11/18/06 - Hank, Scott
---
=XS= Classroom and Arboretum - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
A cross between a greenhouse and a study hall, this room fosters growth in more ways than one. The center of the room is clear, revealing a patterned marble floor beneath tables and chairs spaced out at regular intervals to face a blackboard and the larger desk and chair of the teacher. The rest of the room is taken up with tropical trees in gigantic clay pots, reaching from the floor to almost the ceiling, as well as a plethora of smaller exotic plants, with a small fountain gurgling and bubbling in pleasant background noise. Made almost entirely of glass and white-painted steel, the room needs no artificial lighting on all but the most stormy of days. French doors open to the back patio and pool.
It is cold outside, now that the sun has set; the chill sweeps across the Xavier School grounds with greedy haste, gobbling the last of warmth and natural light with a hunger that leaves only bones behind. In the Arboretum, Professor Xavier's visitor still wears evidence of that hard, fast cold; he has carried it in with him like an unwelcome companion, clinging to the skirts of his long leather overcoat. Expression thoughtful, hands in pockets, Det. Rossi ambles through the room and inspects plants with an urbanite's bewilderment.
Scott is making his way down the hallway, catching the room out of the corner of his eye as he passes. He stops short, just past the door, leans back to look in, and adjusts his destination, backing up and entering himself. "Well, well, Chris Rossi," he says, by way of greeting as he makes his way to the other end of the room. "Didn't realize you were around today."
Chagrin bites at that saturnine face, indenting shadow in the corners of Rossi's mouth before skipping away. "Poodle King," he greets. A gloved hand, reaching out to investigate a potted palm, retreats hastily. "Hey. I just--" The black head jerks, indicating elsewhere. "Visiting with Kojak. Because of the ... thing. What's up?"
"Eh, not much. The usual. Trying to keep the students from killing each other," Scott explains, stopping when he reaches the front of the room. "Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. Yourself?"
"Quiet," Chris says, and tries -- mostly fails -- not to look smug. Self-satisfied. The pale green of eyes flicker, skipping back to the chalkboard set up at the front of the classroom. "Haven't been in a hospital for days. Except the rib thing. All things considered, it could've been worse."
"Well, at least we know our tax dollars are being put to good use by way of medical insurance," Scott says. He follows Rossi's gaze, nodding at the chalkboard. "You ever been here during a class? I'm surprised Ororo's not conned you into teaching a public service section of her social science class yet."
Chris looks guilty. A little sheepish. The broad shoulders hunch, black brows lowering in a slash over eyes. "So," he says a bit defensively. And then, "She has, actually. I did a thing-- nothing that Irish couldn't have done, anyway. Still." Were he a completely different man than the one he is, he would be toeing the ground. As it is, he runs a hand through his hair, agitating it into prickles. "She's a hard woman to say no to."
"So I've noticed," Scott says wryly. "And /that/ is why I leave the headmastery of the school to the Professor and Jean. Plenty of other things to occupy myself with other than each unit the students are signed up for."
"Chickenshit," Chris accuses, though with more amusement than mockery in the lazy jab of voice. He ambles his slow way around the obstruction of pots, the side of his shoe scraping with suspicion against several of the more esoteric specimens. "Haven't been out in a while. You and me, we should go get a drink sometime. Shoot the breeze. Talk about your ex-girlfriends."
"When you put it that way," is Scott's reply, "How can I refuse?" He stands in place, head swiveling as he watches Rossi's path. "Oh, might have a lead for your guys on that serial killer. The girl we found in the park woke this week. Catch is, she doesn't speak English. Well, speak anything, for that matter."
Eyebrows, lifted, show for a moment the clear color of eyes. Rossi leans out from behind a fern, interest caught and nudged into wakefulness. "Girl you found in the park?" he echoes. "What girl? You guys need a translator? Sign language or-- right. You have telepaths. You figure her for a vic, a witness, or the perp?"
