(no subject)
Elaine and I went to New York because she wanted to meet with one of the realtors in person, leaving me to wander around by myself for awhile. Back up to Annandale in the morning to teach a class in the afternoon. It's a good thing trains aren't bothered by the weather, I suppose.
I got some Christmas shopping in. Ran into a young associate of Jean's (good grief, such a small city in so many ways) and his brother -- young prospective law student, with an eye to mutant rights, which warms an old man's heart. The scientist was an angrier sort. Interesting pair.
Elaine is sleeping now. I will join her soon. Blasted insomnia.
Wee Book Inn
Warm and cozy, this place is well-named. The walls are a simple white and the carpet is an average blue, for most people never give them a second glance. What attracts attention are the shelves upon shelves of books that fill this store, overflowing with literature -- all used but in near-perfect condition, for the Inn has high standards. You want it? They probably have it. They sell harlequin romances, young adult novels, fiction and non-fiction, thick historical books, horror and mystery and erotica, roleplaying guides, children's picture or activity books, and the Harvard Classics and individual collections of all the authors therein. At the back is the reading area, only reached by passing the counter with the owner and his register, ensuring that only those with their own novels or ones that have just been paid for are brought in. The reading areas has several couches, armchairs and lamps, and is where the Inn's resident rumpled tabbycat -- Milo -- spends most of his time, curled up in the lap of whoever will let him sleep on them.
The cold December evening sends John Grey ducking out from the Greenwich Village street and into a familiar sanctuary. Hot coffee in a thermos held in one black-gloved hand, the scent of it rises to mingle with the soothing aroma of old paper. He breathes deep and offers a nod to the owner behind the cash register, and then his soft steps pad along the blue carpet through the aisles; there's a Christmas shopper's intent to the grey-green eyes that skim the shelves.
Two by two they enter: a coated couple enters, holding hands and leaning into each other; a pair of siblings enter, side by side, looking away from each other; two students follow, loud. The couple peels off and the students head for the textbooks, leaving the siblings stuck in fiction. "So, do I have to get you something?" Adel asks, pulling off his gloves finger by finger with a smile. "Promise not to peek?" This prompts a laugh from his brother but no reply; Bahir unwinds a scarf from around his neck, leaving it draped over his shoulders, and scans the shelves.
There is a certain difficulty presented, in having a profoundly well-read wife. John peers intently at the shelf before him, running an ink-touched finger across several spines, and attempts to form a mental picture of the library in Ananndale; he chuffs under his breath, disapproval for the murkiness of memory, and moves on through the texts, seeking surety. "Blast it," is muttered uncharitably under his breath in the process.
"History? Literature? Classics? What's more pretentious?" Bahir asks, running a finger down the shelves and drawing up short when he nears an older man muttering to himself. His half-smile quirks curiously before fading and he turns away to regard his brother with an uplifted eyebrow.
Adel follows behind and reaches for Bahir's hand, pulling it back a few authors to settle on a boxed set. "It isn't /pretentious/. Classics are classics because they endured; they endured because of some value. You won't see the Da Vinci Code in two hundred years."
"God, I hope not," Bahir mutters, tugging out the set to look over.
"You won't see it in twenty," volunteers John amiably, canting a glance over his shoulder at these his fellow-shoppers. He slips the thermos from gloved hand to the one already freed to pull black fabric from his fingers with his teeth, the better to shove haphazardly into his coat-pocket. Cheerful, on an upsweep of the brows: "Drek."
"Drek?" Adel echoes, glancing past his brother to John and offering an easy smile. "Well." He scans the shelves with a faint smile. "Can't really argue with you."
"I can," Bahir says, simply to be contrary. "I just don't want to." He turns the books over once then return them to the shelf. "Don't like you that much. Something else."
John's easy smile beams in brief, cheery answer to Adel's. Grey-green eyes slant mild surprise at Bahir, followed by a half-shrug, as he retrieves a slim volume from one of the shelves and peers down at it for a moment, sipping from the narrow mouth of his thermos. "Such a ... discussion would likely not be worth the breath we spent on it in any case," he remarks.
Bahir hums agreement in counterpoint to Adel's spoken "No, probably not," and then moves away, drifting inexorably towards the geek books and away from the nerd: out of literature, into science. Adel watches him walk off and then frowns at the shelves. "I don't like Christmas," he remarks companionably. "I'm not very good at picking a good gift."
