OOC: Log! Scott and Nate
I really need to find a suitable Nate-lookalike out there, just so's I can make a Nate icon. Because.
X-Men: Movieverse - Wednesday, February 07, 2007, 8:10 PM
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=XS= Kitchen - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
A relic of Victorian times, this kitchen is vast, with more than one oven and several stainless steel work surfaces taking the space once claimed by coal hoppers, cooking hearths and cast-iron stoves. Walls still done in period plaster and tile, and the floor still the original fieldstone, fluorescent lights have been installed overhead to bring the lighting up to modern level. At meal times, kitchen workers scurry to and fro with pans and food and various other sundry items, under the watchful eye of the aging head cook, but once past, order is restored, with copper-bottomed pans hanging above the kitchen island, and a tray of cold snacks left out for foraging students and staff alike. Folding wood doors screen off a pantry capable of holding food for an large household's weekly meals -- or three days' worth of teenager food.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias XSKitchen to watch here.]
[Exits : [H]allway, [O]ut, and [D]ining [R]oom]
[Players : Scott ]
Dinnertime at the Xavier Mansion, at least for the smallest and youngest resident. Just a little too small to eat in the dining hall with the mealtime rush, Nate Grey-Summers is installed in one of the tallboy chairs at the kitchen island. There is a plate in front of him. On it, a half of a pork chop lingers in the form of nothing more than a few cubed fragments and a smear of fat. It's in company of a veritable virgin forest of vegetables. Broccoli, to be precise.
"Eat your broccoli, Nate," Scott repeats the instruction from his vantage point across the table. There's a pad of paper, several pages full of various notes and scribblings.
Nate eyes the broccoli. The broccoli, eyeless unlike his now-vanished potatoes, does not eye him back. "It's -yuck-," he informs his father in return, daring to poke at the nearest floret with a teeny-tiny fork meant for adult desserts, and well suited to three year old hands. In his mind's eye, the broccoli growls.
"Yuck?" Scott says, amused. He stands, rounding the table to pull up a chair in front of the boy. "/Daddy/ likes broccoli," he begins, then pauses, reconsidering that approach, instead retrieving a second fork from the drawer and returning to his seat. One of the pieces is poked and prodded until it stands on end. "What's that look like, buddy?"
The first tack earns Scott a suspicious look that then turns hopeful. "You eat the broccoli, Daddy?" Nate invites, generous with the green doom, and shoving the plate towards Scott in encouragement. He falls silent at the question, tapping the standing broccoli with his own fork. "It looooooooks," the kiddie cogitates, "Like a tree." A pause. "A -yuck- tree."
"I /do/ eat broccoli. And I finished all of mine," Scott says, not about to fall for that trick, one hand keeping the plate in front of the boy. "Like a tree. You get to eat a /whoooole/ tree. All at once. Like a /giant/."""
"If -I- was a giant," Nate informs, "I'd eata -candy- tree." He stares intently at the broccoli, as if willing it to transmute into a small bundle of candy floss.
"You at your candy tree earlier," Scott reminds him. "Now it's time to eat your broccoli trees."
Nate is, temporarily, stumped. He prods at the broccoli doubtfully, looking up at Scott with a concerned expression. "But broccoli's -yuck-," he explains, trying to convey some important message by upping the wattage output of his eyes. "One of the bigger kids said so."
"Did they now?" Scott says, fighting to keep a smile from crossing his face at the kid logic. "You know, there's a couple kids here that don't like dogs. Not even Pancakes. But you like dogs, right?"
"Yeah, but I don't eat dogs," Nate points out. Reasonably.
"Yes, but you /do/ eat broccoli," Scott counters. "And just because /one/ of the bigger kids doesn't like broccoli, doesn't mean you won't."
"If I don't like it, do I hafta eat it all?" Nate queries, splitting his attention between staring up at his father's nose, and watching the broccoli for signs of making trouble. "I ated all the potatoes and the porkchop, see?"
