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xp_logs2024-09-19 03:50 pm
xp_longshot) wrote in xp_logs2024-09-19 03:50 pm
Entry tags:
Haller & Arthur | Too Many Kidnappings
Haller visits the XFi offices to request help with displaced mutants, but he and Arthur talk about ways to improve the mood at the mansion.
The X-Factor office seemed quiet at the moment; Jim could see only Arthur at the moment. The blond was sitting at his desk, a look of unusual wistfulness on his face. His eyes were closed.
"Arthur?" No response.
Not wanting to yell in case this was one of those days Warren had decided to remind Quentin he maintained an office here, Jim walked up to the other man and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"Arthur? You okay?"
His answer was the sort of jolt one might get waking someone from a daydream – a full body shudder that resolved quickly, leaving the victim blurry eyed and momentarily dazed. It was now apparent that Arthur had been listening to something given his current daze and the earbuds peeking out from under his hair. The open database onscreen and post notes scatter across his desk implied the presence of some task at hand. Names, locations, and the other detritus of PI work.
Arthur blinked rapidly, like his eyes were defective camera lenses, and turned. "Oh, Jim." His voice was still far away, and a stray tear had gathered at the corners of his eyes.This was all immediately discarded by bright joy. "Did you text and I missed it? I got a little lost."
"No, I just finished a session at the community center and . . . are you sure you're okay? What were you listening to?"
The low, jazzy sound of a mixed quartet filled the space between them as the blonde man removed his earbuds to earnestly consider the question. He stared past Haller like he was looking for truth in the office furniture. "Just a little empathy hangover, I think. Ever been a teenage girl?"
Jim looked at him.
"Well, yeah," he said slowly. "About 25% of the time, really."
"What's her opinion on sixties country?"
"Not high, honestly." Jim studied Arthur, forehead creased with concern. "I was going to ask if you wanted to grab lunch. And run something past you for your professional opinion, I guess, but that can wait."
"I'm highly professional," Arthur said defensively in the same tone one might claim they're fine. "Ask anyone. If this is about that 25% of the time – I could picture you in heels. A skirt with the right swagger, maybe. All about attitude there."
The telepath raised one deadpan eyebrow. "Cyndi's more the combat-boot type, which is a shame because we have great calves. I also need to talk to her about her choice of nail polish. But I was going to ask you about Greg. I'm not sure if this quite makes it to the point of calling the Underground, but XFI can help someone get out of town, right? Start over somewhere else?"
"Greg," Arthur repeated. And then, slower, "Greg. Joe's Apartment Greg?"
Then, much more definitely, Arthur snapped out of his emotional hangover with the clarity of a man given a simple task in order to dive directly into actual work. He produced an annotated list from the papers on his desk – helpfully titled 'Bad Times at the No-Kay Corral" – and used a single finger to scan for the mutant in question.
"Says here he wanted to stay in the city," Arthur added, "but we've got people for that. Plenty of communities are happy to hel– oh. Oh, I see why he changed his mind."
Jim winced. "Yeah. I've been seeing him for two months now, but he's made up his mind. He doesn't feel safe in District X anymore. I think he could have handled the abduction if it wasn't for the riot last year. And this year. After losing a lot of his things in the flood. I don't think he feels as if the community failed him, exactly, just that it's . . . well, the guy's already an arthromorph. All he wants is to lay low and live his life. He feels like living in DX is tempting fate."
"That's what the Mutant Underground does best," the blond said with a smile as he scribbled on a post-it. "Tough time for the whole community, though. This can be a positive for Mr. Greg. A fresh start. Still," and Arthur tapped his pen, "DX and the big house are supposed to be a place for good, but this year has been nonstop. If this was television what we'd need is a bottle episode. Go to the beach. Camp. Something fun and diverting."
The telepath's face momentarily assumed the thousand-yard-stare of one who had been on staff during the time Xavier's had functioned as a school. There had been no other time in his life where he’d spent so much on cigarettes.
"No field trips," Jim said, shaking himself. He rubbed his forehead. "Shit, not even a hike is safe at this point."
"Huh. An event, then? Pool parties and cookouts just don't have that note of new I think we need," Arthur continued, either immune to the implications of Jim's statement or willingly ignoring it.
"It's too early for a prom. Also, I'm not sure that works if you're not exactly a school." Jim sighed and crossed his arms. "Something new . . . I don't know, I wasn't big on group activities as a kid. Or activities that involved sharp objects."
"I guess I always pictured you surrounded by books." Arthur's tone was close to someone describing rain on your wedding day. Or a traffic jam when you're already late. Mildly distressing, but not as bad as it could be. He tapped the pen again. "Did you ever watch that show with the blonde teenager who could stop time? Anyway, they had an episode about some spirit day competition. Tug of wars and obstacle courses and scavenger hunts."
