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Not Another Teen Dimension - Doug and Kyle
It's not quite detention, but teen!Doug gets hit with some 'mandatory volunteer hours' tutoring the basketball team's resident slacker who's failing algebra - Kyle Gibney. When their older, arguably wiser counterparts hop in, they make a pact to improve each of their counterparts a bit.
"...Mr. Ramsey, your parents are correct in pointing out that there is no concrete proof of your 'hacking' the school's computer systems..." Doug faded in to his counterpart's consciousness in medias res to a stern lecture from Vice Principal Lensherr. Doug was pretty sure he had enough context to catch up, though. ~Caught hacking? Tsk, tsk, self,~ he thought to himself.
"...we can, however, mandate some 'volunteer hours' in response to your being in unauthorized areas outside of school hours. As such, you will be spending some time under supervision, tutoring those of your classmates who need it over the next few weeks." Well, that wasn't quite as bad as it could have been, he supposed.
The older man walked him all the way to the 'study hall' room that looked like it also doubled as detention central on the weekends. The whole way there, Doug's left hand flexed and relaxed in his pocket. The things that he had already come to accept as part of his day to day existence, gone. His head felt...quieter, with none of the background processing that the 'friendos' had going on even when there wasn't anything active being done.
As they entered, Doug spotted his charge. Tall, but in that way where he had clearly just hit a growth spurt - his wrists and ankles poking out from his clothes, looking like he hadn't eaten enough to pad out his new lankier frame. The very beginnings of facial hair at the corners of the lips and jawline. Slightly greasy hair and a sullen expression that looked more or less permanent. Doug allowed his lips to purse as his only reaction, because he definitely recognized the face of someone he knew.
"You'll be assisting Mr. Gibney with his math work," Mr. Lensherr informed him before turning around and leaving the room as abruptly as they'd entered.
"Mister Gibney's my -step--dad-" came after Mr Lensherr left the room, a sullen whine at the back of the assistant principal who was responsible for "If your grades do not improve, you will be off the team next year" measure.
This Kyle slumped behind a desk. His long legs - still all bony ankles and knobbed knees - stuck out into the aisle between seats. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked across at his 'tutor' with half-lidded eyes. "You don't have to be here, I'm gonna fail it anyway, so what's the point."
"I do actually have to be here, and you are not going to fail. Not if I have anything to say about it." And Doug had plenty to say about it, even if very little of that might be out loud. "You don't have to be a math whiz, you don't have to calculate shit in your head, you just have to get a passing grade. C is for cookie and that's good enough for me." This being the third (and it probably said something that there was a question mark after that non-zero number) time Doug had dealt with a teenage-ish alternate self, this was pretty preferable. After all, he still had access to his memory and intellect.
"Do you think she was trying to . . . be your girlfriend?"
"But when I went to bed last night, we weren't..." Twenty-somethings. A ridiculously fit Adonis and Aphrodite. Sleeping together. All of the above.
Definitely an improvement.
"None of it makes -sense- Why do I even need this shit?" The arms didn't uncross. "Look I get, figure out how much something is gonna cost with tax. I get if I add two fucking things together. I get that. I'm never going to understand the rest of this. What the hell is a quadratic equation for?" His braces kept him from really baring teeth - but - if he could have, Kyle would have.
Doug grabbed a piece of chalk and began drawing on the board. A small stick figure beginning to launch a ball toward a hoop took shape. "A lot of math can describe the way things happen. In the case of quadratic equations, it can describe the path an object takes when it's launched into the air and then comes back down. Like, say, a basketball." He began to draw a parabola from the ball to the hoop. "Do you know how to shoot the ball so it travels as far as possible? What angle is that?"
"What."
Kyle had heard a lot about the flat what, heard girls giggling about how one of the teachers used it. He'd never used it himself, and never heard his voice do -that-, go actually deep and in his chest. "Yeah. Yeah I can shoot.. hold up, you can do math to that?"
"Yep." Doug drew different parabolas - one that went much higher but didn't travel far enough to reach the hoop, one that was low and traveled a bit farther but never got high enough. "This is kinda where math crosses into physics, but there are practical real world things for most of this." He could tell he'd actually gotten the teen's attention. "That's why word problems are a thing. A lot of the time you're actually doing basic algebra, it's just disguised as Johnny having five apples and Suzie having six oranges."
Sharp inhale. Hands that shake a little. "Why doesn't anyone tell me this? I could've at least cared about it a little if somebody told me" Kyle scrubbed at his eyes a little. "So what if it's not a ball. What if it's a ... I dunno, brick. Does that change it?"
Doug might have done a tiny fist pump of victory. On the inside. "In the real world, you'd have to throw it differently, because the weight and shape are different. So in that sense it would change a bit. But it'd still make this same shape. It's called a parabola." He bent his knees and jumped forward several feet. "It even does that if you use -you- instead of a ball or brick."
"So when I go up for a layup, it's that same thing?" Kyle flexed his fingers like he was reaching for the ball, or the hoop, and scratched at his arm. "Huh. And that thing like, you put in numbers and that thing tells you what shape it makes?"
