a_sloane

Emma was dressed in white, of course.

White trousers, with wide legs, and her favorite white kitten-heeled Jimmy Choos. A white blazer, with a camisole such a light blue it looked white, shimmering just with a hint of icy color.

She recognized Sloane at once. Distinguished and unflappable, looking far too elegant for the restaurant. Or the middle of the day, for that matter. Smiling, Emma turned towards Scott.

"That's Mr. Sloane, over there," she said quietly, making her way to the table.

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Catching the man's eye, Scott gave a nod in his direction, and held two fingers up to the waiter to indicate that they would be joining Sloane's part.

"You're good with taking lead on this, right? I think he likes you. Just -- ahh, don't give him the wrong idea?"

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"Scott," Emma said, rolling her eyes, but she smiled at him briefly. "I hardly think Sloane would get the wrong idea."

She approached the table and held out her hand. "Mr. Sloane. Arvin. It is so very good to see you again."

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The last time Sloane had seen Emma Frost had been at a charity event, at a distance, but that combination of striking looks and elegance would have been unmistakable even if he hadn't researched her since they got in contact. Scott Summers he only knew from photographs and the newsclips around the time Charles Xavier had told the world about his school, but visual recognition was easy, in his case. There was something unexpectedly familiar in the body language, though. A man with very controlled movements, lips pressed together, taking in the place like a tactician, one step behind the beautiful woman whom one underestimated at one's peril: impossible not to think of Jack and Irina.

Sloane rose and took Emma's hand, returning her smile. If she scanned him, she might have caught something of the complicated tangle of emotions that were tied to Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko before he pushed the thought away, but his demeanour showed nothing but interest and delight at the arrival of two potential employers.

"She walks in beauty," he replies, borrowing Byron. "It's a privilege, Emma."

A handshake, as opposed to kissing her hand; this is a business meeting, more than a social encounter, and a mutual test of sorts. He lets her hand go and turns towards her companion.

"You're a lucky man, Mr. Summers."

Arvin Sloane is old fashioned enough not to use people's first names without invitation, unless he wants to imply a certain hierarchy with himself as the higher ranking party, or is adopting another persona.

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"Scott. Please." He amends, giving Sloane his hand. With a glance at Emma, he says. "And I know I'm lucky. She reminds me all the time."

He smiles at Emma, as he pulls out her chair, and he makes a point of casually touching her shoulder as she sits. Despite Emma's protestations, he isn't entirely sure that Sloane doesn't have the wrong idea about her, and at the same time he knows that it's dumb macho posturing, he can't entirely help giving off these small signs of -- well, Emma would kick him for thinking it, but for lack of a better word -- ownership.

It isn't that he doesn't trust Sloane, in particular. He's just not especially good at trusting anyone.

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Emma smiles at Sloane. "Such flattery. If you're not careful, we'll rope you into teaching poetry." She sits down, mostly amused by his proprietary touch on her shoulder, and looks up at him with a small smile.

As he sits beside her, Emma turns her gaze back to Arvin Sloane. She's reading him, of course, and she sees enough to know he is serious about a position at Xavier's. There is something else beneath his polished exterior that gives her a brief pause; something he is trying very hard to keep in check. Emma can appreciate that. She simply wants to ascertain that he is not a threat to her students or her teammates. Emma can appreciate a little bit of darkness of the soul.

"So, do tell me what you've been up to since last we saw each other. Anything exciting?" She sips at her glass of water.

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„I might surprise you by volunteering,“ Sloane says, amused by Scott Summer’s gesture as well. In a way, it’s flattering. He doesn’t suffer from false modesty, but he’s quite aware that middle-aged, thin and grizzled former spies are one one’s idea of romantic competition.

Then Emma asks her question, and it’s time for the next move. Arvin Sloane starts by the casual and true (leaving out a few minor details, including going through a fake execution): “Oh, I went back to work for the government for a while.”

They’d know as much both from his application and Ms. Pryde’s research. Then he proceeds to tell her something which he hadn’t mentioned before, in either application or correspondance. He hardly ever allows himself to think about it; it’s something that can overwhelm him, if he lets it. But Sloane has learned to lie with the truth at a young age. He’s not exactly planning on lying to Emma right now, but he doesn’t want her, or anyone else, including himself, to investigate those holes in his memory covering almost a year. The way to do that, he decided in advance, the way to distract a telepath was by laying himself bare in another regard, risking one vulnerability to cover another. Because he knows if he really opens himself to one particular event, he won’t, at that point, be able to feel anything else.

“I also found a daughter I never knew I had, and I – “

lost her again, he had wanted to conclude, but suddenly he despises the euphemism. “She is dead,” Sloane says abruptly. There it is, the last image before the blackness, the roof, Nadia and Sydney struggling, Nadia and her crazed, tormented eyes, about to kill her sister, no choice, no choice, the gun at his hand, the shot, and Sydney staring at him in disbelief while Nadia’s body crumbles to the floor.