"Well, considering she was in a coma when we found her, victim," Scott concludes. "Gonna take a while to get any information, no matter how we do it. Real skittish, though she's fairly responsive."
"Being in a coma doesn't mean she can't be witness or perp," Rossi points out, cynicism slicing deep in the Brooklyn accent. He disappears for a second behind more green, only to reemerge from the other side of the stand of plants, a backward glance of satisfaction marking the territory. "Considering you guys have those mind spider voodoo priests upstairs, I'll take your word for it. What makes you think she's connected?"
"Time/place," Scott shrugs. "Wrong place at the wrong time. Could be coincidence, hence the 'might have a lead.'" He steps up to one of the ferns, fingering the fronds. See, common ground. "We'll let you know."
Chris's eyebrows lift. Hands dig back into pockets, arms and shoulders stiff and straight. "You'll let me know," he echoes. Quick exasperation winds a bright ribbon through the words. "Well, fuck me. The NYPD's grateful you can see your way to doing that. You putz."
Clipboard balanced in one hand, a shiny metallic pen gripped delicately in the other, Hank is rather too conspicuous in his coloring and countenance to sidle in unnoticed. That is not to say that he doesn't make an initial effort to mind his own business - the back of the pristine labcoat he's currently wearing kept carefully to the pair as he scratches down a set of notes detailing the progress of an unusual looking fern.
"You do your thing, we do ours," Scott says, his lips drawn tightly. "Or do you mean to tell me your people are prepared to deal with a juvenile whose hair would probably shred through your cell cots?" He doesn't wait for an answer, turning as McCoy approaches. "Evening, Hank."
"What the fuck cell cots have to do with--" Rossi begins, annoyance broadening the cant of accent -- only to break off. The sybarite mouth thins as well, slashing into a harsh line that only eases with a greeting nod to McCoy. "Doc."
"Evening." Brows lifted in innocent separation from the ongoing conversation, Hank appears to be very interested in his plants indeed. "Detective."
"Detective Rossi and I were just...discussing our new student," Scott explains. "Have you met her?"
"Student? You didn't tell me that. You automatically enroll anyone you find off the street? I thought you said she couldn't even talk."
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure. Disregarding her unconcious stay down below, of course." Now turning, Hank manages a genuine smile for Scott, which becomes a bit toothy upon absorbing Rossi's opinion. "Some of us might make more agreeable company if they were to follow her example."
"Unless she decides to leave," Scott carefully forms his reply. "Then we'll do our best to teach her what we can. Academic or otherwise. And yes, we /do/ have a high percentage of 'off the street' enrolled."
Given Rossi's involvement in the enrollment of some of those streetwise vagrants, there is some perversity in his snort. Not to mention his subsequent, "Cranky bastard. You shed in winter?" he asks Hank, mellowly inquisitive. "Or does that happen in summer? What the fuck. If it turns out she knows sign language, gimme a ring."
Hank has no witty retort for that. He frowns. Deeply.
"Year round, if the cleaning staffs complaints have any validity," Scott says, his own attempt to lighten the conversation.
"Sucks to be them," Chris says with some sympathy, more for the absent janitorial staff than for the good Dr. McCoy. One hand unbuckles itself from a pocket to aim a backhanded thump at Hank's closest appendage. "You should go drinking with us. You're as uptight as Summers. We could shove coal up both your asses and make diamonds."
It is like thumping the side of an exceedingly shaggy and grouchy bodybuilder. There is no give or flinch beyond the shift his coat (and the layer of fur beneath it). He does, however push his thumb back over the butt of his pen, and click, the pointy end pokes back out so that he can resume scribbling - this time, with a sigh. "It does seem to get worse with the changing seasons. It looks vaguely as if there is a trichotillomaniac muppet living in the staff lounge."
"Tricho-- what?" says Rossi, blank. "Isn't that some sort of dinosaur?"