Scott takes in the number of pieces on the plate, spears and half-spears, tallying in his head. "You eat half of it, and then I'll decide. That's four pieces."
There is not a more dubious-looking three year old in Westchester County than Nate Grey-Summers at this particular moment. Brown eyes narrowed, he surveys the army of broccoli massing against him, tapping the tree with a fork to fell it. His brow furrows. His lips compress. "...OK," says Nate. Slowly, carefully, he stabs the first floret of broccoli. More slowly still, he raises it to his mouth. He bites. The expression of revulsion and nausea is immediate and intense, accompanied by a welling of water in his eyes. "Daddy..." he whimpers, mind over matter proving itself. "It's -yuck-."
"Three more pieces," Scott is unrelenting. "Sometimes you have to eat things you don't like."
Oh, the heartless cruelty of Big People. Nate chokes and gags most piteously, sniffling thrown in and soon causing a highly-appetizing mess of snot and stray broccoli bits to coat his lower face, smeared upwards by a wipe of one fist. "It's -yuck-. I don' -like- it!" he protests, but, after a jagged swallow and more sniffles, eats another piece. This one vanishes in a large bite, as Nate drops his fork with a clatter to pinch his nose shut with two fingers and chew vigorously. Snot bubbles from one sealed nostril.
"Don't complain, Nate. Nana Vargas would be sad to hear you don't like her food," Scott says, sliding his chair back. "Finish the other two bites without complaining, and that's all you have to eat."
Nate falls into, if not silence, at least a slowly-decreasing cycle of sniffles. He doesn't make a move on the remaining two broccoli spears, instead staring at them with slumped shoulders and defeated eyes. Evil vegetables, thwarting his escape at every turn!
Scott is cruel, instead returning to his notes. The handy thing about glasses is they let one keep watch unobtrusively. He makes no comment, just continuing his scribbles while keeping a curious eye on the boy.
Nate eventually falls prey to one of the classic blunders. He does not get involved in a land war in Asia, but he -does- begin to think that because he can't see Scott's eyes, Scott is clearly not watching him. Staring at the broccoli, focusing all the willpower of a child of Scott Summers and Jean Grey upon it, he THINKS at it. The broccoli is, abruptly, not on the plate. Where it is is hitting the back wall of the kitchen with a water-laden splat.
Scott doesn't react immediately. He continues to write. "I think I need a drink," he says rather loudly, a moment later, making a show of pushing back his chair, then standing. His walk toward the cabinets and sink is not hurried, giving him plenty of time to ask "How many pieces left, Nate?"
"One!" says Nate. The broccoli, after all, is not on the -plate- any more.
Scott clatters around in the cabinet, pulling out a cup a bit later, then walks to the sink, letting it slowly fill with tap water. "What's this?" he asks loudly, picking up the piece of broccoli from its fallen position. It is set in his palm, and he holds it out toward Nate. "Look what I found. Do you have any idea how that got there?"
Nate, initially looking like his hand's for sure caught in the cookie jar, pauses for a moment, and then treis his best to look innocent. "There was a bird," he says.
"A /bird/," Scott says, tipping his hand and letting the vegetable drop back onto the boys plate. "What color was it?"
Nate looks furtively around the kitchen, looking for anything suitably avian, and lifting one hand to finger at the mop of curly hair crowning his head. Ahah. Inspiration. "Red!" he chirps. "Like my hair!"
"Red. Really." Scott settles back into the chair facing his son. "That's a pretty big piece of broccoli. Must have been a pretty big bird to carry it across the kitchen."
"Yep! Really big bird!" Nate goes with this helpfully-thrown line. (How considerate of Daddy.) "Like... like... Lockheed big!"
"Like Lockheed. Wow. I can't believe I didn't see it," Scott says, a glance around the room, looking if he's missed something important. "Where'd it go?"
