Log: Artie and Maya, Wednesday morning
Jan. 9th, 2019 11:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_artie posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsA tired, jetlagged, and headachey Artie runs into Maya. It ... doesn't ... go well.
Artie slouched downstairs, head aching, still in a pair of stained sweat pants and a hoodie. He needed a coffee. He needed to get to work. He needed. Fuck. He needed a coffee and two tylenol.
“And here I thought zombies only existed in movies.”
Maya stood at the entrance to the kitchen, which stood, conveniently enough, in a small hallway off to the side of the main stairs. It was both an easy run from the residential areas and nicely central to the other parts of Xavier’s school for the eternally optimistic and slightly or entirely mad.
Maya hadn’t asked anyone about the last but she was fairly sure you had to be permanently lacking in sanity to live here long-term.
Artie gave her a tired glare. "Hi Maya. i'm well thanks. How are you today?" Maybe modelling polite conversation would work with Maya. Who knew. He reached the kitchen and the coffee maker and poured one out.
“I’m stuck in a never ending hellscape while my family is in danger and I can’t be with them. Oh, and they guy who told my Dad he’d look after me left me with some bald, old guy as a guardian. How are you?”
Having delivered that short tirade via sign, Maya walked back into the kitchen and took a seat, chin immediately meeting hand as she gave Artie a bright, sunny smile laced with sarcasm. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him, she actually did. She just had no ability to be _nice_.
None of that was new, though. Artie drank his coffee, eyes half closed and felt some of his headache ease. The hangover half. The other half of his headache was mostly from the now barely visible bruise on his cheekbone and coffee didn't fix that or any of the other bruises he had. One handed, the other still cradling the half empty mug, Artie signed "Yes, and?"
“I have a dance recital?” she signed back.
She gave him a somewhat quizzical look, unsure as to exactly what he was looking for. She wasn’t a sharer, or a person to whom small talk came naturally.
He was too hungover for this. Whatever. Fuck it. "Maya," Artie put the coffee cup down and used both hands now, for additional emphasis. "Am I your therapist or a friend?"
"Friend."
Maya's sign was in no way hesitant, although she wasn't exactly sure where he was going with this. It's not like she was telling him her life story or anything.
Fuck it. "Look, I'm telling you this as a friend because I am out of fucks to give today. You don't talk friends like that - starting with an insult and going on to bitch about shit that isn't going to change. You have a fucking conversation. If you did that, people would get along with you better. You're a good kid. Let them see that by having a normal conversation occasionally." Artie rubbed his temples. Yeah, he needed that Tylenol.
"Firstly, that wasn't an insult, it was a joke but whatever. Anyway, did you miss the part where I told you I had a dance recital?"
"Right. I missed that. Sorry." The word dripped with sarcasm. "It doesn't change the fact that you think a joke is when you insult someone!"
"Are you just looking to fight with me?"
Maya who had started off signing one handed had also switched to two for emphasis, her gestures sharper as her temper, never far from the surface began to boil. She wasn't here to be lectured to by anyone, not even a friend.
"From where I'm standing, you started by looking for a fight. You're snippy. Can't you just chill the fuck out for fifteen goddamn minutes for once in your life? People would like you better if you had a little chill sometimes." Artie's pose was was relaxed and his face and hands matched his posture. XForce made you an actor. But his heart was racing. Fuck, come in for tylenol, pick a fight with a kid. Whatever.
"What is with you today?"
Maya was confused and her sign showed it, sure Artie had always been prickly and she'd mostly tried to watch how far she pushed him. He wasn't Clea or Stephen, they at least understood her more or less, Artie was an adult and while she respected him, she didn't particularly understand him. Still, he didn't normally go off at her for just being herself, at least not this fast and while his body language was entirely comfortable and at ease, he was making her twitch in the worst way right now.
