Lectures:
I really need an office of my own.
I seem to have a long list of people to call into it, after all.
Maybe I can get one of those really nifty wood and semi-precious stone inlaid globes. And one of those DNArt posters, hung and framed.
And I really am going to dangle someone from a tree, if this keeps up.
The library is rather empty on this fine almost-June day. There is a small knot of students immersed in fretful review of the causes of the second world war, but they are at one end of the library, and Professor Grey is at the other. She has a spot by a bay window. She has tea. She is waiting.
Forge is not prompt, if his entrance is harried -- the kind of breathless harried that indicates one knows one is late and is putting forth some excess effort to let everyone else know one knows one is late. His bobbed ponytail has come half out of its bob, but his T-shirt is neat. Well. It is a T-shirt.
Forge's t-shirts often have neat things written on them, at least? Jean, polished and professional in a cranberry business suit crosses her ankles and then uncrosses them again, and rests her hands on her skirt covered lap. "Professor Forge," she greets, cool irritation undercutting her tone as she surveys her errant shop professor.
"Professor Jean," Forge returns, after a necessary inhale. If it does seem that the only franticness in his voice is due to not having enough air. "You wanted to see me?" Surely for no particular reason.
Jean lifts an eyebrow. It is a very eloquent eyebrow.
Forge turns his fingers inward toward his chest in a half shrug of protested innocence.
Jean points at the armchair across from hers. It is not one of the comfortable ones. Sit.
Forge looks at Jean. Looks at the chair. He sits. And promptly crosses his legs.
Jean's chin tips downwards just a fraction, pleased. She sits forward to pour two cups of tea. She fixes hers meticulously. Throughout this, she does not speak.
Forge examines the tea. He does not reach for it. He doesn't even blink excessively. One finger taps against the opposite metal hand.
With a soft clink of crockery, Jean takes up cup and saucer of her own. Delicately, she sips. Coolly, she watches Forge. Eventually, softly, she wonders "Shall I start with the part where you destroyed Professor Montague's flowerbeds and then got into an argument with her that frightened a student, or the part where you assaulted a man with three broken limbs and locked him in a closet?"
"Oh, right." Forge chuckles a low, dignified chuckle until he appears to realize that one should really not be chuckling. He clears his throat. "Ah. See. First, I only destroyed one flowerbed, and, second, I did not actually lock him in the /closet/. He didn't fit, you understand."
"Forge." Jean lifts a hand, stilling the flow of explanation. She is Not Amused.
Forge shrugs a singular, good natured shoulder, and reaches up to undo the rest of his ponytail.
Jean sighs. She pinches at the bridge of her nose, head bowing for a long moment as she attempts to regather her focus, bleed off irritation and try a new tack. There's a pause. Jean's head eventually lifts. Two out of three ain't bad, right? "Forge, it is wrong to destroy flowerbeds when you know that someone on the faculty is very sensitive about them. It is also wrong to shoot our allies with stun guns when they are not threatening you. It is -also- wrong to destroy their computers, and it is wrong to steal someone's gun."
"Hey, he pointed that gun /at/ me," Forge says as he runs his fingers through his hair in a rough combing exercise. "If I'd left it with him, it'd be positive reinforcement." Resisting the lesson.
"Where was your gun at the time, Forge?"
"Hmm." Forge pauses, then accedes, "Pointing at him."
"So should I confiscate your guns, Forge?" Slowly, in that tone reserved for retarded children and the extremely brilliant, Jean poses her question.
"If you like. I'd just make more." Forge is regretful, really.
"So what," Jean wonders, mournful, "Should I do with you? We really can't have you tipping our allies into closets, locked or no. And Averillix is flighty enough when she's busy dating terrorists and thinking we won't notice."
"I'm sorry. I'm incorrigible," Forge sighs. He shakes his head.
"That's not good enough, Forge." Jean's chin tips again, she waits.
"I promise not to tip allies into closets and/or destroy flower beds?"
"Do you understand why?"
"Because it causes ripples of upset through the general fabric of New York?"
"That's about right." Satisfied that this is the most she's going to be getting, Jean relaxes into her seat somewhat, crosses her ankles, and bids "Drink your tea."
"If I must." Forge thereby lifts the tea into drinking position. He's taking his time.
"Tea is good for you. There are anti-oxidants." Sipping at hers by way of example, she slides in one last set of orders. "I'm going to need you to give me Rossi's gun back. With ammunition."
"If I must." Forge finally sips the tea. Once. "It'll be missing one bullet."
"You must." The further information leaves Jean blinking. "...why?"
"It was necessary to fire the gun once after acquiring it."
"Why?"
"Otherwise, there would be no point in acquiring it, avoiding positive reinforcement aside."
"There is a difference," Jean notes, the pained look returning, "Between what is -necessary- to do, and what you -want- to do. For example, I -want- to dangle a number of people from trees by their ankles until they behave. It's -necessary- that I leave them running around because I need them somewhere else than upside down in a tree."