"Atrocious myself," John agrees. He squints down at the book in his hand for a moment, and then sighs and slips it back on the shelf from whence it came. "The wife reads too fast," he adds, amiable complaint. "Buys her own. I can hardly keep up." Another volume seized, fingers running idly over the gloss of its cover; he sighs. "Thought that counts, they say."
"Oh, yah." Adel smiles, rueful. "Fast readers. Appalling, isn't it? A two-day gift. Might as well have bought chocolate." Somewhere, tucked in front of physics texts, Bahir snorts. "Think a gift certificate is too impersonal?" Adel tips out a book, shoves it back in; he pulls out another, sliding it back.
"Crass," sighs John Grey. He takes a mournful sip from the thermos's narrow mouth and looks, just as mournful the grey-green eyes, at the young man. "Might as well just give money. No thought to it, no /heart/. Elaine would have my ears! -- Though I imagine it depends ... for whom you're shopping, and all that."
Sigh heavy, Adel turns to John, hands spread imploringly. "I'm all about thought, I'm great with heart!" Bahir earns odd looks, elsewhere, laughing at a book on string theory. "Buying for my brother." A playful light glimmers in his eyes, turning the corners of his lips up, coy. "He always seems to know what I get him, though."
"Hmm, yes. I have that problem with my daughter," John answers, solemn save for an impish twinkle in grey-green eyes, "from time to time ..."
"Yah?" Adel asks, encouraging in tone and the lift of his eyebrows. "What's she do, peek?"
John blinks, once. And smiles. "She's far too moral to peek," he assures him. "However, accidents have been known to happen."
Adel grins, eyes rolling back to the books. "Oh, yeah. We never really did Christmas as kids, but I'd have peeked. It's not a matter of -morality-; it's curiosity."
John muses, brow furrowing, as the hand unoccupied by thermos travels to scrub idle thought over his jaw, "I think the two connect."
"Nah," Adel says, bright and breeze, voice passing light over the word. A wry twist touches his lips and he backtracks for the reluctant nod to John's words, "Maybe a bit. Didn't you ever peek at presents?"
"Oh, dear." John chuckles, low in his throat, and shakes his head at Adel. "Too long ago to tell, young man. Eons. There's possibly been an ice age since I was young enough to peek." He swigs contentedly from the contents of his thermos.
Adel's eyes whisper sly agreement, a darted look slanting at John from half-closed eyes. "Surely not a true ice age," he says, words proper and polite. What follows is dry, the liberty of friendly teasing taken: "Little ice age, perhaps?"
John raises two fingers, held close together before his eyes, and twinkles at Adel in that way you have when you're somebody's grandfather. "Just a little one."
Twinkling right back, his manner that of man young enough to believe the whole world friendly, Adel grins. "Well, then. Winters must be easy for you."
Bahir returns, armed with a pair of books, and rolls his eyes. "Oh, weather. Scintillating."
"Scintillate," John repeats thoughtfully, "has a good sound to it for sarcasm." He nods his approval with the air of one immune to it, and then returns his attention to the friendlier of the two, one hand idle atop the spine of a book resting on the shelf behind him. "You would think," he sighs. "The bones age, though, and cold seeps in. -- Are you two students?"
"That /is/ why I like it." Had he a tail, Bahir would curl it about his feet, content. He doesn't, yet the suggestion of a smug cat remains.
Adel eyes Bahir, warning and wary, met with a bland smile. Shrugging, he turns back to the older man. "Almost. We'll be attending Columbia for graduate work in the spring."
"Mmm." John considers. "Good school," he grants. Cheerfully, he adds, "I've lectured there a few times, Dr. Browne in the history department was a friend of mine at Yale. Graduate work in what?"
"History?" Adel echoes, perking visibly; his head lifts even as Bahir's dips. "My undergrad was in history. Uhm, law school, actually, for me; biochemistry for him." Bored, Bahir flips through his book: The Elegant Universe.
John beams at them both. "Ah," he says, "a man of science, your brother! I'm baffled by them, though they're blood of my blood -- My daughter's just finished her Ph.D in Molecular Biology and Genetics." Amiable and many-worded conversationalist that he is, John waves his thermos around as an aid to gesture before taking a sip. "Mine's in British History, though I've something of a hobby about constitutional law." The expression shifts to a crooked grin and rueful.
Bahir's eyes flicker off the book to fix on John, mildly speculative. He wets his thumb, turning a page. He asks, mild: "Oh?"