"You learn to either a) carry a dictionary or b) smile and nod a lot, when Hank is around," Scott shrugs. "I think he has one of those vocabulary word of the day calendars, except it only includes words with 12 or more letters."
"It is a psychological disorder that compels otherwise normal people to rip out their hair. Some of them opt to ingest it as well, with interesting gastrointestinal results. As you may well imagine." A flicker of that all-too-white smile returns, and Hank dots a period onto the end of his current sentence with a bit of a flourish.
Chris pauses, obligingly, to imagine. Then shakes his head. "Weird," he says, to both Poodle King and attendant Poodle. "Nothing normal about you two, and that's completely separate from the whole mutation shit. Eat their own hair. Jesus. --How do you talk to him?" he demands of Scott, jerking a thumb to indicate McCoy.
"I think we get along rather well," Scott shrugs. "Then again, don't bite the hand that stitches you up, or something of that nature."
"There is a certain comradery that arises from having to deal with the criminally insane and the teenaged day in and day out, year after year. We are a tolerant organization." Glasses pushed neatly up from its sink below the bridge of his nose by a ring finger lifted up around his pen, Hank squints at his work thus far before continuing. "Logan is still around, after all."
"He can come too," Chris grants, and abruptly grins at Scott, an expression that does much to soften the harsh lines of his face. The baritone waxes warm and easy. "We can /all/ talk about your ex-girlfriends. And your lousy taste in one of them, anyway. --How about it, Doc? Beer, stale pretzels, popcorn and bullshit?"
"Just what I need," Scott says dryly. "And I'm not sure there's always a distinct line between the two categories. Insane and teenaged are partially synonymous."
"It does sound appetizing." It is difficult to tell whether the good doctor is serious or not, as he speaks directly to the frond he's reached out to turn over.
"The beer, pretzels, and popcorn?" Chris wants to know. "Or the insane and teenaged? No offense or anything. Just checking."
"You've discovered how we deal with our problem students," Scott's lip twitches. "You do realize that means we'll have to kill you now."
Rossi eyes Hank's midsection, what is visible of it around the lab coat. "You ate Cassy?" he asks, not noticeably disturbed at the thought. "Didn't that screw with your stomach?"
"Rest assured my dear delicious detective, if I /was/ a cannibal, it is you who would be first." This reassurance bolstered by a fanged smile and fingers pinched as if in offer of paprika, Hank turns again, this time for the door. "I'll get the axe."
"I unfortunately have obligations tonight," Scott says, a turn back to the serious. "But if you are free next week, I may take you up on the offer then."
"Delicious," Rossi scoffs, a breath chuffed out half akin to a chuckle. "How the hell do you know that? Unless you've been licking me when I'm--" He breaks off. The detective's face clouds. Ororo. He eyes the two X-Men with a suspicion that does not quite lift for the distracted reply to Scott. "Next week's fine. Tonight I got-- yeah."
Hank misses suspicion, perhaps fortunately, for he is headed for the door, clipboard still firmly in hand. "Delectable."
"We have weekly staff meetings," is Scott's simple answer.
"Counting the students that're left? --Later, Doc."
One large blue hand is lifted in farewell, and Hank swings out through the door and out of sight.
"Among other discussions," Scott says, offering a wave of goodbye to Hank. "So...next week then."
Rossi's mouth twists, his gaze following the blue McCoy's exit. "A cop, a guy who shoots laser beams out of his freaking eyes, and a 400 pound cookie monster," he quips, with a certain meditative interest. "This ought to be good. And if you bring Logan along, a Canadian. Bets on what people find the scariest."
"We'll draw quite the stares, I'm sure," Scott says, brushing his hands to rid them of the plant residue. "I'll leave you to your session, then," he adds, beginning to make his way back to the door. "Good seeing you again."
Chris's mouth thins at the reminder. "Yeah," he says. Discomfort hunches through the short, curt word. "Right. Later, man." And he turns away to the comfort of green.
