4/9/07 - Cassy, Walter
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=XS= Living Room - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
Despite the rich Victorian reds of the walls and the dark colour of the hardwood half panelling, large floor to ceiling windows brighten the room into something warm and inviting. Several couches are present here: one faces a flatscreen TV set recessed into the wall, along with an armchair or two for individuals, while the others form conversation circles in other corners, complete with coffee and end tables. Against the walls are tall and leafy plants, predominantly ferns but with a ficus lurking in one corner. The the central unifying feature of the room is a large fieldstone fireplace with the windows to each side of it. French doors lead to the hallway, mated across the way by matching ones from the rec room.
There are few, if any places where one can find any more than a fleeting association with quiet within the house Xavier built. These places become even fewer in number once classes has been released. One such place is the living room, large, nicely furnished, but missing any of the more obvious diversions of the more populated Rec Room across the hall. Walter sits near the fireplace, flipping through a thick collection of Sandman comics, his legs straight and held out to allow his feet to benefit from the warmth of the flames.
As a backstreet route from one destination to another, the living room is indirect, at best. Professor Xavier steers his way by the compass of silences, his fingers light on the controls of his chair. The motor hums busily; the murmur of voices accompanies it as he greets students in passing, exchanging pleasantries with one and all in a polite, if undemonstrative baritone.
Walter glances up from his brightly colored book at the sound of the familiar and distinct tones. Eyes search for, and find, the gleam of the polished dome, and their owner smiles. "Good afternoon, Professor," the young man greets, voice cracking. He blushes slightly at the squeek.
"Walter," the Professor reciprocates, inclining his head. The chair pauses, less for the student than for the obstruction of another body, belatedly clearing scattered books from his path. "Good afternoon. I see you are hard at work."
Walter blushes just a little deeper. "Ah, er... no," he admits. He flips through a few pages and holds up the book. Bright colors, text bubbles, and a rather striking likeness of William Shakespeare. "Just reading for fun," he explains. "This issue won a literature award," he offers in defense of the medium.
The Professor's eyebrow arcs up, then sinks down again. "Mr. Gaiman," he identifies, with a passing glance at the colorful page. His rich voice turns wry. "I am acquainted with him and his work, yes. He has done some interesting work in several mediums, though his graphic novels are the most colorful and notorious."
Walter listens until he's certain the Professor's finished. "I like him. Some of his stuff is... kind of intense," he admits, "but it's all good, and you can kind of tell that he's using that sort of stuff for more than just the shock value."
"Storytelling, in short," the Professor says, patience painting his voice into slightly pedantic tones. A faint smile curls his mouth, brushing his eyes with deeper color. "Literature is not a static thing. It continues to evolve, across all mediums. But you are not in my class anymore, I believe, so I will refrain from lecturing you."
Walter nods in agreement with the Professor's words. "It's alright. I liked your class," he compliments, "lot better than the English classes at my old school." A pause in which he closes the book. "Besides, maybe I'll learn something for when I take your class next year," he says with a brief quirk of a smile.
The Professor's expression does not change, though he inclines his head gravely to the accolade. "I am gratified at your approval," he says, aspect solemn. Deadpan humor, desert dry. "I hope to do as well next year. In any event, there's a great deal to be learned in Mr. Gaiman's work. He has a creative mind. What would your current teachers say about yours, do you think?"
Walter looks down at the book, a hand resting on the cover as he considers. "I... really don't know," he eventually responds. "I mean, I've writen a few things, but... I don't think any of it's really all that creative." His hazel eyes rise back towards the Professor. "Mostly just borrowing from stuff I've read or seen before."
"There is nothing new under the sun," the Professor points out, making a koan out of the cliche. His hands fold neatly on his lap, his mouth twisting above. "The older one gets, the more one realizes the truth of that sentiment. Talent borrows, Walter. Genius steals."
Walter laughs briefly at that. "I guess if you can steal someone elses stuff, and make everyone think it was yours to begin with, that makes you a good writer?"
"It makes you a good salesman," Professor Xavier counters, and looks quietly amused. "If you can steal someone else's material and make your audience think about it for the first time? /That/ makes you a good writer. Is it your aspiration to become a professional writer?"
