Logs:Non-Deductible

Non-Deductible
Dramatis Personae Amo, Scott
In Absentia Charles	2024-08-12 “Aye, synergy.”
Location <XAV> Gardens - Xs Grounds
From indoor gardens to outdoor, though without the protective greenhouse glass the back gardens do not last all year round. Still, the gardens out here are well-tended and well-worth spending time in, as well. The paths wending through the beds of flowers and herbs and vegetables spread out through the school's back grounds, tended by students as a credit class. Benches offer seating and a small pond is home to koi and turtles, as well as a few frogs. At the far back edges of the garden, a droning buzzing marks a few stacked white boxes as beehives. The day is just beginning to get glaringly bright as it tilts into afternoon, even with scattered cloud cover tempering the summer heat. This vegetable patch -- unshaded by any of the nearby trees, but sitting directly in the sun -- seems to be benefiting from this pleasant weather just as much as its gardener, taking a break beneath a plum tree, doesn't -- beside Scott, on the other side of a heavy canvas tool bag, is a basket piled neatly with his harvest for today -- parsnips, bush beans, zucchini, kale. (Is he going to eat any of this? Not the point.) Though his gloves are draped over top of his bag, Scott is still wearing knee pads over his jeans. He brought a hat, in concession to the weather, but this too is just sitting on the bag beside him, and probably his black t-shirt (Xavier's School logo notwithstanding) isn't keeping him cool either; no wonder he's currently chugging a half-frozen bottle of water with an audible crinkle of the plastic, rattling the diminished log of ice floating inside. (There's another frozen bottle in his bag, dewy with condensation.) Once he is out of unfrozen water he lowers the bottle, leveraging it with a look of -- well, behind his opaque red glasses it's usually hard to gauge his expressions. Maybe he just thinks that staring more intensely will make it melt faster. Amo has found herself in the gardens, crouched low to observe the different plants and herbs. She wears a floppy grey fishing hat, strings hanging free, and a salmon colored tank top tucked into her shorts. She’s standing up again, wiping her hands on her shorts, when she spots Scott, and more importantly the shade under the plum tree. She wanders over, hands shoved In her pockets, “If you shove that water bottle down your shirt it’ll keep you cool and melt the ice faster.” She says as way of greeting when she gets close enough. Her voice carries a bit of an accent, and she stops to lean against the tree, “Only issue is the bottle gets all sweaty. But you can’t really tell cause it mixes all with the condensation, Y’know?” She tilts her head to look at Scott’s harvest, and her eyebrows tick up, “Aye nice haul.” Scott quirks one eyebrow at the water bottle, as though he's considering this (he is not.) "Thanks," he says anyway, putting the bottle into the bag with the other one, then -- on second thought -- hoisting the bag (he has to hastily use his other hand to grab his hat and gloves with it) and setting it down at his feet to make some room on the bench. A moment later he slides his basket closer to himself, too, glancing down at it with -- again, it's hard to tell. "Thanks," he says, again, dropping one hand to brush a bug off the leafy greens. "You're... Ah-mo? Ay-mo?" He shakes his head, apologetically, and appends, "Chemistry." “Chur bro.” She takes a seat on the now open bench, “S’all good. Ah-mo. Like, te amo in Spanish.” She spreads out on the bench, bringing one leg up to rest on the wood, “Yeah chemistry, few of the other science ones too.” She points at Scott and squints an eye, “Scott, yeah? Sorry forgot what you teach. Unless you’re just part of the secret vigilante team too.” She tilts her head down slightly and ticks an eyebrow up at him. "Amo," repeats Scott; his tone is not exactly warm, but it's friendly enough. As Amo has a seat, Scott nudges the basket even closer to himself, then rests his hands awkwardly on his knees, one hand rubbing at the frayed stitching on his kneepad. "Scott," he confirms, then -- at a slight delay -- "Not how I would have put it, who told you that? Oh --" this is, again, slightly apologetic, as he points one thumb at himself: "Shop." Amo nods, “Shop. So you’re a real handy guy then. That’s cars n’ stuff right?” She tilts her head and her mouth skews to the side. “How would you phrase it then?” She asks, curiously, ignoring his question about who had told her. Scott shrugs -- "I get by," might have come across more modestly if this weren't easily the most confident thing he's said yet. "Mostly cars. Engines. Metal fab." One side of his mouth tugs almost into a half-smile, but doesn't quite make it. "Volunteer work," he says. Amo scans his face at this, then shifts, allowing her leg to come down to cross relaxed over her other leg. “That’s sweet. Real useful too.” Her lips press together in a sort of amusement, and she nods, “Volunteer work.” She echoes, “I like that one. You get a tax write off for it?” Is she joking? It’s hard to tell. She shifts a bit so she can face Scott more easily, “What made you get into that kinda volunteer work then, if you don’t mind me asking.” "Secret volunteer work," Scott corrects, also with a slim, amused press of his lips (still not quite a smile.) His fingers tap at his kneepad. "There's not a playbook for becoming a mutant," he says; his words, now, come out careful and considered, in a plodding pace. "A lot of these kids --" his head tilts indicatively toward the mansion, though he doesn't turn to look at it, "-- they manifest in a dangerous situation. Mutants in general, actually. Whether that's because their mutation is dangerous to themselves, dangerous to others, those others become dangerous in return -- however it happens, at the center of it is someone who needs help. A lot of the time, it's a kid. Most places, most people, they're just not equipped for that. Sometimes they aren't even willing to try. We are." Amo’s expression doesn’t change much as she listens, but once Scott finishes she lets out a long breath in an impressed sort of way, “Shit.” She rubs at her neck, which comes to rest on the side of it in a forgotten motion, elbow resting on the back of the bench, “Thanks. For sharing. Cool there’s people like you running around doing this stuff without people even knowing.” She snaps a finger, “If this ever goes public by the way, they should just record you saying exactly what you just said. Serious, would be great advertising. Sucks about the tax write offs though.” She shifts her gaze back to Scott, “How long you been doing it for?” Scott's hand has finally gone still on his knee; the red gaze of his visor slides just enough to no longer be looking at Amo. For a long moment he is caught in the grimace of having something to say that he hasn't put into words yet, before he lets out a hasty breath and says wryly, "No need, the Professor does a lot of official, tax-deductible charity too." He taps his fingers one at a time on his knee. "Twenty, thirty years. Since we first started it." Amo’s eyes squint briefly. She takes a quick breath and makes an aborted sound, like she was going to say something but couldn’t find the words. She nods instead, “Well, that’s. Good.” She says, unsure. She looks over, clearly surprised though, when he says how long he’s been doing it. She shakes her head, “Whoosh. You been at this a long ass time. I respect it.” She raises a hand for a fist bump. There's a definite sense that Scott blinks, behind his glasses, before he lifts his hand to return the fist bump. She nods in a way that moves her shoulders too, in a satisfied approval, and makes an explosion with her hand. “Aye, synergy.”