notrosecolored

He spread his hands for a moment before reaching over to grab his coffee.

"Can't put a cat back in a bag. I figured I'd be delicate first."

He took a long sip before closing his eyes and breathing in. It wasn't that hard to find quartz, after all. Assembling it into the shape he wanted, growing the crystal... and introducing the proper impurities to make it ruby quartz was just as easy. Pulling it through the the stone and the rock and the foundation of the building, into the wall...

He plucked a thick crescent of red crystal out of the wall, pushing his fingers through it like it was water. A turn of his hand and it was clear that it was a single piece that could be fitted on his face like the glasses.

He held it out for Scott.

"I appreciate the consideration," Scott said, honestly if very bluntly. "About half the new people who turn up, including the kids, have a pretty steep learning curve and need some training about what's appropriate and what's just not gonna fly."

Sandy was respecting that line, beautifully.

He reached out slowly when the red quartz appeared, took it in his hand and tilted it in a couple of directions just so it caught the golden, late afternoon sunlight. It was, without a doubt, the single biggest piece of red quartz he'd ever seen. It was heavy as hell as a result, probably fairly brittle but it would work. Scott knew that beyond a doubt.

He closed his eyes, instinctively turned his head away from Sandy and toward the floor and replaced his glasses with the piece of quartz. He kept his head turned and down while he opened his eyes again, then turned back. "This is going to sound strange," he warned. "But that's really red."

He always saw in red, of course, but without the frames - metal and plastic - blocking some of the light and his peripheral vision it was a much, much, brighter red. Never mind the nature of quartz itself, and the fact that the entire piece was, effectively, glass.

Oh. Right. Also: "Thanks."

Edited 2015-10-11 01:09 (UTC)

"The color is actually adjustable," Sand observed as he leaned on his knees.

"But I figured you were more comfortable with the red to start. I wanted to make sure I had the composition right."

Faint, slightly smirky smile.

"And you're welcome."

"Unless we're in an emergency situation and turning them red will slow you down, don't mess with the color." Could he make an argument for it being some kind of tactical decision? Yes. Would it be the truth? No.

The truth was, he was used to it and he was comfortable with it. The truth was, his associations to seeing without that red filter were either very, very negative or very, very deeply positive but also painful, and he didn't want to revisit either.

Sinister and Jean.

He hoped that the blunt statement would be enough for Sandy to leave it alone, even as he reversed the entire process to put his glasses back on. He wasn't interested in being a dick right now. Not when he was, surprisingly, enjoying the company.

Sandy didn't question it. He just nodded. If he'd learned nothing else from working with both the first and the third Dr. Mid-Nite, it was that you didn't argue with a man about his vision during a fight. You did what he needed from you.

"In this case, I just introduced the appropriate impurities to make ruby quartz. I didn't control much of anything else, other than choosing a more stable crystalline structure to make it a little less brittle than the stone usually would be."

"Whatever you did, it worked." Clearly, because he hadn't blown down a wall, or anything. "I guess that's one way to build good will between teams. At least, if I can find a way to return the favor."

It wasn't really a favor, he knew that, but he also knew that he was pretty damned comfortable with this guy and that was rare. More rare lately. "We've got a couple of hours before we should head in. Any plans for that time?"

"I wasn't kidding about the need for coffee," he pointed out with a sedate enough sort of smile. He looked up, seemed to see something that definitely wasn't there, and blinked for a moment before turning back to look at Scott.

...he had mentioned he didn't sleep much.

"I've got chess and cards on this phone," because he wasn't sure what kind of things the man might do in his downtime and those games, in their more manual versions, had been past times from before his time in the cage. But--

"And Netflix."

Scott got up and went back to his bag, unzipped one of the small compartments under the bigger flap and took out a deck of actual, physical, playing cards. "I've got a friend who uses them as ammo. We can use them for their intended purpose while we wait."

Boy Scout. People flung that at him as a jibe, but he'd take it on two levels: The one where he knew he wasn't what they were implying and the one that was always as prepared as he could be.

