Hotel California - Prologue

[x-jeangrey.livejournal.com]

Jean returns to her hotel after having lunch with her old med school professor, who asked her to fill in on a lecture.



"That meal represented the entirety of your lecture fee; I trust this won't affect your presentation," Professor Lee Kirby smiled, long past the point where having to upwardly incline his head to meet his former student's gaze might have been awkward. They came to a stop beneath one of the trees outside Jean's hotel where the traffic sounds were muffled by the acoustics of the historic neighborhood and the twitting of nesting birds.

"Not at all," Jean replied casually, her hands in her pockets as she took a long pause to study the architecture of the building before glancing back over.

"I always explain RNA sequencing as it corresponds to the mutant gene with popsicle sticks, marshmallow peeps and a wad of chewing gum."

This elicited another smile. "I look forward to it. I've had my suspicion about peeps ever since my son used them to ruin a microwave." The older man followed her gaze to the hotel. "Thank you again for filling in on such short notice. It's coming up on finals for Xavier's, isn't it?"

"I believe my husband uses peeps in one of his chemistry classes to illustrate an experiment," Jean mused with a laugh, then nodded.

"Finals are in a couple of days but I already have my tests written out. I've always been a bit of an overachiever. It's my pleasure to help out. You said the previous guy is in a full body cast after a rock climbing accident? I'm so sorry."

Kirby snorted. "He was in a motorcycle accident a few months ago, if you can believe it. Tried to skip a few steps in physical therapy. His wife and the doctor both told him he wasn't ready. Maybe now he'll sit still for a while." The small man's eyes crinkled in the way that indicated a suppressed smile. "Terri thinks we traded up. Since she's not the one who taught you everything you know, her opinion can be trusted.

"Now he has no choice, I suppose," Jean said. She folded her arms, a humbled smile on her lips. Around Professor Kirby glimpses of the old her peeked through: an inquisitive, yet soft-spoken girl. "Thank you. I hope I make the two of you proud. It really is an honor to be asked to speak."

"It was a pleasure to ask." Kirby's phone buzzed; he pulled it from his pocket with a look as irritated as could be mustered by an aging gentleman of 5'7" who still unironically wore bow-ties. He did not seem especially pleased by whatever was on the screen.

"I'm sorry, Jean, I need to make a call. Touch base later? If you can squeeze us in, Terri wants you over for dinner before you go."

Jean tilted her head, trying not to be too curious. "Of course. I wouldn't want to miss her famous chicken a la king," she said with a smile.

She couldn't resist temptation, however.

"Is everything alright?"

"Someone heard today's talk had something to do with stem cells and didn't bother waiting for the context. One of my grads decided to counter-demonstrate. According to campus security he thought the best way to do so was with his fists." He gave her a long-suffering smile. "No one knows anger like the young. Have I ever thanked you for not being arrested while in my program, by the way?"

"Not for a couple of years, at least," Jean said with a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope everything works out okay. I'll give you a call before I'm headed for the lecture."

Kirby smiled as he raised his phone to his ear. "Not to worry. The young are also resilient. Good to see you again, Jean. We'll talk later."

With a final wave the man took his leave.

"Take care," Jean said as she ascended the steps of the hotel. It had once been a mansion owned by one of Washington D.C.'s elite but had been converted into a hotel long ago and named after the guy who remodeled it. The place had a certain charm in the photos.

She made her way through the lobby, fumbling around in her purse for her key card.

"Laurel, where did you go?"

"Over here."

The second voice emerged from the floor immediately in front of Jean. A dark-haired girl of about seven or eight had parked herself beside a horsehair couch. She was playing on an iPad, its adapter plugged into the wall outlet.

"The battery's low," she said matter-of-factly as her father came over. She tilted the tablet to one side, then the other.

"We'll charge it later. Come on, your mother's waiting."

Laurel heaved a sigh of someone who saw her mother every day, but was working on this level now. "Okay."