Forge pulls his eyebrows into a glower. "Dr. Grey, I am not a student. I am older than you. I truly do not need to be patronized. Or hung."
"Then start acting like it," Jean suggests, meeting the glower with a look that suggests that Forge, however brilliant, really needs to work on his glaring abilities. She sips her tea.
Forge only passes from glower to bemusement.
"You have a very remarkable brain, Forge," Jean suggests, after a hopeful pause is met with disappointment in the face of that bemusement. So sad. "Use it to observe how and where society's guides to behavior fall, and then try to mimic them."
"The problem with remarkable brains is that they are terribly crowded things." Forge acknowledges this is a tragedy with a certain . . . half smile. "I can hardly stuff anything else in."
"Well, if you're going to interact with people, you need to at least make an effort to stop and think," Jean seems disinclined to surrender this point, although, with a moment's thought, she -does- seem inclined to negotiate it. "Could you build yourself some kind of device that would remind you to stop and think before starting something?"
"Jean. I can't subsist being buzzed every thirty seconds. I'd eventually die."
"Well... train it to only react to a situation that would be troublesome rather than just socially embarassing," Jean waves a hand. "Like the programming update they're sending through to the Mars Rovers to catch dust devils."
"First, I'd have to somehow figure out the line between 'embarrassing' and 'troublesome.'" Forge flicks the air to indicate helplessness. "How about you make me a list?"
"How about you come up with a list, and I'll write comments and ratings in the margins," Jean counters. Her chin has tipped again, downwards this time.
"You won't like my list."
"I won't know it until I see it." One of Jean's hands waves this off, breezily. "And if it's a list of your daily interactions, then it's not about liking or not liking."
"Very well. Objective list that will be accosted by Jean's subjective opinions," Forge summarizes, and tenses slightly. "Can I go?"
"I told you to place society's opinions on there, and you -whined-."
"Society is also subjective. I am not."
"Nevertheless, if you want to be out in society, then you need to at least play along."
"So, objective list with subjective opinions. Can I go?" Forge sets his tea down imperatively on the table.
"Only if you go and bring me that gun. Rossi called me, and wants it back. He was," Jean notes absently. "Very emphatic about it."
"Good. I'll bring you the gun." Obscurely pleased, Forge stands and starts meandering away.
"Thank you, Forge." Jean returns to her tea, and eyes the mostly untouched cup across from her. No-one ever drinks the tea. It is very sad.
I seem to have a long list of people to call into it, after all.
Maybe I can get one of those really nifty wood and semi-precious stone inlaid globes. And one of those DNArt posters, hung and framed.
And I really am going to dangle someone from a tree, if this keeps up.
The library is rather empty on this fine almost-June day. There is a small knot of students immersed in fretful review of the causes of the second world war, but they are at one end of the library, and Professor Grey is at the other. She has a spot by a bay window. She has tea. She is waiting.
Forge is not prompt, if his entrance is harried -- the kind of breathless harried that indicates one knows one is late and is putting forth some excess effort to let everyone else know one knows one is late. His bobbed ponytail has come half out of its bob, but his T-shirt is neat. Well. It is a T-shirt.
Forge's t-shirts often have neat things written on them, at least? Jean, polished and professional in a cranberry business suit crosses her ankles and then uncrosses them again, and rests her hands on her skirt covered lap. "Professor Forge," she greets, cool irritation undercutting her tone as she surveys her errant shop professor.
"Professor Jean," Forge returns, after a necessary inhale. If it does seem that the only franticness in his voice is due to not having enough air. "You wanted to see me?" Surely for no particular reason.
Jean lifts an eyebrow. It is a very eloquent eyebrow.
Forge turns his fingers inward toward his chest in a half shrug of protested innocence.
Jean points at the armchair across from hers. It is not one of the comfortable ones. Sit.
Forge looks at Jean. Looks at the chair. He sits. And promptly crosses his legs.
Jean's chin tips downwards just a fraction, pleased. She sits forward to pour two cups of tea. She fixes hers meticulously. Throughout this, she does not speak.
Forge examines the tea. He does not reach for it. He doesn't even blink excessively. One finger taps against the opposite metal hand.
With a soft clink of crockery, Jean takes up cup and saucer of her own. Delicately, she sips. Coolly, she watches Forge. Eventually, softly, she wonders "Shall I start with the part where you destroyed Professor Montague's flowerbeds and then got into an argument with her that frightened a student, or the part where you assaulted a man with three broken limbs and locked him in a closet?"
"Oh, right." Forge chuckles a low, dignified chuckle until he appears to realize that one should really not be chuckling. He clears his throat. "Ah. See. First, I only destroyed one flowerbed, and, second, I did not actually lock him in the /closet/. He didn't fit, you understand."
"Forge." Jean lifts a hand, stilling the flow of explanation. She is Not Amused.