The word echoes from Adel's lips, attention caught. "I work for my uncle's law firm, clinging to that bottom rung. They work with the ACLU on occasion, donating time and helping out. They work mostly in constitutional law and civil law; I'll be focusing on the same."
"I dearly love the ACLU," John announces in tones of deep fondness. "I've got a card somewhere ... My friend Ed's a lawyer for them -- perhaps they've worked together, he and your uncle. Do you happen to recall a craggy sort of man with a brain like a tank? ... hmm, perhaps not. Anyway." He blinks owlishly at Bahir, refocusing, as there appears to be a thread dropped somewhere. "Oh?"
Mildly sheepish, Adel shakes his head. "Not really. I've been stuck in the archives and libraries, doing a lot of research. Uncle hasn't introduced me to anyone yet. He just sort of smiiiles. But I wouldn't be too surprised if they /have/ worked together."
"Oh," Bahir repeats, marking his place in the book. "'Oh, do go on? Molecular Biology and Genetics?' 'Oh, how interesting?' 'Oh, you don't say?'" He looks back down, half a sneer on his lips. "/Oh/."
John harrumphs quietly at Bahir. He picks up another book; glances at it; clucks his tongue and puts it back. "Ed Loomis. Big into rights. You know -- civil, gender, mutant." He pauses, and then adds, "I read Jean's paper, but I'm afraid I haven't the background to tell you much about it." He sips his coffee. "There are some rather interesting mice."
Up, down, up, down -- up. "Grey." Bahir's tone is laden with disbelief, mind reaching out to gently wrap John's for confirmation in reflexive surprise. "Your daughter is Dr. Jean Grey?" Anything Adel was to say is preempted by his brother, leaving Adel to laugh.
John blinks at Bahir, and then smiles. He dips his free hand into his trousers pocket and pulls out his wallet, flipping it open and thumbing out a photograph of a younger Jean Grey (graduation photo, in point of fact, from Harvard Medical School). "None other than," announces paternal pride.
A laughing ripple of Arabic cursed under his breath, Bahir doesn't bother to glance at the picture. "I work with her, as of not so very long ago. I work with those /mice/." He transfers his book, tucking it under his arm to offer a hand. "Bahir al-Razi."
"Adel," his twin tags. "I'm rather interested in rights issues, myself. One of the associates is working on a case of wrongful eviction for a mutant client."
John flips his wallet shut and tucks it back in his pocket to meet Bahir's hand in a firm shake. "John Grey. Nice to meet you. What a remarkable coincidence," he twinkles. Adel receives a bright grin, the political idealist sneaking through into the expression. "Really, Adel?" He latches, with interest. "What's the case?"
"Coincidence," Bahir agrees, word slinking, drawling over his tongue. He returns to his book, a slight smirk on his lips.
Adel nods firmly, relaxing in a casual lean against the bookshelves. "Oh, yeah. Woman changed her welcome mat from orange and black to red and green while her landlord was watching -- feeling festive, right? Kicks her out the next day, breaks their contract. We're trying to prove it was because of discrimination, get something on record about that being a -bad thing-. Can't kick people out for being black, or for being gay. Christ, all she can do is turn things /colors/. She has two kids, you know?"
"It's the sort of thing to make an old activist's blood start to boil," John says, brow creasing into a scowl as he lays his hand over his heart. More coffee's sipped from his thermos. "Loomis would be all over it, I'd bet. Poor dear -- have they found a place to live in the interim?"
"Well, if we can't win this, we'll appeal and appeal. Loomis might get in on it yet," Adel says, humor thin. "Elkins, the guy taking her case, has her living with his sister in the interim, close to the boys' school. I had been interested in international and environmental law, but this case really has my attention, and recent events sort of bring the issue of mutant rights to the forefront."
"They do at that." John nods gravely. "They surely do." He finishes off the thermos, slipping it empty into the inside pocket of his coat, and then clears his throat. "The mutant rights movement needs all the help it can get," he says solemnly, "at the moment."
Adel grins, brightening a dark subject. "Well the Greys are certainly doing their part." He hesitates a moment and then continues, "It's an interesting field: changing, dynamic. Room for new blood, I hope. Three years seems like an awfully long time to wait," he says with horribly young impatience. Bahir laughs quietly, turning the page.