The man gave Jean the awkward smile of a parent acknowledging his child was creating a mild inconvenience. The girl stuffed the adapter and iPad into her backpack and bounced to her feet.

"Hi," she chirped at Jean.

"C'mon, honey," said her father. He gave Jean one last mouth-quirk of apology and turned his attention back to his daughter. "Hands when we cross the street, okay?"

"Okay."

The girl gave Jean a wave as she and her father disappeared out the front door.

Jean smiled softly, unable to help from watching the two for a few moments as they left. Finally, she pulled herself away, trudging up the stairs toward her room. The hotel had an elevator but it was currently broken. Lovely.

When she came to her floor, she found a man standing in middle of the hallway.

He was identifiably older, even from behind. His white hair was thin, and his shoulders had the characteristic stoop of a man who'd spent the majority of his working years hunched over. His clothes were clean but rumpled. He stood with absolute stillness, attention locked on the opposite wall.

As Jean approached she could make out an off-key refrain.

". . . gonna cut 'em down, sooner or later gonna cut 'em down . . ."

And he was another person Jean found herself staring at, this time for an opposite reason. She studied him carefully, then slowly approached.

"Sir? Are you okay?" she said. Most people would ignore him, but he seemed out of place here and she had not been one to shy away.

The man didn't turn, but the singing tapered off. When he finally replied it was slow, as if the words were an effort.

"You." He spoke the word as if he'd been reminded of something that had slipped his mind. "That's why the light looks dim."

Jean wasn't sure what to say about that. She knew what she thought he meant, but he wasn't looking at her. Most minds were engaged, actively participating in their surroundings. His was almost muted, as if he wasn't paying attention, like he'd severed some cord. "I....Do you need help?"

"Guess it's been dim for a while." He turned his head in a dull scan of the antique light fixtures. "Light used to be different," he muttered. He shuffled a few paces and touched a blank expanse of wall. "Is there going to be a mirror here? Been a long time since there was. I don't reflect so well anymore. Must be bad lighting."

"I'm not sure. I've never been here," Jean said, humoring him for the moment. Glancing around, she took another step closer, still a bit uncertain how to respond.

"Do you live here?" she said. He didn't look homeless, per se. And security probably wouldn't have let him in if he was.

Whatever vague contact the man might have had with reality faded. He dropped his hand and started to wander away, humming a few bars before he returned his efforts to the folk song.

"Sure as God made black and white, what's down in the dark will . . . what's down in the dark . . . now what was the rest . . ."

"Brook!"

The hotel's caretaker emerged from the stairwell. The man had that peculiar build where all available body fat seemed to have been diverted to just above the navel, creating the impression of a particularly agitated pigeon. Though currently flustered he'd been pleasant enough when Jean had checked in. He glowered at the older man, then jerked a little when he fully registered the presence of a guest.

"Ms.-- Dr. Grey," the caretaker amended as he recognized the redhead. He bustled out of the stairwell, automatically combing a hand through his hair. "I'm very sorry about this."

Jean smiled. "It's alright. We were just having a conversation. Is this your....father?"

"Uncle," replied the caretaker as he took the man by the arm. "He lives here with us. My wife usually watches him in the mornings, but she's away right now. The nurse isn't due for another hour." He gave her an apologetic grimace as he began to lead the older man towards the stairwell. "Mixed dementia and major depressive disorder. He's no real trouble, he just likes to wander."

"He wasn't a problem," Jean said, shaking her head as she swiped her key card. The door opened with a click and Jean stared at the man, Brook, for a moment, then looked back to the caretaker. She smiled.

"Have a good day."

The caretaker murmured a similar farewell, already preoccupied with navigating the placid Brook down the stairs. She closed the door behind her, and as she did heard the old man's wavering voice float up from the stairwell in a final refrain.

"But as sure as God made black and white, what's down in the dark's gonna come for the light."