Quentin & Sam, Thursday evening
Nov. 16th, 2023 07:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsSam bumps into Quentin and, looking for purpose, asks for a job.
Quentin did not think to stock up on groceries before embarking on The Job. Why waste the effort if there was a chance he wasn't going to return, anyway? Even 3 days after coming out of the Box with his psychic shields back in place, he had yet to even step foot outside. So now, fresh out of food, freshly showered, and freshly dressed in joggers and a cropped hoodie, he was raiding the main kitchen. There was a big container of soup, but unlabeled, so it probably had chicken or fish in it. Plenty of meat, some labeled for the cat girl. A moldy lasagna.
"Pathetic pathetic pathetic," he muttered, settling for a half-opened jar of salsa to go with the bag of corn chips he'd found in the pantry. It would have to do.
Sam was wandering the halls of the mansion, trying to acquaint himself with his new home and honestly, giving himself a chance to gawk at the sheer size of the place without anyone to watch him. He paused when he heard noise coming from the kitchen and poked his head in, wondering if it was anyone he knew. His cheeks darkened for a second when he realized it was Quentin, and he swallowed before entering the room. "Uh.... hey, been a minute."
"Mister Guthrie, hello," Quentin greeted between bites. "Fancy meeting you here. What brings you the hell out of Manhattan to Westchester?"
"My apartment got flooded and I didn't notice until I'd spent over a week sleeping at the community center in between running rescues, so I'm kinda homeless now?" Sam said, with an awkward smile. "How've you been? Better'n me I hope?"
Great, another victim of Quentin's failure to act sooner. If he allowed himself to feel shame or attrition, he would have to embark on an apology tour. So he just kept his expression neutral and crammed another fistful of chips into his mouth. "No, probably not," he said plainly after he swallowed. "It's been a long . . . several weeks. I'm considering a mandatory vacation for XFI through the end of the year. But I'm sorry about your home. You at least weren't hurt during the storm, I hope."
"Oh yeah, peachy keen. It takes more than a lil rain to get to me, I'm nigh invulnerable when I'm blastin'." Sam said, offering the other man a smile. "Most of my stuff was just fine too, so I got lucky all things considered......you doin' alright?"
Sam had eaten enough corn chips by the handful in his life to know when all was not well, and Quentin had it written all over him.
"I don't know what that means." At least, Quentin was sure that how he was inclined to interpret it was not how Sam intended. Feeling a little exposed with Sam just standing there while Quentin sadly stuffed his wave, the psi waved a hand at the barstool next to him, telekinetically pulling it out for the other man. "But I'll be fine. It's stupid. We had a job and it . . . it didn't turn out like how I wanted. A worst-case scenario, which I'd anticipated" — an important note, lest Sam think Quentin had screwed the pooch — "But was trying to avoid."
Sam sat down next to him and huffed a laugh. "I'm pert near indestructible when I'm using my powers." Sam translated for him. "Yeah....I know a thing or two about jobs taking on worst case scenarios. Sorry to hear it didn't work out."
An explosion rang in Quentin's ears and he couldn't breathe. The air was stiflingly hot, acrid, and stagnant. A sharp pain ran up his left arm to his shoulder. Where was Lewis? Where was Quentin?
And just as fast as he had been drawn into that traumatic memory, he was flung back to a Westchester, New York mansion kitchen again. Catching his breath, he glared at Sam and opened his mouth to say something sharp, but he stopped himself. Accidents happened. Clearly one had been a turning point for Sam. Quentin considered the other man for a moment, recalling their first meeting weeks ago with Arthur, and then Alani's message delivered on his behalf.
"You should talk to Jean or David, when he wakes up," he advised. "You've clearly been through a lot, and I'm sure you want to keep your privacy around telepaths like me. They're good at teaching people to shield their minds from psychics."
"Oh shit," Sam hissed. "Sorry, sorry- I took a shielding class at Muir but I was hardly around a telepath so practicing was.... a bit tricky..."
Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, mumbling a barely audible, "there goes your shot at that job Sammy," before turning to look at Quentin, nothing but pure concern on his face. "Are you alright? I didn't- I'm sorry. I'll work on it."