John crooks a knowing grin in return, recognizing the impetuosity of youth and refreshed by it. "There'll be room, my boy, don't you worry about that," he assures. "There'll be room. But there's things you can do, even without your degree. There's always room for helping hands, for people who'll work. Who'll care."
Bahir's eyes glimmer, darkly amused over the pages. "How inspirational," he all but purrs, insulting only in levity. Adel shifts, stepping on Bahir's foot. The "Ow," he gets in return is quiet, more for the form of things than any real pain.
"I guess so," Adel agrees. "Helping now, with all the menial labor and coffee making, I suppose."
"I've gotten preachy in my old age," John answers amiably. "Ah, wait -- No, I've always been this way. You can also go on marches, make phone calls, write a letter ... I was never a lawyer," he points out. "Just a noisy history professor. But I've done my part for causes over the years."
"No marches," Bahir says, closing his book. "One of us has to have a sense of self-preservation." He smiles at John, a tight curve between un- and friendly, not quite polite. "And I believe you've written letters, haven't you? That went well."
John smiles slightly. He raises his eyebrows at Bahir. "Didn't it?"
Bahir turns his book over, placing it against the other copy. "Well."
Adel mutters a hasty "Sorry," looking between the two. "Academia has always had a strong part in shaping the social consciousness. No such thing a 'just' a professor. I guess we should be going," he adds, clearly reluctant, yet wary of the sharpening edge to Bahir's study of John.
"Benjamin Franklin," muses John contemplatively, apparently apropos of nothing, "once said that those who would give up their liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." The smile returns, broadens, Bahir-aimed. "If I sacrifice my principles because to stand by them could put me and my family in danger, what does that say to those who don't have the luxury of hiding behind normal genetics?" The expression warms as he aims it Adel-wards. "You needn't. Nothing a professor likes better than hearing himself speak."
"How pat," Bahir spits, riling under the force of speechifying.
Shifting uneasily, Adel forces a smile. "Well, that's good," he quips, "since you have to do so much of it. Maybe--"
"--he should stop a think whether or not everyone has the same luxuries he does, that luxury to cling to 'principles' in the face of 'reality'."
"Young man," John says kindly, with quiet irony, "I've got plenty of reality under my belt. But thank you for the advice."
Bahir riles further, full of grar! He ticks points off on his fingers. "You also have plenty of money, plenty of authority, plenty of security, and plenty of bullshit." Adel just winces. "A lot of people don't have those things. You are privileged."
John regards Bahir with an air of mild bemusement. "Hmm," he says. "Let me see if I understand you properly. Because I am privileged, it is my duty ... to /not/ use the benefits of my position to do what I can for those who aren't, but instead to stand by and do nothing in order to avoid being presumptuous?"
Arms fold and Bahir considers his position. "No," he says after a long moment. "But it would be to your favor to realize not everyone can crusade, however they feel about the issues in question."
John smiles at Bahir, more warmth now, less of an edge: what ruffled fur there was, so to speak, smoothens down. "I don't expect anyone to do more than they're ready to. Sometimes, feeling is enough." He blinks once, owlish. "Your brother indicated he had plans to get involved in the future, that's all -- It's not as though I had plans to spirit him off and force him to picket something."
"I guess," Bahir says, slightly muffled; his fingers curve into a hook, index lightly touching his lower lip. Quieter, behind the screen of his hand: "Sorry."
Greatly relieved, Adel smiles, smoothing forward over Bahir's words. "He has feeling," he teases, jogging his brother's elbow and getting a glare in return. Normality reestablished. "Lots of feeling. Maybe he'll paint the signs, instead."
"Quite all right." John's smile broadens, twinkles. "There's only so many signs we need painted, really ... Last time we had a barbecue. Jean's idea, I'm sure. All very friendly and relaxed. Best way to integrate the activists with the community at large, really ... free food."
"Right. Then he can cook."
Bahir rolls his eyes. "Yes, please, volunteer me." He shifts the books back into his arms and smiles at John, a tinge rueful. "We really should get going, though. It's been -- interesting."
Adel follows up, cheerful and polite, "A pleasure, sir."
"Nice meeting you both. Tell Jean hello," John says amiably. He raises a finger at Adel, to go with the upwards sweep of his brows. "And if you run into Ed Loomis by all means drop my name."
"Will do." Sketching a semi-playful salute, Adel follows his brother, already leaving. Detouring toward the cashier to purchase Bahir's books, they wind out. Adel holds the door for Bahir, a silent conversation held in the exchange of a glance. Coats rebuttoned, scarf resecured, gloves donned once again, they exit with matched laughter: bright into the night.
