsy's response has Scott lifting an eyebrow from behind his glasses. She had never said much about her brother when they were together; based on her response, it's no wonder why.

Ravager's arrival serves as a decent distraction from impending awkwardness. "Sugar? Cream?" he asks her, ready to prepare her tea. "Good to see you two," he tells her and Nate. "Things are going well, I hope?" In preparing to fix more tea, there is a burning desire to know more about this elusive brother of Betsy's, but that would be just plain rude. "Thank you," he instead says to Emma. "Charles taught me well."


"Good, because don't," Betsy scowls at Emma. "Because… he /sucks/," she says finally, dropping her chin back onto her forearms.

"Hullo Rose, Nate," Betsy says, glancing sidelong without moving her head. "We're not plotting anything, though you can relay this moment to the reporters when they ask where I went wrong," she says moodily, still angrily destroying the spare straw against her thumbnail. She does finally look at Rose and Nate and forces a bit of backbone into her posture. "My dear brother Brian is coming to visit America to see if he wants to accept a position at Columbia to finish his doctoral studies. I'm contemplating the merits of fratricide. Thoughts?" she asks Rose.


- And the skies run red with the blood of our enemies and unicorns shit rainbows that we can eat off of ice cream cone stalks that play merry little tunes embedded at the hilt, right? - Jean has Emma's number, possibly had it all along since she's first met the woman. It was then that her end of all conversations were dropped, turning to begin to manually shove food upon the plate with an ease that would resemble an experts touch.

After all, it is deemed a nearly true fact that you eat with your eyes first and not with your mouth. "Right. Scott, we need to have a discussion later." Possibly about the bite marks. Or possibly about laundry, she's done it for weeks now, it's so totally his turn.

Each plate was given to those present, save for Emma, who's plate requires something of a finesse, which she soon gets to by the grasp of the knife from it's place and a turn from them all to begin chopping fruit. And humming. By the gods she's singing quietly again.


Scott leaping for their arrival has Rose's brow rising, a suspicious glance passed to Nate with a quick snap of her head in that tilt that has a white and black braided lock slapping along her cheek. "No, I think something worse is going on here. My common sense is tingling." Wary gaze then snaps to Betsy… Emma…. A leer to Jean and then back. The release on the door to follow Nate's casual lead is a sliding one where even the door closes with a whisper. Jean and Scott were safer so she makes for their boxing corner of this… whatever it is.

"Oh, coffee, please." Brake screech! Yes, coffee. Not a real tea sorta gal and with the way Nate went to scavenging she was assuming ditto for him. Not yet sitting, Rose waits, leaning on the counter nearest only to catch the inquiry Betsy drops and she easily picks that up.

"My brother I last ran into took my eye and I took his life."


Nate will accept tea, and coffee, and beer. Really, he is easy to please. But since Rose picked coffee, he will busy himself brewing a fresh pot. It allows him avoid table, and sitting. He prefers to wander, see?

"Yes, all is going well," he replies to Scott. Which is strange and won't last. "A brother, hmm?" That for Betsy. "Well…" glance to Rose. "I better don't say anything about family. It always ends up weirdly."


Emma eyes Jean, one platinum blonde sculpted eyebrow arched curiously. It's an eloquent 'what the f***?' all rolled into an expression. Who needs telepathy for that? As for having her number? Clearly not. Please.

"Elizabeth. Calm yourself. Your brother visiting, or even living in the New York area, is not somehow the end of your world." Emma accepts her plate when offered, eyeing it long and hard. Then she heads for a safe place to set it down and actually fastidiously eat its contents, while eating /around/ all those nasty carbohydrates. Because that's just how it is. "Family can be an exceptionally touchy subject." Emma certainly never discusses hers.


"Okay, one vote for fratricide. Thank you, Rose," Betsy says, spreading her fingers and looking around the room for more voices of support. Not hearing anyone else rallying to Rose's opinion, she curls her lip into a moue and looks askance at Rose, then has her attention diverted by her meal- sausage in butter- passed to her. "Thank you, Jean, dear," she says, cutting in with a fork and knife and taking politely restrained bites.

She looks like she's about to speak more, but then catches Emma's tones of remonstration and glances around the room. Estranged brother, only child, estranged sibilings, /very/ estranged siblings, sole survivor of temporal displacement and hanging out with his/not his parents.

