Concrete Jungle Where Dreams Are Made

[Tom Harriman]

You can't do everything on your own, you know.

Tom grunted as he heaved his battered old grip off the carousel. It was hardly the most glamorous of ways to transport your belongings from A to B, and it had certainly earned him a few strange looks at check-in when the shirt-and-jeans wearing man with the duffel bag had delved into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a set of business class tickets. She'd probably have dismissed the strange ensemble as being eccentric rock star behaviour if he'd flashed a first class boarding pass, but someone like that riding in business? That was just plain weird.

You've got enough in your budget to hire a whole team of scientists. Maybe you should start interviewing some candidates. Find yourself some experts.

The ex-soldier, ex-teacher, sometimes-scientist hardly felt himself qualified do decide if anyone was an expert on anything, let alone be given the power to choose who got employed by the big shiny corporation, and how much they were going to get paid. In fact, he was pretty damned sure that he was anything but qualified to do even half the stuff that he was: when he'd agreed to lead Treadstone Industries' research on mutants, he hadn't quite realised how much paperwork and responsibility he was letting himself in for.

The search for "experts" wasn't an easy one, either. Treadstone Industries had the reputation and the finances to recruit just about anyone; but research into mutant abilities was like trying to study magic as far as some scientists were concerned, and even those who were curious enough to be interested weren't necessarily the sorts of people suited to be poking and prodding.

Or rather, they were suited to poking and prodding, but that in itself was unsuitable.

It had occurred to Tom that there weren't many places that could boast true experts in what mutants could do; even fewer if you eliminated the likes of Jericho and Vanguard. There was only one other place that Tom could recall from memory; but that involved a trip that he didn't particularly want to make.

Unfortunately, the combination of Dahlia's insistance that he go somewhere, paired with a metaphorical 'blank ticket to anywhere in the country' had pretty much forced his hand.

So here he was: back in New York. He hadn't missed this place; and the feeling was probably mutual.

He sighed, and slung the duffel over his shoulder, trudging out of the airport and flagging down the nearest taxi. His luggage was tossed unceremoniously onto the back seat, and he clambered aboard in it's wake, his mind focused on the uncomfortable task at hand. Travelling to New York had been hard enough, but the next step was worse.

Now he had to find her.

[Chartis]

There was nothing gracious about the hours before noon and the established truth of their malicious nature was never more apparent than on the weekends. There was an obscene optimism that clung to seven in the morning, in particular, a tepid, nagging notion to get a move on that destroyed the illusion of a leisurely cup of coffee and made it impossible to simply huddle over a steaming mug and cling to the last, precious vestiges of sleep without feeling as if one were doing something naughty. During the school week, Clarity Cleine was apt to be a bit more forgiving toward the unfortunate rotation of the earth; she had to be up anyway, so there was no reason to resent it.

But Saturday? Sunday? Those were sacred, set apart from the rest. A brief, blessed glimmer of time that was free from all the responsibilities and obligations that mired everything else. It was true that she didn't get to indulge quite as lavishly as she had during her teens and early twenties, those bright years when everything had been done full bore and it had seemed like nothing to sleep until two or three in the afternoon. Being a mother changed the game (especially once the importance of Saturday morning cartoons were discovered) but even Ridley, as given as he was to seizing every day with both fists, seemed to understand the sedate nature of weekends more and more the older he got. Now he was sometimes generous enough not to disturb her until half past eight, a luxury that Clarity was grateful for in the wake of such lovely things as colic and night terrors.

The fight against productivity had been aided, too, by their move to New York and reunion with John. Suddenly Clarity had found herself introduced to the incredible benefits of dual parenting, a strategic godsend that meant that at least once a week she was able to have a lie in and then blink herself to some quiet corner of the city. Her favourite pastime on such days was slouching over a tiny, steaming cup of espresso and watching as people walked past, letting the sensation of just being able to linger settle into her skin and soothe the needles of disgruntled irritation that were a side effect of not being a morning person.

While New York had nothing on pastries compared to her native Switzerland (...and alright, that was possibly biased but true, nonetheless), Clarity had stumbled on a little place in Jackson Heights that came as close to Gnädinger am Schaffhauserplatz as it was possible to be. Cannelle Patisserie smelled like Europe, rich and slow and laced with a sharper edge of spice that was unpleasant in a goading, intoxicating way. It was her favourite place to haunt and where she found herself now, tucked neatly at a corner table with a café noisette and a Paris Brest - a delicate choux filled with praline mousse and dusted with sugar and toasted almond slivers. It probably contained more than twice her bodyweight in sugar and was exactly the sort of thing that Clarity refused to give her son for breakfast on the basis that it wasn't a sound start to the day.

And it was delicious.

Sighing in contentment, the small, fine-featured woman drew her orange cardigan around her and leaned back in her chair, chewing thoughtfully as she watched a passing flock of hipsters through the bakery window. Her ashen hair was rolled loosely at the nape of her neck, stray coils spilling haphazardly about her shoulders, and there was a loose thread dangling at the hem of her skirt, a basic floral A-line that never seemed to be out of style. Clarity loved the simplicity of weekend fare, the way that even a city as fashionable as New York seemed to relax it's dress code and make way for breathing room so that it felt natural to wrap up in comfortable, familiar threads.

Sometimes, Clarity mused, reaching to swipe another dollop of speckled praline cream onto her fork, there is nothing quite as comforting as going unnoticed.

[Tom Harriman]

High above the streets below, Tom was also going unnoticed. But his was a completely different kind of unnoticed: the kind that came not from blending into your surroundings, but from being exactly where no one expected you to be.

Tom hurled himself to the next rooftop, a thrust from his powers enough to give him the extra height he needed to clear the alleyway in a single bound. A grey hooded sweatshirt pulled up around his head, he tried his utmost not to enjoy the parkour sprint across the New York skyline, but it was a losing battle: the rooftops of Los Angeles just didn't offer the same kind of travel. In Los Angeles, a missed footing was at worst - for the most part - few enough stories that a mix of powers and good old-fashioned British-bred durability could let you walk away from it. In New York, even with his powers he was going to go splat, unless he got very, very lucky on his landing. There was a thrill there; and while his nocturnal antics in Los Angeles weren't about thrill seeking anymore, he couldn't help a little nostalgia.

Most days, he didn't look back on his decision to leave New York in the slightest; but every now and again, he was reminded of the things that he regretted leaving behind.