I got some Christmas shopping in. Ran into a young associate of Jean's (good grief, such a small city in so many ways) and his brother -- young prospective law student, with an eye to mutant rights, which warms an old man's heart. The scientist was an angrier sort. Interesting pair.
Elaine is sleeping now. I will join her soon. Blasted insomnia.
Wee Book Inn
Warm and cozy, this place is well-named. The walls are a simple white and the carpet is an average blue, for most people never give them a second glance. What attracts attention are the shelves upon shelves of books that fill this store, overflowing with literature -- all used but in near-perfect condition, for the Inn has high standards. You want it? They probably have it. They sell harlequin romances, young adult novels, fiction and non-fiction, thick historical books, horror and mystery and erotica, roleplaying guides, children's picture or activity books, and the Harvard Classics and individual collections of all the authors therein. At the back is the reading area, only reached by passing the counter with the owner and his register, ensuring that only those with their own novels or ones that have just been paid for are brought in. The reading areas has several couches, armchairs and lamps, and is where the Inn's resident rumpled tabbycat -- Milo -- spends most of his time, curled up in the lap of whoever will let him sleep on them.
The cold December evening sends John Grey ducking out from the Greenwich Village street and into a familiar sanctuary. Hot coffee in a thermos held in one black-gloved hand, the scent of it rises to mingle with the soothing aroma of old paper. He breathes deep and offers a nod to the owner behind the cash register, and then his soft steps pad along the blue carpet through the aisles; there's a Christmas shopper's intent to the grey-green eyes that skim the shelves.
Two by two they enter: a coated couple enters, holding hands and leaning into each other; a pair of siblings enter, side by side, looking away from each other; two students follow, loud. The couple peels off and the students head for the textbooks, leaving the siblings stuck in fiction. "So, do I have to get you something?" Adel asks, pulling off his gloves finger by finger with a smile. "Promise not to peek?" This prompts a laugh from his brother but no reply; Bahir unwinds a scarf from around his neck, leaving it draped over his shoulders, and scans the shelves.
There is a certain difficulty presented, in having a profoundly well-read wife. John peers intently at the shelf before him, running an ink-touched finger across several spines, and attempts to form a mental picture of the library in Ananndale; he chuffs under his breath, disapproval for the murkiness of memory, and moves on through the texts, seeking surety. "Blast it," is muttered uncharitably under his breath in the process.
"History? Literature? Classics? What's more pretentious?" Bahir asks, running a finger down the shelves and drawing up short when he nears an older man muttering to himself. His half-smile quirks curiously before fading and he turns away to regard his brother with an uplifted eyebrow.
Adel follows behind and reaches for Bahir's hand, pulling it back a few authors to settle on a boxed set. "It isn't /pretentious/. Classics are classics because they endured; they endured because of some value. You won't see the Da Vinci Code in two hundred years."
"God, I hope not," Bahir mutters, tugging out the set to look over.
"You won't see it in twenty," volunteers John amiably, canting a glance over his shoulder at these his fellow-shoppers. He slips the thermos from gloved hand to the one already freed to pull black fabric from his fingers with his teeth, the better to shove haphazardly into his coat-pocket. Cheerful, on an upsweep of the brows: "Drek."
"Drek?" Adel echoes, glancing past his brother to John and offering an easy smile. "Well." He scans the shelves with a faint smile. "Can't really argue with you."
"I can," Bahir says, simply to be contrary. "I just don't want to." He turns the books over once then return them to the shelf. "Don't like you that much. Something else."
John's easy smile beams in brief, cheery answer to Adel's. Grey-green eyes slant mild surprise at Bahir, followed by a half-shrug, as he retrieves a slim volume from one of the shelves and peers down at it for a moment, sipping from the narrow mouth of his thermos. "Such a ... discussion would likely not be worth the breath we spent on it in any case," he remarks.
Bahir hums agreement in counterpoint to Adel's spoken "No, probably not," and then moves away, drifting inexorably towards the geek books and away from the nerd: out of literature, into science. Adel watches him walk off and then frowns at the shelves. "I don't like Christmas," he remarks companionably. "I'm not very good at picking a good gift."