Nate's eyes dart upwards, away from Scott. "Away..." he suggests vaguely. "It didn't like broccoli."
"The windows are all closed," Scott observes aloud for the two of them. "And I don't think anything came through the kitchen door. Maybe the bird is still in here. Maybe it needs help. Should I look for it?"
This is a difficulty. Nate gnaws at his lower lip, scrubs at his face, and succeeds in smearing the last viscous bit of broccoli snot further along one cheek. "Maybe the bird's a mutant, daddy. It coulda gone through a wall like Kitty."
"I don't think there's any mutant birds around here, Nate," Scott says. "Professor Xavier would know." He pauses, then out comes the full fatherly tone. "/Nate/, are you telling me the truth?"
There is silence from the three year old, of the sort that speaks to a sudden realization that a cunning plan has gone... not so cunningly. Looking anywhere but at Scott, Nate scratches at his head, and then settles his gaze on the small slippers on his feet. Spider-man regards him accusingly from each foot. "...nooooo." he admits, quietly.
"I didn't think so." Scott scoots his chair closer, right up to the other. "So if there wasn't a bird, how did the broccoli get in the kitchen."
The slippers kick at the island, diffident and slow. Thunk, thunk, thunk. "I thinked at it," Nate admits, just as quiet, and gusted out on a sigh.
"So you didn't listen to Daddy, did you?"
"...no," Nate has gotten quieter still, shoulders hunching in turtle-fashion. Thunk, thunk, thunk.
"Then since you didn't obey me, and since you lied to me, I'm going to have to make you eat all of the broccoli then." Scott pulls a hankerchief out of his pocket, reaching up to wipe the boy's nose.
Up looks Nate, with eyes wide and alarmed. "But Daddy, what if I barf?"
"Chew it slowly, so you won't. I know you have room to eat it all."
Suspicious is the Nate, but not argumentative. The son of Scott Summers has a sense of fair play, after all. "Will that really make me not barf, Daddy?" he wonders, tipping his head to allow for better face-wiping before he picks up his long-abandoned fork, and stabs at one of the now cold broccoli bits.
"Yes, if you don't stuff it all in your mouth at once," Scott answers. This time, he doesn't change seats, content to watch the fork retrieve the next piece. "Now eat it."
The broccoli is eaten. Very slowly. Nate seems to have taken Scott's words to heart, for the stalks seem to be disappearing one micro-bunch at a time. A half hour of intent concentration later, the broccoli, bar the piece sent flying, is now inside the Nate. There has been more than one glass of water asked for in the course of this venture.
Water given in moderation, enough to help with the taste, not enough to fill him up. That done, Scott takes a washrag to the boy's hands, then helps him out, setting him on the floor. He kneels down to look at him closely. "You don't have to like broccoli, Nate. But you do have to listen to me. And I don't want you to /ever/ lie to me again. Okay?"
Chastised and penitent, as befits a sensitive child of a serious father, but with the water welling in his eyes not quite spilling over, Nate gives a wordless nod. Still silent, he lifts his arms up, entreating a hug in lieu of being able to read the look in Scott's eyes.
Scott pulls him into a tight squeeze, not letting go until the boy begins to squirm. "I love you, Nate," he reassures.
Nate squirms, but only enough to worm himself further into Scott's arms. "I love you, too, Daddy," he murmurs to the underside of Scott's jaw, tiny be-broccoli'd hands clinging to his shirt. "Can we play with Pancake before bathtime?"
"Go get your coat," Scott says, one hand ruffling the boy's hair. "I bet Pancake would like to go outside for a few minutes."
"OK!" The trials and tribulations of broccoli forgotten as swiftly of the taste of it is passed, Nate is once again alight with good cheer. Leaning on his tiptoes to give Scott a kiss on the cheek, he then turns for the door in a whirl, and vanishes at top speed. Even if his size restrict him to moving twenty feet per combat turn.