"What is with me?" Artie took a deep breath and visibly controlled himself. "I am tired, I have a low grade concussion that's still healing - it's fine, I was in a fight, it's nothing too serious, just got hit in the face," and I'm hungover, but I can't say that. "And I'm just saying that you need to be less of a shit. Not everything is a fight. Trust me on this. I used to be an asshole, too. You spend your whole life walking around looking for a fight like this and you will run out of chances. People are going to stop talking to you. They are going to hate you, because you're always an asshole and you're asking them to hate you. Fix your damn attitude problem before you wake up and discover that you pissed everyone off one time too many and made them hate you."
“You want a Tylenol?”
Maya pushed the chair she was sitting in back and moved to find the first aid kit that was kept in most of the kitchens in the mansion. She didn’t know what you gave someone with a concussion but headache medicine seemed the best bet.
"Thanks." He downed the pills with a swig of coffee and grimaced. "Appreciate that." He paused awkwardly and shrugged. What came next? Did he run away? Was she going to do emotions? (Please no. His head hurt.) Maybe he shouldn't have said all of that.
"Just so you know, you know almost nothing about anything I go through on a daily basis, because you're not my therapist and so do us both a favor and stop trying to give me advice." Maya was careful with her sign, making sure it was clear and as calm as she could possibly make it. "But, I'm sorry for insulting you, a joke isn't a joke when it hurts someone and I know better than that."
Excuse me? Excuse me? Artie knew nothing about what she went through? Oh, please. "I know you behave like you're the only one running around here with a sad past and 'trauma', like that gives you an excuse to be a jerk. All I'm saying is check your damn attitude, because trust me, you're not the only one with a sad sorry past."
"No, I am saying you literally have no idea what I go through. Unless you're being a creeper with the cameras and the phones you can't possibly know what my day has been like, Artie." Maya's sign was frustrated, she'd been trying to de-escalate the fight, not make it worse. "I didn't say you couldn't understand, but you're my friend not my therapist, I don't expect you to deal with all that."
Artie bit back his first response. And his second. And third. He counted to ten. He still wanted to snap out 'you're not as special as you think you are, kiddo' but he didn't. He sighed and thought about all of things you couldn't say to a sixteen year old and shrugged. "Fair enough."
“Could we just start again? Like, I just said hello or something?”
"Yeah. Yeah. That's probably a good idea."
Artie slouched downstairs, head aching, still in a pair of stained sweat pants and a hoodie. He needed a coffee. He needed to get to work. He needed. Fuck. He needed a coffee and two tylenol.
“And here I thought zombies only existed in movies.”
Maya stood at the entrance to the kitchen, which stood, conveniently enough, in a small hallway off to the side of the main stairs. It was both an easy run from the residential areas and nicely central to the other parts of Xavier’s school for the eternally optimistic and slightly or entirely mad.
Maya hadn’t asked anyone about the last but she was fairly sure you had to be permanently lacking in sanity to live here long-term.
Artie gave her a tired glare. "Hi Maya. i'm well thanks. How are you today?" Maybe modelling polite conversation would work with Maya. Who knew. He reached the kitchen and the coffee maker and poured one out.
“I’m stuck in a never ending hellscape while my family is in danger and I can’t be with them. Oh, and they guy who told my Dad he’d look after me left me with some bald, old guy as a guardian. How are you?”
Having delivered that short tirade via sign, Maya walked back into the kitchen and took a seat, chin immediately meeting hand as she gave Artie a bright, sunny smile laced with sarcasm. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him, she actually did. She just had no ability to be _nice_.
None of that was new, though. Artie drank his coffee, eyes half closed and felt some of his headache ease. The hangover half. The other half of his headache was mostly from the now barely visible bruise on his cheekbone and coffee didn't fix that or any of the other bruises he had. One handed, the other still cradling the half empty mug, Artie signed "Yes, and?"
“I have a dance recital?” she signed back.
She gave him a somewhat quizzical look, unsure as to exactly what he was looking for. She wasn’t a sharer, or a person to whom small talk came naturally.
He was too hungover for this. Whatever. Fuck it. "Maya," Artie put the coffee cup down and used both hands now, for additional emphasis. "Am I your therapist or a friend?"
"Friend."
