ArchivedLogs:Interesting Paths

Interesting Paths
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Martin
In Absentia	2013-12-13 '
Location <XS> Library
Xavier's librarian might hope the library is a quiet place to sit and study, but with a school full of teenagers that is not always the case. Nevertheless, it is certainly a treasure trove of knowledge, well-stocked with a wealth of books on its high shelves. Its reference section is vast, though its fiction is as well (much to the delight of many of its students.) The wide octagonal tables and smaller armchairs are often crowded with students, though the whispered conversations that often take place leave some doubt as to how much work is getting done at any given hour. The library, one hopes, isn't just for the students. Deep in the reference section there is a Martin, during his off period for the day. He considers the spines of the books before him with shrewd and squinted eyes, head tipped just enough to the side so that he can read titles. Dressed in jeans and a decent cotton button-down shirt that passes as more than casual while still being comfortable, he also wears a pair of thin, black leather gloves. Occasionally, he slips a book carefully out of its tuck amongst its fellows and opens it up to peruse the table of contents. Looking for something in particular, maybe. With only morning classes on his schedule to teach, /all/ of Jax's afternoon tends to be off-period, dedicated to grading or training with the X-Men or prepping for the next day's classes or ducking out of school to go tend to the rest of life. At the moment he looks like he might be on his way to the latter. He's got a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a silvery jacket draped over the bag, a red-and-black striped scarf unwrapped but draped around his shoulders like he's /preparing/ to head back into the winter cold. Past these his attire is as vividly bright as it ever is -- silver fishnet tights layered over black ones, a short black denim skirt with straps hanging off of silver D-rings, a red t-shirt reading 'All my heroes have FBI files' worn over a long-sleeved shirt with bell sleeves. Chunky red-and-grey-and-black velcro sneakers. Glittery silver and black makeup. Brightly chrome nails. His hair doesn't match, peacocky shades of purple-green-blue, and despite being indoors he's wearing large mirror-lensed sunglasses. He has a couple books in his hands, volumes of art history, and he's dragging his teeth against his lower lip, wiggling at his lip rings until he finds the right spot to put them back. "-- Y'lookin' for somethin', sir?" His voice marks him clearly Not A Native, molasses-thick drawl of the /deep/ Deep South. They are certainly an interesting study in contrasts, considering Martin's color choice of shirt today runs toward a duller, faded green. Though the corner of his mouth twitches upward at the question, he does not yet look up from the pages of the book he's selected. If Jackson sneaks a peek at it, he'll find the text in Latin. "Mr. Holland, unless you had a stint in the military that I don't know about, you don't really need to call me 'sir,'" he says. With the final word, he does finally look up, eyes an icy blue. "I wanted to see if we had anything on hand for Clement of Alexandria. How's your afternoon?" "S'just Jax," Jackson corrects his name reflexively, his easy smile hooking a little lopsidedly upwards. "You talkin' information /about/ him or his trilogy?" Once his books are all back on the shelf he drops his hand to rest on his bag, his other twisting restless and fidgety at one of the hanging straps on his skirt. "An' I'm fair sure the military wouldn't touch /my/ like with a ten-foot pole. My afternoon's --" His head shakes quickly, smile widening. "S'Friday, ain't those always good?" The momentary look Martin fixes him with is a mildly amused one, since they've both now corrected each other on what to call one another. His brows twitch up afterwards with a touch of surprise. "Both, actually. Have you read the trilogy?" Ancient Christian theologians, not usually particularly widely read these days. He closes the book in his hand, a soft thwap sounding, and replaces it on the shelf as he says, "Yeah. Military won't touch me now, either." There's an acerbic bite to the words. "They usually are. Guess if you're superstitious, this one isn't the best, but I'm not complaining." Jackson shakes his head with a slight blush, scruffing his fingers through his hair. "Nosi -- no. Have read a fair few theologians but -- ain't read 'em. Only know enough t'know who he is an' --" He gestures to his side with one hand. "-- we got the trilogy one aisle over. Translated, anyway." He rocks backwards onto his heels, then up onto the toes of his platform sneakers. "Probl'y should be more accurate, the military'd /totally/ love to get their hands on me. Just not in /no/ pleasant sorts of ways." His head tips slightly to one side, smile returning. "Ain't never been much for superstition. How /is/ yours going?" "Well. If you enjoy reading theologians, you could give him a try. Some interesting ideas-" Martin says, and pauses to consider Jackson a