7/28/07 - Tim
---
=XS= Back Patio and Swimming Pool - Xavier's School
The patio is a mixture of grades of cobblestone, flanked with a few flowering bushes and other flora along the outside edges. Its footprint is in the space between the wings of the mansion where the glass walls of the arboretum leave off. A grill and picnic table rests to the side, just under the ledge of the house's roof. The area just outside the kitchen leads to a large pool area. Landscaped with slate around the edges instead of poured concrete, the pool is sloped with both a shallow end and deep end with enough depth for a diving board. A circular in-ground jacuzzi bubbles invitingly just off the shallow end. Chairs and white chaise lounges line along the pool, and a hammock is strung up between two maple trees.
There are voices on the patio, masculine and deep, straddling the Atlantic in their accents. A black-pitched baritone stretches through a Brooklyn accent, an edge of tension scraping the harshness of consonants and flattened vowels. By comparison, the other voice is like rich, rare cognac, mellowed and shaped by British culturing. It is a spirited discussion, on one side at least; the elder of the two men seated on the patio makes a more peaceable reply, authority underpinning the quiet words like bedrock.
The rain has lapsed at last, in this later part of the evening, though concrete still glistens blackly with its leavings. Light pools on the patio, pitched up through the pool's water and down from floodlights planted around the yard. Though damp, it is nonetheless warm. New York's summer is still too young to give up without a fight. A lean figure prowls around the pool, his stride uneven and hasty. Bald head gleaming, Professor Xavier sits in his wheelchair under the shelter of the patio, and watches him.
"--It is not an unreasonable assumption," the Professor says. "However, I believe it would be better if you did /not/ go in search of him."
Its with a bit of caution that Tim cracks the door from the Kitchen door and slides his way through. The curtain call for today's rain, which only earlier got the better of him, means that he has a nagging task to take care of. On the far end of the pool a cheep plastic pen floats with the cap still on it, a pen that belongs in its earned spot worn into the spine of the leather bound journal held in the youths left hand. "Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt." is his timid introduction as he slowly closes the door behind himself, curiosity peaked.
Pale eyes slash towards Tim, set deep in a face made strange and surreal by the splash of light from below. Det. Rossi. "Tim," he identifies, his swift frown easing marginally.
"Mr. Hall," echoes the Professor, turning his chair at an angle to take in the young man. The tone of his voice and body language are welcoming; likewise, the faint smile that reaches across the space between them to warm the young man. "You are not interrupting at all. How are you? Chris was about to go make a phone call, I believe." It is a clear dismissal for the younger man.
"Detective Rossi. Good to see you again. Could you tell... could you say hi to pops for me when you see him?" Tim ask with a smile, his voice wavering as he begins to ask the question, but settling into a practiced friendly tone. Still theres a slight longing laced in the question. He finishes with a nod and a wide warm, trained smile before turning his attention to the professor, walking a few paces to clear away from the door, bare feet inside of still soggy shoes squishing as he does. "Oh, Professor Xavier, I was meaning to ask your permission about something."
Rossi looks at Xavier, his eyebrows hitching, an expression of concentration wrinkling his brow. The Professor returns the glance with an unreadable one of his own before refocusing on Tim. "Of course," he says kindly, and folds his long-fingered hands on his lap, head tilting inquiringly. Light slips across his scalp like glass, cradling the contours of his skull. "I think I can spare you some time. Is anything amiss?"
The detective hunches his shoulders, tightens his jaw, and prowls back towards the house. "Oh," he remembers to say, stride hitching as he passes Tim. "Your dad. Right. Sure, Tim." And then he is gone, leaving only a trace of his shampoo and soap behind him.
Green eyes follow Rossi as he leaves, growing more concerned and curious when he's gone than when he was here. Tim's mouth opens first not to answer the Professor's question, but to pose one of his own, but he thinks better of it before he speaks. "No, no... northing's wrong. Are you familiar with the Skipping Stones youth honor's awards, sir?" Tim asks, referencing the multicultural magazine's yearly student writing competition. (re)
Eyebrows lift in quizzical interest. Behind Tim, the patio door slams shut with a vehemence that brings a stiffness of disapproval to the old man's face. "I admit it is not one that has crossed my path," the Professor admits, his mouth curving back towards a smile. "I take it something has brought it to your attention?"
The sudden slam of the door catches Tim completely off guard. Arms go up to his head protectively, eyes closing, heart racing, and a brief instance of genuine panic and fear is his instinctive reaction, but it only last a moment before he turns head around and processes what actually caused the loud crash. "Is everything okay with Detective Rossi?" Tim asks before his good sense can stop him from doing so.