=XS= Classroom and Arboretum - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
A cross between a greenhouse and a study hall, this room fosters growth in more ways than one. The center of the room is clear, revealing a patterned marble floor beneath tables and chairs spaced out at regular intervals to face a blackboard and the larger desk and chair of the teacher. The rest of the room is taken up with tropical trees in gigantic clay pots, reaching from the floor to almost the ceiling, as well as a plethora of smaller exotic plants, with a small fountain gurgling and bubbling in pleasant background noise. Made almost entirely of glass and white-painted steel, the room needs no artificial lighting on all but the most stormy of days. French doors open to the back patio and pool.
It is cold outside, now that the sun has set; the chill sweeps across the Xavier School grounds with greedy haste, gobbling the last of warmth and natural light with a hunger that leaves only bones behind. In the Arboretum, Professor Xavier's visitor still wears evidence of that hard, fast cold; he has carried it in with him like an unwelcome companion, clinging to the skirts of his long leather overcoat. Expression thoughtful, hands in pockets, Det. Rossi ambles through the room and inspects plants with an urbanite's bewilderment.
Scott is making his way down the hallway, catching the room out of the corner of his eye as he passes. He stops short, just past the door, leans back to look in, and adjusts his destination, backing up and entering himself. "Well, well, Chris Rossi," he says, by way of greeting as he makes his way to the other end of the room. "Didn't realize you were around today."
Chagrin bites at that saturnine face, indenting shadow in the corners of Rossi's mouth before skipping away. "Poodle King," he greets. A gloved hand, reaching out to investigate a potted palm, retreats hastily. "Hey. I just--" The black head jerks, indicating elsewhere. "Visiting with Kojak. Because of the ... thing. What's up?"
"Eh, not much. The usual. Trying to keep the students from killing each other," Scott explains, stopping when he reaches the front of the room. "Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. Yourself?"
"Quiet," Chris says, and tries -- mostly fails -- not to look smug. Self-satisfied. The pale green of eyes flicker, skipping back to the chalkboard set up at the front of the classroom. "Haven't been in a hospital for days. Except the rib thing. All things considered, it could've been worse."
"Well, at least we know our tax dollars are being put to good use by way of medical insurance," Scott says. He follows Rossi's gaze, nodding at the chalkboard. "You ever been here during a class? I'm surprised Ororo's not conned you into teaching a public service section of her social science class yet."
Chris looks guilty. A little sheepish. The broad shoulders hunch, black brows lowering in a slash over eyes. "So," he says a bit defensively. And then, "She has, actually. I did a thing-- nothing that Irish couldn't have done, anyway. Still." Were he a completely different man than the one he is, he would be toeing the ground. As it is, he runs a hand through his hair, agitating it into prickles. "She's a hard woman to say no to."
"So I've noticed," Scott says wryly. "And /that/ is why I leave the headmastery of the school to the Professor and Jean. Plenty of other things to occupy myself with other than each unit the students are signed up for."
"Chickenshit," Chris accuses, though with more amusement than mockery in the lazy jab of voice. He ambles his slow way around the obstruction of pots, the side of his shoe scraping with suspicion against several of the more esoteric specimens. "Haven't been out in a while. You and me, we should go get a drink sometime. Shoot the breeze. Talk about your ex-girlfriends."
"When you put it that way," is Scott's reply, "How can I refuse?" He stands in place, head swiveling as he watches Rossi's path. "Oh, might have a lead for your guys on that serial killer. The girl we found in the park woke this week. Catch is, she doesn't speak English. Well, speak anything, for that matter."
Eyebrows, lifted, show for a moment the clear color of eyes. Rossi leans out from behind a fern, interest caught and nudged into wakefulness. "Girl you found in the park?" he echoes. "What girl? You guys need a translator? Sign language or-- right. You have telepaths. You figure her for a vic, a witness, or the perp?"