Well within the limits of Jackson Heights, Tom finally allowed himself to come to a halt. Or rather; he stopped running, but was most definately not still, hopping from foot to foot as he slowed his heart and breathing down gradually. One hand pulled the sunglasses off his face, the other one sweeping back his hood and mussing through his sweat-damp hair.

Blowing out a breath he readied himself, a few paces taking him closer to the edge of the rooftop so he could peer down into the alley below. A few steps back and then he ran, flinging himself across the gap. This time he fell short, meeting the wall at an angle; his powers bounced him backwards and into the wall behind, and then to the first, and on and on, each deflected impact absorbing a little more of his downward momentum. Two stories down he stopped, dropping the rest of the way into a power-cushioned landing.

Glancing down at his hands, he brushed a little masonry dust off his palms and onto the front of his sweater. He turned, catching sight of a bike-wielding pre-teen framed in the alley entrance. His mind fumbled for something to say. "Don't try that at home!" he called, as the boy scampered away.

Giving himself a moment or two to regain his composure - or at least, to look like a man whose weekend-morning jog hadn't required death-defying leaps someteen stories above the ground - he stepped out onto the street, and merged himself into the intermittant foot traffic making it's way down the sidewalk.

Three shop fronts later, he found what he was looking for. Or at least, he hoped he had. Clarity had always been a creature of habit: he could only hope that she still was.

Pushing his way through the door, his eyes swept the cluster of tables; and there she was, casually watching the world go by.

His breath caught in his chest, and kept most of his voice with it as well: for what had been a suave and elloquent greeting when he'd practiced it in front of the mirror came out only as a sheepish: "Hi."

[Chartis]

Clarity was a woman of deliberate opinion. With a mutation like hers it was all too easy to act rashly, to boldy leap without looking and hope that everything would turn out alright in the end with a bit of spit and effort. Age and experience had gradually tempered her youthful impetuousness, sanding down the sharp edges until they resembled gliding slopes rather than alpine peaks, and along with that came a few very rooted conjectures, one of which was: foreign substances inhaled into the nose stung like the devil and were never worth the thrill, no matter how much they cost or what rave reviews the trust fund babies/rock stars/political emissaries/corner peddlers were preaching.

So when Tom suddenly materialized in front of her and startled her mid-sip, causing Clarity to snort indelicately, she was not surprised by the knee-jerk pain that flared high in the back of her throat as a good ounce of frothy, cream infused espresso was used for an impromptu nasal lavage.

"I," Clarity started, red in the face, only to shake her head and lift a finger to gesture for a minute's pause. She reached for a napkin and just managed to get it in time to catch one, two, three angry sneezes as she recovered from the dual shock, her body succeeding much faster than her mind.

When Clarity looked up, Tom Harriman was still standing there with delicate traces of hesitation lining the corners of his eyes. He was a bit breathless and sweaty, clearly running on the exhilaration of having exerted himself, and it struck Clarity that the last time she'd seen him he'd looked much the same, only with less clothes and more of a horizontal inclination.

"Tom," she said carefully, as if testing to see if that was the right answer. It was possible that this was all an elaborate dream. "You're back in New York? I thought that... sorry, sorry, would you like to sit down?" Clarity gestured to the empty seat with a stiff little grin that kept jerking, unable to decide whether it wanted to make more than just a quick cameo appearance, and reached over to clear the table, tugging her wallet closer and setting a folded newspaper aside.

She shook her head and leaned back, incredulous. "You're just about the last person I expected to see today."

[Tom Harriman]

Suddenly it was a summer ago, and he found himself trapped like a deer in the headlights of those beautiful eyes. He'd lost himself in them so many times, and one time too many his inhibitions had been lost in them too. Perhaps his better judgement had been another casualty, drowned in those gorgeous seas; standing here on the precipice though, he was all too ready to dive into them again.

But it wasn't a summer ago. And out here in the real world, things were never as simple as they'd seemed in those eyes.

He tore his gaze reluctantly away, paying intense attention to the floor for a few moments as he collected himself again, settling down into the chair beside her. Part of him wanted to throw his arms around her in some innocent gesture of how pleased he was to see her; it seemed like entirely the right thing to do, and the wrong thing, all at the same time. He fought the urge, knowing that if he so much as let a finger brush against her, she'd be in his arms, swept off her feet, and carried up to the rooftop before his mind even had a chance to think.

Maybe there weren't so many stars in the sky above this particular rooftop; but Tom knew it wouldn't matter.

His eyes focused on her hands, so dainty and delicate, nervously fidgeting with the espresso she'd had such an adorable near-death brush with. A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth; he'd seen the one on her lips too, but dared not look at it again.

"I'm not in the city for long," he explained. Were they really doing this? After everything that had happened between then and now, were they just going to sit here and talk? "I'm on business, unfortunately. My new job doesn't have as much respect for the sovereignty of weekends as I'd like."

He hesitated, a tug of frown pulling at his brow. His eyes crept upwards - he couldn't help it - and settled on her face again. His heart had a pretty good go of tearing itself out of it's housing. The most pathetic question possible tumbled from his lips.

"How have you been?"

[Chartis]

Driven by instinct, Clarity's hand stilled in the air, caught halfway through the scant space between them. She'd been going to fix the drawstring of his sweatshirt, an absent gesture of familiarity toward one of the corded strands that had gotten tucked over his shoulder in defiance of symmetry, but the sudden awareness of where and when they were struck her with a precision that was jarring - enough so that she glanced aside and pulled her hand back to awkwardly curl around the rim of her saucer, knuckles cutting a sharp-angled outline where they bent. After a few moments contemplation on the pattern of crumbs gathered beneath the pads of her fingers, Clarity glanced up. She smiled more firmly this time, almost as though to soften the blow when the pale blue of her irises skittered away to fix on some inconsequential detail.

There was no reason why the cafe ought to feel suddenly closed in and cloying. They'd had a thing, yes. Both of them were adults, fully functioning and capable of making decisions, and they'd had a thing until it wasn't a thing anymore. It hadn't even ended badly, it had just... ended. There'd been no great fallout, no drama; just a shared, clumsy sense of accommodation and wry mischief that came with completely unexpected morning afters.

"Sounds terrible," Clarity remarked, the delicate skin around her eyes crinkling freely as she winced on his behalf. "Business at the weekend? They must have a phenomenal dental plan, otherwise you'd be a fool to not have tendered your resignation already."

This was absurd. They were like well-adjusted adults playing at being well-adjusted adults, the conversation blossoming with a forced airiness to stretch over what they were both deftly sidestepping. The thing that they were unnecessarily avoiding because there was nothing to avoid. The thing was a non-entity, a negative space that they'd constructed because... because...

