What Can Go Wrong?

February 27, 2016:

Betsy comes with comfort food!

Jean's Office


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Charles Xavier, Scott Summers


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

It's not purely coincidence, but it's also not strictly something psychic. Sometimes the girls just know. Jean's had her convenient arrivals during Betsy's crises, and Betsy's arrived in the nick of time to help Jean off the floor.

So without any preamble, Betsy strides into Jean's office and closes the door behind her with a swivel of her hips. Dressed in her tunic top, black leggings, and black calf-high stiletto boots, she's defying the chill of spring without sacrificing appearances.

"I sensed a disturbance in the Force," she tells Jean, holding up a plastic grocery bag. She produces two pint-sized containers of high-end gelato. "Emergency supplies. You want hazlenut mocha or raspberry cream?" she asks, putting them both in Jean's reach.

A spoon's offered as well, and Betsy moves to the high-backed reading chair she always gravitates to and sits sideways in it, legs crossing and draping over the arm. "What'd Charles have to say?" she inquires, uncapping the ice cream and digging into it with a spoon.

The first thing that would probably hit Betsy's nose as she enters is the scent of the tropics. Flowery and fruity flavors that a person could quite literally taste upon the tongue which was emitted by the oil burner that sits right upon the middle of her desk. Her eyes were closed even as Elizabeth enters, fingers steepled as she leans back within her chair, almost as if she were a true 'working' boss who had the weight of the world upon her shoulders.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.. wears the crown..

But her arrival was met with a pop open of one eye followed by the other, a certain stillness and then release. A smile soon etches across her face as she allows herself that moment to relax. Good, good timing. It was always impeccable. "Raspberry cream." She states. It was -that- serious. She was going for the sweet, not the not so sweet. The grocery bag was peeled back and the spoon taken, immediately popped into her mouth as she unwraps both containers, the raspberry cream taken almost immediately, lid popped off, spoon dug in and promptly eaten.

"Not much." She admits finally after swallowing. "But a lot all at once." She takes another dip of the spoon, three bites in succession. "He knows."

"Of course he does," Betsy says, without a trace of irony in her tone. "It's Charles. I assume at all times he knows everything we're doing. It's safer that way." The ice cream is ridiculously, even indolently rich— one of Betsy's low-carb nightmares that's incredibly good but high-calorie.

"Was he terribly crossed?" she asks, eyelashes dropping as she stares at the muddy swirls of the ice cream. Suspecting that Charles knows about illicit activity is one thing, but being confronted by his patrician disapproval is another. No one likes being the butt of Charles' objections to actvity. She shaves a spoonful of ice cream and sticks it on her tongue, sucking the spoon clean.

Jean nods slightly, "Yes. One of the greatest minds on the planet and I nearly almost told Scott to 'not tell Charles'." She grins just a little, then takes another scoop, smacking her lips unceremoniously. It was something she wouldn't do in others company, Elizabeth was probably the only exception.

"Crossed? I believe so. As much as Charles tried to hide his disapproval of it all, but he made it clear that this was something he did not want. That it did not fit the dream of his bill. He likened it to something of Magneto's creed or the Brotherhood." She stabs the spoon into the top of the gelato, then leans back. "And he's right. Charles and I share the same dream, but on the other hand, he admitted that there may come a time when we're at that crossroads of having but no choice but to take a life. And how we may find ourselves there."

Her lips purse a little, nose wrinkling. "Though, at the end of the day, the decision rests with me to figure out what to do with it all. In my hands. If this is something that needs to continue or not, and I have to tell you, I'd rather swim through sharks than to make this decision."

Betsy winces sympathetically, and scoops up another bite of ice cream. "That… hits a bit uncomfortably low," she admits in a mutter, scowl tugging at her smooth brow. "But we're not exactly taking unilateral action against humans alone," she reminds Jean, waggling the silvered spoon at the redhead. "And we're not waging a war, either. Surgical operations only," she repeats, stubbornly. "One target, one kill, in and out. No fuss. The whole point is to not attract attention, and we're very good at that." She turns her spoon over and puts more ice cream on her tongue, letting it melt rather than chewing on it, one foot bobbing lazily in the air.

"Yes. I understand that." Jean retorts. It wasn't an unkind tone, but gentle. "Humans and mutants and metas. Anyone who seeks to harm humankind in the most detestable way possible. The ones that go hidden and not shown in the light because whatever they do is in the dark and it's simply terrifying." She takes the spoon out of her gelato. "I know." She shaves a thin grove into the already creviced top.

"Stop reading my mind." Jean points out. "There is already someone snooping. Charles made it clear that a point of contact needs to be made with Director Fury post haste. At least to get ahead of things I believe. Before the DEO come sniffing around the premises. Cut them off at the head, as it were. But there is also something he mentioned that I'm just a touch worried about."