"Atrocious myself," John agrees. He squints down at the book in his hand for a moment, and then sighs and slips it back on the shelf from whence it came. "The wife reads too fast," he adds, amiable complaint. "Buys her own. I can hardly keep up." Another volume seized, fingers running idly over the gloss of its cover; he sighs. "Thought that counts, they say."
"Oh, yah." Adel smiles, rueful. "Fast readers. Appalling, isn't it? A two-day gift. Might as well have bought chocolate." Somewhere, tucked in front of physics texts, Bahir snorts. "Think a gift certificate is too impersonal?" Adel tips out a book, shoves it back in; he pulls out another, sliding it back.
"Crass," sighs John Grey. He takes a mournful sip from the thermos's narrow mouth and looks, just as mournful the grey-green eyes, at the young man. "Might as well just give money. No thought to it, no /heart/. Elaine would have my ears! -- Though I imagine it depends ... for whom you're shopping, and all that."
Sigh heavy, Adel turns to John, hands spread imploringly. "I'm all about thought, I'm great with heart!" Bahir earns odd looks, elsewhere, laughing at a book on string theory. "Buying for my brother." A playful light glimmers in his eyes, turning the corners of his lips up, coy. "He always seems to know what I get him, though."
"Hmm, yes. I have that problem with my daughter," John answers, solemn save for an impish twinkle in grey-green eyes, "from time to time ..."
"Yah?" Adel asks, encouraging in tone and the lift of his eyebrows. "What's she do, peek?"
John blinks, once. And smiles. "She's far too moral to peek," he assures him. "However, accidents have been known to happen."
Adel grins, eyes rolling back to the books. "Oh, yeah. We never really did Christmas as kids, but I'd have peeked. It's not a matter of -morality-; it's curiosity."
John muses, brow furrowing, as the hand unoccupied by thermos travels to scrub idle thought over his jaw, "I think the two connect."
"Nah," Adel says, bright and breeze, voice passing light over the word. A wry twist touches his lips and he backtracks for the reluctant nod to John's words, "Maybe a bit. Didn't you ever peek at presents?"
"Oh, dear." John chuckles, low in his throat, and shakes his head at Adel. "Too long ago to tell, young man. Eons. There's possibly been an ice age since I was young enough to peek." He swigs contentedly from the contents of his thermos.
Adel's eyes whisper sly agreement, a darted look slanting at John from half-closed eyes. "Surely not a true ice age," he says, words proper and polite. What follows is dry, the liberty of friendly teasing taken: "Little ice age, perhaps?"
John raises two fingers, held close together before his eyes, and twinkles at Adel in that way you have when you're somebody's grandfather. "Just a little one."
Twinkling right back, his manner that of man young enough to believe the whole world friendly, Adel grins. "Well, then. Winters must be easy for you."
Bahir returns, armed with a pair of books, and rolls his eyes. "Oh, weather. Scintillating."
"Scintillate," John repeats thoughtfully, "has a good sound to it for sarcasm." He nods his approval with the air of one immune to it, and then returns his attention to the friendlier of the two, one hand idle atop the spine of a book resting on the shelf behind him. "You would think," he sighs. "The bones age, though, and cold seeps in. -- Are you two students?"
"That /is/ why I like it." Had he a tail, Bahir would curl it about his feet, content. He doesn't, yet the suggestion of a smug cat remains.
Adel eyes Bahir, warning and wary, met with a bland smile. Shrugging, he turns back to the older man. "Almost. We'll be attending Columbia for graduate work in the spring."
"Mmm." John considers. "Good school," he grants. Cheerfully, he adds, "I've lectured there a few times, Dr. Browne in the history department was a friend of mine at Yale. Graduate work in what?"
"History?" Adel echoes, perking visibly; his head lifts even as Bahir's dips. "My undergrad was in history. Uhm, law school, actually, for me; biochemistry for him." Bored, Bahir flips through his book: The Elegant Universe.
John beams at them both. "Ah," he says, "a man of science, your brother! I'm baffled by them, though they're blood of my blood -- My daughter's just finished her Ph.D in Molecular Biology and Genetics." Amiable and many-worded conversationalist that he is, John waves his thermos around as an aid to gesture before taking a sip. "Mine's in British History, though I've something of a hobby about constitutional law." The expression shifts to a crooked grin and rueful.
Bahir's eyes flicker off the book to fix on John, mildly speculative. He wets his thumb, turning a page. He asks, mild: "Oh?"
