Scott wasn't hiding. He was in the library, getting ready for tomorrow's history class. At least, that was the plan. He had put together a unit on the popular image of crime and justice in the twentieth century. It was sometimes fun to shake things up, and it kept the boys interested, anyway; well, the boys and Laura. He had come in here looking for a copy of In Cold Blood, to refresh his memory on a few points, and had happened on a shelf of Tom Wolfe books. That figured, since the library had partly been replenished from Warren Worthington's personal collection. Pretentious rich-boy crap.
But then his hand stopped on the spine of The Right Stuff, and he was hit by a memory that he had lost hold of until that moment. He had found this book in the library at the orphanage, had carried around a paperback until the spine broke in half, and then he carried the halfs. He had learned, by then, not to talk about his father, the brave test pilot who almost got the chance to be an astronaut. But he could read this one, over and over. He even found a mention of a promising young pilot named Christopher Summers. At least, years later, he remembered that he had found it.
Scott sat down with the book, meaning to flip through, to see whether the reference had really been there, or was something a lonely child had fabricated. Two hours later, he was halfway through the book, when he heard a footstep and looked up to see Sloane in the doorway.
Jerking hastily to his feet, Scott ran a hand over the hair he had absently been messing with as he read. It probably wasn't an improvement. "Mr. . . .ahh. . .Arvin." He hadn't quite worked out what to call the man -- he still hardly managed to address Charles Xavier anything other than 'Professor' -- but, after all, Scott was the boss here. In theory.
"How are you, ahh, finding the school? I'm sorry we haven't talked very much. It's been, well, a hell of a week."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2007-06-20 11:30 pm (UTC)But then his hand stopped on the spine of The Right Stuff, and he was hit by a memory that he had lost hold of until that moment. He had found this book in the library at the orphanage, had carried around a paperback until the spine broke in half, and then he carried the halfs. He had learned, by then, not to talk about his father, the brave test pilot who almost got the chance to be an astronaut. But he could read this one, over and over. He even found a mention of a promising young pilot named Christopher Summers. At least, years later, he remembered that he had found it.
Scott sat down with the book, meaning to flip through, to see whether the reference had really been there, or was something a lonely child had fabricated. Two hours later, he was halfway through the book, when he heard a footstep and looked up to see Sloane in the doorway.
Jerking hastily to his feet, Scott ran a hand over the hair he had absently been messing with as he read. It probably wasn't an improvement. "Mr. . . .ahh. . .Arvin." He hadn't quite worked out what to call the man -- he still hardly managed to address Charles Xavier anything other than 'Professor' -- but, after all, Scott was the boss here. In theory.
"How are you, ahh, finding the school? I'm sorry we haven't talked very much. It's been, well, a hell of a week."
*OOC -- Note -- set after Scott's evening with Logan, and before his kiss and make up with Emma -- for the sake of maximum angst, of course.