Forge shrugs a singular, good natured shoulder, and reaches up to undo the rest of his ponytail.
Jean sighs. She pinches at the bridge of her nose, head bowing for a long moment as she attempts to regather her focus, bleed off irritation and try a new tack. There's a pause. Jean's head eventually lifts. Two out of three ain't bad, right? "Forge, it is wrong to destroy flowerbeds when you know that someone on the faculty is very sensitive about them. It is also wrong to shoot our allies with stun guns when they are not threatening you. It is -also- wrong to destroy their computers, and it is wrong to steal someone's gun."
"Hey, he pointed that gun /at/ me," Forge says as he runs his fingers through his hair in a rough combing exercise. "If I'd left it with him, it'd be positive reinforcement." Resisting the lesson.
"Where was your gun at the time, Forge?"
"Hmm." Forge pauses, then accedes, "Pointing at him."
"So should I confiscate your guns, Forge?" Slowly, in that tone reserved for retarded children and the extremely brilliant, Jean poses her question.
"If you like. I'd just make more." Forge is regretful, really.
"So what," Jean wonders, mournful, "Should I do with you? We really can't have you tipping our allies into closets, locked or no. And Averillix is flighty enough when she's busy dating terrorists and thinking we won't notice."
"I'm sorry. I'm incorrigible," Forge sighs. He shakes his head.
"That's not good enough, Forge." Jean's chin tips again, she waits.
"I promise not to tip allies into closets and/or destroy flower beds?"
"Do you understand why?"
"Because it causes ripples of upset through the general fabric of New York?"
"That's about right." Satisfied that this is the most she's going to be getting, Jean relaxes into her seat somewhat, crosses her ankles, and bids "Drink your tea."
"If I must." Forge thereby lifts the tea into drinking position. He's taking his time.
"Tea is good for you. There are anti-oxidants." Sipping at hers by way of example, she slides in one last set of orders. "I'm going to need you to give me Rossi's gun back. With ammunition."
"If I must." Forge finally sips the tea. Once. "It'll be missing one bullet."
"You must." The further information leaves Jean blinking. "...why?"
"It was necessary to fire the gun once after acquiring it."
"Why?"
"Otherwise, there would be no point in acquiring it, avoiding positive reinforcement aside."
"There is a difference," Jean notes, the pained look returning, "Between what is -necessary- to do, and what you -want- to do. For example, I -want- to dangle a number of people from trees by their ankles until they behave. It's -necessary- that I leave them running around because I need them somewhere else than upside down in a tree."
Forge pulls his eyebrows into a glower. "Dr. Grey, I am not a student. I am older than you. I truly do not need to be patronized. Or hung."
"Then start acting like it," Jean suggests, meeting the glower with a look that suggests that Forge, however brilliant, really needs to work on his glaring abilities. She sips her tea.
Forge only passes from glower to bemusement.
"You have a very remarkable brain, Forge," Jean suggests, after a hopeful pause is met with disappointment in the face of that bemusement. So sad. "Use it to observe how and where society's guides to behavior fall, and then try to mimic them."
"The problem with remarkable brains is that they are terribly crowded things." Forge acknowledges this is a tragedy with a certain . . . half smile. "I can hardly stuff anything else in."
"Well, if you're going to interact with people, you need to at least make an effort to stop and think," Jean seems disinclined to surrender this point, although, with a moment's thought, she -does- seem inclined to negotiate it. "Could you build yourself some kind of device that would remind you to stop and think before starting something?"
"Jean. I can't subsist being buzzed every thirty seconds. I'd eventually die."
"Well... train it to only react to a situation that would be troublesome rather than just socially embarassing," Jean waves a hand. "Like the programming update they're sending through to the Mars Rovers to catch dust devils."
"First, I'd have to somehow figure out the line between 'embarrassing' and 'troublesome.'" Forge flicks the air to indicate helplessness. "How about you make me a list?"
"How about you come up with a list, and I'll write comments and ratings in the margins," Jean counters. Her chin has tipped again, downwards this time.
"You won't like my list."
"I won't know it until I see it." One of Jean's hands waves this off, breezily. "And if it's a list of your daily interactions, then it's not about liking or not liking."
"Very well. Objective list that will be accosted by Jean's subjective opinions," Forge summarizes, and tenses slightly. "Can I go?"
"I told you to place society's opinions on there, and you -whined-."
"Society is also subjective. I am not."
"Nevertheless, if you want to be out in society, then you need to at least play along."
"So, objective list with subjective opinions. Can I go?" Forge sets his tea down imperatively on the table.
"Only if you go and bring me that gun. Rossi called me, and wants it back. He was," Jean notes absently. "Very emphatic about it."
"Good. I'll bring you the gun." Obscurely pleased, Forge stands and starts meandering away.
"Thank you, Forge." Jean returns to her tea, and eyes the mostly untouched cup across from her. No-one ever drinks the tea. It is very sad.