Oh, hell.

Clarity didn't so much shrug as she did raise a shoulder in a sweeping roll, shaking her head. "Oh, you know," she said brightly, twisting her folded napkin in her hands until the paper began to fray. "Fine, really, really... fine. Busy. It's always busy during the school year. And how are you? Besides working, obviously, which is a good sign. And drinking coffee, still, too."

[Tom Harriman]

What have you been doing. It was the question that Tom forgot to dread, because he was too stupid to realise that it was the most likely question to be asked. Had he posessed even a shred of forethought, he would have come up with a good answer. Or at least a plausibly boring answer.

Running around in a costume doing the thing that got me set on fire last time may have been the honest answer, but at least Tom wasn't stupid enough to blurt that out.

There was one somber truth that he could offer; something that would spare him the questions. It wasn't a truth he'd shared with many, because he was too busy keeping it bottled up for his sister's sake. But if there was anyone on this wretched planet that he could get away with opening up to - and if there was anyone who stood a chance in hell of making him feel even slightly less worse about it - it was the woman sitting in front of him.

"My dad died." He didn't even need to make himself look away from her this time: his eyes did that all on their own. "Someone from the Brotherhood got him."

[Chartis]

Oh.

Even now with eleven years distance between her and the massive coronary that had rendered her an orphan, Clarity found her breath catching in her breast at the shape of those words. My dad died. They were such leaden things, weighty projectiles that left gaping holes in a body, and she wanted to lean over and press her forehead to his, whisper, mine too, because the aching shock of it never really went away. It was a sensation that couldn't be explained until one was part of the club, stuck trying to reconcile the idea that a figure of such magnitude - a father - no longer existed. Not just the physical presence but the quirks, the habits, the voice, the memories, the experiences; all that had formed them, all the public faces and private, unknown depths, simply... weren't. Trying to wrap one's mind around such a swift and total cessation was a daily practice in incomprehensible misery.

"Oh, Tom," Clarity said, her hand resuming it's journey until it twined it's way around Tom's. She threaded her fingers through his and squeezed. "I'm so sorry."

She wasn't sure whether or not he'd intended to break the ice - though it seemed unlikely, given the method - but there had been a shift nonetheless, and the taut lines that held them in stiff, polite posture relaxed enough to comb down the threads of anxiety that had been tugging in her belly. Clarity tilted her head and ducked a bit, trying to catch his gaze and bring it back up.

"Did someone get the someone?" she asked, the neatest way that she could think to phrase, did you pull out your vigilante gear for the occasion?

[Tom Harriman]

There were tears in his eyes. That was unexpected.

Tom wasn't a callous man: he had feelings. Some he hid, some he buried, but they were all always there. His relationship with his father may have been strained and distant, he felt his absence from the world like a hole had been carved into his very soul; and yet he hadn't cried. It wasn't for lack of sorrow, and before he'd merely dismissed it, thinking that maybe it was possible for a person to be too sad to cry. But now he felt it, saw the shimmering tugging at the corners of his vision, and he had to wonder what kind of heartless thing he must have become to not even manage tears at his own father's funeral.

He returned the squeeze that Clarity offered his hand, but it didn't help: her question dug at him, twisting like a knife rammed into his gut. "No," he managed to say, a fist on anger and frustration beginning to tighten around his chest. "He got away. He was a teleporter, like -"

Like you. That was almost what tumbled out of his mouth; he barely managed to stop it in time. That could have been the most terrible sentence he'd ever had the misfortune of completing; the most heinous injustice he could ever have uttered. How could he allow himself to speak of someone as good and wonderful as Clarity in the same breath as someone as twisted and dark as the one the government had called Hurucan?

"He went after my brother too, but they stopped him just in time. He's in protective custody now, whatever good that will do." He shook his head, reminded once again of how utterly useless he felt. "Kat took it pretty hard. She's over here right now, staying with me in L.A. I just wish there was more I could do. I could teach her about semiconductors or solar flares if that's what she needed; but I have no clue how to do any of the other stuff."

He stopped himself, not realising he'd allowed himself to talk quite some much. "Sorry," he offered, with a hint of an embarassed laugh. "Making you listen to my problems is not why I'm here."

[Chartis]

There was scarcely a figure on the planet who could make Clarity do anything she wasn't naturally inclined toward, not without manipulation of a deft and clever mental hand, but there wasn't any point in saying so. They both knew that whatever his real reasons for coming, Tom was always welcome to simply talk. Once upon a time they'd not been able to stop talking to one another, laying out closely kept parts of themselves with the hope that new eyes might offer insight or relief.

An echo of fondness crept up on her and Clarity realized that she'd missed that confidence, the opportunity to hear and be heard without a full hand of history muddling everything. Nearly every relationship she had in her adult life had been cultivated in youth, which was something to be proud of, certainly, but which also meant that there was never any escape from the context of who she'd been and how she'd changed. It was a novelty to be seen as new, fresh, unmarred by past decisions and experiences.

"Finish that, please," Clarity nudged her plate over to Tom and nodded encouragingly at it. "My stomach's had it's fill of sugar but with New York prices being what they are, wasting is not an option; we're in a recession, you know."

She winked and then patted him on the wrist, eyebrows lifting in patient expectation. "You're here on business, you said. So, what kind of business brings you not just to the city, but here?"

[Tom Harriman]

That was Clarity: fixing the world one covertly insisted pastry at a time.

He slid the offered place a little closer to himself, but didn't indulge. Part of him was insistant that he help the baked goods to evaporate before Clarity had the chance to change her mind. That same part wondered if she'd simply revoke his sugar privilages. Tom didn't regret his new line of work - mostly - and didn't doubt the purity of his motivations, or even those of Treadstone, for that matter. But from the outside, climbing into bed with a big corporation to seemingly profit off the back of mutants might not have seemed like such a noble chain of events. No one wanted to risk yet another Jericho.

He considered his words carefully - tried to think of a way to verbally soften the blow, or to cast the most positive light on it that he could. But she'd see through that. One of the best - and worst - traits about the woman in front of him was that Clarity wasn't just a name: it was also the perfect description for the way she viewed the world.

He settled for the simplest, most wordless answer to her question. A hand delved into a zip-sealed pocket in his sweater, and tugged out a battered leather wallet that had barely left his proximity for the last twenty years. It was old, frayed in places, missing stitches in others; the metal clasp that held it closed had long since been lost. But it held what he needed it to. Especially what he needed to now.