"You mean like a field day?" Jim asked with the light undertone of uncertainty of a man who'd spent the vast majority of his teenaged years in a medical institution. Like group activities, his knowledge of anything related to sports was theoretical at best. Nonetheless, he gave the blond a thoughtful look. "If we could get some of the other adults in on it that might not be a bad idea. Not that I don't trust the kids, but built-in supervision would be a plus. And, honestly, maybe help out the mood on that side of things, too – something productive rather than palliative."
"Palliative?" Except Arthur said it like 'palette-ative' and with just a brushstroke's worth of confusion. "I'm sure we could avoid arts and crafts, but I like where this is going. We have a whole not school's worth of school equipment. Why not?"
Jim paused to process Arthur processing, largely to wonder if he should bother to correct the blond. He decided against it. If there was one thing he was learning from Arthur, it was that sometimes it was okay to let things go.
"Yes," said Jim, "that could work. It's still pretty warm out. Maybe we can do a cookout afterwards or something, too, although that's probably an inevitability. It feels like all things move towards a barbeque."
"Everyone needs to eat." This was delivered like a man describing that, yes, disasters did happen. An uninteresting inevitability. His pen had moved to start a shorthand list in more productive work. "We should bring in Kyle," Arthur added, "and maybe Alani. Is she back? Oh. Jess loves children, too. Can't forget that. Sam . . . " The pen stopped, and he had absently drawn a few hearts with what looked like the start of 'E+' something in cheerful bubble letters. " . . . Sam will want to help."
That same inevitability. Like a man describing that unfortunate things happen.
Jim winced. "I'm not sure Sam knows how to stop helping, but maybe we can trick him into it. I’ll check with Rogue, too. She's good with kids, and she's certified in art therapy. She might have some arts and crafts ideas for the shyer ones." The counselor quirked an eyebrow at Arthur's pad. "Uh, something you want to talk about?"
"I . . ." Arthur stared at the pad too, but like he wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. ". . . Since Kentucky, I know too well what it feels like to be a fifteen year old girl. Maybe I should see Topaz "
"Were the readings, um . . . traumatic?" Jim asked, trying not to be too leading. Even the baseline existence of a fifteen year old girl was rarely fun, and he could think of several things that could make it substantially less so.
"Can you believe that some kids are deep down convinced that they aren't special?"
The telepath looked at Arthur. He thought about what it must have been like to grow up not just favored by the universe, but a man of fundamental optimism. To always think the best of others while wasting little of that thought for himself, because the moment he started the magic would stop.
Jim gave him a small, crooked smile.
"Yeah. Hard to imagine."
The X-Factor office seemed quiet at the moment; Jim could see only Arthur at the moment. The blond was sitting at his desk, a look of unusual wistfulness on his face. His eyes were closed.
"Arthur?" No response.
Not wanting to yell in case this was one of those days Warren had decided to remind Quentin he maintained an office here, Jim walked up to the other man and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"Arthur? You okay?"
His answer was the sort of jolt one might get waking someone from a daydream – a full body shudder that resolved quickly, leaving the victim blurry eyed and momentarily dazed. It was now apparent that Arthur had been listening to something given his current daze and the earbuds peeking out from under his hair. The open database onscreen and post notes scatter across his desk implied the presence of some task at hand. Names, locations, and the other detritus of PI work.
Arthur blinked rapidly, like his eyes were defective camera lenses, and turned. "Oh, Jim." His voice was still far away, and a stray tear had gathered at the corners of his eyes.This was all immediately discarded by bright joy. "Did you text and I missed it? I got a little lost."
"No, I just finished a session at the community center and . . . are you sure you're okay? What were you listening to?"
The low, jazzy sound of a mixed quartet filled the space between them as the blonde man removed his earbuds to earnestly consider the question. He stared past Haller like he was looking for truth in the office furniture. "Just a little empathy hangover, I think. Ever been a teenage girl?"
Jim looked at him.
"Well, yeah," he said slowly. "About 25% of the time, really."
"What's her opinion on sixties country?"
"Not high, honestly." Jim studied Arthur, forehead creased with concern. "I was going to ask if you wanted to grab lunch. And run something past you for your professional opinion, I guess, but that can wait."
"I'm highly professional," Arthur said defensively in the same tone one might claim they're fine. "Ask anyone. If this is about that 25% of the time – I could picture you in heels. A skirt with the right swagger, maybe. All about attitude there."
The telepath raised one deadpan eyebrow. "Cyndi's more the combat-boot type, which is a shame because we have great calves. I also need to talk to her about her choice of nail polish. But I was going to ask you about Greg. I'm not sure if this quite makes it to the point of calling the Underground, but XFI can help someone get out of town, right? Start over somewhere else?"
"Greg," Arthur repeated. And then, slower, "Greg. Joe's Apartment Greg?"