Telepathy catches the rush of panic, nets it in passing, and slides gracefully across the surface of Tim's thoughts -- those rattling, clattering emotions that fairly scream to an empath -- in an automatic check before retreating. "Ah," says Professor Xavier, apology for the departed man mingling with mild-voiced annoyance. "Detective Rossi is a tad restless, I'm afraid. He is unable to return to work for the moment, and so needs some other outlet for his energy. Not an issue that need concern you," he adds gently. Smile lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "I'm afraid he is rather loud."
Tim accepts the explanation after a moment of processing it and nodding to the Professor. "Sorry sir," Tim lets out with a timid tone as opens his journal to its back cover and removes several typed pages and a form. "We carry it in the library, but I'm afraid I don't have a copy with me, sir. My old school writing club used to enter it each year, and I was wanting to enter this essay. The submissions have to be works that promote global or cultural tolerance. I can't submit it without this permission form, and since the winners get published, I thought you might want to make sure it was okay before I entered it."
Eyebrows lift, though in pleased interest, and the Professor extends a hand for the papers with a smile coasting across his amused, "As a representative of the school, do you mean? I appreciate the thought, Mr. Hall. I would be honored to read your submission, but as an individual, I do try not to censor my students. The right to the pursuit of happiness is somewhat lacking for mutants in this world," he says wryly. "It seems somewhat gratuitous to restrict freedom of expression as well."
Continuing to nod with the rhythm of Xavier's accent, Tim is touched with a bit of guilt that shows on his face and reddened cheeks. He shifts his weight in place offering "I'm sorry sir, I just didn't want to assume." He places the papers in the Professor's hand, permission form on the outside and essay on the inside. The papers are worn, edges bent and folded, and the main essay itself is still touched with a couple of correction. The essay itself is title '26 Hours' and discusses the point that mutation at youth isn't a black and white issue. Even when your trying to do right, there are difficulties and issues you just can't ignore in favor of rhetoric political correctness. But it is laced with youthful idealist hope.
"There is no need to apologize," the Professor says absent-mindedly, turning the pages of the essay to skim quickly through the contents. "It was not an unreasonable possibility; many private schools adopt such policies. I do not believe we have published ours in an easily accessible format, something that I should take steps to correct. --Mm." Paper rustles again. He lapses into silence for a few moments, his brow furrowing once, his lips pursing twice -- then looks up at Tim, eyes twinkling. "A noteworthy submission."
As the paper is read, Tim is left in an agonizing state of nerve and uncertainty common to authors when their wok is being judged. He may as well have been waiting for NY Times to review his novel. His youthful eyes focus on the Xavier's expression against his better wishes. When the Professor goes silent, Tim holds his breath to match. The comment gives him a large sigh of relief and he makes a marked effort not to smile too broadly. "Thank you, sir." Is his reply in a more energetic tone than he could manage earlier.
The smile webs out from the hazel eyes, creasing deep and familiar pathways through the thin, aged skin. "It is certainly written with care and spirit," the Professor congratulates, reaching into an inner pocket of his suit coat to produce a thick pen and a pair of thin gold spectacles. The latter, he dons; the former he uncaps to reveal an old-fashioned nib. "An interesting prize," he adds, skimming the permission form. "And an interesting topic. Was it one that was suggested by the competition? Or were you inspired by your own experiences?"
"My own." The boy admits in a low tone, the initial excitement successfully represses. "Several of my old teachers at BSGE tried really hard to make things work out with me when I was going through all that. It was hard, and they kept running into brick walls and even more problems. It wasn't as simple as saying 'Ok, one of our students is X-Factor Positive, hurry along to class'" As he explains, Tim's gaze drifts from the Professor and towards the general direction of where the school's gates should be. When he continues, his voice is more reserved and laced with a tad bit of shame. "I was so wrapped up with what was going on with me that I didn't notice at the time all they were going through for me."
"Hindsight, as adults are so fond of saying, is 20/20." The Professor regards Tim for an owlish moment over the tops of his spectacles, the wry humor lively in the deep-set eyes. Then he turns his attention downward: to the scribble of pen on paper, the elegant, slightly crabbed script of an older generation. "There. I believe that should grant you the permission you require. In loco, as it were -- I have found, young Tim, that teachers are always grateful to know that their efforts were noticed and appreciated. No matter how belatedly."
"Thank you again, sir." Tim says extending his hand to accept the permission form and essay. "I just wish there was a way to have hindsite before you would do something you regret."
Professor Xavier removes his spectacles, placing them in his lap, and passes across the form and essay with a rustle of paper and another small twinkle. "If you were able to accomplish that, my son, you could -- as they say -- rule the world. Good luck with your essay. I will hope for the best."
[log ends]
Tim runs into Det. Rossi again and asks Professor Xavier for permission to submit an essay to a writing contest.