From within, he pulled out a tiny rectangle of card, glossy and marbled, the emblem of Treadstone Industries stamped across it. Below, five words provided his answer:

Doctor Thomas Harriman
Applied Sciences

"I have a lab, and I have funding for my research," he said carefully, speaking only honest words without any spin or opinion. "I get to find answers about how mutants do what they do; and I have the resources of a big R&D firm to help me turn that into something that can maybe make the world a better place."

His throat clamped, conspiring with his voice to say nothing more. He wanted to leave it at that; wanted to leave the revelation out there, and wait to gauge Clarity's reaction. But it wasn't an answer: not really. What she really wanted to know was why this of all things had made him come back after all this time.

You can't do everything on your own, you know.

His eyes, which had evaded hers while he spoke, sought out her gaze again. "I want to help people, Clarity. I want to take a little of what you all do here in New York, and spread it to the rest of the country; the rest of the world, if I can."

His eyes fell away. "But I'm not sure I know what I'm doing."

[Chartis]

The doctor bit was slightly unsettling in a hysterical way, sort of like the first time she'd realized that the 'ma'am' a hotel bellboy was referring to was herself. It wasn't that Tom didn't meet the criteria, merely that it was just so far removed from the man that she knew and the realm of familiarity that they'd been hovering in that it was startling to be reminded of his professional qualifications. Clarity ran her thumb across the embossed letters and hummed softly, a non-committal sound of contemplation.

"Well, that makes two of us," Clarity replied cautiously, her brow furrowing. Whatever she did not know (and that was the greater portion), there was reassurance in the countering knowledge that Harriman was neither naive nor indiscriminate in his decision making process. He wouldn't have gotten involved with anything without carefully weighing the merits.

"It sounds like a more scientific approach to what we do at Cullen's," she watched his face for confirmation or denial, adding, "unless this lab is a jumping board. Are we talking purely research here, Tom, or a educational facility that's geared toward both sides of the coin?" Clarity frowned and tapped the card. "I don't recognize this insignia."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom shrugged gently. "I may have been a teacher for a short spell back there, but I'm a scientist at heart. Or at least -"

He trailed off, not entirely sure what he was at heart. Scientist was close enough for now, at least: of all of the professions he could possibly have, that one had the best chance of satisfying his boundless curiosity.

He allowed himself a moment or two to consider Clarity's question. "Officially, it's just research," he answered. "But it doesn't just have to be research. I'm not going to go founding a school or anything like that, but I want to do what I can to help."

His brow furrowed into a pensive frown. "There are a lot of troubled kids out there, Clarity. All the gang stuff and the social crumbling makes the New York night life look tame by comparison. If I can get kids accepting themselves, coming to terms with their powers instead of being afraid of them - hell, even if there's something as simple as making a pair of shoes for a speedster that won't wear out so fast - then I will spend every last cent of my budget making it happen."

"Who knows," he added with a shrug. "Maybe I'll even be able to send some of these kids your way." His voice trailed off. "And maybe there'll be some of your extra-curricular activities involved, too."

[Chartis]

There was a reason that Clarity had studied developmental psychology and gone on to work in the field, an exhausting and often thankless job that felt like wading through a minefield of mental and emotional baggage in those so young that it was heartbreaking. She'd nearly been one of those troubled youths that Tom spoke of, saved by the gracious patience and keen understanding of Gregory Cullen during a time when nothing had made sense. Growing up was hard enough before throwing mutation into the mix, and with the sociopolitical climate heating up with every passing week, it was only going to become more treacherous a process. Mutants everywhere - not just children, though they were of special import - needed to have somewhere they could go to for support, without the fear of condemnation lurking in the fine print.

"It's an admirable endeavor, Tom," Clarity nodded, leaning back in her chair and surveying his face, the bright eyes that were filled with a dedicated sincerity above the high draw of his cheekbones. "I'm sure you're already aware of this, but there'll have to be more than researchers on hand if this is going to work, really work. You'll need a psychologist or, at the very least, a councilor on staff. All the reports and gadgets in the world won't help these kids adjust if they're not given a full range of support."

The espresso on the table was cold but completely forgotten now, Clarity's mind circling 'round the picture painted by the little card in her hand. "We both know you didn't come here to tell me all this on the chance that some of these cases of yours might migrate east. So," Clarity pinned him with a pointed look and a smile. "How can I help?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom felt the smile steadily infecting his own features. He'd imagined almost every way that this meeting could have unfolded - everything from an angry refusal to even speak to him to some morally outraged disagreement with what he was trying to do - but this was more than he could have hoped for.

Well, more than he could have realistically hoped for, not that he hadn't run that scenario through in his head as well.

"I need a friendly face." It seemed like the best way to sum things up. "Not just someone who'll be able to help me with the squishy, personality side of the kind of work that I want to do; it would really help to have a face around that is friendly with Cullens, too. Treadstone Industries is a big, faceless corporation, and while the CEO is an absolute diamond -" The pun tumbled out without him even realising. "- it would help so much to have someone who can reassure them that I, we, aren't the enemy. That we're here to help."

He frowned a little. "And I guess -" His voice faltered, his enthusiasm tumbling away as he stared intently into his hands. "I guess I could use someone to help make sure that I don't screw this up."

[Chartis]

"You'd better believe you could," Clarity agreed, rolling her eyes theatrically. "I can't believe someone trusted you with a lab. And resources. Must be something in that California water."

All jokes aside, the proposal was an involved one and Tom had a lot of work ahead of him. Clarity didn't yet grasp the entire concept and she wasn't convinced that she necessarily agreed with the application as a whole, but his intentions came from an earnest, unwaveringly good seat of motivation. All that he was asking of her now was for some support, a natural request to make of a friend when starting out on an uncut trail.

They were friends. Clear away the haze that had obscured everything in the wake of their tumble and that much, at least, was evident. Clarity was incredibly fond of Tom and she was reminded of that now, sitting comfortably in a quiet, unimportant sliver of the universe and watching as he felt his way through his thoughts. Perhaps their affair had been an act of fortune - they could be honest with one another now, once they were past the proverbial elephant in the room, the sort of honesty that was all blunt force but wielded deftly enough to not leave bruises. Not permanent ones, anyhow.

"Look, I can't make any long term commitments," Clarity provided, tapping the table to bring his eyes back up. "Obviously I'll need to speak to John about things if I'm going to be jotting out to California, what with Ridley, and I'd like some time to look into a few things," not because she didn't trust him but because like Tom, Clarity cast her own research and experience into calculations and she had nothing in her reserves about this Treadstone Industries, "but barring any disasters, this face can be friendly.