Not a month before that, Nadia had brought him back from the closest thing he had ever known to death.

I believe in you, Dad.

“You can’t go back to your old life,” Sloane says, looking directly in Emma’s eyes, his voice barely more than a whisper, “once you have held the dead body of your child.”

At this opportune moment, the waiter shows up, ready to take their orders.

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As far as Scott is concerned, Sloane and Emma can fight over the poetry class, as long as he doesn't have to teach it.

As he listens to Sloane's story, he feels a little chill around his heart -- how many times has he found his children and lost them again? Granted that Nathan and Rachel are alive and now -- and, more or less, he thinks well -- yet too many things have happened to Scott's family for him to believe that the cycle is ever settled. Then, as Sloane talks about holding his daughter's body, Scott's mind goes somewhere else -- Manhattan, and Jean, her body convulsing as the life left her.

Dammit. This might be a blatant play for sympathy on Sloane's part -- Scott knows that -- but it's certainly working on him. Emma, Emma can be more objective about it.

Is he telling the truth? Scott asks her, mentally.

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Emma is sitting very still. She does not know what to say, to Sloane.

Yes, she sends to Scott.

"Thank you," Emma says carefully, her gaze shrewd. "For sharing that with us. We are no stranger to loss in our home, Arvin. There's a graveyard with too many graves in the back." Emma looks down at her water. Thinking, for a moment, of Genosha. "And other graves. Without headstones. And no, you can never go back. You can only go forward. I know that very well."

She looks up and gives a little, forced laughed. "My, am I being maudlin. Tell us what you would like to teach, and the approach you would like to take. What about teaching young mutants interests you? Have you any experience with us?"

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There is no satisfaction that his gamble has worked, that there are no more enquiries about his past; the sense of having failed Nadia is too profound right now. Graves without headstones, Emma says, and he thinks of his other daughter, his first daughter, Emily's child, dying after a few breaths, that child Emily had asked him never to talk about. With an effort, he focuses again. He doesn't have the resources of APO at his disposal anymore, or Marshall, so his information on Emma Frost and Scott Summers is limited to the officially available facts, but these do include several losses she could think of. It's something to consider later. Right now, it's time to get to the purpose of this little enterprise.

Sloane steeples his fingers.

"As far as conventional subjects are concerned, I'd suggest languages - Spanish, French and Italian, and Latin, though I am aware its practical use is limited. Still."

And in Latin, recalling her answer to his question about reading thoughts in other languages, he thinks:

"It offers a constructive and elegant exercise of the mind."

Which in itself is a little challenge and a test, as to whether not she continues to scan him. Out loud, he goes on:

"But I am aware your young students are in need of more than a scholarly education. These days more than ever, considering their lessened number and the the heightened public hysteria about, shall we say, people with gifts. Now I have no doubt that your current staff already includes experts on martial arts. But do they include strategists, Emma? I won't waste your time by being coy. The majority of my life was being spent coming up with scenarios to infiltrate and destroy anything from goverments to terrorist groups. That's what I was trained for. And you know much better than I do that mutants are being regarded as enemies by either, and sometimes at the same time. I know how both sides think, Emma, and I could prepare your students on how to deal with both."

The waiter, having withdrawn as soon as dead daughters were mentioned, returns and asks whether they want to order. Sloane tells him to leave the menu and wine lists here and give them some more time to consider. Then he leans back in his chair, intent gaze now going from Emma to Scott.

"As for my own interest in you... as I said, I don't want to be coy, so I'll skip general fascination with change and mystery. To teach is to learn, as much as it is anything else. I could learn from you and your students. I want to."

And then he looks at Emma again and thinks: Not least because I have reason to believe I am fundamentally changed on a genetic level, very recently.

And he gives her an image that comes from the period shortly after his memories begin again, after he decided to put what was claimed in the letter he left to himself to the test: he can't die anymore. It is not an immediate process - if he cut his skin now in front of them with a knife, it would take some time to heal - but it is there, and works, no matter how severe the wound. Immortality. Though he can't remember anymore how and when he achieved it.

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"You know, Emma," Scott says conversationally. "I don't think the opportunity to torture the kids with Latin conjugations is something we should pass up lightly. God knows, we spent enough time trying to convince the Professor that it didn't have any practical value. Well, except Hank, who apparently stayed up at night coming up with puns in dead languages so they could have private jokes while the rest of us --"

Scott pauses. While trying to formulate an answer to the more worrisome part of Sloane's proposal he has let himself start rambling -- not like him -- and he's rambled into sensitive territory.