A scene about broccoli, and how not to get rid of it. Challenges complete: 1 Cuteness of Scott and Nate: infinite
X-Men: Movieverse - Wednesday, February 07, 2007, 8:10 PM
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=XS= Kitchen - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
A relic of Victorian times, this kitchen is vast, with more than one oven and several stainless steel work surfaces taking the space once claimed by coal hoppers, cooking hearths and cast-iron stoves. Walls still done in period plaster and tile, and the floor still the original fieldstone, fluorescent lights have been installed overhead to bring the lighting up to modern level. At meal times, kitchen workers scurry to and fro with pans and food and various other sundry items, under the watchful eye of the aging head cook, but once past, order is restored, with copper-bottomed pans hanging above the kitchen island, and a tray of cold snacks left out for foraging students and staff alike. Folding wood doors screen off a pantry capable of holding food for an large household's weekly meals -- or three days' worth of teenager food.
[This room is set watchable. Use alias XSKitchen to watch here.]
[Exits : [H]allway, [O]ut, and [D]ining [R]oom]
[Players : Scott ]
Dinnertime at the Xavier Mansion, at least for the smallest and youngest resident. Just a little too small to eat in the dining hall with the mealtime rush, Nate Grey-Summers is installed in one of the tallboy chairs at the kitchen island. There is a plate in front of him. On it, a half of a pork chop lingers in the form of nothing more than a few cubed fragments and a smear of fat. It's in company of a veritable virgin forest of vegetables. Broccoli, to be precise.
"Eat your broccoli, Nate," Scott repeats the instruction from his vantage point across the table. There's a pad of paper, several pages full of various notes and scribblings.
Nate eyes the broccoli. The broccoli, eyeless unlike his now-vanished potatoes, does not eye him back. "It's -yuck-," he informs his father in return, daring to poke at the nearest floret with a teeny-tiny fork meant for adult desserts, and well suited to three year old hands. In his mind's eye, the broccoli growls.
"Yuck?" Scott says, amused. He stands, rounding the table to pull up a chair in front of the boy. "/Daddy/ likes broccoli," he begins, then pauses, reconsidering that approach, instead retrieving a second fork from the drawer and returning to his seat. One of the pieces is poked and prodded until it stands on end. "What's that look like, buddy?"
The first tack earns Scott a suspicious look that then turns hopeful. "You eat the broccoli, Daddy?" Nate invites, generous with the green doom, and shoving the plate towards Scott in encouragement. He falls silent at the question, tapping the standing broccoli with his own fork. "It looooooooks," the kiddie cogitates, "Like a tree." A pause. "A -yuck- tree."
"I /do/ eat broccoli. And I finished all of mine," Scott says, not about to fall for that trick, one hand keeping the plate in front of the boy. "Like a tree. You get to eat a /whoooole/ tree. All at once. Like a /giant/."""
"If -I- was a giant," Nate informs, "I'd eata -candy- tree." He stares intently at the broccoli, as if willing it to transmute into a small bundle of candy floss.
"You at your candy tree earlier," Scott reminds him. "Now it's time to eat your broccoli trees."
Nate is, temporarily, stumped. He prods at the broccoli doubtfully, looking up at Scott with a concerned expression. "But broccoli's -yuck-," he explains, trying to convey some important message by upping the wattage output of his eyes. "One of the bigger kids said so."
"Did they now?" Scott says, fighting to keep a smile from crossing his face at the kid logic. "You know, there's a couple kids here that don't like dogs. Not even Pancakes. But you like dogs, right?"
"Yeah, but I don't eat dogs," Nate points out. Reasonably.
"Yes, but you /do/ eat broccoli," Scott counters. "And just because /one/ of the bigger kids doesn't like broccoli, doesn't mean you won't."
"If I don't like it, do I hafta eat it all?" Nate queries, splitting his attention between staring up at his father's nose, and watching the broccoli for signs of making trouble. "I ated all the potatoes and the porkchop, see?"