"Well, considering she was in a coma when we found her, victim," Scott concludes. "Gonna take a while to get any information, no matter how we do it. Real skittish, though she's fairly responsive."
"Being in a coma doesn't mean she can't be witness or perp," Rossi points out, cynicism slicing deep in the Brooklyn accent. He disappears for a second behind more green, only to reemerge from the other side of the stand of plants, a backward glance of satisfaction marking the territory. "Considering you guys have those mind spider voodoo priests upstairs, I'll take your word for it. What makes you think she's connected?"
"Time/place," Scott shrugs. "Wrong place at the wrong time. Could be coincidence, hence the 'might have a lead.'" He steps up to one of the ferns, fingering the fronds. See, common ground. "We'll let you know."
Chris's eyebrows lift. Hands dig back into pockets, arms and shoulders stiff and straight. "You'll let me know," he echoes. Quick exasperation winds a bright ribbon through the words. "Well, fuck me. The NYPD's grateful you can see your way to doing that. You putz."
Clipboard balanced in one hand, a shiny metallic pen gripped delicately in the other, Hank is rather too conspicuous in his coloring and countenance to sidle in unnoticed. That is not to say that he doesn't make an initial effort to mind his own business - the back of the pristine labcoat he's currently wearing kept carefully to the pair as he scratches down a set of notes detailing the progress of an unusual looking fern.
"You do your thing, we do ours," Scott says, his lips drawn tightly. "Or do you mean to tell me your people are prepared to deal with a juvenile whose hair would probably shred through your cell cots?" He doesn't wait for an answer, turning as McCoy approaches. "Evening, Hank."
"What the fuck cell cots have to do with--" Rossi begins, annoyance broadening the cant of accent -- only to break off. The sybarite mouth thins as well, slashing into a harsh line that only eases with a greeting nod to McCoy. "Doc."
"Evening." Brows lifted in innocent separation from the ongoing conversation, Hank appears to be very interested in his plants indeed. "Detective."
"Detective Rossi and I were just...discussing our new student," Scott explains. "Have you met her?"
"Student? You didn't tell me that. You automatically enroll anyone you find off the street? I thought you said she couldn't even talk."
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure. Disregarding her unconcious stay down below, of course." Now turning, Hank manages a genuine smile for Scott, which becomes a bit toothy upon absorbing Rossi's opinion. "Some of us might make more agreeable company if they were to follow her example."
"Unless she decides to leave," Scott carefully forms his reply. "Then we'll do our best to teach her what we can. Academic or otherwise. And yes, we /do/ have a high percentage of 'off the street' enrolled."
Given Rossi's involvement in the enrollment of some of those streetwise vagrants, there is some perversity in his snort. Not to mention his subsequent, "Cranky bastard. You shed in winter?" he asks Hank, mellowly inquisitive. "Or does that happen in summer? What the fuck. If it turns out she knows sign language, gimme a ring."
Hank has no witty retort for that. He frowns. Deeply.
"Year round, if the cleaning staffs complaints have any validity," Scott says, his own attempt to lighten the conversation.
"Sucks to be them," Chris says with some sympathy, more for the absent janitorial staff than for the good Dr. McCoy. One hand unbuckles itself from a pocket to aim a backhanded thump at Hank's closest appendage. "You should go drinking with us. You're as uptight as Summers. We could shove coal up both your asses and make diamonds."
It is like thumping the side of an exceedingly shaggy and grouchy bodybuilder. There is no give or flinch beyond the shift his coat (and the layer of fur beneath it). He does, however push his thumb back over the butt of his pen, and click, the pointy end pokes back out so that he can resume scribbling - this time, with a sigh. "It does seem to get worse with the changing seasons. It looks vaguely as if there is a trichotillomaniac muppet living in the staff lounge."
"Tricho-- what?" says Rossi, blank. "Isn't that some sort of dinosaur?"