The word echoes from Adel's lips, attention caught. "I work for my uncle's law firm, clinging to that bottom rung. They work with the ACLU on occasion, donating time and helping out. They work mostly in constitutional law and civil law; I'll be focusing on the same."
"I dearly love the ACLU," John announces in tones of deep fondness. "I've got a card somewhere ... My friend Ed's a lawyer for them -- perhaps they've worked together, he and your uncle. Do you happen to recall a craggy sort of man with a brain like a tank? ... hmm, perhaps not. Anyway." He blinks owlishly at Bahir, refocusing, as there appears to be a thread dropped somewhere. "Oh?"
Mildly sheepish, Adel shakes his head. "Not really. I've been stuck in the archives and libraries, doing a lot of research. Uncle hasn't introduced me to anyone yet. He just sort of smiiiles. But I wouldn't be too surprised if they /have/ worked together."
"Oh," Bahir repeats, marking his place in the book. "'Oh, do go on? Molecular Biology and Genetics?' 'Oh, how interesting?' 'Oh, you don't say?'" He looks back down, half a sneer on his lips. "/Oh/."
John harrumphs quietly at Bahir. He picks up another book; glances at it; clucks his tongue and puts it back. "Ed Loomis. Big into rights. You know -- civil, gender, mutant." He pauses, and then adds, "I read Jean's paper, but I'm afraid I haven't the background to tell you much about it." He sips his coffee. "There are some rather interesting mice."
Up, down, up, down -- up. "Grey." Bahir's tone is laden with disbelief, mind reaching out to gently wrap John's for confirmation in reflexive surprise. "Your daughter is Dr. Jean Grey?" Anything Adel was to say is preempted by his brother, leaving Adel to laugh.
John blinks at Bahir, and then smiles. He dips his free hand into his trousers pocket and pulls out his wallet, flipping it open and thumbing out a photograph of a younger Jean Grey (graduation photo, in point of fact, from Harvard Medical School). "None other than," announces paternal pride.
A laughing ripple of Arabic cursed under his breath, Bahir doesn't bother to glance at the picture. "I work with her, as of not so very long ago. I work with those /mice/." He transfers his book, tucking it under his arm to offer a hand. "Bahir al-Razi."
"Adel," his twin tags. "I'm rather interested in rights issues, myself. One of the associates is working on a case of wrongful eviction for a mutant client."
John flips his wallet shut and tucks it back in his pocket to meet Bahir's hand in a firm shake. "John Grey. Nice to meet you. What a remarkable coincidence," he twinkles. Adel receives a bright grin, the political idealist sneaking through into the expression. "Really, Adel?" He latches, with interest. "What's the case?"
"Coincidence," Bahir agrees, word slinking, drawling over his tongue. He returns to his book, a slight smirk on his lips.
Adel nods firmly, relaxing in a casual lean against the bookshelves. "Oh, yeah. Woman changed her welcome mat from orange and black to red and green while her landlord was watching -- feeling festive, right? Kicks her out the next day, breaks their contract. We're trying to prove it was because of discrimination, get something on record about that being a -bad thing-. Can't kick people out for being black, or for being gay. Christ, all she can do is turn things /colors/. She has two kids, you know?"
"It's the sort of thing to make an old activist's blood start to boil," John says, brow creasing into a scowl as he lays his hand over his heart. More coffee's sipped from his thermos. "Loomis would be all over it, I'd bet. Poor dear -- have they found a place to live in the interim?"
"Well, if we can't win this, we'll appeal and appeal. Loomis might get in on it yet," Adel says, humor thin. "Elkins, the guy taking her case, has her living with his sister in the interim, close to the boys' school. I had been interested in international and environmental law, but this case really has my attention, and recent events sort of bring the issue of mutant rights to the forefront."
"They do at that." John nods gravely. "They surely do." He finishes off the thermos, slipping it empty into the inside pocket of his coat, and then clears his throat. "The mutant rights movement needs all the help it can get," he says solemnly, "at the moment."
Adel grins, brightening a dark subject. "Well the Greys are certainly doing their part." He hesitates a moment and then continues, "It's an interesting field: changing, dynamic. Room for new blood, I hope. Three years seems like an awfully long time to wait," he says with horribly young impatience. Bahir laughs quietly, turning the page.
John crooks a knowing grin in return, recognizing the impetuosity of youth and refreshed by it. "There'll be room, my boy, don't you worry about that," he assures. "There'll be room. But there's things you can do, even without your degree. There's always room for helping hands, for people who'll work. Who'll care."