Then, much more definitely, Arthur snapped out of his emotional hangover with the clarity of a man given a simple task in order to dive directly into actual work. He produced an annotated list from the papers on his desk – helpfully titled 'Bad Times at the No-Kay Corral" – and used a single finger to scan for the mutant in question.
"Says here he wanted to stay in the city," Arthur added, "but we've got people for that. Plenty of communities are happy to hel– oh. Oh, I see why he changed his mind."
Jim winced. "Yeah. I've been seeing him for two months now, but he's made up his mind. He doesn't feel safe in District X anymore. I think he could have handled the abduction if it wasn't for the riot last year. And this year. After losing a lot of his things in the flood. I don't think he feels as if the community failed him, exactly, just that it's . . . well, the guy's already an arthromorph. All he wants is to lay low and live his life. He feels like living in DX is tempting fate."
"That's what the Mutant Underground does best," the blond said with a smile as he scribbled on a post-it. "Tough time for the whole community, though. This can be a positive for Mr. Greg. A fresh start. Still," and Arthur tapped his pen, "DX and the big house are supposed to be a place for good, but this year has been nonstop. If this was television what we'd need is a bottle episode. Go to the beach. Camp. Something fun and diverting."
The telepath's face momentarily assumed the thousand-yard-stare of one who had been on staff during the time Xavier's had functioned as a school. There had been no other time in his life where he’d spent so much on cigarettes.
"No field trips," Jim said, shaking himself. He rubbed his forehead. "Shit, not even a hike is safe at this point."
"Huh. An event, then? Pool parties and cookouts just don't have that note of new I think we need," Arthur continued, either immune to the implications of Jim's statement or willingly ignoring it.
"It's too early for a prom. Also, I'm not sure that works if you're not exactly a school." Jim sighed and crossed his arms. "Something new . . . I don't know, I wasn't big on group activities as a kid. Or activities that involved sharp objects."
"I guess I always pictured you surrounded by books." Arthur's tone was close to someone describing rain on your wedding day. Or a traffic jam when you're already late. Mildly distressing, but not as bad as it could be. He tapped the pen again. "Did you ever watch that show with the blonde teenager who could stop time? Anyway, they had an episode about some spirit day competition. Tug of wars and obstacle courses and scavenger hunts."
"You mean like a field day?" Jim asked with the light undertone of uncertainty of a man who'd spent the vast majority of his teenaged years in a medical institution. Like group activities, his knowledge of anything related to sports was theoretical at best. Nonetheless, he gave the blond a thoughtful look. "If we could get some of the other adults in on it that might not be a bad idea. Not that I don't trust the kids, but built-in supervision would be a plus. And, honestly, maybe help out the mood on that side of things, too – something productive rather than palliative."
"Palliative?" Except Arthur said it like 'palette-ative' and with just a brushstroke's worth of confusion. "I'm sure we could avoid arts and crafts, but I like where this is going. We have a whole not school's worth of school equipment. Why not?"
Jim paused to process Arthur processing, largely to wonder if he should bother to correct the blond. He decided against it. If there was one thing he was learning from Arthur, it was that sometimes it was okay to let things go.
"Yes," said Jim, "that could work. It's still pretty warm out. Maybe we can do a cookout afterwards or something, too, although that's probably an inevitability. It feels like all things move towards a barbeque."
"Everyone needs to eat." This was delivered like a man describing that, yes, disasters did happen. An uninteresting inevitability. His pen had moved to start a shorthand list in more productive work. "We should bring in Kyle," Arthur added, "and maybe Alani. Is she back? Oh. Jess loves children, too. Can't forget that. Sam . . . " The pen stopped, and he had absently drawn a few hearts with what looked like the start of 'E+' something in cheerful bubble letters. " . . . Sam will want to help."
That same inevitability. Like a man describing that unfortunate things happen.
Jim winced. "I'm not sure Sam knows how to stop helping, but maybe we can trick him into it. I’ll check with Rogue, too. She's good with kids, and she's certified in art therapy. She might have some arts and crafts ideas for the shyer ones." The counselor quirked an eyebrow at Arthur's pad. "Uh, something you want to talk about?"
"I . . ." Arthur stared at the pad too, but like he wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. ". . . Since Kentucky, I know too well what it feels like to be a fifteen year old girl. Maybe I should see Topaz "
"Were the readings, um . . . traumatic?" Jim asked, trying not to be too leading. Even the baseline existence of a fifteen year old girl was rarely fun, and he could think of several things that could make it substantially less so.
"Can you believe that some kids are deep down convinced that they aren't special?"
The telepath looked at Arthur. He thought about what it must have been like to grow up not just favored by the universe, but a man of fundamental optimism. To always think the best of others while wasting little of that thought for himself, because the moment he started the magic would stop.
Jim gave him a small, crooked smile.
"Yeah. Hard to imagine."