Quentin released his white-knuckle grip on the counter and stood up to stretch out the fresh crick in his neck and soreness in his arms and legs. "Don't shit yourself, it takes more than a little residual trauma to turn me off. I'd never get off if that were the case," he quipped as he did an overhead triceps stretch, keenly aware of how much he was revealing in a crop top. Shifting the balance of dominance back in his favor, as he preferred it. "Why do you want to work for X-Factor, anyway?"
"Savin' the day from a big monster is fine and all I guess, and I'm sure there's folks that love goin' around saving dimensions an' doin' big ol' trips to go help the world... but my hometown had folks come in every summer to help us and people tryin' to stop us from getting worse and natural disasters that brought in folks to put us back together and that's not what I'm interested in doin'. I was part of that rigamarole my whole life. The folks I always admired? They were the ones who put in the work in the community- the ones who helped take care of things, handled situations when they happened, and then tried to make sure they didn't happen again." Sam sighed. "Daddy always told me that you didn't fix a problem just cause you stopped it from getting worse, that you had to tackle the problem too, ya had to learn about it and take steps to make sure it didn't happen again. I reckon that's what y'all're best at. Y'all catch the bad guy and then help to make folks less vulnerable to the next one. That's the kind of work I wanna do."
Sam rolled his shoulders back and offered Quentin an awkward smile when it made the burn scar on his arm show from the sleeve of his t-shirt. "You can't individualize a systemic issue, but you can help individuals that're trapped in systemic issues. It's work worth doin' and I wanna be involved in it."
The telepath stopped mid-stretch, frozen as he processed Sam's words, then lowered his arms and sat back down. "That's very astute. I might steal that and claim it as my own," Quentin teased. "Do you have any experience with private investigating? Or criminology or the law?"
“I graduated high school early to illegally work in a coal mine to support my eight younger siblings.” Sam replied, shaking his head. “That’s about the only thing I’ve got experience with aside from bartending but I was heavily involved in the union. Worked with the secretary of our chapter and did a lot of the clerical work and pourin’ over labor law……..What I don’t know I’ll learn. Take any course available to me and work twice as hard as a pair of Percheron mules. I ain’t in the habit of lettin folks down.”
Quentin smirked, amused and encouraged by Sam's eagerness. "Sis, chill. I was younger than you and had far less experience doing anything besides being a whiny bitch when I started, and now I'm running things. Which is crazy to think about, but anything's possible when other people are footing your bills and you're psychic. So I guess what I'm saying is, let's see what you got."
"T' clarify-" Sam said, slowly, "does that mean I'm in?"
He didn't want to sound too eager but well.....he was freshly homeless and unemployed. He almost thought to mention that he didn't think that Quentin was a 'whiny bitch' but that felt a bit like overstepping for how little time he'd known the other man.
"Yeah yeah. Come in tomorrow, we'll do the paperwork and figure out where to get you started. Right now, I'm the only licensed PI and we could always use more, so if that's something you think you're gonna wanna pursue, too, then we can set up a plan for that. It's not fast, New York requires 3 years of experience before you can apply, but you can get started if that's what you want."
"Thank you." Sam said earnestly. "And I'll get on that, 'specially if it'll help the work load on the rest of y'all or - I guess rest of us. Is there a dress code? I don't really own nothin' that'd be considered 'nice' up here."
Sam fought back a grimace thinking about the clothes sitting upstairs in his room in a five gallon trash bag. The crumpled t-shirts and faded and frayed jeans, maybe a few button ups that weren't flannels. Yeah, he was gonna need to buy some new clothes as soon as possible. His cheeks flushed, he'd definitely have to buy new clothes if everyone at the office dressed like Quentin.
"Dress codes enforce conformity and hold people's bodies to arbitrary standards. I do not abide. That said, fashion is how people express themselves, and it's important to make sure you're representing yourself to others the way you want to be seen. So if you're looking for a new look, then we'll take a field trip to the Diamond District."
"Th' what?" Sam whispered. "I'm gonna be completely honest that sounds so outta my price range I think my wallet started playin' opossum."
Sam's mother's engagement band had come from the Walmart and had been purchased on a high school senior's budget. He's not sure he'd ever even seen a real diamond before let alone shopped anywhere with "diamond" in the name.
"It's a stretch in Manha . . . you know what? Never mind." Quentin pulled out his phone from his pocket and opened the maps app. "Okay, first thing is paperwork, second is wardrobe, and third is to familiarize yourself with the city because if you're gonna be helping the people, then you gotta know about where they call home."