Bahir's eyes glimmer, darkly amused over the pages. "How inspirational," he all but purrs, insulting only in levity. Adel shifts, stepping on Bahir's foot. The "Ow," he gets in return is quiet, more for the form of things than any real pain.
"I guess so," Adel agrees. "Helping now, with all the menial labor and coffee making, I suppose."
"I've gotten preachy in my old age," John answers amiably. "Ah, wait -- No, I've always been this way. You can also go on marches, make phone calls, write a letter ... I was never a lawyer," he points out. "Just a noisy history professor. But I've done my part for causes over the years."
"No marches," Bahir says, closing his book. "One of us has to have a sense of self-preservation." He smiles at John, a tight curve between un- and friendly, not quite polite. "And I believe you've written letters, haven't you? That went well."
John smiles slightly. He raises his eyebrows at Bahir. "Didn't it?"
Bahir turns his book over, placing it against the other copy. "Well."
Adel mutters a hasty "Sorry," looking between the two. "Academia has always had a strong part in shaping the social consciousness. No such thing a 'just' a professor. I guess we should be going," he adds, clearly reluctant, yet wary of the sharpening edge to Bahir's study of John.
"Benjamin Franklin," muses John contemplatively, apparently apropos of nothing, "once said that those who would give up their liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." The smile returns, broadens, Bahir-aimed. "If I sacrifice my principles because to stand by them could put me and my family in danger, what does that say to those who don't have the luxury of hiding behind normal genetics?" The expression warms as he aims it Adel-wards. "You needn't. Nothing a professor likes better than hearing himself speak."
"How pat," Bahir spits, riling under the force of speechifying.
Shifting uneasily, Adel forces a smile. "Well, that's good," he quips, "since you have to do so much of it. Maybe--"
"--he should stop a think whether or not everyone has the same luxuries he does, that luxury to cling to 'principles' in the face of 'reality'."
"Young man," John says kindly, with quiet irony, "I've got plenty of reality under my belt. But thank you for the advice."
Bahir riles further, full of grar! He ticks points off on his fingers. "You also have plenty of money, plenty of authority, plenty of security, and plenty of bullshit." Adel just winces. "A lot of people don't have those things. You are privileged."
John regards Bahir with an air of mild bemusement. "Hmm," he says. "Let me see if I understand you properly. Because I am privileged, it is my duty ... to /not/ use the benefits of my position to do what I can for those who aren't, but instead to stand by and do nothing in order to avoid being presumptuous?"
Arms fold and Bahir considers his position. "No," he says after a long moment. "But it would be to your favor to realize not everyone can crusade, however they feel about the issues in question."
John smiles at Bahir, more warmth now, less of an edge: what ruffled fur there was, so to speak, smoothens down. "I don't expect anyone to do more than they're ready to. Sometimes, feeling is enough." He blinks once, owlish. "Your brother indicated he had plans to get involved in the future, that's all -- It's not as though I had plans to spirit him off and force him to picket something."
"I guess," Bahir says, slightly muffled; his fingers curve into a hook, index lightly touching his lower lip. Quieter, behind the screen of his hand: "Sorry."
Greatly relieved, Adel smiles, smoothing forward over Bahir's words. "He has feeling," he teases, jogging his brother's elbow and getting a glare in return. Normality reestablished. "Lots of feeling. Maybe he'll paint the signs, instead."
"Quite all right." John's smile broadens, twinkles. "There's only so many signs we need painted, really ... Last time we had a barbecue. Jean's idea, I'm sure. All very friendly and relaxed. Best way to integrate the activists with the community at large, really ... free food."
"Right. Then he can cook."
Bahir rolls his eyes. "Yes, please, volunteer me." He shifts the books back into his arms and smiles at John, a tinge rueful. "We really should get going, though. It's been -- interesting."
Adel follows up, cheerful and polite, "A pleasure, sir."
"Nice meeting you both. Tell Jean hello," John says amiably. He raises a finger at Adel, to go with the upwards sweep of his brows. "And if you run into Ed Loomis by all means drop my name."
"Will do." Sketching a semi-playful salute, Adel follows his brother, already leaving. Detouring toward the cashier to purchase Bahir's books, they wind out. Adel holds the door for Bahir, a silent conversation held in the exchange of a glance. Coats rebuttoned, scarf resecured, gloves donned once again, they exit with matched laughter: bright into the night.