=XS= Back Patio and Swimming Pool - Xavier's School
The patio is a mixture of grades of cobblestone, flanked with a few flowering bushes and other flora along the outside edges. Its footprint is in the space between the wings of the mansion where the glass walls of the arboretum leave off. A grill and picnic table rests to the side, just under the ledge of the house's roof. The area just outside the kitchen leads to a large pool area. Landscaped with slate around the edges instead of poured concrete, the pool is sloped with both a shallow end and deep end with enough depth for a diving board. A circular in-ground jacuzzi bubbles invitingly just off the shallow end. Chairs and white chaise lounges line along the pool, and a hammock is strung up between two maple trees.
There are voices on the patio, masculine and deep, straddling the Atlantic in their accents. A black-pitched baritone stretches through a Brooklyn accent, an edge of tension scraping the harshness of consonants and flattened vowels. By comparison, the other voice is like rich, rare cognac, mellowed and shaped by British culturing. It is a spirited discussion, on one side at least; the elder of the two men seated on the patio makes a more peaceable reply, authority underpinning the quiet words like bedrock.
The rain has lapsed at last, in this later part of the evening, though concrete still glistens blackly with its leavings. Light pools on the patio, pitched up through the pool's water and down from floodlights planted around the yard. Though damp, it is nonetheless warm. New York's summer is still too young to give up without a fight. A lean figure prowls around the pool, his stride uneven and hasty. Bald head gleaming, Professor Xavier sits in his wheelchair under the shelter of the patio, and watches him.
"--It is not an unreasonable assumption," the Professor says. "However, I believe it would be better if you did /not/ go in search of him."
Its with a bit of caution that Tim cracks the door from the Kitchen door and slides his way through. The curtain call for today's rain, which only earlier got the better of him, means that he has a nagging task to take care of. On the far end of the pool a cheep plastic pen floats with the cap still on it, a pen that belongs in its earned spot worn into the spine of the leather bound journal held in the youths left hand. "Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt." is his timid introduction as he slowly closes the door behind himself, curiosity peaked.
Pale eyes slash towards Tim, set deep in a face made strange and surreal by the splash of light from below. Det. Rossi. "Tim," he identifies, his swift frown easing marginally.
"Mr. Hall," echoes the Professor, turning his chair at an angle to take in the young man. The tone of his voice and body language are welcoming; likewise, the faint smile that reaches across the space between them to warm the young man. "You are not interrupting at all. How are you? Chris was about to go make a phone call, I believe." It is a clear dismissal for the younger man.
"Detective Rossi. Good to see you again. Could you tell... could you say hi to pops for me when you see him?" Tim ask with a smile, his voice wavering as he begins to ask the question, but settling into a practiced friendly tone. Still theres a slight longing laced in the question. He finishes with a nod and a wide warm, trained smile before turning his attention to the professor, walking a few paces to clear away from the door, bare feet inside of still soggy shoes squishing as he does. "Oh, Professor Xavier, I was meaning to ask your permission about something."
Rossi looks at Xavier, his eyebrows hitching, an expression of concentration wrinkling his brow. The Professor returns the glance with an unreadable one of his own before refocusing on Tim. "Of course," he says kindly, and folds his long-fingered hands on his lap, head tilting inquiringly. Light slips across his scalp like glass, cradling the contours of his skull. "I think I can spare you some time. Is anything amiss?"
The detective hunches his shoulders, tightens his jaw, and prowls back towards the house. "Oh," he remembers to say, stride hitching as he passes Tim. "Your dad. Right. Sure, Tim." And then he is gone, leaving only a trace of his shampoo and soap behind him.
Green eyes follow Rossi as he leaves, growing more concerned and curious when he's gone than when he was here. Tim's mouth opens first not to answer the Professor's question, but to pose one of his own, but he thinks better of it before he speaks. "No, no... northing's wrong. Are you familiar with the Skipping Stones youth honor's awards, sir?" Tim asks, referencing the multicultural magazine's yearly student writing competition. (re)
Eyebrows lift in quizzical interest. Behind Tim, the patio door slams shut with a vehemence that brings a stiffness of disapproval to the old man's face. "I admit it is not one that has crossed my path," the Professor admits, his mouth curving back towards a smile. "I take it something has brought it to your attention?"
The sudden slam of the door catches Tim completely off guard. Arms go up to his head protectively, eyes closing, heart racing, and a brief instance of genuine panic and fear is his instinctive reaction, but it only last a moment before he turns head around and processes what actually caused the loud crash. "Is everything okay with Detective Rossi?" Tim asks before his good sense can stop him from doing so.