Quentin did not think to stock up on groceries before embarking on The Job. Why waste the effort if there was a chance he wasn't going to return, anyway? Even 3 days after coming out of the Box with his psychic shields back in place, he had yet to even step foot outside. So now, fresh out of food, freshly showered, and freshly dressed in joggers and a cropped hoodie, he was raiding the main kitchen. There was a big container of soup, but unlabeled, so it probably had chicken or fish in it. Plenty of meat, some labeled for the cat girl. A moldy lasagna.
"Pathetic pathetic pathetic," he muttered, settling for a half-opened jar of salsa to go with the bag of corn chips he'd found in the pantry. It would have to do.
Sam was wandering the halls of the mansion, trying to acquaint himself with his new home and honestly, giving himself a chance to gawk at the sheer size of the place without anyone to watch him. He paused when he heard noise coming from the kitchen and poked his head in, wondering if it was anyone he knew. His cheeks darkened for a second when he realized it was Quentin, and he swallowed before entering the room. "Uh.... hey, been a minute."
"Mister Guthrie, hello," Quentin greeted between bites. "Fancy meeting you here. What brings you the hell out of Manhattan to Westchester?"
"My apartment got flooded and I didn't notice until I'd spent over a week sleeping at the community center in between running rescues, so I'm kinda homeless now?" Sam said, with an awkward smile. "How've you been? Better'n me I hope?"
Great, another victim of Quentin's failure to act sooner. If he allowed himself to feel shame or attrition, he would have to embark on an apology tour. So he just kept his expression neutral and crammed another fistful of chips into his mouth. "No, probably not," he said plainly after he swallowed. "It's been a long . . . several weeks. I'm considering a mandatory vacation for XFI through the end of the year. But I'm sorry about your home. You at least weren't hurt during the storm, I hope."
"Oh yeah, peachy keen. It takes more than a lil rain to get to me, I'm nigh invulnerable when I'm blastin'." Sam said, offering the other man a smile. "Most of my stuff was just fine too, so I got lucky all things considered......you doin' alright?"
Sam had eaten enough corn chips by the handful in his life to know when all was not well, and Quentin had it written all over him.
"I don't know what that means." At least, Quentin was sure that how he was inclined to interpret it was not how Sam intended. Feeling a little exposed with Sam just standing there while Quentin sadly stuffed his wave, the psi waved a hand at the barstool next to him, telekinetically pulling it out for the other man. "But I'll be fine. It's stupid. We had a job and it . . . it didn't turn out like how I wanted. A worst-case scenario, which I'd anticipated" — an important note, lest Sam think Quentin had screwed the pooch — "But was trying to avoid."
Sam sat down next to him and huffed a laugh. "I'm pert near indestructible when I'm using my powers." Sam translated for him. "Yeah....I know a thing or two about jobs taking on worst case scenarios. Sorry to hear it didn't work out."
An explosion rang in Quentin's ears and he couldn't breathe. The air was stiflingly hot, acrid, and stagnant. A sharp pain ran up his left arm to his shoulder. Where was Lewis? Where was Quentin?
And just as fast as he had been drawn into that traumatic memory, he was flung back to a Westchester, New York mansion kitchen again. Catching his breath, he glared at Sam and opened his mouth to say something sharp, but he stopped himself. Accidents happened. Clearly one had been a turning point for Sam. Quentin considered the other man for a moment, recalling their first meeting weeks ago with Arthur, and then Alani's message delivered on his behalf.
"You should talk to Jean or David, when he wakes up," he advised. "You've clearly been through a lot, and I'm sure you want to keep your privacy around telepaths like me. They're good at teaching people to shield their minds from psychics."
"Oh shit," Sam hissed. "Sorry, sorry- I took a shielding class at Muir but I was hardly around a telepath so practicing was.... a bit tricky..."
Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, mumbling a barely audible, "there goes your shot at that job Sammy," before turning to look at Quentin, nothing but pure concern on his face. "Are you alright? I didn't- I'm sorry. I'll work on it."
Quentin released his white-knuckle grip on the counter and stood up to stretch out the fresh crick in his neck and soreness in his arms and legs. "Don't shit yourself, it takes more than a little residual trauma to turn me off. I'd never get off if that were the case," he quipped as he did an overhead triceps stretch, keenly aware of how much he was revealing in a crop top. Shifting the balance of dominance back in his favor, as he preferred it. "Why do you want to work for X-Factor, anyway?"