"And," Clarity grinned, "I have no qualms about telling you when you're being an idiot."

[Tom Harriman]

"I'm not asking you to move out to Los Angeles," he clarified. It was a true enough thing to say, but it took a little more effort to mask his disappointment than he'd expected. It wasn't lust that craved for her to cross time zones in order to be closer to him; it was loneliness more than anything else. Los Angeles was a big city - certainly for someone who'd spent most of their life in quaint old England - and as resiliant and self-sufficient as he was, another face among to smile at him from out of the millions of strangers would have made an uncalculable difference.

"I know that things with you and John are -" He wasn't even sure what the word was. Complicated didn't seem to do it justice. The notion picked away at old scabs not quite healed, too: no matter what she'd felt for him, there was no way in this universe that things could have turned out any other way. Maybe some people had the chance to borrow it every now and again, but her heart would always belong to someone else.

He stopped himself completely; started again with a smile carefully placed on his features. "As much as I want to have you wandering around in a lab coat at work with me every day, all I really need is a bridge to Cullens, and a little advice and help from time to time. And what I'll take -"

He exaggerated a shrug, tearing off a chunk of pastry and popping it into his mouth. "- is whatever you're prepared to give me. Especially if it's high in sugar."

[Chartis]

"Well, that suits both of us then, because it's precisely what I planned on giving you," Clarity nodded, a pleased air settling around her like a shawl. There was nothing more satisfying then things falling together into an order that made sense. The natural pattern of destiny, a chaos with which she was intimately familiar with and infinitely fond of.

"Besides," she continued, "I've never been able to pull off the labcoat look. Or the surfer chic, for that matter."

At the mention of John, Clarity's expression faltered. It was only for a moment, a brief, unguarded flicker through her eyes that was soft and sad all at once. Almost as soon as it appeared it was gone, replaced by the gentle amusement that the teleporting mutant wore out of habit. Complicated? That was one way of putting things. But then, everything in life was a bit muddled and she and John had a history together, a child. That alone was enough to make life a juggling act, nevermind throwing in...

... well, things that Clarity didn't like to try and sort through because they always left her with an ache in her chest and a headache, the sort that couldn't be eased by a strong cup of coffee.

"I hope you don't expect me to call you Dr. Harriman," Clarity offered archly, a hint of laughter in her voice as she nudged Tom's foot with her own beneath the table. "That's a bit too ridiculous for a professional setting. Now, where are you staying? You haven't booked a hotel, have you? There's plenty of room at the school."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom hesitated before he answered. I have, but I'm going to claim it on expenses so it doesn't matter: that was the truth, but he wasn't sure it was the answer he wanted to give. Sure, he'd flashed the fancy logo on the glossy business cards around, but giant faceless corporations didn't start seeming so ominous and lacking in the soul department until their employees got blasé about their expenses.

Besides, the offer wasn't something that Tom was instantly comfortable with. To Clarity, it was as simple as inviting him to crash in her spare room. To Tom it was an imposition on an establishment he was trying to befriend, in a place that he'd only set foot inside once before while chasing a brick-hurling mutant; he'd crawled out of the same hole in the wall he'd lept through without so much as a 'Cheerio, chaps' to the people inside.

"I flew in last night," he explained - a fraction of the whole truth - but it didn't seem like enough of an answer. He hesitated again, an all-to-frequent frown troubling his brow. "And honestly, I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable imposing."

[Chartis]

It wasn't difficult to make out what Clarity was thinking at any given moment. She had one of those faces that betrayed her, openly relaying her thoughts with a faultless consistency that could be maddening at times. It meant that people felt instinctively as though they could trust her, which was useful in her line of work, but it was also a vulnerable quality all too easily exploited.

Now, her expression very clearly told the story of her absolute refusal to accept Tom's polite attempts at refusal.

"Don't be ridiculous, Thomas," Clarity scoffed, lacing her hands together. "You wouldn't be an imposition, you'd be my guest. We're going to have to talk about this further, anyway, and you might as well save yourself the schlepping across town because I'm not a taxi service, I won't be 'porting in and out just because you've a notion that staying at an indecently large estate will be awkward."

[Tom Harriman]

Clarity was the kind of woman who didn't take no for an answer. It was one of the things that Tom most admired about her; though only when he wasn't the unfortunate soul on the receiving end. Refusal was not really an option; not if you were Tom Harriman at any rate. Apparently, Clarity had a secondary mutation that allowed her to wrap him around her little finger with absolutely no effort whatsoever.

He sighed. The 'Thomas' had been the killing blow. No one ever called him that unless he was in trouble; save for Clarity, who wielded it like a weapon whenever she wanted him to act like he was in trouble. It was Tom's own stupid fault: confiding the knowledge of his Pavlovian response to his full name had given her a weapon that she wielded with impunity.

"Will you at least let me buy you lunch first?" Compromise was often the closest thing to a win you could get in a discussion with Clarity; and Tom took his small victories wherever he could get them. "I mean, come on: I've got to have something to claim on my company expenses, else the guys in finance will end up all upset and bored."

[Chartis]

Clarity looked pointedly at the pastry that Tom was finishing off, the proud confectionery mountain now reduced to a mere scrap heap. There was plenty in her stomach already but they were equally matched in tenacity and Harriman wouldn't capitulate without some terms in his favour. He'd given up his share of ground already, setting aside his personal misgivings and allowing her to more or less bulldoze his accommodation plans.

"I don't think I can manage it. But," Clarity countered, "I will very happily submit to another coffee and let you tell me all the sordid details of your Tinseltown life."

There was no mistaking the (slightly sadistic) glee in the European mutant's eyes as she propped her chin on her hands.

"Go on, then, Tom," Clarity encouraged. "Who are you set on these days?"

[Tom Harriman]

Someone snuck into the video settings on Tom's face, and adjusted the colour balance. That was absolutely the only reasonable explanation for the distinctly reddish hue that his features began to adopt.

He adjusted his features into a frown, suddenly taking an intense interest in the patterns and reflections on the tabletop. "I don't, uh -" he flustered, trying desperately hard to make it seem like he hadn't. It was a losing battle, but one he fought at valiantly, his mind thinking of and body attempting every possible casual gesture, shrug, and twitch it could find.