Walter shakes his head. "No, I'm not good enough for that," he responds humbily. "Not creative enough." He turns to the flames, watching them for a moment. "I don't really know /what/ I want to do."
The Professor touches a hand to his chair's controls; the obstruction in his path, thoroughly cleared away, receives an approving glance. "It is early days yet," he tells Walter tolerantly. "There are many years ahead to make that determination, if you feel the need to make it at all. Youth is for exploring your interests and learning to recognize opportunity. Take advantage of it while you may."
Walter watches the Professor's progress. "Professor?" he begins hesitantly. "When did you know you wanted to run a school?"
An eyebrow arches. Professor Xavier turns his attention back to Walter, humor lighting his aging features. "I would not take my situation as an example for you, my lad," he says. "I was far advanced in years already. It was by nature of being a second career for me. Or a third, if one wishes to be strictly accurate."
"Oh," Walter responds. "It was nice talking to you," he says warmly. Rather than reopen his book, Walter simply turns to watch the flames in their merry dance. His brow knits slightly as he grows contemplative.
Professor Xavier inclines his head, murmuring a farewell. The wheelchair moves on.
[Log ends]
---
=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.
The lunch crowd is gone, and in its wake, an hour late, is afternoon tea. Informal, at best; the wheelchair seated at the kitchen table is the most dignified entity in the room, its master engaged in a losing battle with a jar of raspberry preserve that shows his fingerprints neatly dappled against a layer of dust. The polished head gleams in the sunlight streaming in through the window. But for the fact that he murmurs wordless imprecations to the toast on his plate, the scene would be idyllic. In Saville Row style, at any rate.
Cassy sneaks on tiptoes, with exaggerated stealth, into the kitchen. A large and quite empty cookie jar is tucked under one of the teenage telekinetics arms. < < Now to return this without being spotted and bingo! > >
Very sly. Very ninja. "Cassy," greets the Professor, giving up the jar with a final, reproving thump of the same against the edge of the battered table. His head lifts, pale eyes peering over the horizon of spectacles. "I can't imagine that many sweets are healthy for you."
"Jam is filled with tons of sugar," Cassy counters quickly. "And if you're using butter or something it's like pure fat. Way bad for you."
"For which reason I use it sparingly," the Professor counters, the spectacles sliding down the plane of nose. His brow furrows. "Moderation being the key to all good things. --My dear girl. When was the last time we sent you to the dentist?"
Cassy hmms thoughtfully as she replaces the cookie jar. "I went to one while I was /away/!" she informs cheerfully. "He said it was a miracle my teeth were in such a good condition, I figure brushing them three times a day helps."
"Less sweets would not go amiss." His voice is firm. Stern. Very responsible. The Professor taps a finger's knuckle on his jar (not at all wistful, not at /all/ ironical) and reaches up to remove his spectacles altogether. "I presume I should be grateful expensive orthodontia will not be required. It continues to amaze me, the sheer quantity of sweets consumed in this house," he adds to the kitchen at large, resigned. "I can only presume we are doing something amiss in terms of nutritional education."
"I have a very balanced diet actually, I'm like way up in Home Ec classes. I'm trying for top of the class," Cassy replies seriously. "Yah know, I was wondering if there was some way I could pay you back for saving me from that home? Like maybe I could help out the kitchen staff part time to contribute to my tuition?"
The Professor spins the delicate gold frames between his fingertips. They wink at him, metal and glass blurring together. "Er," he says, eloquently. Hazel eyes blink. "The kitchen staff? Now, there's an--" appalling "--interesting idea. A subject that you should broach with the Mme Vargas, I think. I try not to interfere with her, insofar as it is possible. Are you," he wonders, ever so polite, "/able/ to cook, Cassy?"
Cassy pouts sullenly. "Am I able to cook?" she repeats. "I'm an /excellent/ cook thank you very much! I can bake, infact who do you think has been selling baked goods in the girls dorm for the last few months?"
"Baking," the Professor says, with a wisdom utterly unsubstantiated by personal experience, "is a far different thing than /cooking/. However, if you have an interest in cooking as a future career path -- or even as a hobby, I daresay--" He slides the glasses into his breast pocket and takes up toast, a fine bone china plate serving as protection between food and expensive slacks. "It would be a useful skill. I take it you are pleased to be back?"
