Quentin & Matt, Friday afternoon

[xp-erverse.livejournal.com]

Matt meets Quentin, who's up on the roof again. The self-proclaimed radical and the reluctantly corporate suit don't get along well.



Heading up to the roof to get some fresh air, Matt was surprised to open the door to the roof and find it occupied. He had heard the heartbeat on the other side of course, the surprise was the smell with it now that the wind and die weren't working against him. Someone was smoking the good stuff. "Mind?" Matt asked coming out and sitting down anyways.

He wasn't one to get high often, being a lawyer and subject to drug tests made that difficult, plus he disliked having that floating feeling too much, but on occasion he'd indulged. His best friend was named Foggy after all and in college, that was for good reason. They hadn't done it much either actually, both were more on the studious side, but it helped to relax from time to time. Still, he was familiar with pot.

At the rate Quentin was going, he was going to max out his credit card's cash advance to restock his stash well before the end of the month. He'd finished his last joint half an hour ago, and a fresh one was at the ready. He'd been on edge for the past couple of weeks, and grass was about all there was to keep him from tumbling down the other side. There were worse vices, or at least that was his justification to himself.

He was lying down on a beach towel and pillow, humming softly to MNEK's latest that was playing from the docking station to which he'd attached his phone. He cracked open one eye when the stranger asked for the invitation to sit down and shrugged. "Free country," he replied. It was a cliche, and a complete lie, but the guy looked like the exact kind of person that lie was meant to refer to.

Snorting at the reply, Matt sat, leaving the guy in peace. He wasn't there to bother him or steal his weed (or take it away with a lecture). Instead, he slipped an ear bud in his ear and turned on his current audio book. He hated them, but they were cheaper and lighter than braille books, so he usually had a couple on his phone and iPod.

Was this some sort of test? Bring out the suit (in casual dress, of course, so he doesn't seem off-putting) and guilt trip Quentin until he gave up his sinful ways? That seemed too heavy-handed, even for a guy like Chuckles. Quentin snorted and sat up so he could light the new joint. He was going to need it for whatever this was.

"If you're gonna try the stoic priestly confession thing," he said, "At least get a cassock."

"I'm not a priest," Matt chucked as if that were some great joke. "I'm the devil. But I am Catholic." He paused his book. "I just came up here to enjoy the weather."

That elicited an amused snort. "The devil. Sure. I guess everyone sees insurance salesmen that way. Taking a break after denying a widow her dead husband's pension?"

"Insurance salesman?!" Now that hurt. Wounding. "Now that's offensive. I should wash your mouth out with soap, but I bet you'd enjoy it."

"What does that even mean? 'I bet you'd enjoy it.'"

Did he stutter? "Means you like to get a rise out of people, push boundaries. Let me see that," he reached for the joint without actually taking it, "You got the good stuff, not the cheap crap most kids smoke."

How high was Quentin? This conversation had only just started but already reached a level of absurdity usually reserved for taking a whole bong for oneself. But proper drug etiquette had its demands that Quentin recognized as sacred, so he acquiesced and passed the doobie.

"Who even are you?"

Taking a hit, Matt passed it back as he exhaled. "I'm Matt," he replied, enjoying the mild buzz. "And that is good. Been a while," it tasted like shit, but it did is job.

"Yeah, I bet it really brings back memories of that one hit you did back in college." Quentin lied back down, holding onto the joint with one hand and reaching up his shirt with the other to idly scratch his midsection. "So is this a thing with redheads? You all do drugs when the boss isn't looking? I met this French chick the other day who's the same way."

"Two hits," Matt joked. He hadn't done it much, but it wasn't a one-time thing. "Oh yeah? No idea who she is. I'm only here on the weekends. Gotta work a real job and all that. You know, being the sell out that I am."

"Who does own your soul, then? If not an insurance company."

This kid was too much. "Worthington Industries. I'm a lawyer," he knew that information would garner a remark, but he wanted to hear what the kid said, "Who're you then?"

Quentin almost dropped the joint because of his raucous laughter. "Of course. Of fucking course you are," he said when he could finally speak again. "I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Gotta get someone to protect the poor, defenseless conglomerate, why not get the mutie?"

More or less. Quentin didn't have a clue though. Laughing, Matt just nodded, "Well, you know how it goes. Junior lawyer now, make partner, change things from the inside..." he joked, "My friend and I want to start our own firm, but...money. And experience." He couldn't wait to see what happened when this kid realized that Warren Worthington was on the journals, too.