"There is no, uh -" he tried again, his hand rising to his face, rubbing at his lips. With an effort, he finally managed to turn his eyes back to Clarity. "Why would you think that there was a, uh, that is to say -"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "There is someone," he admitted, the reluctance thick in his voice. His embarassment subsided a little; he wasn't quite sure what word best described the residue of feeling that he found beneath, but he instantly decided he didn't like it. His eyes turned a little sad. "But I don't think anything will happen. She's -"

Incredible? Beautiful? Sweet? Funny? Adorable? Wonderful? Perfect?

"- a friend," he finished. The word came out almost as a sigh. "I'm just a friend."

[Chartis]

Were it anyone but Tom, Clarity might have felt some guilt at the way his pallor suddenly took on a schoolgirl flush. Life as a diplomat's child, and then her later vocation as a counselor, had bred an instinct within the Zurich-native to put others at ease, not on the spot. Most citizens got their fill of heckling through the simple practice of living through a day - unexpected debts, last minute inconveniences, disgruntled cab drives, etc - and so it was a refreshing change of pace for all parties involved to find a charitable conversation within which to take refuge.

Luckily, this was Tom and that meant she was free and clear of any regret. Clarity pounced on his revelation with a delighted grin, looking for all the world like the cat who'd caught the canary.

"Ahh," she nodded knowingly. "So you haven't worked up the stones to say anything, then. Does she know your name, Tom, or do you just moon longingly from afar?"

Before he could protest, Clarity stuck a firm finger in his face. "Don't try and say that you don't moon. You, my friend, are a habitual yearner, which is a tragedy in light of what a decent man you are. Also, slightly strange, considering the fact that in your spare time you don't hesitate to wear shockingly tight pants and bound over rooftops after hooligans."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom let out a nervous cough. "She sort of... already lives with me."

However much of his embarrassment had managed to fade, it came back full force as he uttered those words, so intensely that his ears had turned a deep shade of beetroot. He knew that if he looked up, Clarity would fix him with those eyes, and he'd turn into a babbling wreck who would admit to just about anything. They may have been beautiful, but they were deadly too, if she glared with them the right way.

Instead, he stared intently at the table, poking at an errant crumb of pastry with the tip of a finger. "She needed a place to live, and I already had a place to live, so logically -" He trailed off, looked away, looked back, caught her eyes - damn! - and squirmed.

"If I made a move now, it'd be like I was taking advantage."

[Chartis]

Oh. Oh, really now. This was just like Tom, to go about things from the wrong end and make it more complicated. How he wound up in these situations was beyond conception. It was almost like he had a secondary mutation that conspired with the universe to toss him into the middle of socially awkward traps, just to see if he could make it out. There were probably bets placed, too.

And he was going to go with logic as his defense. Clarity snorted.

"Yes, I'm sure your brain had everything to do with that particular decision," she said dryly, rolling her eyes. "Oh, Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom. You certainly like to put yourself through the paces, don't you?"

In the face of his discomfort, some kind of maternal instinct spiked and Clarity relented. She reached out and patted his hand.

"Well, you're not the first man to develop feelings for his roommate," she reasoned. "She's probably who you spend the most time with outside of work, so it's understandable. You've just got to go about things the right way. It's not taking advantage unless you demand dates in exchange for room and board or something like that. Has she said anything to you? Hinted, given off a vibe?"

[Tom Harriman]

Another uncomfortable shuffle. This was hardly the kind of conversation that a man his age expected to be having; and yet here he was, getting advice on dating and girls as if he was some hapless, lovestruck teen. Maybe somewhere, deep down, he still was: he'd certainly never managed to maintain a serious relationship for any amount of time, and they usually ended for the same, petty reasons that they had when he was still at school.

"The opposite," he muttered, with a single breathed note of a bitter laugh. "Any time I try and work out if she feels the same way, she retreats back into herself. It's like she's scared of something, though of what, I don't know. Not me, I hope."

He sighed.

"Do we have to talk about this?" he asked, a winge of discomfort and desperation in his voice. "Can't we talk about, oh, I don't know -"

He trailed off with a vague wave of his hand. "Why don't you tell me that your kid is struggling with his physics homework, so that I can offer to help and feel moderately useful for a change?"

[Chartis]

Tom's embarrassed writhing was more endearing that he probably knew. It was the same sort of concentrated misgiving that invaded her son's body language when he'd been caught out in something questionable. A fond amusement rose in Clarity's chest as she surveyed the unraveling reluctance; was this what it was like to have a brother?

Ah. That added a whole new level of uncomfortable emphasis to their brief dalliance. Clarity had never been more glad for a rescue from disturbing mental connotations.

"Ridley's eight," she laughed, "if he understood physics, I'd be less worried about homework and more concerned about his plot for world domination. And yes, incidentally, we do have to talk about your infatuation because one, it's wildly entertaining, and two, we've slept together and remained friends; we're in a distinguished zone, Tom. There are no safe places left. Speaking of which..."

Clarity paused, a look of apologetic hesitation crouching behind her eyes.

"I think it's best if we keep our..." the right term to describe what had conspired between them (if such a thing even existed) wasn't forthcoming and after a moment, Clarity simply forged on through the ambiguity, "Between us. Oh, that sounds terrible, doesn't it? As if I'm ashamed or some such nonsense. I'm not. It just.... it would be best, for now."

[Tom Harriman]

"You don't want John to know."

Tom was a smart guy, and it wasn't hard to read between the lines. While Tom's opinion of the man might not have been particularly favourable - he didn't care about the justifications and excuses; nothing gave him the right to continue putting Clarity through what she was going through - he knew that Clarity cared for him; and that was enough. She'd asked Tom to try and understand once before; and while Tom couldn't, he pretended that he had, for her sake.

"I can do that," he said quietly, his voice laced with sincerity.

It couldn't resist a slight tug of mischief as he added an addendum, however. "It's probably safer that way, anyhow. He'd probably beat the crap out of me if he found out."

[Chartis]

Trust Harriman to cut through her sorry attempt at diplomacy. She supposed that was for the best; delicacy was a useless currency in their brand of friendship.

"I don't want John to know," Clarity agreed, "for the time being, at least."

Which was a telling enough detail. The Swiss mutant had given up trying to define what hung between John Rhee and herself. They were tied together by the bond of their son, yes, but he certainly didn't owe her anything, just as she bore no debt. That their long friendship remained intact... that it thrived was more than she had ever dared hope for when she made the decision to return from years abroad.

So, technically, it should not have mattered if she had slept with someone. Clarity was a grown woman, a single grown woman.

Who didn't want John to know.

Clarity's brows rose nimbly, a gracious laugh started from her mouth.