"He's still a git," Betsy mutters into her meal, but mercifully drops the subject about complaining in regards to her very alive and actually not terrible sibiling.


Scott turns to look at Jean, nodding his head. "Alright. Thanks for making food," he adds. "Carbs or no, it's always nice when someone else does the dirty work."

Rose's about face from tea to coffee has him switching gears, but when Nate goes to prepare the coffee, he relents. The conversation is… well, it's odd, and he has the distinct impression that he's missing a big portion of it.

"So, who's excited about football season?"


More like dead siblings. Dead family. Dead everything.

Jean glances up towards Emma just in time to catch the raise of her brow, a smirk drawing upon her lips which soon dissolves into laughter. She shakes her head, then turns to gather the pancakes upon the tray to lay them out for the taking. Syrup optional, it's up to the eater. As Nate begins to brew the coffee and others talk about their family, Jean glances back towards Scott with a smile and a shrug of her shoulders. "Always glad to. Now eat. You're not a robot." A plate was fixed and soon pushed towards Scott, and soon Jean takes a perch to have her own, drawing her plate closer and begins to eat as well, silent.


The silence could be blamed on the food, but it really was all the fact that the food had some damn good timing. Nice one, Jean. Damn telepath probably /knew/.

The look from Betsy has Rose returning a gallic shrug, only lowering her hands to take the plate and set it beside her, waiting for the butter to come to pass but passing on the syrup. Instead the pancakes are the pieces of bread and everything gets shoved in between. She works off her calories easily, so counting them is not a 'thing'.

"So we all got some kind of messed up familial line I take it. Wishing them dead, making them dead. Eh," Rose makes a waffling gesture in the air with one hand.

"I'd rather punch my boyfriends mother-ish during super bowl and set the theme. Seahawks are going to nail it. Or Pirates, because… Ya know. One eye." Ravager states, offering poor Scott a wink and a twisted smirk.

"Last year was fun."


"Football? Really, Summers?" Emma quips, eyeing the man. He cannot be serious. Does ridiculousness rub off on these people? Is it in the damn water? "Thank you, kindly, Jean." Emma offers politely, after she has consumed some of her fruit in typically fastidious fashion. The woman does make almost everything she does into a production.


Nate sweeps by the table to steal pancakes and gives Scott an amused glance. Three telepaths in the room with him, of course he was missing half the conversation(s). Pretty tense stuff for a minute, his empathic senses were tingling, or something.

"Family might be a dangerous subject around here," he agrees, "but we can choose it, so we have to share the pain, hmm? Is he your younger or older brother, Bets? And is he a mutant or should try to pass a normal when he visits?"


"Oooh, yes yes yes! Do that!" Betsy says to Rose, tapping her palms excitedly on the countertop and bouncing in her seat. "I haven't seen her get into proper scrape for years," she says, a sly glance getting sent Jean's direction.

Nate's question makes her grimace, though, and she heaves a slightly melodramatic sigh. "Brian is /five minutes/ older than me, and he makes a point of telling everyone that within thirty seconds of meeting them. And he's not a mutant, no, but he knows all about me, about the Institute," she says with a vague handwave. "He /looks/ like a mutant, that musclebound oaf- he and Piotr must hit the same gymnasium. He's very involved in mutant activism in the UK, though, so no- don't feel like you have to hide anything when he comes to visit. Charles met him once at Columbia and liked him," she mutters, "for /some/ reason, and anyway, he's a welcome guest here." She takes another bite of the sausage and chews heavily, then drains back her cola with a few quick chugs.

There was a solid 'tsk' gone to Rose and Nate, her head shaking ever so slightly as she glances down at her plate. Jean keeps it quiet, piecing out a bit of her pancakes to munch upon, the fork soon pointed towards Betsy. "I've gotten into too many scrapes and mostly by your doing. I think I've had about enough of that now." She shrugs her shoulders. "Besides, who else is going to take over Scott's classes when he goes on another one of his high slash low profile missions and disappear for a time." Small jabs, all playful. Jean didn't mean it, really.

"And you're welcome, Emma." Beat. "Besides, you're a guest here. Even though it would be nice if you'd make at least some part of this your permanent home, Ms. Frost." And then she intently stares. Game. Set. Match.