moment. "-that include some you'd probably disagree with. Some consider parts of his works heretical." He rubs a gloved thumb over his nose, and looks at the books in front of them again. "Hm. Maybe some part of the military. Not most of it." He narrows his eyes to better read one title that's in particularly small type with gold ink. "It's been fair, so far. Although one of my students didn't make it to class today." A pointed glance goes Jackson's way with that. The smile vanishes from Jackson's face, a sharp exhaled breath flaring his nostrils, not quite a sigh or a laugh either. "Mmn. I'm fair sure you got that the wrong way round," he murmurs, weight shifting backwards again. "An' I'm /real/ sure," this is wry, amused once more, his smile returning, "that huge swaths of Christianity wouldn't hold no truck with me /either/." Martin's pointed glance is reflected back to him in the lenses of Jackson's wide sunglasses, his fingers curling tight around the strap of his messenger bag. "Shane didn't make it to none of his classes today," he admits with a wrinkle of his nose. "An' his semester had been goin' so well, for a whole entire week." "Christians who judge aren't true Christians," Martin says, mellow and matter-of-fact, as he continues to peruse the book spines. "Judgement is in the hands of God." He pulls another book down with a kind of mild curiosity. It has nothing to do with Clement of Alexandria, but it has captured his interest for a moment or two nonetheless. "Is he sick? We didn't have homework today, since it is Friday, so you can let him know not to worry about that." This actually makes Jackson laugh, quick and warm. "And so you're the judge of who's true Christians?" There's amusement in his tone, as well. "What's that make you, then?" His fingers scrub through his colourful hair again, his head briefly shaking. "He ain't sick. Don't think he'd be overly fussed if there was homework. You don't give homework on Fridays?" He notes this as a passing curiosity, a thoughtful hum escaping him afterwards. "M'sor --" His words cut off; instead he lifts his fist to his heart to make the sign for 'sorry' instead. "Shane an' schoolwork don't -- always get along so good." This admission sounds more tired than anything else. Martin's expression turns almost merry, for a man with rough features and an icy gaze, as he confides to Jackson, with humor, "A failed Jesuit." He replaces the latest book, sliding it snugly into place, and gives a shake of his head. "Don't give homework on Fridays. Never liked it myself, and I think kids need room to still be kids whenever they can get it." He rubs at his nose again, as if he has an itch that's hard to find. "Can't say I haven't noticed that about him." He looks away, back to the books. "He's only hurting himself with that, you know." Jackson gives another chuckle at this, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. "Mmm. I do kinda love the Jesuits." His cheeks puff out, deflating again as he expels a sharp breath. "S'the problem, though. For kids like him it's hard to make a compelling argument that he /is/. Until the world we live in is a /whole/ heck of a lot different, tellin' my boys high school is gonna help them get nowhere in the world rings /pretty/ hollow. Because it is pretty hollow. I mean, /I/ hope an' pray and /work hard/ at /makin'/ it a different world. But we're miles away from there yet. An' if you go tell Shane that when he applies to college or jobs or walks out these doors after graduation, the world's gonna look at his GPA an' not at his claws an' teeth, he'll call you a liar to your face. Cuz it will be a lie. One day, maybe, t'won't be." When he makes an attempt at scratching at his stubbled jaw, Martin's expression goes momentarily cross, and then he works off one of his black leather gloves. Fingernails are much better for itching. His hand, revealed, has scars layered on scars atop scars. They cover both palm side and knuckle side. Perhaps he ran into an angry badger wielding a weedwhacker. On multiple occasions. He looks thoughtful while he scratches, taking his time to absorb fully what Jackson has said. "We can't wait for the world to change for us; we have to help make it change. The better educated we are, the easier that will be. Don't you think?" Jackson shrugs a shoulder, one side of his mouth crooking upwards. "You're really askin' /me/ if I think we can't wait for the world to change for us." If he looks at Martin's hand or notices the scars it's hard to tell, sunglasses obscuring his gaze and much of his expression. "I'm in /art school/, I don't think I'm really exactly a beacon of academia. But no, I don't think. Well, /yes/, but not /necessarily/ the way you're talkin'. I think formal, academic education's great for if you care to go that route, and there's plenty good to be done if you do, an' plenty of doors education might open. But I think there's /plenty/ of education to be done /outside/ of school and /plenty/ of world-changin' to be done by the folks that haven't gone the academic route." He shrugs a shoulder, fingers drumming against the outside flapof his bag. "An' I think Shane's brilliant. And would