The older man's idealism was almost cute, Quentin thought. And while Matt had several years on Quentin, the telepath felt secure that idealism was all it was. His laughter turned into coughing, and he pounded his chest to help clear the congestion. "Here, you deserve it," he said, passing over the joint again. "I hope your mutant power is reality warping 'cuz that's about the only way you can make anything change. What's that cliche? You either die young or grow old enough to become the Man yourself?"

"Pretty much," Matt agreed, taking another hit before passing it back, "That's why we want to start our own practice. Maybe we won't change things on a grand scale, but if we can for a few people, that's a start. And sometimes, that's all you need to get a ripple effect started," you couldn't help everyone and a lot of problems were so deeply entrenched and woven in with other things that you couldn't fix one without the other and it was just too big. But a few people? That could be done and grow outwards.

He wasn't wrong. But still, Quentin had a hard time believing that a corporate suit would give up the money and privilege afforded by his current position to actually return to the ground floor to work back upwards. "So how come you're here? Big-time lawyer like you. Unless you're also one of those super-jerks."

Now was not the time to mention his nighttime hobby of vigilantism. Matt didn't normally discuss it outside of the people that already knew, but now was definitely not the time. "No, I'm not," he agreed, "I'm a mutant, same as you. Didn't know about this place when I was your age though, I was just stumbling along trying to figure my powers out, not go crazy and all that. I figure, maybe I've got more to learn with them or at least refine. Plus, I like having a place where I don't need to hide what I am."

"You don't need to hide what you are anywhere." Quentin realized the hypocrisy in that statement, seeing as how until recently, he'd done just the same, although he had all sorts of convoluted rationales to justify it to himself. "What do you do?"

"I don't?" Matt asked, "Maybe not in a perfect world, but that isn't the world we live in. We live in this one. Where mutants are killed without a second thought simply for existing," he wasn't interested in that, "Doesn't make it right, but it is reality. I have enhanced senses. Well, four of five. You?"

"Shitty-ass telekinetic. I'm told I'm also a telepath." Quentin took a final toke before he extinguished the joint against the floor. "Mutants aren't the only people who suffer just because of who we are. There's no monopoly on that. They can't all hide in plain sight, either. Fuck, not all mutants can. Don't we fucking owe it to them not to pretend we're not with them?"

Shifting, Matt bend his knees slightly, leaning forward against them. "Who says I hide?" he asked. "My mutancy, yes. But not everything. Not everything is hidden, not everyone pays attention though." Like right now.

Quentin stretched his arms and legs, and groaned. "Well, I'm only talking about your mutancy, I don't care about anything else. You and me, we get a pass because we don't look any different. But we shouldn't. It's not right. Everyone should fucking know what we are."

Smart ass kid. "How old are you again?" Matt asked. Was he ever this clueless? No, probably not, he reflected. He'd had his world challenged and expanded before he had the ability to articulate it properly. That meant he was a lot more accepting and a lot less likely to be quite so....combative about forcing things on people.

"Twenty-five," Quentin lied easily. He wasn't interested in letting some big-shot lawyer dismiss him on account of age.

"Yeah, okay," Matt would have rolled his eyes if they weren't behind his glasses. And if he could maintain eye contact better. "People treat others differently because of a whole host of things. Some can be hidden. Others can't. Whether they should be hidden is irrelevant, you can't show everything at once. You have to pick and choose what parts of yourself you show people based on what you can and can't hide and what you do and don't want others to see. Just like right now."

"The problem is why you wouldn't want people to see you're a mutant," Quentin countered. "But whatever. Keep humping Worthington's leg. Maybe they'll throw you a bone some day. Probably from a skeleton in their closet."

"Why?" Matt asked, turning towards Quentin and reached up to remove his glasses, "Because I'm blind."

"No shit. You've got the glasses and you said four of your five senses are enhanced. But so what?"

"So I get enough shit for being blind. And I can't hide that," Matt explained. "Like I said. Pick your battles."

"Man, fuck you." Quentin jumped to his feet with a speed uncharacteristic of a pothead. He picked up his phone and docking station, and telekinetically called the towel and pillow to his free hand. "'Enough shit for being blind.' That's fucking weak. Mutants are being killed every day and you're worried about people making fun of you or pushing chairs in your way." He made his way for the door, which opened of its own accord, slamming loudly against the frame. "Get fucked."