"Oh, come now, you're not being fair, John would never do that," she clucked. A coy twinkle danced in the corner of Clarity's eyes as she corrected, "He'd let Ridley have have a stab at you. He's been teaching him Taekwando."

[Tom Harriman]

"Either way," Tom shrugged. "One of the men in your life gets to start wailing on my face. And let's face it: it'd be a tragedy if anything were to happen to this smile."

He demonstrated, flashing his most charming, endearing, and pant-wateringly attractive smile; the one he usually reserved for situations where a little innocent flirting could get him some kind of discount or perk.

Of course, Clarity was immune to such things. Or at least, she was immune now. It had worked once; his winning smile had won her just once; but after that it seemed to have lost it's thunder. An idle what-if danced through the back of his mind, but he refused to let it linger. That water was so far under the bridge that it was in Jersey by now; and Tom had lived in New York for enough time back then to know that once something went to Jersey, it never came back.

"It's a crime, you know." He felt the words escaping his lips before he even realised he was saying them. "All these feelings you have for him, just going to waste."

[Chartis]

"Don't be silly, your smile's perfectly safe. Ridley's hardly tall enough to reach it - his range is set at a much more damaging height," Clarity smirked, her eyes tracking down Tom's torso meaningfully. "But then, you'll be so busy with your new lab that I suppose the demise of your future children would scarcely be a blip on the radar - hang on, have you got radar, yet?"


She parried his smile - good god, all men really were just cocky schoolboys inside, weren't they? - with a teasing glance of concerned curiosity that lasted all of a second before she waved her hand to forestall his response - get Tom started on lab equipment and they would be here all day.

It was a good thing that her expression cleared, otherwise the transition into troubled disapproval might have gotten terribly garbled.

Clarity clucked softly and shook head. "Don't say such things, my friend. It's never a waste. That's the thing about love; it comes in all shapes and sizes. Mine just happens to very tailored and," she laughed helplessly, gaze drifting out the cafe window, "probably very one-sided, which is my own fault. This is what happens when one defies one's properly austere European heritage; ah, the darker side of sentimentalism. "

[Tom Harriman]

Tom offered a whistful sigh, joining in with her sentiment. "They insist that it's better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all," he pointed out, musing idly for a moment that their conversation was rapidly turning into the kind of situation where cups of tea might be required.

He shot her a mischevious glance. "Personally, the only time I've ever known that to be true was when losing a sports match because of over-indulging the night before."

A frown ghosted onto his features, his thumb scratching at his forehead as he contemptated the thought that had caused it. "They also say that the heart wants what it wants, and that there's nothing you can do about it. Love isn't a science, so I'm hardly an expert; but if that's true, then you can't possibly be at fault if things are one-sided."

He shot her a small smile: the kind of small smile that a friend shared with another when a compliment they were embarassed to make was about to pass through their lips. "The fault can only be his," he pointed out, with the faintest of shrugs. "I refuse to believe that anyone's heart wouldn't want you."

[Chartis]

"You seem determined to make that point but I'm sorry, darling, I can't allow you to villainize the man whom I hold above all others. You wouldn't let me get away with saying the same about your mystery lady, even though I could," Clarity gave Tom a nudge beneath the table with her foot, part scolding at his overly-romantic philosophizing and part a bashful thank-you for the complement he'd tried to hand her.

"Besides," she continued, "it's not his fault that I've said nothing."

The irony of the situation hit her then, and Clarity laughed.

"Oh, look at this. Here I am advising you, kettle, when I'm a pot myself; aren't we a pair?" she scrubbed her hands down her face and sighed. "Now all we need is a quirky-but-endearing sidekick to round out our little club and we'll have the perfect cast for a romantic comedy."

[Tom Harriman]

Idly, Tom's eyes swept his surroundings, as if searching for the sort of person to whom Clarity was referring. A couple of kids wearing baseball hats under pulled-up hoods were huddled at one table, trying their utmost to look like their voluntary entry into the bakery had been forced upon them by a cruel and unfair universe. At another table was a woman with tight curls of frizzy hair, her attention focused on a battered old blue notebook almost bursting at the scenes with added pages and papers stuffed and glued in. Another table held a strange-looking man in a tweed jacket and a bow tie, intently reading a copy of the local tabloid that was clearly being held upsidedown.

Tom shook his head and sighed. Plenty of quirky... but not very much endearing.

He turned his gaze onto Clarity. "Maybe we should get out of here -" he suggested gently, trying not to seem like he was avoiding an unwanted extension of their increasingly awkward conversation. He cracked her a smile that he hoped would distract her from the truth. "- before I embarass myself by offering to buy you a danish pastry again, 'to remind you of home'."

Despite having made the joke himself, he still felt embarassed enough by the memory to offer a defensive excuse. "It's not my fault this place doesn't sell swiss rolls."

[Chartis]

Yes, they had definitely exhausted the limits of this particular subject and right on cue, the scaffolding of tenuous jokes made an appearance and offered them a way out. A graceless way, to be sure, but if they didn't leap on it they would find themselves stuck in a depressing rut that cycled back to it's start with ceaseless consistency. She wasn't about to force Tom or herself through a morning of feelings. That always ended messily, with enough ice cream consumed to feed a half-dozen starving nations.

Clarity lofted a brow and groaned. "You mean embarrass yourself any more than resorting to patisserie quips will? Yes, I wholeheartedly agree. Come on, before I decide to hold that against you and make you catch a cab."

Which she would never do; New York traffic was hideous and getting caught in the noon rush was a fate worse than death. At least death was an end, not an eternal, sweltering torment. Then there was the fact that Tom would inevitably get tired of sitting in gridlock and end up prancing his way to the Institute, which proposed a very real risk of his breaking through another wall.

Smoothing her sweater, Clarity stood and picked up her empty cup to deposit in the dish bin by the counter. She gave a wave to the smiling barista and wove her way through the lazy spread of weekending patrons, meeting Tom where he stood at the door.

"Thank-you," she said, accepting her wallet from him as they idled out onto the pavement, slowly drifting toward the alley that ran between the cafe and a secondhand book shop. Clarity bumped Tom with her hip. "You know, we really ought to just - "

All at once a crack echoed through the air, like the sharp and sudden strike of lightning upon a tree limb, and the world around them muddied into a dim storm of formless grey mist. There was a howling sound of a stiff wind, though not so much as a whisper of it disturbed their clothes or glanced upon the ready planes of their faces. For a moment Tom and Clarity seemed to hang there, suspended, as all the nothingness around them bucked and churned. Then, just as quickly as the air had distorted it came back into focus. The colours and sensation bled back in with violent speed.

