ArchivedLogs:Doing Alright

Doing Alright
Dramatis Personae Martin, Shane
In Absentia	2014-01-01 '
Location <XS> Kitchen
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. It is a new year. Martin, who once again volunteered to keep watch over the campus and the very few handful of students that might be around, celebrated in a very quiet way, by watching the Pope's mass. With a single drink of some choice Irish whiskey. Anyway, with the festivities over, he spends the first full night of the year in likewise quiet, content to monitor the hallways and the grounds while other staff members are either out or recovering, still, from hangovers. He winds up in the kitchen for a late night snack after checking on a few of the common rooms, and rummages through the fridge for something edible that either isn't some sickly sweet or else growing green fuzz leftover from Christmas. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a dull blue flannel shirt thrown on over a henley, the only really interesting thing of note about his attire is, of course, the pair of thin, black leather gloves he's always wearing. Shane looks when he enters like he might perhaps still be recovering from New Year festivities himself. A little haggard, skin a paler blue than usual, dark shadows beneath his eyes, a decidedly exhausted slouch to his posture. Of course, anyone who follows news might just as easily peg this to his father recently being assused of the largest mass slaughter in US history and arrested for what could be a capital crime. The sharktwins habe both been absent throughout break but now he is here -- dressed blandly in jeans and a black t-shirt adnd Xavier's hoodie, he's not dressed in either his typically over-fancy vests-and-bowties style or his twin's highly feminine inclination towards skirts and flamboyant colours. Not a lot to immediately pinpoint /which/ twin this may be. His hands are in his pockets, a backpack on his back and his overlarge solid-black eyes roving the kitchen restlessly. "... hi." His tone is rather dull; he seems to notice Martin only as an afterthought. "Have you seen Taylor?" Martin doesn't immediately straighten on hearing footsteps, but rather continues with his rummaging if the occasional crinkle and clink are any indication. When he finally does come out of the fridge, he does so with a fuji apple in one hand, with the other set on the top of the fridge door. He levels his icy blue gaze on Shane in thoughtful consideration for a moment. "Hello, Mr. Holland," he says. His penchant for referring to almost everyone by their last name gets him out of the risk of using the wrong name, handy. "Taylor?" he asks after, brows lifting up with the question. Shutting the fridge, he moves over to the sink, a glove stripped off so that he can both peel the pesky sticky off and wash his fruit of choice. "That's not my name," Shane corrects kind of offhand-reflexive, easing his weight back onto a heel. He plucks restlessly at the end of a sleeve; it's fraying badly, implying frequent such treatment from his sharp-clawed hands. "Taylor," he repeats this name slower, more enunciated as though talking to someone perhaps hard of hearing. "All the tentacles, he's a little hard to miss." The brows stay up, even as Martin sniffs and rubs a dry thumb against the side of his nose. He fights with the sticker, then runs lukewarm water over the apple to rinse it off. "What would you prefer to be called, then?" Satisfied with the rinse, he turns the faucet off and shakes a few droplets from the fruit before slipping his glove back on. And then crunching a bite. Chewing, he gives a shake of his head. "Ah. No. I have not seen him." Shane's eyes skip away again, a restless fidget to his posture. "That name just freaks my Pa out," he mutters, half to himself. His fingers pick at his sweatshirt sleeve again. There's a rapid flutter to the gills that line the sides of his neck, his thin shoulders tense beneath the sweatshirt that hangs baggily on his slight frame. "Okay. S--" He cuts himself off to sign 'sorry' instead of speak it, and returns to picking at his sleeve. "If you see him, just --" He shakes his head quickly. "Nevermind. I'll email." Martin leans back against the counter behind him, hooking one foot in front of the other while he listens to the teenager, and also studies him. He takes another, loud bite of the apple and chews on it before saying anything, giving himself time with his thoughts. When he does speak, it is a bit of a non sequitur for the conversation at hand, but does fit in giving the overall appearance of Shane. "Are you doing all right?" he asks, a blunt question with slightly rounded edges. There is no indication of any underlying sympathy or otherwise; it just is. The hairless ridge of Shane's brows raises. His huge black eyes turn back to Martin to study the older man. "I'd have serious doubt about the sanity of someone who was doing all right in my position." His posture is pretty casual, one arm crossed over his chest so he can prop the other elbow on hand to hold up the apple. Martin tips his head in concession at Shane's point. "Fair," he says, taking another bite of the fuji. For his part, though his eyes are icy, they are not unkind. "Do you need anything? Help with something? A friendly sounding board?" "I need to get my pa out of jail before they kill him." Shane stops picking at his sweatshirt, sharp black claws lengthening and then retracting back to tiny points. "Haven't been real stocked on friendly, either. S'weird how much people hold it against you when your dad kills a million people." He shakes his head quickly, shifting back a step again. "Nah. We'll manage. Just, um --" He might be about to say something else, here, but it stops short as his gills flutter again. He shakes his head abruptly, reaching back to push the door open again. "Happy New Year." "Mm," Martin sounds in general acknowledgment, at the idea of people not liking people they believe to be mass murderers, and if he has an opinion of it either way, he keeps it well-hidden behind a passive, neutral expression. He notes that hesitation, head turning just in the slightest to consider the teen from the corners of his eyes. With the parting well-wish, he says, "Your family's not alone, you know. Not completely." And then, since he doesn't wish to keep Shane if he wants to be going, he adds, "Happy New Year to you, too." "Kind of are," Shane disagrees with a sharp shake of his head. His shoulders hunch further, eyes fixing down on the ground as he slips out of the kitchen again to hurry back off to his tasks.