do great if he applied himself to school. I also know that as of yet there ain't a single top-tier college on the /planet/ that accepts blue shark kids, an' the vast majority of the middle-of-the-road ones don't, neither. Most businesses wouldn't let him in as a /customer/ let alone an employee. An' I'm gonna fight till I die to make that otherwise. But I ain't gonna lie to him about his options, neither. If he decides that's the way he wants to go, I'll support him to the end an' fight as far as I need to to try an' /let/ him have the opportunities he should have, like I'm sure I'm gonna hafta do when it comes time for Bastian to apply to college. But if he looks at the real world an' decides his path lies outside'a school, I'll work s'hard as I can to see to it he's got a chance for a decent life there, too." Itch thoroughly satisfied, Martin works his glove back on, fingers flexing to make the fit snug. The leather is thin and worn enough by now that it doesn't creak like a new glove might. "I didn't know that applying yourself in high school classes means you're automatically set on the academic path of life," he says, a trace of humor to his voice. "I didn't exactly finish college, myself. It isn't for everyone. But I can't really imagine that what he can learn here and now, where he is accepted and allowed and encouraged, would hurt him." He pauses a moment, breathing, thinking. "But that is his choice, of course." "I didn't say it would /hurt/ him. Or that it would make him set for life. Just that, world as it is, it ain't all /that/ likely to bring him much /benefit/ either, an' he knows it. I mean, /learning/ is its own benefit. But there's plenty'a ways to do that outside a classroom." Jackson's smile twitches a little wryly. "And he aint' been having a whole /lot/ of luck on the 'accepted and encouraged' front around here either. Though I am hoping to rectify /that/ soon enough." His head tips back, mirrored gaze fixing on the ceiling. "S'his choice," he agrees, with a not-insignificant trace of regret in his tone. "Problem is, there's some times when /none/ of your available choices is all that great." "So long as he's learning," he says. And Martin sounds sincere in this idea. Class attendance seems much less important to him as that. A slight frown draws the corners of his mouth downwards with the mention of here. "Have other students been giving him trouble? Or are we failing him in some way? This place should be a safe haven for him." With a thoughtful 'hmm,' his gaze turns once again to the book spines. "No, sometimes our available choices aren't very good. Sometimes, though, a choice might not look that great to begin with, but turns out better later on." Jackson's jaw tightens at the first question, his fingers clenching hard around the strap of his bag at the mention of other students. He draws in a breath, though, relaxing as he lets it back out. "Not just him. There's been some issues with -- unevenness in the way the administration treats physical mutants as opposed to the other students. My husband and I are gonna be askin' for a meeting to discuss it first thing next week. Because yeah. If /we're/ failin' these kids, I don't know how we expect them to hope for better out there." A small smile tugs at his lips after this. "Sometimes," he agrees, more lightly. "An', you know, I keep talkin' to him -- I /want/ him to keep his options open. I just." The smile curls a little wider. "-- Just gonna have to keep diggin' away at the world till we've /opened/ more options." His head tips back down, mirrored gaze regarding Martin. "So a Jesuit an' then a soldier? Guess that ain't so odd. Jus' the other way 'round from how St. Ignatius done it. What prompted the switch?" "Mmm. Ms. Shafir mentioned something about that the other day," Martin says, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "If that meeting doesn't include the staff at large, would you mind letting me know how it goes? It's a concerning idea. Uneven treatment." He sniffs and rubs at his nose with a gloved thumb again, nodding with what Jackson says about digging. Yes, dig away. "Or Saint Martin of Tours," he adds, the wry humor in being the opposite of what could very well be his namesake not lost on him. He looks ahead, although he doesn't really see the books, as he explains, "In between my classes, I would watch the news. People killing people. Ethnic cleansing, in Kosovo. It didn't really feel right to be called God's soldiers while sitting idly by, doing nothing but praying." He glances back to the other man with something of a smirk. "I 'wanted to make a difference.'" "Jus' hopin' to meet with the heads of school to start. An' I'll let you know, for sure. Though if the meeting goes anything like I hope there'll /be/ faculty-wide follow ups after." Jackson's teeth wiggle again at his lip ring, head tipping slightly to one side as he listens to Martin; the motion causes a spill of brightly-coloured shaggy hair to fall over one lens of his glasses, though he doesn't bother to push it away. "Heh. Don't think I'd hardly say the Jesuits do nothin' but pray, when it comes t'education /an'/ social justice they're