Cassy giggles. "Of course I am! That place was horrible," she informs sincerely. "And I cook as well, I was the one who fed my brother and my dad... well anyway I can cook better than most grown ups." Skipping, she heads towards the refridgerator in search of soda. "If I wasn't glad to be back, then I wouldn't be trying to offer to help pay for my own upkeep!"
The Professor says, prim as a pin, "I would never presume to suspect you of ulterior motive, my dear Cassy." Lie. Hazel eyes twinkle. "In any cooking competition, I fear you would have the upper hand insofar as I am concerned. I do appreciate the offer. I will drop a word in the housekeeper's ear and see if it will disrupt any arrangements she might already have. Are you intending to cook for the entire school? It is a rather formidable audience."
"Well, I didn't mean on my own. I mean /work/ in the kitchen alongside the normal staff," Cassy explains seriously, grabbing a large bottle of soda and then hunting for cups. "Like a part time job, for as long as I'm at the school. Either that or I'll start selling cookies and sneaking the profit into your desk drawers!"
There is a small pause while the Professor contemplates that image. "I see," he says. If his voice is a little faint at the thought, surely he can be pardoned. "An extremely generous idea, Cassy. I suppose we would provide the supplies? Of course. It would only be fair. You seem to have given this matter some thought."
"Do you mean provide the supplies for cookie making?" Cassy asks with a puzzled frown. "I already have a cookie making schedule in operation, it's not hard to fetch ingrediants from the nearest store. In fact it's good exercise!"
"A schedule." The Professor regards Cassy with mild-eyed fascination. "Have you a staff as well? Or is this strictly a one-woman operation?"
Cassy giggles. "Just me, well okay I sometimes get people to fetch things I need when I'm too busy to go shopping," she admits. "But the baking is just me. They're pretty nice too, I was even selling them in Central park for a while."
The Professor's face changes: from interest to alarm, and from alarm to resignation once more. "I see," he says. "I should have Robert investigate the necessity of a vendor's license for you. I wonder if there are any fines involved?" He eats toast.
"I didn't get caught," Cassy informs solemnly. "I even sold some to some cops."
"Ah." The Professor's mouth twitches. Not smiling. Really. "Is that so? Tacit approval seems to be yours, then. Might I ask what price you are putting on these cookies? Are they within the reach of my pocketbook? Or will I have to find some investors?"
Cassy blinks a few times. "Huh? They're like cookie price," she replies in a puzzled tone. "Although this weird lady gave me a hundred dollars for one this one time. I think she was crazy or something."
The Professor, who has a skewed sense of the proper cost of things, frowns briefly. "Cookie price," he says, experimenting with the words. "A ... dollar each, perhaps?"
"We're talking quality cookies here! Hand made to the finest standards," Cassy protests at the price. "At least two dollars, although I usually charge three in the boys dorms. Because it's supply and demand, I'm the only supply so I can demand more money."
A smile moves behind the Professor's eyes, elusive behind the screen of his face. "I see that the basics of economics have not eluded you," he congratulates. "Social studies in practice. I am pleased that our education is not entirely wasted. Two dollars, then. May I purchase one from your next batch? Are you a, er, cash-only business? I'm uncertain if I actually possess any."
Cassy nods. "Sure erm, you can consider it a free sample," she offers. "Any idea what kind you'd prefer?"
"Whatever you recommend," the Professor says, delegating responsibility. He whisks crumbs off the table into his plate, considers it, then turns his chair towards the sink to place it on the counter. Privilege of age and infirmity: someone else does the dishes. "Provided it is not too sweet, I imagine it will be delicious. After all," he says solemnly, "I have been informed by the very highest of authorities that you are a very good cook."
"You mean by me?" Cassy asks curiously. < < I wonder why the Professor doesn't put it straight in the dish washer, it'd be easier to reach! > >
The dish is not moved to the dishwasher. The Professor, perverse in his ethical standards, does not comment. "As it happens," he says, in the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head, "yes." And he twinkles. "Good afternoon, Cassy."
"Cya later," Cassy replies, pouring herself another full glass of soda.
The wheelchair -- and its master -- putt-putt away to the next activity on Xavier's schedule. Left behind on the kitchen table, the raspberry preserve sits in glowing, silent peace and contemplates God.