Maya's sign was in no way hesitant, although she wasn't exactly sure where he was going with this. It's not like she was telling him her life story or anything.
Fuck it. "Look, I'm telling you this as a friend because I am out of fucks to give today. You don't talk friends like that - starting with an insult and going on to bitch about shit that isn't going to change. You have a fucking conversation. If you did that, people would get along with you better. You're a good kid. Let them see that by having a normal conversation occasionally." Artie rubbed his temples. Yeah, he needed that Tylenol.
"Firstly, that wasn't an insult, it was a joke but whatever. Anyway, did you miss the part where I told you I had a dance recital?"
"Right. I missed that. Sorry." The word dripped with sarcasm. "It doesn't change the fact that you think a joke is when you insult someone!"
"Are you just looking to fight with me?"
Maya who had started off signing one handed had also switched to two for emphasis, her gestures sharper as her temper, never far from the surface began to boil. She wasn't here to be lectured to by anyone, not even a friend.
"From where I'm standing, you started by looking for a fight. You're snippy. Can't you just chill the fuck out for fifteen goddamn minutes for once in your life? People would like you better if you had a little chill sometimes." Artie's pose was was relaxed and his face and hands matched his posture. XForce made you an actor. But his heart was racing. Fuck, come in for tylenol, pick a fight with a kid. Whatever.
"What is with you today?"
Maya was confused and her sign showed it, sure Artie had always been prickly and she'd mostly tried to watch how far she pushed him. He wasn't Clea or Stephen, they at least understood her more or less, Artie was an adult and while she respected him, she didn't particularly understand him. Still, he didn't normally go off at her for just being herself, at least not this fast and while his body language was entirely comfortable and at ease, he was making her twitch in the worst way right now.
"What is with me?" Artie took a deep breath and visibly controlled himself. "I am tired, I have a low grade concussion that's still healing - it's fine, I was in a fight, it's nothing too serious, just got hit in the face," and I'm hungover, but I can't say that. "And I'm just saying that you need to be less of a shit. Not everything is a fight. Trust me on this. I used to be an asshole, too. You spend your whole life walking around looking for a fight like this and you will run out of chances. People are going to stop talking to you. They are going to hate you, because you're always an asshole and you're asking them to hate you. Fix your damn attitude problem before you wake up and discover that you pissed everyone off one time too many and made them hate you."
“You want a Tylenol?”
Maya pushed the chair she was sitting in back and moved to find the first aid kit that was kept in most of the kitchens in the mansion. She didn’t know what you gave someone with a concussion but headache medicine seemed the best bet.
"Thanks." He downed the pills with a swig of coffee and grimaced. "Appreciate that." He paused awkwardly and shrugged. What came next? Did he run away? Was she going to do emotions? (Please no. His head hurt.) Maybe he shouldn't have said all of that.
"Just so you know, you know almost nothing about anything I go through on a daily basis, because you're not my therapist and so do us both a favor and stop trying to give me advice." Maya was careful with her sign, making sure it was clear and as calm as she could possibly make it. "But, I'm sorry for insulting you, a joke isn't a joke when it hurts someone and I know better than that."
Excuse me? Excuse me? Artie knew nothing about what she went through? Oh, please. "I know you behave like you're the only one running around here with a sad past and 'trauma', like that gives you an excuse to be a jerk. All I'm saying is check your damn attitude, because trust me, you're not the only one with a sad sorry past."
"No, I am saying you literally have no idea what I go through. Unless you're being a creeper with the cameras and the phones you can't possibly know what my day has been like, Artie." Maya's sign was frustrated, she'd been trying to de-escalate the fight, not make it worse. "I didn't say you couldn't understand, but you're my friend not my therapist, I don't expect you to deal with all that."
Artie bit back his first response. And his second. And third. He counted to ten. He still wanted to snap out 'you're not as special as you think you are, kiddo' but he didn't. He sighed and thought about all of things you couldn't say to a sixteen year old and shrugged. "Fair enough."
“Could we just start again? Like, I just said hello or something?”
"Yeah. Yeah. That's probably a good idea."
