Logs:Of Faucets and Faculty (Or, Stretched Too Thin)

Of Faucets and Faculty (Or, Stretched Too Thin)
Dramatis Personae Kavalam, Scott
In Absentia Harm, Nanami, Jax	2023-08-03 "We are thinking about… our options."
Location <XAV> Kitchen - Xs First Floor
The kitchen staff at Xavier's tends well to the needs of its residents. Always cognizant of its students and faculty's dietary needs alike, the menu has a wide variety of choices, and the longtime cook works wonders in the kitchen. The pantry, too, is kept well stocked for those who want to come prepare themselves their own snacks. The shelf, fridge, and freezer space is ample, though if anyone wants to keep their own food there, they'd better make sure it's labeled clearly, and even that is no guarantee it'll last. Is there anything in here labelled "Scott"? Probably, even after decades, the number of things that have ever been labelled "Scott" could be counted on one hand; mostly he subsists on the staples that are always available. Right now, though, he is staring in a kind of stupor into the open refrigerator, his fingers on the open door tapping. His slightly harried, slightly unshaven appearance is surely not helped by the absence of his usual red lenses, though his face is sort of disappointingly normal, and so is his shop-teacher-chic workwear. Either his mind is completely empty, or he is in very deep thought, with no in-between, until finally he picks up a takeout container labelled clearly with "Jean", and shuts the fridge door. Was Kavalam here before Scott started dissociating in front of the fridge? Probably, actually, but it's only after closing the door that Scott is able to notice him, spliced neatly into awareness where he's perched on a stool at a counter. He's just about as unremarkable now that he is observable as he was before -- jeans, grey button-down, sandals, arm curled protectively around the Tupperware he's eating out of (also clearly labelled, only this one says PROPERTY OF DR. HANK MCCOY.) Likely he has been staring at Scott for some time, eyes wide behind his glasses, and he does not stop once he is visible. "You should update the school brochure," he suggests. "I think adding a note for how many of teachers here are terrorists would stand out quite a lot, no? Next to class sizes, I think." "Jesus --" Scott's first reaction to seeing Kavalam is definitely mild embarrassment -- he presses his hand on the fridge door as if to demonstrate that he is no longer letting out the cold air -- but it turns to amused curiosity as his gaze drops to Dr. Hank McCoy's Property, and only after that to confusion. "The brochure," he repeats, but apparently this does not clarify much for him -- he shakes his head. "The charges have been dropped for -- this last excursion," he says. "It wouldn't be --" he can't seem to bring himself to say that this terrorist statistic isn't that bad. He pivots, brings the takeout container to the kitchen island and pops the flaps open. "I don't think we need extra marketing for recruitment right now," he says. Kavalam's eyes grow just a little wider as Scott speaks, and he leans a little forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Do you know how many teenagers were in there. Will they all fit. I am not sharing my room more. Harm's yarn takes up fully nine-tenths of it." A crease forms between Scott's eyebrows; he stares bleakly at Jean's wilty leftover salad for a moment before sliding a drawer open at his right to extract a fork. "The number of kids left behind," he says, "when the press had left…" he lifts his head slightly to look at Kavalam, still with a quizzical frown. "Harm has their own room," he says, then, "I might ask… I mean, we might be picking up a few new trans kids, maybe they would feel more comfortable…" he shakes his head, probably deciding that he shouldn't be discussing a delicate subject like Harm's roommate situation with Kavalam. His gaze skips off of Kavalam's face to the wall behind him. "We are," he says, slowly, "thinking about… our options." "You cannot simply just put all the trans in Harm's room." Kavalam's expression has shifted into a very stern frown. "They already have so much of the gender. That much trans in one place would break some physics. Soon all the boys would get one gender of their own and who would be left in your class?" His eyes lower, his arm curling a little bit further around his food. "The grounds are very-very big and the Professor has money, no? Could build one whole new dorm. Or more. Separate people by the powers types. Manufacture some rivalries." "Girls can take auto shop too, if they want," says Scott, with his own stern frown. He picks at his unappetizing salad for a moment before finally taking a bite. "It's more complicated than that," he says, "there's -- I mean, we barely have enough staff now. We would really need to… I mean, some of these kids are really troubled, they need things we can't provide right now, much as I would like to…" this thought trails off, and he sets his fork down to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "I think," he says after a moment, "we would use the less conventional method of separating dorms by grade level, but -- we haven't made any decisions, yet." "Nanami seems like an Auto Shop girl," Kavalam concedes. "Have you met my classmates? They are very troubled. Already. It is fine I think. Everybody survived Planet Genocide, they can survive the lite- version too, no?" His head gives a small side-to-side wobble. "What do you provide for that? Besides," this is kind of offhand, as he gestures with his fork in Scott's direction, "You are all very troubled. Have all been in the jail or showing your eyes everywhere or getting shot up. By now I think you are maybe troubled experts." Scott drops his hand back to the counter, curling it beside the fork -- he tilts his head to one side. "This is a troubled school," he agrees. "But…" his index finger taps idly on the counter as he chooses his words, until he comes up with, "We're not troubled experts. Did you come with us to Ohio? It's hard to explain just how many people were there. Xavier's is already…" his lips press thinly together. "We stretch our staff too thin already." Kavalam goes, for a second, very still, his eyes fixing on the counter. "I did not," he finally answers, "come with you to Ohio." His fingers have clenched around his fork, tight, but there's a lightness to his next suggestion: "Hire more staffs. I know there are quite a large number of mutants who are probably very-recently in need of a job. Probably Mr. Jackson could connect you." "It's not as easy as that," says Scott -- he at least sounds kind of apologetic, though his hands moving to grip the edge of the counter bely his sudden tension. "We're a school, not… we can't just take in everybody who needs help. The money isn't the problem here." When he shrugs, though, it is with an air of subject-closed finality; he picks up his fork. "I'm sure Mr. Jackson will be very helpful once we start deciding on what changes to make," he says. "It's good to have him back." "Hmm." Perhaps Kavalam is looking unconvinced or maybe his expression just naturally lends itself to skepticism. He is finishing off the last of Hank's food, slipping off the counter to take the Tupperware to the sink. "Oh, yes, it would be good." He is giving the Tupperware more scrubbing than its thin spattering of sauce probably needs. "Have you seen him? I have not." Scott, halfway through a bite of salad, blinks. Frowns. Swallows. "We're all busy right now. Lot going on. It's summer vacation." None of these are questions, but Scott sounds quizzical now -- he watches Kavalam scour Hank's Tupperware with sudden, renewed confusion. "I never see you around," he offers after a moment. "Doesn't mean you're never here." "Maybe I am never here." Kavalam rinses the Tupperware and sets it aside to dry. He squeezes the sponge tightly into a fist, frowning at the suds that bubble up and wash away. "And maybe Mr. Jackson is just doing a relaxing summer vacation. Who can say." When he slips away -- back out of mind or back out of the room, it's all the same -- the sink stays running in his wake. How long has that sink been on? How long has Scott been in here, even? For a moment he just stares blankly across the kitchen, before -- suddenly -- it seems to register that the faucet is running. "Jesus sake," says Scott -- he hurries to turn it off. "Damn kids."