"You learn to either a) carry a dictionary or b) smile and nod a lot, when Hank is around," Scott shrugs. "I think he has one of those vocabulary word of the day calendars, except it only includes words with 12 or more letters."
"It is a psychological disorder that compels otherwise normal people to rip out their hair. Some of them opt to ingest it as well, with interesting gastrointestinal results. As you may well imagine." A flicker of that all-too-white smile returns, and Hank dots a period onto the end of his current sentence with a bit of a flourish.
Chris pauses, obligingly, to imagine. Then shakes his head. "Weird," he says, to both Poodle King and attendant Poodle. "Nothing normal about you two, and that's completely separate from the whole mutation shit. Eat their own hair. Jesus. --How do you talk to him?" he demands of Scott, jerking a thumb to indicate McCoy.
"I think we get along rather well," Scott shrugs. "Then again, don't bite the hand that stitches you up, or something of that nature."
"There is a certain comradery that arises from having to deal with the criminally insane and the teenaged day in and day out, year after year. We are a tolerant organization." Glasses pushed neatly up from its sink below the bridge of his nose by a ring finger lifted up around his pen, Hank squints at his work thus far before continuing. "Logan is still around, after all."
"He can come too," Chris grants, and abruptly grins at Scott, an expression that does much to soften the harsh lines of his face. The baritone waxes warm and easy. "We can /all/ talk about your ex-girlfriends. And your lousy taste in one of them, anyway. --How about it, Doc? Beer, stale pretzels, popcorn and bullshit?"
"Just what I need," Scott says dryly. "And I'm not sure there's always a distinct line between the two categories. Insane and teenaged are partially synonymous."
"It does sound appetizing." It is difficult to tell whether the good doctor is serious or not, as he speaks directly to the frond he's reached out to turn over.
"The beer, pretzels, and popcorn?" Chris wants to know. "Or the insane and teenaged? No offense or anything. Just checking."
"You've discovered how we deal with our problem students," Scott's lip twitches. "You do realize that means we'll have to kill you now."
Rossi eyes Hank's midsection, what is visible of it around the lab coat. "You ate Cassy?" he asks, not noticeably disturbed at the thought. "Didn't that screw with your stomach?"
"Rest assured my dear delicious detective, if I /was/ a cannibal, it is you who would be first." This reassurance bolstered by a fanged smile and fingers pinched as if in offer of paprika, Hank turns again, this time for the door. "I'll get the axe."
"I unfortunately have obligations tonight," Scott says, a turn back to the serious. "But if you are free next week, I may take you up on the offer then."
"Delicious," Rossi scoffs, a breath chuffed out half akin to a chuckle. "How the hell do you know that? Unless you've been licking me when I'm--" He breaks off. The detective's face clouds. Ororo. He eyes the two X-Men with a suspicion that does not quite lift for the distracted reply to Scott. "Next week's fine. Tonight I got-- yeah."
Hank misses suspicion, perhaps fortunately, for he is headed for the door, clipboard still firmly in hand. "Delectable."
"We have weekly staff meetings," is Scott's simple answer.
"Counting the students that're left? --Later, Doc."
One large blue hand is lifted in farewell, and Hank swings out through the door and out of sight.
"Among other discussions," Scott says, offering a wave of goodbye to Hank. "So...next week then."
Rossi's mouth twists, his gaze following the blue McCoy's exit. "A cop, a guy who shoots laser beams out of his freaking eyes, and a 400 pound cookie monster," he quips, with a certain meditative interest. "This ought to be good. And if you bring Logan along, a Canadian. Bets on what people find the scariest."
"We'll draw quite the stares, I'm sure," Scott says, brushing his hands to rid them of the plant residue. "I'll leave you to your session, then," he adds, beginning to make his way back to the door. "Good seeing you again."
Chris's mouth thins at the reminder. "Yeah," he says. Discomfort hunches through the short, curt word. "Right. Later, man." And he turns away to the comfort of green.