"What's that?" Betsy spoons up more ice cream, listening more than she's talking. Jean's trying to get something off her chest— Betsy brought spare ears and ice cream, which is really all that one can do in this situation. And she's even making a good go of not being twitchily impatient, despite the bobbing of her pointed toe in the air.

"Charles is having a minor hiccup in Ibiza. With the negotiations in regards to Genosha's treatment of metahumans and mutants. Something inside of me is screaming at me about it all, yet there is another facet of me that tells me to let Charles handle it as best he know how. Perhaps there's something we can do for him in that regard." She smiles faintly. "It was a quick mention, a brush. But it wouldn't kill us to try to see if there's anything we could do to help. And not tell Charles, even though I'm sure he already knows." A grin was there, but then it fades completely.

"But first. Advice." She draws the spoon out to hang into her mouth for a moment. "X-Black.."

Nope. That's it. Betsy's patience runs out and she rolls her eyes, dramatically going limp in the chair. Her head lolls behind her, a few long tendrils of her purple hair dangling to the ground. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

"We've beaten this completely to death, Jean," Betsy says, forcing her head upright to look at the redhead. "There's nothing to say. Charles doesn't approve of what we're doing. We knew he wouldn't. But he's also not down in the thick of it with us, is he?" she points out. "I know he's got this grand design and a scheme, but he either needs to let us in on it or accept what we're doing as a variable. Either way, I'm not going to stand by while butchers and monsters run loose waiting for the SRD or SHIELD or whomever to decide they're a 'threat' worth responding to."

"No. He's not down in the thick of it, but he's out there. Fighting the best way that -HE- can. You know that. We all know that. Politics is a game that we dare not play because we also have to tend to home." She rocks back and forth in her chair, one leg crossing over the other. "He accepts it. But he will not support it. Cast it away, do without it. Everything ignored on his end maybe and a stern look of disappointment and probably rejection. I don't know Eli."

"And I know you're not going to. With the stuff that crops up every day, something's gotta give." She sighs slightly, her hand rubbing along her cheek, nails flicking against the skin of it.. the usual. "Then here and now. I'll make a quick change." She waits for it by leaning upright, removing the spoon from the gelato to place the top upon it. Spoon following.

"I'll never ask you to be Headmistress again. X-Black becomes X-Factor because X-Black makes you guys sound like an X-Man hitsquad funded by the government. And even though I don't agree to this at all, I don't think there's a choice because I've been exposed at all sides and I can understand -why- there is a need. So full disclosure from here on out no matter how much I cry at night about it." A little joke given then and there but it was brushed aside.

"Any terms?"

Betsy's brows lift and fall, holding a palm outstretched towards the floor at the words 'never again'. "Sold," she agrees, immediately. "As long as I'm not sitting in that seat anymore. If I had to deal with one more order of toilet paper, I was going to scream." She swings her feet around and sits upright in the chair, folding her knees together and angling them demurely to the side.

"I know that it's at odds with Xavier's vision," Betsy reminds Jean, her tone gentling in the face of Jean's agitation. "But doing nothing— that's at odds with -my- vision. And Rose's. And Nate's. And… well, Lunair," she trails off, eyes rolling expressively, "who knows what she's thinking. But I just— after seeing some of what's happened to mutants, and to families and sympathizers. I can't in good conscience sit by." She quirks the side of her mouth down in a suggestion of a frown. "I know you…don't approve," she exhales, admitting that Jean's disapproval stings.

Sold. That settles it. X-Force was now in motion and the others had to come to terms with it or not. That was out of her hands at this point. She does smile sullenly though, shaking her head a little, her fingers rubbing at the bridge of her nose before closed eyes as she sighs. "That doesn't mean you don't have my support." Jean offers up, it wasn't a half-hearted notion either. That alone causes her to rise from her seat to cross the way to Elizabeth's favorite chair, using a knee to knock hers aside gently so that she could at least get in where she fits to snake arms around her friend. "I'll always be there. You know that."

The chair is juuust wide enough for both of them, and the wraparound back helps keep folks from spilling out. Betsy reaches up obligingly and wraps her arms around Jean's waist with a reflexive companionship, undiminished by their years of friendship. She goes to curl her legs up and with an eyeroll, reaches down to unzip her boots and kick them off. Hose-wrapped toes point back as she curls her ankles onto the chair seat, leaving Jean room to dangle her legs off the side. "It'll all be all right, darling," Betsy assures Jean, looking up at her. She flashes a rare, brilliant smile, amethyst eyes bright. "We'll always have each other, failing all else. As long as we've got that, what can go wrong? Yes?" she asks, philosophically.

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