"Savin' the day from a big monster is fine and all I guess, and I'm sure there's folks that love goin' around saving dimensions an' doin' big ol' trips to go help the world... but my hometown had folks come in every summer to help us and people tryin' to stop us from getting worse and natural disasters that brought in folks to put us back together and that's not what I'm interested in doin'. I was part of that rigamarole my whole life. The folks I always admired? They were the ones who put in the work in the community- the ones who helped take care of things, handled situations when they happened, and then tried to make sure they didn't happen again." Sam sighed. "Daddy always told me that you didn't fix a problem just cause you stopped it from getting worse, that you had to tackle the problem too, ya had to learn about it and take steps to make sure it didn't happen again. I reckon that's what y'all're best at. Y'all catch the bad guy and then help to make folks less vulnerable to the next one. That's the kind of work I wanna do."
Sam rolled his shoulders back and offered Quentin an awkward smile when it made the burn scar on his arm show from the sleeve of his t-shirt. "You can't individualize a systemic issue, but you can help individuals that're trapped in systemic issues. It's work worth doin' and I wanna be involved in it."
The telepath stopped mid-stretch, frozen as he processed Sam's words, then lowered his arms and sat back down. "That's very astute. I might steal that and claim it as my own," Quentin teased. "Do you have any experience with private investigating? Or criminology or the law?"
“I graduated high school early to illegally work in a coal mine to support my eight younger siblings.” Sam replied, shaking his head. “That’s about the only thing I’ve got experience with aside from bartending but I was heavily involved in the union. Worked with the secretary of our chapter and did a lot of the clerical work and pourin’ over labor law……..What I don’t know I’ll learn. Take any course available to me and work twice as hard as a pair of Percheron mules. I ain’t in the habit of lettin folks down.”
Quentin smirked, amused and encouraged by Sam's eagerness. "Sis, chill. I was younger than you and had far less experience doing anything besides being a whiny bitch when I started, and now I'm running things. Which is crazy to think about, but anything's possible when other people are footing your bills and you're psychic. So I guess what I'm saying is, let's see what you got."
"T' clarify-" Sam said, slowly, "does that mean I'm in?"
He didn't want to sound too eager but well.....he was freshly homeless and unemployed. He almost thought to mention that he didn't think that Quentin was a 'whiny bitch' but that felt a bit like overstepping for how little time he'd known the other man.
"Yeah yeah. Come in tomorrow, we'll do the paperwork and figure out where to get you started. Right now, I'm the only licensed PI and we could always use more, so if that's something you think you're gonna wanna pursue, too, then we can set up a plan for that. It's not fast, New York requires 3 years of experience before you can apply, but you can get started if that's what you want."
"Thank you." Sam said earnestly. "And I'll get on that, 'specially if it'll help the work load on the rest of y'all or - I guess rest of us. Is there a dress code? I don't really own nothin' that'd be considered 'nice' up here."
Sam fought back a grimace thinking about the clothes sitting upstairs in his room in a five gallon trash bag. The crumpled t-shirts and faded and frayed jeans, maybe a few button ups that weren't flannels. Yeah, he was gonna need to buy some new clothes as soon as possible. His cheeks flushed, he'd definitely have to buy new clothes if everyone at the office dressed like Quentin.
"Dress codes enforce conformity and hold people's bodies to arbitrary standards. I do not abide. That said, fashion is how people express themselves, and it's important to make sure you're representing yourself to others the way you want to be seen. So if you're looking for a new look, then we'll take a field trip to the Diamond District."
"Th' what?" Sam whispered. "I'm gonna be completely honest that sounds so outta my price range I think my wallet started playin' opossum."
Sam's mother's engagement band had come from the Walmart and had been purchased on a high school senior's budget. He's not sure he'd ever even seen a real diamond before let alone shopped anywhere with "diamond" in the name.
"It's a stretch in Manha . . . you know what? Never mind." Quentin pulled out his phone from his pocket and opened the maps app. "Okay, first thing is paperwork, second is wardrobe, and third is to familiarize yourself with the city because if you're gonna be helping the people, then you gotta know about where they call home."