Scott takes in the number of pieces on the plate, spears and half-spears, tallying in his head. "You eat half of it, and then I'll decide. That's four pieces."
There is not a more dubious-looking three year old in Westchester County than Nate Grey-Summers at this particular moment. Brown eyes narrowed, he surveys the army of broccoli massing against him, tapping the tree with a fork to fell it. His brow furrows. His lips compress. "...OK," says Nate. Slowly, carefully, he stabs the first floret of broccoli. More slowly still, he raises it to his mouth. He bites. The expression of revulsion and nausea is immediate and intense, accompanied by a welling of water in his eyes. "Daddy..." he whimpers, mind over matter proving itself. "It's -yuck-."
"Three more pieces," Scott is unrelenting. "Sometimes you have to eat things you don't like."
Oh, the heartless cruelty of Big People. Nate chokes and gags most piteously, sniffling thrown in and soon causing a highly-appetizing mess of snot and stray broccoli bits to coat his lower face, smeared upwards by a wipe of one fist. "It's -yuck-. I don' -like- it!" he protests, but, after a jagged swallow and more sniffles, eats another piece. This one vanishes in a large bite, as Nate drops his fork with a clatter to pinch his nose shut with two fingers and chew vigorously. Snot bubbles from one sealed nostril.
"Don't complain, Nate. Nana Vargas would be sad to hear you don't like her food," Scott says, sliding his chair back. "Finish the other two bites without complaining, and that's all you have to eat."
Nate falls into, if not silence, at least a slowly-decreasing cycle of sniffles. He doesn't make a move on the remaining two broccoli spears, instead staring at them with slumped shoulders and defeated eyes. Evil vegetables, thwarting his escape at every turn!
Scott is cruel, instead returning to his notes. The handy thing about glasses is they let one keep watch unobtrusively. He makes no comment, just continuing his scribbles while keeping a curious eye on the boy.
Nate eventually falls prey to one of the classic blunders. He does not get involved in a land war in Asia, but he -does- begin to think that because he can't see Scott's eyes, Scott is clearly not watching him. Staring at the broccoli, focusing all the willpower of a child of Scott Summers and Jean Grey upon it, he THINKS at it. The broccoli is, abruptly, not on the plate. Where it is is hitting the back wall of the kitchen with a water-laden splat.
Scott doesn't react immediately. He continues to write. "I think I need a drink," he says rather loudly, a moment later, making a show of pushing back his chair, then standing. His walk toward the cabinets and sink is not hurried, giving him plenty of time to ask "How many pieces left, Nate?"
"One!" says Nate. The broccoli, after all, is not on the -plate- any more.
Scott clatters around in the cabinet, pulling out a cup a bit later, then walks to the sink, letting it slowly fill with tap water. "What's this?" he asks loudly, picking up the piece of broccoli from its fallen position. It is set in his palm, and he holds it out toward Nate. "Look what I found. Do you have any idea how that got there?"
Nate, initially looking like his hand's for sure caught in the cookie jar, pauses for a moment, and then treis his best to look innocent. "There was a bird," he says.
"A /bird/," Scott says, tipping his hand and letting the vegetable drop back onto the boys plate. "What color was it?"
Nate looks furtively around the kitchen, looking for anything suitably avian, and lifting one hand to finger at the mop of curly hair crowning his head. Ahah. Inspiration. "Red!" he chirps. "Like my hair!"
"Red. Really." Scott settles back into the chair facing his son. "That's a pretty big piece of broccoli. Must have been a pretty big bird to carry it across the kitchen."
"Yep! Really big bird!" Nate goes with this helpfully-thrown line. (How considerate of Daddy.) "Like... like... Lockheed big!"
"Like Lockheed. Wow. I can't believe I didn't see it," Scott says, a glance around the room, looking if he's missed something important. "Where'd it go?"
Nate's eyes dart upwards, away from Scott. "Away..." he suggests vaguely. "It didn't like broccoli."