Telepathy catches the rush of panic, nets it in passing, and slides gracefully across the surface of Tim's thoughts -- those rattling, clattering emotions that fairly scream to an empath -- in an automatic check before retreating. "Ah," says Professor Xavier, apology for the departed man mingling with mild-voiced annoyance. "Detective Rossi is a tad restless, I'm afraid. He is unable to return to work for the moment, and so needs some other outlet for his energy. Not an issue that need concern you," he adds gently. Smile lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "I'm afraid he is rather loud."
Tim accepts the explanation after a moment of processing it and nodding to the Professor. "Sorry sir," Tim lets out with a timid tone as opens his journal to its back cover and removes several typed pages and a form. "We carry it in the library, but I'm afraid I don't have a copy with me, sir. My old school writing club used to enter it each year, and I was wanting to enter this essay. The submissions have to be works that promote global or cultural tolerance. I can't submit it without this permission form, and since the winners get published, I thought you might want to make sure it was okay before I entered it."
Eyebrows lift, though in pleased interest, and the Professor extends a hand for the papers with a smile coasting across his amused, "As a representative of the school, do you mean? I appreciate the thought, Mr. Hall. I would be honored to read your submission, but as an individual, I do try not to censor my students. The right to the pursuit of happiness is somewhat lacking for mutants in this world," he says wryly. "It seems somewhat gratuitous to restrict freedom of expression as well."
Continuing to nod with the rhythm of Xavier's accent, Tim is touched with a bit of guilt that shows on his face and reddened cheeks. He shifts his weight in place offering "I'm sorry sir, I just didn't want to assume." He places the papers in the Professor's hand, permission form on the outside and essay on the inside. The papers are worn, edges bent and folded, and the main essay itself is still touched with a couple of correction. The essay itself is title '26 Hours' and discusses the point that mutation at youth isn't a black and white issue. Even when your trying to do right, there are difficulties and issues you just can't ignore in favor of rhetoric political correctness. But it is laced with youthful idealist hope.
"There is no need to apologize," the Professor says absent-mindedly, turning the pages of the essay to skim quickly through the contents. "It was not an unreasonable possibility; many private schools adopt such policies. I do not believe we have published ours in an easily accessible format, something that I should take steps to correct. --Mm." Paper rustles again. He lapses into silence for a few moments, his brow furrowing once, his lips pursing twice -- then looks up at Tim, eyes twinkling. "A noteworthy submission."
As the paper is read, Tim is left in an agonizing state of nerve and uncertainty common to authors when their wok is being judged. He may as well have been waiting for NY Times to review his novel. His youthful eyes focus on the Xavier's expression against his better wishes. When the Professor goes silent, Tim holds his breath to match. The comment gives him a large sigh of relief and he makes a marked effort not to smile too broadly. "Thank you, sir." Is his reply in a more energetic tone than he could manage earlier.
The smile webs out from the hazel eyes, creasing deep and familiar pathways through the thin, aged skin. "It is certainly written with care and spirit," the Professor congratulates, reaching into an inner pocket of his suit coat to produce a thick pen and a pair of thin gold spectacles. The latter, he dons; the former he uncaps to reveal an old-fashioned nib. "An interesting prize," he adds, skimming the permission form. "And an interesting topic. Was it one that was suggested by the competition? Or were you inspired by your own experiences?"
"My own." The boy admits in a low tone, the initial excitement successfully represses. "Several of my old teachers at BSGE tried really hard to make things work out with me when I was going through all that. It was hard, and they kept running into brick walls and even more problems. It wasn't as simple as saying 'Ok, one of our students is X-Factor Positive, hurry along to class'" As he explains, Tim's gaze drifts from the Professor and towards the general direction of where the school's gates should be. When he continues, his voice is more reserved and laced with a tad bit of shame. "I was so wrapped up with what was going on with me that I didn't notice at the time all they were going through for me."
"Hindsight, as adults are so fond of saying, is 20/20." The Professor regards Tim for an owlish moment over the tops of his spectacles, the wry humor lively in the deep-set eyes. Then he turns his attention downward: to the scribble of pen on paper, the elegant, slightly crabbed script of an older generation. "There. I believe that should grant you the permission you require. In loco, as it were -- I have found, young Tim, that teachers are always grateful to know that their efforts were noticed and appreciated. No matter how belatedly."
"Thank you again, sir." Tim says extending his hand to accept the permission form and essay. "I just wish there was a way to have hindsite before you would do something you regret."
Professor Xavier removes his spectacles, placing them in his lap, and passes across the form and essay with a rustle of paper and another small twinkle. "If you were able to accomplish that, my son, you could -- as they say -- rule the world. Good luck with your essay. I will hope for the best."
[log ends]
Tim runs into Det. Rossi again and asks Professor Xavier for permission to submit an essay to a writing contest.