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll keep you supplied with coffee, and you let me keep my headaches." It wasn't so different, really. Well, maybe, but there was a fundamental truth, there. Enabling each other to hurt, but a sort of hurt that was better than the alternative, for their own reasons.

"Five card?" Poker, Sandman?

"Five card," he agreed as he slipped the phone away. The cards themselves got a smile.

"They've been trying to make cards I can travel with but they never shuffle right. Terrible spread too."

"And far be it from me to get between a man and his headaches."

Because if that's what he wanted, Sandy was the last person in the world to tell him different.

"Work on the prototype, anyway. If it's something that interests you." If it didn't, that was fine, too, but Scott was realizing there were things he wasn't ready to make easier on himself. Not yet. "Who knows. Maybe I'll change my mind." He unboxed the cards, tapped them on the edge of the desk and shuffled.

Shuffled well, at that.

"How'd you travel with the phone, or did you pick it up when you got here?" Just curious. And: "You might look into what we've managed to do with and for Bobby. Some of it might translate, and even if it doesn't the concepts could."

He tipped his head over to the coat, then down at himself.

"Everything I wear, all of my equipment... it's all made from materials manufactured by one of my co-workers that allows me to travel the way I can and come out still dressed and able to communicate. It's a bit restrictive and some things are better than others, but it's functional enough."

Sandy leaned back in his chair before searching for Scott's eyes to make it clear to the other man that he was serious when he said--

"Oh, I'm going to work on it, but if the headache issue isn't a feature you're interested in, I'd much rather know what you would like improved instead."

"Right now, I'm mostly interested in what you mean by able to communicate." Scott snap dealt the cards, leaving Sandy's hand across the desk and in easy reach of the other man. That one was new, and it was interesting, and it also sounded like something he should know about, if they were going to ever, ever, work together again.

Maybe even if they were going to work together this time. He still didn't anticipate much trouble, but things happened.

If they circled back around to his visor, fine. He could talk about it. He did have ideas. He always had ideas.

He patted his phone in his pocket with one hand as the other swept up the cards. That was a natural movement if Scott ever saw one; cards had been a frequent pastime. Especially during his time with the All Star Squadron.

"Just this. Of my... considerable talents, telepathy is not one of them."

Scott had played cards. It hadn't been a serious past time in years, but he knew the game and he knew how to play and he was god damned good at math and probability, so he was leaving it at that and just playing to pass the time.

He stopped rearranging his cards to look at Sandy, crease in his forehead. "You've lost me."

Not entirely, Sandy hadn't. Scott suspected he knew but the man was either going to tell him on his own or not.

He pulled out the phone and was good enough not to wiggle it. He just tapped the side with his finger.

"This thing is made of those materials I talked about. That's why it doesn't just stay behind when I phase through a wall or into the earth. Then I can call."

Nothing too complicated.

"The dreams aren't... it's not a psychic ability. It's different. That's a legacy left to me by my mentor."

A legacy and a responsibility. And a weight.

"Communicate with them. Through the phone."

That was simple enough that it had flown right over Scott's head. He'd really, really turned that into something else, based on more base and broad levels of communication.

Like, oh, turning into a pile of dust and not being able to speak to anyone, or having the telepathic ability to get through, either.

This was better.

Probably.

"I've spent a lot of time around telepaths. I'm not sure what to say about the legacy left to you by your mentor, but given your lack of sleep I'm inclined to offer condolences. I know it's not a psychic ability, but it might be worthwhile to talk to Charles about. ...or to be careful to keep him away from."

God, how was he only 20 something years old? He felt like he'd lived at least four lifetimes himself, and he had nothing on Sandy.

"No."

That was the first time Sandy seemed firm, solid. Unwilling to bend. No. He wasn't letting any psychic anywhere near his head. There were secrets in there, secrets he was unwilling to let anyone know.

Horrors he was unwilling to inflict on anyone else.

He seemed to realize after a moment that he might have come off as somewhat gruff and he took a breath to take another sip of coffee and hold up a hand in what he hoped was a request for apology.

"It's... best. If I stay away from psychics. For everyone's sake."

Scott wasn't fussed by how gruff Sandy had been, or the answer. He had offered 'or stay away from him' for a reason. It was one of those things that could be enormously helpful, or terrifically bad. Sometimes, it was both depending on which end of it you were on. Sometimes it was just bad for everyone.