=XS= Living Room - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
Despite the rich Victorian reds of the walls and the dark colour of the hardwood half panelling, large floor to ceiling windows brighten the room into something warm and inviting. Several couches are present here: one faces a flatscreen TV set recessed into the wall, along with an armchair or two for individuals, while the others form conversation circles in other corners, complete with coffee and end tables. Against the walls are tall and leafy plants, predominantly ferns but with a ficus lurking in one corner. The the central unifying feature of the room is a large fieldstone fireplace with the windows to each side of it. French doors lead to the hallway, mated across the way by matching ones from the rec room.
There are few, if any places where one can find any more than a fleeting association with quiet within the house Xavier built. These places become even fewer in number once classes has been released. One such place is the living room, large, nicely furnished, but missing any of the more obvious diversions of the more populated Rec Room across the hall. Walter sits near the fireplace, flipping through a thick collection of Sandman comics, his legs straight and held out to allow his feet to benefit from the warmth of the flames.
As a backstreet route from one destination to another, the living room is indirect, at best. Professor Xavier steers his way by the compass of silences, his fingers light on the controls of his chair. The motor hums busily; the murmur of voices accompanies it as he greets students in passing, exchanging pleasantries with one and all in a polite, if undemonstrative baritone.
Walter glances up from his brightly colored book at the sound of the familiar and distinct tones. Eyes search for, and find, the gleam of the polished dome, and their owner smiles. "Good afternoon, Professor," the young man greets, voice cracking. He blushes slightly at the squeek.
"Walter," the Professor reciprocates, inclining his head. The chair pauses, less for the student than for the obstruction of another body, belatedly clearing scattered books from his path. "Good afternoon. I see you are hard at work."
Walter blushes just a little deeper. "Ah, er... no," he admits. He flips through a few pages and holds up the book. Bright colors, text bubbles, and a rather striking likeness of William Shakespeare. "Just reading for fun," he explains. "This issue won a literature award," he offers in defense of the medium.
The Professor's eyebrow arcs up, then sinks down again. "Mr. Gaiman," he identifies, with a passing glance at the colorful page. His rich voice turns wry. "I am acquainted with him and his work, yes. He has done some interesting work in several mediums, though his graphic novels are the most colorful and notorious."
Walter listens until he's certain the Professor's finished. "I like him. Some of his stuff is... kind of intense," he admits, "but it's all good, and you can kind of tell that he's using that sort of stuff for more than just the shock value."
"Storytelling, in short," the Professor says, patience painting his voice into slightly pedantic tones. A faint smile curls his mouth, brushing his eyes with deeper color. "Literature is not a static thing. It continues to evolve, across all mediums. But you are not in my class anymore, I believe, so I will refrain from lecturing you."
Walter nods in agreement with the Professor's words. "It's alright. I liked your class," he compliments, "lot better than the English classes at my old school." A pause in which he closes the book. "Besides, maybe I'll learn something for when I take your class next year," he says with a brief quirk of a smile.
The Professor's expression does not change, though he inclines his head gravely to the accolade. "I am gratified at your approval," he says, aspect solemn. Deadpan humor, desert dry. "I hope to do as well next year. In any event, there's a great deal to be learned in Mr. Gaiman's work. He has a creative mind. What would your current teachers say about yours, do you think?"
Walter looks down at the book, a hand resting on the cover as he considers. "I... really don't know," he eventually responds. "I mean, I've writen a few things, but... I don't think any of it's really all that creative." His hazel eyes rise back towards the Professor. "Mostly just borrowing from stuff I've read or seen before."
"There is nothing new under the sun," the Professor points out, making a koan out of the cliche. His hands fold neatly on his lap, his mouth twisting above. "The older one gets, the more one realizes the truth of that sentiment. Talent borrows, Walter. Genius steals."
Walter laughs briefly at that. "I guess if you can steal someone elses stuff, and make everyone think it was yours to begin with, that makes you a good writer?"
"It makes you a good salesman," Professor Xavier counters, and looks quietly amused. "If you can steal someone else's material and make your audience think about it for the first time? /That/ makes you a good writer. Is it your aspiration to become a professional writer?"