"Exactly." Teaching people stuff, and seeing them start to put it together in their own heads, was a pretty neat thing. Doug had actually learned that from the Kyle he knew, so being able to see it in this Kyle was a bit of syncrhonicity.
"Exactly what?" Kyle blinked for a second, and squinted. "Aw, fucking quadratic equations." He made a huff, hoped he'd been making one earlier, and stretched out those long legs that didn't quite fit the rest of his frame yet. Rolled arms, tapped two fingers on the desk, cracked every single knuckle, popped his neck, arched his back a little. "Sorry man, these chairs, right? Growing pains I guess." He rubbed the back of his neck, and made a face, like whatever his hand touched was unpleasant.
Even without mutant powers, some things still crossed over with this whole inhabiting teen versions of themselves. Doug's uncanny ability to read body language was one of those skills he had cultivated to the point where it was hard to know where his power ended and his practiced skill began. So he could see the difference in Kyle, if not right away, at least very quickly. "Sup, dude?" he asked, exaggeratedly wiggling the fingers of his left hand to indicate to Kyle who was at the helm.
"Oh thank fuck." Kyle let the rest of the tension in this 15 year old body go and went boneless in the chair. "Tell me I don't look as shitty as I feel because I remember fifteen and I'm about to go break into the locker room and get a shower." he paused. "Also how weird is it for you to have a, like." The grin - mature, wild, teasing - looked wrong in this underfed face with braces and bad skin. "A meat hand."
"A bit," Doug admitted. "Like, mostly I keep listening for the nanites, there's a sort of...background noise that I've gotten used to since we all started cohabiting and such." He sized Kyle up again by eye. "I'm afraid to say you might look even shittier than you feel, dude. You know it's bad if I can smell that you need a shower."
"Can you do me two favors? Spot me, I'm legit going to go break into the showers and take one, and get me some paper." Kyle peeled a slightly sweaty t-shirt off his underfed torso. "This kid's about to get a letter from his future self. It's what, 2003? Fuck. I'm gonna have to admit jerking it to Aragorn."
Doug's eyes twinkled. "Let's bootstrap paradox the fuck out of ourselves," he said, offering a fistbump.
Kyle groaned. "I gotta go also like. Talk to the basketball team to find out if any of them stole the thinger. Lets hope a shower and actual fucking social skills means I can get any goddamn information. That dossier that you guys sent out said the coach is Banner, so you'd hope nobody from the team stole his whatsit."
An answering groan came from Doug. "Ugh, I gotta check Stark. Fuck our lives." Except the plan was to unfuck them, hopefully. But first, work.
"...Mr. Ramsey, your parents are correct in pointing out that there is no concrete proof of your 'hacking' the school's computer systems..." Doug faded in to his counterpart's consciousness in medias res to a stern lecture from Vice Principal Lensherr. Doug was pretty sure he had enough context to catch up, though. ~Caught hacking? Tsk, tsk, self,~ he thought to himself.
"...we can, however, mandate some 'volunteer hours' in response to your being in unauthorized areas outside of school hours. As such, you will be spending some time under supervision, tutoring those of your classmates who need it over the next few weeks." Well, that wasn't quite as bad as it could have been, he supposed.
The older man walked him all the way to the 'study hall' room that looked like it also doubled as detention central on the weekends. The whole way there, Doug's left hand flexed and relaxed in his pocket. The things that he had already come to accept as part of his day to day existence, gone. His head felt...quieter, with none of the background processing that the 'friendos' had going on even when there wasn't anything active being done.
As they entered, Doug spotted his charge. Tall, but in that way where he had clearly just hit a growth spurt - his wrists and ankles poking out from his clothes, looking like he hadn't eaten enough to pad out his new lankier frame. The very beginnings of facial hair at the corners of the lips and jawline. Slightly greasy hair and a sullen expression that looked more or less permanent. Doug allowed his lips to purse as his only reaction, because he definitely recognized the face of someone he knew.
"You'll be assisting Mr. Gibney with his math work," Mr. Lensherr informed him before turning around and leaving the room as abruptly as they'd entered.
"Mister Gibney's my -step--dad-" came after Mr Lensherr left the room, a sullen whine at the back of the assistant principal who was responsible for "If your grades do not improve, you will be off the team next year" measure.
This Kyle slumped behind a desk. His long legs - still all bony ankles and knobbed knees - stuck out into the aisle between seats. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked across at his 'tutor' with half-lidded eyes. "You don't have to be here, I'm gonna fail it anyway, so what's the point."
"I do actually have to be here, and you are not going to fail. Not if I have anything to say about it." And Doug had plenty to say about it, even if very little of that might be out loud. "You don't have to be a math whiz, you don't have to calculate shit in your head, you just have to get a passing grade. C is for cookie and that's good enough for me." This being the third (and it probably said something that there was a question mark after that non-zero number) time Doug had dealt with a teenage-ish alternate self, this was pretty preferable. After all, he still had access to his memory and intellect.
