notrosecolored

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.

Scott made a point of meeting Sandy's eyes, even if he couldn't see it. It tended to make conversation better, and it was a base level of respect that was simply not-optional for him in any situation that wasn't far more dire than sitting around a hotel room and waiting for sunset.

"Most of the school sees me as their teacher, their field commander, or both. Even those few who have been around since I was a kid were led by me from the start." It demanded he be separated from them a bit, and that was something he was more than used to, but until recently he'd had Jean to counterbalance that. " And no one knows what the hell to do with me now."

Another reason they were here, now, he thought.

"Other than send you out on milkrun missions with potential allies?" he added with a wry little twist of his lips. Then he tipped his chin to the cards.

"Come on, get the slaughter over with."

His two pair wasn't exactly stellar.

"The last milk run I went out on ended with the jet in pieces. Maybe we're here to babysit each other."

He glanced at his hand, then pulled out two pair just slightly higher than Sandy's, so it was much of a slaughter. He left his cards on the table, though, and leaned back in his chair. He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, just for a moment, before turning back to Sandy.

"Why do the younger one's think you're creepy?"

"Well, it starts with wearing this all the time," he said as his mask solidified on his face for just long enough to make the point. Then it sunk back in, leaving his wry expression for Scott to see.

"I tend to haunt around the place at odd hours because of my work and my sleep schedule. And of course, the moaning and shouting and screaming that happens when I do finally get to sleep, well... add it together and I'm not exactly the happy go lucky mentor that Jesse and Rick are."

He took a moment to finish off his coffee and took another chicken finger.

"Some of them are all right with me. Courtney's got brass balls to go along with that staff of hers. Stargirl. Takes after Jack that way." And he missed Jack sorely. Jack had been one of the few who'd appreciated not just Wes but his aunt Dian, both her brilliance and her contributions to their work. And Jack had understood the mixed bag that was being a second generation hero. The weight of it and the pain of it and the pride of it. The struggle. Michael had some of that as well, but he'd chosen it. It wasn't quite the same. And he was almost as serious as Sand himself was. Jack's irreverence was probably one of the main reasons he hadn't become so dour to start with.

"And Maxine's not really afraid of anything but someone telling her to go away. But a man can only listen to the Wicked soundtrack so many times."

He took a few bites of chicken finger before continuing.

"Kara thinks it's also the fact that I only appear when something dire is going on. I guess she's not wrong but... it is what it is."

Edited 2015-10-11 14:40 (UTC)

"They sound like a pretty good group, overall." He said, as an outsider. Then again, that was basically how he judged his own group, just from not quite so far outside. "They'll get used to it if they've got enough time." Probably, though some things never stopped pushing buttons for people.

"I was going to ask you earlier: What's with the mask? What function does it serve?"

Seemed slightly odd to him, since it was all coming from Sandy, but he clearly didn't know anything close to everything.

He reached down to his holsters and pulled out the gas gun with a practiced flourish.

"I'm the Sandman. We're old fashioned, firmly in the no-kill camp," and he turned the gun to the side to show off the slot where he could insert his canisters. "This produces a sleeping gas, a similar formula to the one my mentor used for years. The problem with gas, however, is that it's not exactly selective as to who it works on."

Hence the mask.

"Though... I'm actually immune to it, that's not something I want people knowing. And the mask is-- the mask is--" it was clearly hard for him to find the exact words. There were plenty of words, of course. But the right ones... "the mask is part of the legacy. Not the same as Wesley's, but the visual is similar. And it helps that it's intimidating to the kind of criminal I usually deal with."

Scott listened to the explanation, including the bit about being immune to the sleeping gas, and then all the rest. He stayed silent for a bit after Sandy was finished, too, debating whether he was going to say anything at all and poking things from a few different angles.

"I'm not sure how that translates to you wearing it all the time around your friends. You're not wearing it now." Not that it really mattered, but dammit there was some confusing logic in play and Scott hated when he couldn't get that kind of thing. It was like a sore tooth.

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