Walter shakes his head. "No, I'm not good enough for that," he responds humbily. "Not creative enough." He turns to the flames, watching them for a moment. "I don't really know /what/ I want to do."
The Professor touches a hand to his chair's controls; the obstruction in his path, thoroughly cleared away, receives an approving glance. "It is early days yet," he tells Walter tolerantly. "There are many years ahead to make that determination, if you feel the need to make it at all. Youth is for exploring your interests and learning to recognize opportunity. Take advantage of it while you may."
Walter watches the Professor's progress. "Professor?" he begins hesitantly. "When did you know you wanted to run a school?"
An eyebrow arches. Professor Xavier turns his attention back to Walter, humor lighting his aging features. "I would not take my situation as an example for you, my lad," he says. "I was far advanced in years already. It was by nature of being a second career for me. Or a third, if one wishes to be strictly accurate."
"Oh," Walter responds. "It was nice talking to you," he says warmly. Rather than reopen his book, Walter simply turns to watch the flames in their merry dance. His brow knits slightly as he grows contemplative.
Professor Xavier inclines his head, murmuring a farewell. The wheelchair moves on.
[Log ends]
---
=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.
The lunch crowd is gone, and in its wake, an hour late, is afternoon tea. Informal, at best; the wheelchair seated at the kitchen table is the most dignified entity in the room, its master engaged in a losing battle with a jar of raspberry preserve that shows his fingerprints neatly dappled against a layer of dust. The polished head gleams in the sunlight streaming in through the window. But for the fact that he murmurs wordless imprecations to the toast on his plate, the scene would be idyllic. In Saville Row style, at any rate.
Cassy sneaks on tiptoes, with exaggerated stealth, into the kitchen. A large and quite empty cookie jar is tucked under one of the teenage telekinetics arms. < < Now to return this without being spotted and bingo! > >
Very sly. Very ninja. "Cassy," greets the Professor, giving up the jar with a final, reproving thump of the same against the edge of the battered table. His head lifts, pale eyes peering over the horizon of spectacles. "I can't imagine that many sweets are healthy for you."
"Jam is filled with tons of sugar," Cassy counters quickly. "And if you're using butter or something it's like pure fat. Way bad for you."
"For which reason I use it sparingly," the Professor counters, the spectacles sliding down the plane of nose. His brow furrows. "Moderation being the key to all good things. --My dear girl. When was the last time we sent you to the dentist?"
Cassy hmms thoughtfully as she replaces the cookie jar. "I went to one while I was /away/!" she informs cheerfully. "He said it was a miracle my teeth were in such a good condition, I figure brushing them three times a day helps."
"Less sweets would not go amiss." His voice is firm. Stern. Very responsible. The Professor taps a finger's knuckle on his jar (not at all wistful, not at /all/ ironical) and reaches up to remove his spectacles altogether. "I presume I should be grateful expensive orthodontia will not be required. It continues to amaze me, the sheer quantity of sweets consumed in this house," he adds to the kitchen at large, resigned. "I can only presume we are doing something amiss in terms of nutritional education."
"I have a very balanced diet actually, I'm like way up in Home Ec classes. I'm trying for top of the class," Cassy replies seriously. "Yah know, I was wondering if there was some way I could pay you back for saving me from that home? Like maybe I could help out the kitchen staff part time to contribute to my tuition?"
The Professor spins the delicate gold frames between his fingertips. They wink at him, metal and glass blurring together. "Er," he says, eloquently. Hazel eyes blink. "The kitchen staff? Now, there's an--" appalling "--interesting idea. A subject that you should broach with the Mme Vargas, I think. I try not to interfere with her, insofar as it is possible. Are you," he wonders, ever so polite, "/able/ to cook, Cassy?"
Cassy pouts sullenly. "Am I able to cook?" she repeats. "I'm an /excellent/ cook thank you very much! I can bake, infact who do you think has been selling baked goods in the girls dorm for the last few months?"
"Baking," the Professor says, with a wisdom utterly unsubstantiated by personal experience, "is a far different thing than /cooking/. However, if you have an interest in cooking as a future career path -- or even as a hobby, I daresay--" He slides the glasses into his breast pocket and takes up toast, a fine bone china plate serving as protection between food and expensive slacks. "It would be a useful skill. I take it you are pleased to be back?"