"Do you think she was trying to . . . be your girlfriend?"
"But when I went to bed last night, we weren't..." Twenty-somethings. A ridiculously fit Adonis and Aphrodite. Sleeping together. All of the above.
Definitely an improvement.
"None of it makes -sense- Why do I even need this shit?" The arms didn't uncross. "Look I get, figure out how much something is gonna cost with tax. I get if I add two fucking things together. I get that. I'm never going to understand the rest of this. What the hell is a quadratic equation for?" His braces kept him from really baring teeth - but - if he could have, Kyle would have.
Doug grabbed a piece of chalk and began drawing on the board. A small stick figure beginning to launch a ball toward a hoop took shape. "A lot of math can describe the way things happen. In the case of quadratic equations, it can describe the path an object takes when it's launched into the air and then comes back down. Like, say, a basketball." He began to draw a parabola from the ball to the hoop. "Do you know how to shoot the ball so it travels as far as possible? What angle is that?"
"What."
Kyle had heard a lot about the flat what, heard girls giggling about how one of the teachers used it. He'd never used it himself, and never heard his voice do -that-, go actually deep and in his chest. "Yeah. Yeah I can shoot.. hold up, you can do math to that?"
"Yep." Doug drew different parabolas - one that went much higher but didn't travel far enough to reach the hoop, one that was low and traveled a bit farther but never got high enough. "This is kinda where math crosses into physics, but there are practical real world things for most of this." He could tell he'd actually gotten the teen's attention. "That's why word problems are a thing. A lot of the time you're actually doing basic algebra, it's just disguised as Johnny having five apples and Suzie having six oranges."
Sharp inhale. Hands that shake a little. "Why doesn't anyone tell me this? I could've at least cared about it a little if somebody told me" Kyle scrubbed at his eyes a little. "So what if it's not a ball. What if it's a ... I dunno, brick. Does that change it?"
Doug might have done a tiny fist pump of victory. On the inside. "In the real world, you'd have to throw it differently, because the weight and shape are different. So in that sense it would change a bit. But it'd still make this same shape. It's called a parabola." He bent his knees and jumped forward several feet. "It even does that if you use -you- instead of a ball or brick."
"So when I go up for a layup, it's that same thing?" Kyle flexed his fingers like he was reaching for the ball, or the hoop, and scratched at his arm. "Huh. And that thing like, you put in numbers and that thing tells you what shape it makes?"
"Exactly." Teaching people stuff, and seeing them start to put it together in their own heads, was a pretty neat thing. Doug had actually learned that from the Kyle he knew, so being able to see it in this Kyle was a bit of syncrhonicity.
"Exactly what?" Kyle blinked for a second, and squinted. "Aw, fucking quadratic equations." He made a huff, hoped he'd been making one earlier, and stretched out those long legs that didn't quite fit the rest of his frame yet. Rolled arms, tapped two fingers on the desk, cracked every single knuckle, popped his neck, arched his back a little. "Sorry man, these chairs, right? Growing pains I guess." He rubbed the back of his neck, and made a face, like whatever his hand touched was unpleasant.
Even without mutant powers, some things still crossed over with this whole inhabiting teen versions of themselves. Doug's uncanny ability to read body language was one of those skills he had cultivated to the point where it was hard to know where his power ended and his practiced skill began. So he could see the difference in Kyle, if not right away, at least very quickly. "Sup, dude?" he asked, exaggeratedly wiggling the fingers of his left hand to indicate to Kyle who was at the helm.
"Oh thank fuck." Kyle let the rest of the tension in this 15 year old body go and went boneless in the chair. "Tell me I don't look as shitty as I feel because I remember fifteen and I'm about to go break into the locker room and get a shower." he paused. "Also how weird is it for you to have a, like." The grin - mature, wild, teasing - looked wrong in this underfed face with braces and bad skin. "A meat hand."
"A bit," Doug admitted. "Like, mostly I keep listening for the nanites, there's a sort of...background noise that I've gotten used to since we all started cohabiting and such." He sized Kyle up again by eye. "I'm afraid to say you might look even shittier than you feel, dude. You know it's bad if I can smell that you need a shower."
"Can you do me two favors? Spot me, I'm legit going to go break into the showers and take one, and get me some paper." Kyle peeled a slightly sweaty t-shirt off his underfed torso. "This kid's about to get a letter from his future self. It's what, 2003? Fuck. I'm gonna have to admit jerking it to Aragorn."
Doug's eyes twinkled. "Let's bootstrap paradox the fuck out of ourselves," he said, offering a fistbump.
Kyle groaned. "I gotta go also like. Talk to the basketball team to find out if any of them stole the thinger. Lets hope a shower and actual fucking social skills means I can get any goddamn information. That dossier that you guys sent out said the coach is Banner, so you'd hope nobody from the team stole his whatsit."
An answering groan came from Doug. "Ugh, I gotta check Stark. Fuck our lives." Except the plan was to unfuck them, hopefully. But first, work.