anything but idle. Jus' don't use bullets t'make their dent in the world. But wantin' to /make/ that dent's hardly a goal I can fault. S'that what brung y'here, then?" "No, no they don't," Martin is quick to agree, humbled and apologetic about it. "I misspoke. That's all that /I/ was doing at the time." He may not have made the cut, so to speak, but he still very much holds the Society in high regard. "I was a better fit for the military, anyway. My mutation, it, um... made quite a few people feel that the priesthood was a logical choice for me. But I'm not strong enough, morally, for that." Well. At least he readily admits to his faults? "Yes. That is what brought me here. What about you? What brought you here?" "Your mutation?" Jackson's curiosity is reflexive, here, though he doesn't pry further than this. "Mmm -- I ain't sure bein' unsuited for the priesthood's --" His teeth scrape against his lip. "Apologies, I ain't meanin' to second-guess your own experience. You'd know your life better'n I do. But -- s'like with education, y'know? There's a lot of /different/ paths to leadin' a good life. Some may be better an' some may be worse but a whole lot of 'em's all /good/, jus' -- different. World needs priests but it needs the laity too." His nose crinkles up, a faint blush dusting his cheeks again. "Oh, my path here was pretty straightforward. 'least the first part, anyhow. I half growed up here. School found me in middle school, brung me up here. Don't think I'd'a been able to finish high school myself, back home. Joined the X-Men pretty well as soon as I graduated. Didn't join on as a teacher till after /my/ kids enrolled, though. Which was kinda funny -- even now there's a /fair/ few students left who I /was/ a student alongside. An' most'a the other teachers taught me some time or other. Much harder," he admits with a deeper blush but a wider smile, "to break the habit'a callin' /them/ sir an' ma'am." "I can heal people," he says, with a wan smile. "I absorb what ails someone and make it my own. Do that for the first time on an Easter Sunday when the priest has collapsed at the altar from a heart attack, and... well. People get ideas about what you should or shouldn't do with your life." By the end of that, the wan smile has turned to more of a smirk. He is what he is. And Martin gives a shake of his head at the apology, gloved hand held up. "It's all right. Life takes us on some interesting paths." He listens to Jackson's quick backstory, thoughtful, nodding with some of it. "Must be strange, sometimes, to think of yourself as teacher instead of student within these same walls, huh?" "Oh, oh gosh. Yeah, I can /see/ how that would --" Jackson's expression is caught between a wince and a smile; he rubs again at the back of his neck. "Would lead t'some pressure in those directions. /Rough/ method'a healing, though. But very --" He gestures upwards, forefinger describing a circle in a halo around Martin's head -- only where his finger sketches, an /actual/ halo appears, a shimmering golden glow hovering over the other teacher's hair. It fades away soon after. "Christlike. An' gosh, do it ever. Five years ago, two years ago, /a/ year ago even, I don't think I'd've painted a picture of my life today /anything/ like it's turned out. But life is how it is. Sure ain't never /boring/, 'least." His hand drops back to rest on his bag, and his sneaker scuffs briefly against the floor. "Think I still forget, sometimes. Kids get all /Mister/ an' /sir/ at me an' I'm lookin' around for who else they mean. An' my first term at least, there was /more'n/ once that I got shoo'd outta the Teacher's Lounge." He retells this with a chuckle. "-- You likin' teaching here?" Martin tips his head and cocks a heavy brown so he can look up at the halo. Faint amusement shows on his features about it, at the corners of his mouth, the crinkle around his eyes. He shakes his head after that, though, and says, "No more than the next person." He seems a little uncomfortable with the comparison. But then he chuckles about Jackson's recount of being shooed out of the lounge. "Been an interesting experience so far. Mmm. It seems I came on board for some dark times, considering. But, for the most part, it seems like people have endured." "Been dark times for a bit now," Jackson allows. "S'aright, though. If there's one thing this place taught me --" His hands spread wide, and overhead the lights shine /brighter/ for a moment. "S'how to find our own light. Pretty well glad to have as many people workin' together to /find/ it as possible, though." He rocks once more back on his heels, and then wrinkles his nose again, winding his scarf around his neck to drape over his shoulder. "I should run an' catch my train back into Manhattan. See you Monday." His smile flashes, bright and lopsided. "Hopefully with Shane in tow." "Of course. I'm sorry to have kept you," Martin says, nodding his head the once. "And yes, hopefully." That bit comes with a bit of a smile, just the one corner of his mouth turned up. "Have a safe trip back." Once Jackson goes, he turns back to the books. At least for a little while, until he needs to leave for his next class.