Cassy giggles. "Of course I am! That place was horrible," she informs sincerely. "And I cook as well, I was the one who fed my brother and my dad... well anyway I can cook better than most grown ups." Skipping, she heads towards the refridgerator in search of soda. "If I wasn't glad to be back, then I wouldn't be trying to offer to help pay for my own upkeep!"
The Professor says, prim as a pin, "I would never presume to suspect you of ulterior motive, my dear Cassy." Lie. Hazel eyes twinkle. "In any cooking competition, I fear you would have the upper hand insofar as I am concerned. I do appreciate the offer. I will drop a word in the housekeeper's ear and see if it will disrupt any arrangements she might already have. Are you intending to cook for the entire school? It is a rather formidable audience."
"Well, I didn't mean on my own. I mean /work/ in the kitchen alongside the normal staff," Cassy explains seriously, grabbing a large bottle of soda and then hunting for cups. "Like a part time job, for as long as I'm at the school. Either that or I'll start selling cookies and sneaking the profit into your desk drawers!"
There is a small pause while the Professor contemplates that image. "I see," he says. If his voice is a little faint at the thought, surely he can be pardoned. "An extremely generous idea, Cassy. I suppose we would provide the supplies? Of course. It would only be fair. You seem to have given this matter some thought."
"Do you mean provide the supplies for cookie making?" Cassy asks with a puzzled frown. "I already have a cookie making schedule in operation, it's not hard to fetch ingrediants from the nearest store. In fact it's good exercise!"
"A schedule." The Professor regards Cassy with mild-eyed fascination. "Have you a staff as well? Or is this strictly a one-woman operation?"
Cassy giggles. "Just me, well okay I sometimes get people to fetch things I need when I'm too busy to go shopping," she admits. "But the baking is just me. They're pretty nice too, I was even selling them in Central park for a while."
The Professor's face changes: from interest to alarm, and from alarm to resignation once more. "I see," he says. "I should have Robert investigate the necessity of a vendor's license for you. I wonder if there are any fines involved?" He eats toast.
"I didn't get caught," Cassy informs solemnly. "I even sold some to some cops."
"Ah." The Professor's mouth twitches. Not smiling. Really. "Is that so? Tacit approval seems to be yours, then. Might I ask what price you are putting on these cookies? Are they within the reach of my pocketbook? Or will I have to find some investors?"
Cassy blinks a few times. "Huh? They're like cookie price," she replies in a puzzled tone. "Although this weird lady gave me a hundred dollars for one this one time. I think she was crazy or something."
The Professor, who has a skewed sense of the proper cost of things, frowns briefly. "Cookie price," he says, experimenting with the words. "A ... dollar each, perhaps?"
"We're talking quality cookies here! Hand made to the finest standards," Cassy protests at the price. "At least two dollars, although I usually charge three in the boys dorms. Because it's supply and demand, I'm the only supply so I can demand more money."
A smile moves behind the Professor's eyes, elusive behind the screen of his face. "I see that the basics of economics have not eluded you," he congratulates. "Social studies in practice. I am pleased that our education is not entirely wasted. Two dollars, then. May I purchase one from your next batch? Are you a, er, cash-only business? I'm uncertain if I actually possess any."
Cassy nods. "Sure erm, you can consider it a free sample," she offers. "Any idea what kind you'd prefer?"
"Whatever you recommend," the Professor says, delegating responsibility. He whisks crumbs off the table into his plate, considers it, then turns his chair towards the sink to place it on the counter. Privilege of age and infirmity: someone else does the dishes. "Provided it is not too sweet, I imagine it will be delicious. After all," he says solemnly, "I have been informed by the very highest of authorities that you are a very good cook."
"You mean by me?" Cassy asks curiously. < < I wonder why the Professor doesn't put it straight in the dish washer, it'd be easier to reach! > >
The dish is not moved to the dishwasher. The Professor, perverse in his ethical standards, does not comment. "As it happens," he says, in the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head, "yes." And he twinkles. "Good afternoon, Cassy."
"Cya later," Cassy replies, pouring herself another full glass of soda.
The wheelchair -- and its master -- putt-putt away to the next activity on Xavier's schedule. Left behind on the kitchen table, the raspberry preserve sits in glowing, silent peace and contemplates God.