Emma is happily eating her fruit with fastidious care. And then Jean drops that wordbomb, and the blonde pauses, cantelope on her frk as she eyes the redhead, only barely avoiding the bug-eyed freak-out those words deserve.

"What are you talking about, Jean? You cannot possibly think it would be a good idea that /I/ come live /here/?" Who the Hell would think Emma living at the Institute would be a good idea? Every time one of her servants shows up - driver, assistant at the office, personal chef, whatever - she disrupts the school. And if she lived here, it would happen /all the time/. Jean must be insane, surely. Or far too optimistic for anyone's good or health.


"Thanks," Scott says, taking his plate and leaning over to plant a kiss on Jean's cheek. "Your cooking. Always does the trick." He snaps off a peace of bacon and munches, smiling.

"Or no family," Scott mentions to Rose. "Save for all of you." A brief pause, before he eyes Ravager with a bit of speculation. "Seahawks, huh?"

Without missing a beat, he swings his head around to Emma. "Yes. American football. It's an incredibly important facet of our culture, just as 'proper football' is to yours. In fact, I am considering forming a school team. It would be a good challenge to train the students how to not only control, but not rely on their powers." A pause, so that he may have a bite of food and swallow. "Also, the team building and strategic aspects of football will be important for students who hope to some rah become X-Men."


Jean's remark is casually ignored.


And on that note! Rose knew she should have stayed in the soorway and backed away slowly like you do to a bear eyeing you down. Never turn your back to it, just back off and walk sideways until you are in the clear. Rose drops her pan-which down onto her plate, sucks a bit of the juices off a thumb with emphasis and begins towards the door. "Most people get in the shit by their own doing and no one should cover their asses for it." A glance from Jean, to Scott and then the door.

"Though if a guest stays beyond a week they should at least start taking out the trash or walking the pets." Yes to the latter Rose meant the children. Hence why she moved the heck out! Owe no one nothing and not get those looks so frequently. They looked like a mix between Littlest Pet Shop bobble heads and Bratz Dolls from the Halloween collection… And she was not ready to be a role model by intent or accident.

"I'm just… Going to go punch some things. not Jean. It isn't last year anymore." A clearing of her throat and Rose tilts her head at Nate and then slips out. She was so not about to get involved in a shit storm she only knew the fifth of.


Nate chomps downs his waffles like a starving wolf. Someone has to compensate the cosmic balance for all that careful and artful eating, and surviving in the Age of Apocalypses produces barbarians.

He pauses when Jean mentions both Scott classes and Emma moving in, though. "I have an idea. Next time Scott gets jailed Frost should take over his classes," he offers with a smirk. "Coffee is ready," he adds, pouring a mug for Rose and another for himself. Then adding an alarming amount of sugar to his mug. "Hrm… where is she going. The waffles are not outside… damn girl," but he follows her anyway.


Emma eyes Scott. "I am not from Europe, for all some days I wish I were, Summers. I just have no use for such Neanderthal foolishness as professional sports, American football or anything else." She isn't impressed by such easy paltitudes as 'team-building' either. What tripe!


Betsy sighs heavily. "Thank you," she says, giving Rose and Jean a prim look. "I was going for a delicate approach, but no, I think kludging right at the problem like a cave-dweller is probably the right tact." She flicks her nails into the air, eyes rolling skyward. "Oh, you two might as just well stay," Betsy tells Nate and Rose. "It wouldn't be family without someone sticking their foot in their mouth."

She exhales and looks at Emma then shrugs. "Yes. We actually think it /would/ be good for you to stay here," Betsy tells Emma. "You've some talent for instruction. Heavens knows you're well enough disciplined in psychology and business management," she adds. "You've been a strong asset for our teams in the field, too, and we're seeing the world becoming a scarier and scarier place," she points out. "Mutants need to stick together. If out of practicality, if not desire," Betsy says. A smart play- appeal to Emma's practical side. "We can look after one another here. Shore up our weaknesses, reinforce our strengths. None of us are as strong as all of us," she says, glancing around the room.


"Yes, but not all of us are from the states," Scott reminds Emma. "Further, while I can… appreciate your distaste for such 'Neanderthal' foolishness, football is something a lot of these kids can relate to." He pauses to take in some more food, then nods his assertion with the others' opinions. "Yes, I think it would be quite agreeable if you chose to make your stay more permanent." He's not going to weigh in on his particular opinions thereof, but Emma certainly does bring something to the mix that, well, nobody else can.