He shook his head after a long moment.

"It's your mind and your business." He was a control freak, but only about himself. His team. His cause. Protective of his people. Aware of consequences and used to making decisions. That didn't extend to the personal. There was a limited scope, for all that some might not seen it unless they stopped to realize how little he meddled. He didn't even mingle.

But.

"You need to be aware, though, that I am extremely vulnerable to telepaths and psychics - mind control. I always have been, and I'm more so now. There are work arounds and I use them, but every last one of them comes down to Charles. I realize that isn't the sort of thing you're concerned about, but it's something you need to know and account for. He's going to have at least passing contact with my mind, even if it's only to lock down or bury information."

Worth a heads up. He liked this guy.

"I don't have a problem with them," he said, keeping his voice slow, even. "But there are things in my head I don't feel right inflicting on anyone."

And he wasn't sure, in all honesty, how safe it was because of the conduit within him to Dream. Daniel. Even someone experienced...

If there was something he knew, it was that his pale companion was beyond human comprehension. And he wouldn't chance anyone, especially not someone willing to try and help, given what could happen.

And then there was the Velvet Cage and the web of lies he'd woven about his time there that he never, ever intended to share with anyone. Wes didn't deserve that. Wes could never know, and the only way to guarantee that was to keep it firmly inside his own head. The man might be dead, but if he knew anything about the world, he knew that meant Absolutely Nothing when it came down to it.

"It's bad enough I have to live with it."

And he refused to let go of it. It was still years, decades of his life. It was still Wes's visits, the shift of sunlight through an empty room, thoughts he'd had and beliefs he'd considered. It was why he was biologically 25 but he didn't feel that way and he wasn't sure he was comfortable with being someone else. Someone genuinely younger.

"I know." No, he didn't, but he knew he didn't. He rewound and clarified. "I understand what you're saying." For a lot of reasons, actually.

That was level as could be, as he discarded two of his five cards and drew from the deck. Then he stopped and looked at Sandy.

"We all have our demons and ghosts. How you choose to live with yours is up to you. Besides, I'm pretty sure Charles has enough sense not to go messing around with that." Not unless he were cornered and desperate and Jesus Christ why was his mind sliding off toward Jean, constantly? He was seeing connections that weren't really there.

He shook his head sharply, trying to shake it off.

"I'll just keep supplying coffee."

He finally considered his cards, threw in three, and drew up.

"You're shaping up to be my best friend ever," he noted absently as he started sorting through his cards to assemble his hand.

"It can't be that hard to find a decent coffee supply."

His tone was slightly dry, as he laid down what he had - which was two pairs of sevens, and not all that impressive.

"Any 7-11 can take care of you."

"And I've got a stash of Deathwish beans back at the brownstone. I'm not exactly a pauper," he continued, still staring and focusing on his cards.

"But you're offering coffee and not pushing. No one else has managed those two together."

Though that wasn't entirely true. His aunt Dian had always had a way about her...

"Well, not for a long time, anyway."

"I'm allergic to pushing - breaks me out in hives."

Which was obviously, blatantly, bullshit. It was supposed to be obvious and blatantly bullshit. He was good at pulling that off in a tone that had just the slightest hint of a bite to it, though.

He shrugged one shoulder.

"I don't know you, or much about your life. I don't know what's in your head, and you aren't a member of my team. You're a fully grown adult and what you share or don't and with who isn't a call I could make, even if I wanted to. Anything you want to share, you can do it the old fashioned way - and probably have better friends to do it to, anyway."

And... he didn't want to see what that sort of sharing would do to Charles.

Besides, if he could kick Charles out of his head wholesale now? He would. Would have when Jean died. Fortunately, Charles was by and large respectful enough to stay largely out on his own.

"That's probably the main problem," he admitted with a sigh as he gave up on improving his hand. His eyes rose to meet Scott's as well as they could.

"To the young ones, I'm a relic and an eerie one at that. To the older ones, I'm still 16 years old and running after Wes." He shook his head and put down his two pair.

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