"The windows are all closed," Scott observes aloud for the two of them. "And I don't think anything came through the kitchen door. Maybe the bird is still in here. Maybe it needs help. Should I look for it?"
This is a difficulty. Nate gnaws at his lower lip, scrubs at his face, and succeeds in smearing the last viscous bit of broccoli snot further along one cheek. "Maybe the bird's a mutant, daddy. It coulda gone through a wall like Kitty."
"I don't think there's any mutant birds around here, Nate," Scott says. "Professor Xavier would know." He pauses, then out comes the full fatherly tone. "/Nate/, are you telling me the truth?"
There is silence from the three year old, of the sort that speaks to a sudden realization that a cunning plan has gone... not so cunningly. Looking anywhere but at Scott, Nate scratches at his head, and then settles his gaze on the small slippers on his feet. Spider-man regards him accusingly from each foot. "...nooooo." he admits, quietly.
"I didn't think so." Scott scoots his chair closer, right up to the other. "So if there wasn't a bird, how did the broccoli get in the kitchen."
The slippers kick at the island, diffident and slow. Thunk, thunk, thunk. "I thinked at it," Nate admits, just as quiet, and gusted out on a sigh.
"So you didn't listen to Daddy, did you?"
"...no," Nate has gotten quieter still, shoulders hunching in turtle-fashion. Thunk, thunk, thunk.
"Then since you didn't obey me, and since you lied to me, I'm going to have to make you eat all of the broccoli then." Scott pulls a hankerchief out of his pocket, reaching up to wipe the boy's nose.
Up looks Nate, with eyes wide and alarmed. "But Daddy, what if I barf?"
"Chew it slowly, so you won't. I know you have room to eat it all."
Suspicious is the Nate, but not argumentative. The son of Scott Summers has a sense of fair play, after all. "Will that really make me not barf, Daddy?" he wonders, tipping his head to allow for better face-wiping before he picks up his long-abandoned fork, and stabs at one of the now cold broccoli bits.
"Yes, if you don't stuff it all in your mouth at once," Scott answers. This time, he doesn't change seats, content to watch the fork retrieve the next piece. "Now eat it."
The broccoli is eaten. Very slowly. Nate seems to have taken Scott's words to heart, for the stalks seem to be disappearing one micro-bunch at a time. A half hour of intent concentration later, the broccoli, bar the piece sent flying, is now inside the Nate. There has been more than one glass of water asked for in the course of this venture.
Water given in moderation, enough to help with the taste, not enough to fill him up. That done, Scott takes a washrag to the boy's hands, then helps him out, setting him on the floor. He kneels down to look at him closely. "You don't have to like broccoli, Nate. But you do have to listen to me. And I don't want you to /ever/ lie to me again. Okay?"
Chastised and penitent, as befits a sensitive child of a serious father, but with the water welling in his eyes not quite spilling over, Nate gives a wordless nod. Still silent, he lifts his arms up, entreating a hug in lieu of being able to read the look in Scott's eyes.
Scott pulls him into a tight squeeze, not letting go until the boy begins to squirm. "I love you, Nate," he reassures.
Nate squirms, but only enough to worm himself further into Scott's arms. "I love you, too, Daddy," he murmurs to the underside of Scott's jaw, tiny be-broccoli'd hands clinging to his shirt. "Can we play with Pancake before bathtime?"
"Go get your coat," Scott says, one hand ruffling the boy's hair. "I bet Pancake would like to go outside for a few minutes."
"OK!" The trials and tribulations of broccoli forgotten as swiftly of the taste of it is passed, Nate is once again alight with good cheer. Leaning on his tiptoes to give Scott a kiss on the cheek, he then turns for the door in a whirl, and vanishes at top speed. Even if his size restrict him to moving twenty feet per combat turn.
A scene about broccoli, and how not to get rid of it. Challenges complete: 1 Cuteness of Scott and Nate: infinite