Not wanting to leave Sloane hopelessly confused, though, he clarifies. "Professor Charles Xavier founded the school, as I'm sure you know. I was one of the first students, along with Hank -- Henry McCoy, whose work you undoubtedly know if you're interested in mutants. You'll meet Hank; he's still at the school. The Professor -- well, he's left the school in mine and Emma's hands." And if Sloane can't tell from Scott's voice, that he's uncomfortable with the subject, then he's an idiot -- which he clearly isn't. "Obviously, Scott continues, "he believed -- believes -- in cooperation -- and understanding. But -- forgive me -- there have been a lot of people over the years who wanted to learn from mutants, and their motives haven't always been the best."

And now he sounds like he's accusing. Dammit. He thinks at Emma: Why don't I just shut up for the next -- forever -- and you use that famous diplomacy on him. Do you know what you want to order?

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You are doing fine, darling, and yes, I do. Emma orders a grilled chicken salad with a side of fresh fruit. She thinks, very carefully, before she speaks. She's intrigued by Arvin Sloane, though a little wary of what it is he wants. He is eager to learn something about himself, and while Emma understands that completely, she must keep the students foremost in her mind.

Arvin is right, about strategy. She thinks back to few weeks ago, when Scott tried to teach her chess. She had been practicing on the computer ever since then. Trying different things. Different strategies. There was wisdom, she was learning, in different approaches. Approaches born of different motivations. As long as they remained careful, there was no reason Sloane could not be an asset.

His healing abilities are, frankly, a bonus. They often lead very...unpredictable...lives, and Arvin may have been at a disadvantage in that arena. But this new information--it would need to be tested, of course. Still, it eased her mind somewhat to know he would not be entirely defenseless.

"I agree. Latin is most certainly important, and would give the students a competitive edge. And I cannot say we could not use some strategists on board. Perhaps you could head up the chess team." Emma smiles at him.

What do you think of him, Scott?

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Sloane decides that Emma is more or less favourably inclined, so the one who still needs convincing is Scott. The way Scott started to ramble, the conflicted unease about Professor Xavier and the discussion he had with Scott Summers about teachers, students and whether one ever forgave one's mentor isn't that hard to put together. As he said, he was trained for that sort of thing. While considering various approaches, he goes for a casual remark first.

"I'd be happy for a match or two," he says to Emma, "but you know, as much as it might ruin my image, I'm only good at chess. My real passion is for Monopoly." He smiles at both of them. It's not a lie; chess is good for the mind and can be very revealing - it's not a coincidence that Irina never played with either Jack or himself while still pretending to be Laura - but Monopoly is fun. It also offers more opponents to beat at the same time. The true reason for the remark, though, was to insert some distance between himself and Charles Xavier, who had to be a formidable chess player. It wouldn't do for either Emma Frost or Scott Summer to associate him too much with past manipulative mentors right now.

Getting serious, he focuses on Scott.

"I can't guarantee you I would never, under no circumstances, bring harm to your students, or your school," he says. "And you'd be right not to believe me if I did. None of us know what the future could hold, after all, and we all have hostages we gave to fortune. Mine are a bit more... remote at the moment, but they are there."

Which is one way of saying: I, too, have people I care and worry about, and if it was their lives versus yours, well...

The limited number of people he cares got even smaller during the last years, and it is very unlikely Sydney Bristow or her father (don't think about Jack, something in him warns, something connected to the black nothing in his memories, and he shies away as bidden) will ever be held at gunpoint in exchange for a couple of mutants, or that they and he could not come up with a more creative solution than just giving into demands if such a situation arose. But such details aren't important. His statement is crafted for Scott Summers; hopefully achieving a higher degree of credibility by adressing one concern the man voiced, and in a way that looked more trustworthy than if Sloane had claimed complete reliability.

"But I can promise me you that right now, I not only have no such intentions but want to do my best to help them, and you, in any way I can. The definition of that help would be up to you. Not me."

He doesn't point out Emma can read his thoughts to verify what he just said; this is obvious.

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"Good," Scott says. "That's good. We've got no room for men who make promises they have no way of keeping." He thinks back, involuntarily, to those first months with Xavier, the way the man had seemed to promise everything. Scott can't remember, now, whether he really believed it, or if he just made himself act like he believed it -- because he had no more choices, nowhere else to run.

I like him, Scott thinks at Emma. "As for Monopoly," he says, "I think it's an extremely underrrated game. And if you'd be willing to sit down for a game with a few of our students on your first night at the mansion, that will give you a good chance to decide whether you really want this job." He smiles sideways at Emma. "Our students can be a handful. But if you're sure that it's what you want, we'll be happy to have you." He raises his wineglass. "I believe there is a saying about the beginning of a beautiful friendship?"

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