Rose pauses at Psylocke's statement, one hand rising to cock her thumb and in a shooting gesture the middle finger rises. "That explains your fancy for shoe purchases, but not much else. May want to rethink that."

This the reason she wanted out, because being caught up in a crossfire she has played no part in is not her gig. Rose is not known for fighting the fight of the ignorant!

The kiss was well received with a lean and a light touch to his cheek, Jean finishing off her food in record time, neatly of course, but record time and leaving not a bit left. Her plate was soon pushed aside for her to clean later, napkin taken up so casually as she gives a lift of an eye towards Emma, and a lean forward, once her face was right as rain. For the most part. "I mean every bit of it." Take that, Emma!

Napkin though, was laid atop of her plate as Rose and Nate take leave, it was her turn to do so herself but first a stride to the fridge was taken, door open, bottle of water grasped, and on. As most seemingly agree about making Emma stay, her job at possibly pissing the blonde off is done. And with a grin, she turns, untwisting the cap upon her bottle. "It's decided. I'll talk to Charles to see if he has any designs on your placement. A nice spartan room. With a window view." She stops before Scott to plant a kiss upon his cheek before she takes her exit. She was going to go work out. And possibly do something with her -now poofy hair-.

Damn lady looks like she was caught in a high powered fan..


Emma looks between the others, rather frankly agog, despite that she is far too outwardly controlled to ever show any of that. They cannot possibly be serious. Clearly, they've all had a psychotic break. Emma Frost at the school? "I am the CEO of a multi-billion dollar multinational conglomerate. And you people want me to just move in here?" It's odd, really. She started her association with Elizabeth with the intent of becoming more closely connecte with the X-Men, because she saw what was coming. But she never anticipated /this/. This … caring. How revolting!

"I have no idea what any of you are thinking. This seems patently ridiculous. I am terrible enough as a guest, here. No one needs that disruption to become some sort of regular thing. Let's just deal with the apparitions, and then we can all get back to some degree of sanity in our insane world." Because Emma will not admit to any actual desire to help train the next generation of mutants. That's preposterous. STOP LOOKING AT HER LIKE THAT!


"Yes, take /that/ tone, Rose. Very helpful." Betsy's jaw sets a familiar tic as Rose and Nate take their leave and Jean flounces off, leaving Emma, Scott, and Betsy with a lapful of snide remarks and the situation still in front of them.

"Oh, Emma, just stop," Betsy says, wearily. "You're an awful guest, but bad guests can make decent flatmates. It's just about a bit of propriety and respect for boundaries. There's no great secret to getting on with roommates," she points out.

"More to the point, as intolerable as you can be, at times, we all have our flaws," she points out. "No one here is anyone else's idea of 'perfect'. But as a whole, as a group, we help raise these children. We all take over in little bits and pieces. It takes a village, as the saying goes. Some children have a knack for art, some for turning wrenches. Some could go on to be billionaires themselves someday," she observes. "But only if they have the insight and training to take advantage of those opportunities when and if they present themselves. Many of us came up the hard way— the generation following can avoid repeating a great deal of the mistakes we blundered through. And we can give them a sense of family such as many of us never had."


Emma looks at Betsy, not interrupting. That would be rude. Instead, she just listens, keeping most of her frown of distaste off of her features. "Very well, Elizabeth. I cannot help thinking you mad, and Jean twice as much so for thinking any of this is a good idea. But if this is truly what you want, what you think would be best, I will consider it." That's about as positive as she can be, considering. Which isn't very, and she knows it. But that's how it is. "If that is all, I should go. I have meetings to deal with this morning. I'll return after the lunch hour. I can be reached by phone if I am needed."


Betsy rises to meet Emma, holding a hand out just enough to slow her down before she can go. "I'm possibly certifiable, yes," Betsy agrees candidly. "But it would mean…" She twists two fingers together, keeping her face otherwise composed. "I won't pressure you into it, Emma," Betsy reminds her friend. "Or harangue you over the point. I'm following my instinct- and my instinct says you'd find a way to make this mansion a place where you feel as comfortable as your penthouse."

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