" - both come right out with it," the teleporter continued, as though nothing had happened. She smiled up at Tom, at ease with the fact that the sunny streets and faint hollering of car horns had been replaced by the Institute's stately, paneled walls and soundtrack of young voices in a dizzying instant.

"Just say exactly how... Tom, are you alright? Put your head between your knees if you're feeling a bit woozy," Clarity moved her hand from where it gently grasped his elbow and gave Tom's back a reassuring pat. She sighed. "I always forget to give a warning."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom shrugged her hand off his shoulder. Sure, he'd just had his molecules torn asunder, folded across space, and reconstituted. Sure, he couldn't be sure whether he was still him, or if he was some perfect molecular and quantum duplicate of a Tom Harriman that had been blasted into oblivion a moment before on the opposite side of New York. And sure, his brain was slowly fracturing under the hammer to the face transition from one set of sensory inputs to the other. But that was no reason to let Clarity fuss over him.

He'd felt worse: he was absolutely certain of that. The fact that he couldn't think of an example right now didn't make that fact any less true.

"I'll be fine," he grunted, taking a small step away to protect what remained of his pride from her maternal attentions. He narrowed his eyes a little; that helped, giving his brain a little more time to process the new spectra of photons streaming through his pupils.

Slowly, his brain came to terms with it's new surroundings: a corridor; wood floors; wood on the walls; exactly what you'd expect from an American imitation of what they thought a boarding school should look like. He fought the urge to grab hold of the woodwork to steady himself, aiming his efforts instead on steadying his wits and mind.

He managed to muster up enough mental power to summon a little sarcasm. "Don't you ever just use doors?"

[Chartis]

Clarity blinked, incredulous. Use a door for something as simple coming home? Maybe the 'port had addled Tom more seriously than the normal mild disorientation that new passengers experienced. For a man-of-science-et-caped-vigilante, he was being surprisingly obtuse.

"Important ones, certainly," she conceded, suppressing an eye-roll at his vain efforts of machismo. "I wouldn't just pop into the Oval Office unannounced, for example. That would be courting trouble."

Not to mention violate her personal code of etiquette. There were shades of acceptable demonstration with all mutations but some had a stricter sense of urgency, particularly if there was potential to be invasive. Clarity had been a tad reckless in her youth, had thought the world was a playing board upon which she could practice at will without consideration to those around her, but age and experience had tempered that attitude into something more principled. Thank goodness, for some of the memories still brought a blush to her cheeks.

Before her mind could drift into those storehouses, Clarity felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist. She glanced down and grinned at the clasped fists that rested just below her bellybutton - small, warm-toned hands that she had memorized down to the most minute detail.

With a deft twist, Clarity turned and pressed a kiss into the scattered nest of dark hair on top of her son's head, ruffling it fondly. She looped her arms around his shoulders, rubbing at his narrow back absently. "There you are. How's your morning been, love?"

[Ridley Rhee]

Ridley hummed, arching into the impromptu massage as he peered up at his mother.

"There was a giant earthquake in my dream last night and when it stopped, there was a huge, huge, huge crack in the front lawn that led down to a little city," he informed her brightly, "and this morning, I looked it up on the internet, and wickedwitchoftheweb.com says that means I'm worried about money. So, about my allowance..."

Just then, Ridley realized that they were not alone. Curious, he peered around Clarity's side and took in the wincing man close by. The boy's eyebrows quirked (he'd never actually seen someone turn green before, although Jake H. was green and had webbed hands and feet with little pads that made him the absolute best at climbing trees) before sudden understanding dawned, and earnest sympathy blossomed across his young face.

Stepping forward, he said, "It helps if you breathe like this."

Ridley demonstrated a slow, deep breath, his cheeks puffing like a blowfish as he held it for a three-second count and then released it.

[Chartis]

"Oh, don't worry, Rids. He's fine," Clarity couldn't keep the laugh from her voice. She winked at Tom over top of her son's head.

"This is my friend, Mr. Harriman. He's a scientist, visiting all the way from the other side of the country. Tom," she put a hand on Ridley's shoulder, "this is my son, Ridley, who has apparently discovered the password on my laptop."

Ridley snorted. "It's my name, that's why."

"It was your name," Clarity parried, "next time, it'll be a sight harder. Just you wait."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom half-considered protesting the Mister in his introduction, but frankly he didn't feel like drawing any extra attention to himself. Sure, he'd just had his molecules disassembled and rearranged. Sure, he had no way to know if he was the real him, or just a perfect molecular and quantum copy of a Tom Harriman who had been vapourised on the other side of New York moments before. And sure, absolutely everything around him had changed in an instant, and absolutely no one could possibly expect his brain to cope with that much sensory shift without any kind of prior warning.

But come on. He used to jump out of planes for a living. Why was this kind of jump so much harder for his body to fathom? Frankly it was embarassing; the fact that Clarity's half-pint kid could cope with it just fine only made it worse.

Managing to gather his faculties together, Tom straightened up; and while he clearly wasn't back at 100%, he did a pretty decent job of faking it. He mustered a small smile; but it was one to make him feel better, not one to reassure Clarity, who it was aimed at.

"Last time I was here, I didn't use a door either," he pointed out. A grimace swept across his features. "And being the mysterious guy sneaking around unauthorised in a school full of kids isn't exactly something I'm comfortable with. Don't I need to -" He trailed off, waving a hand vaguely. "- I dunno, sign the visitors book at the front desk, or something like that?"

[Chartis]

As a rule of thumb, Clarity tried not to scrunch her face. She wasn't as young as she used to be and those fine lines that proved so didn't need any help in sticking.

Now though, she couldn't keep from pinching her brow together.

"Ridley, close your eyes," she sighed, and once he had done so, she socked Tom's shoulder with a tight-knuckled fist. Clarity fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. "Stop being ridiculous. You're not sneaking around unauthorized, I've brought you here. Try to keep from breaking, maiming, and otherwise experimenting needlessly with things, most especially people, most especially people who our students, while you're here and you'll be fine."

A little too late, she realized that the gentle sarcasm might have gone right over Ridley's head and - yes, there it was, that wide-eyed suspicion beaming from his face and aimed right at Tom.

Clarity smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Rids, that's almost completely a joke. Mr. Harriman is a good guy," she elbowed Tom in the side, a not-so-gentle prompt for him to put on his best 'I come in peace' face, "and actually, he needs to see your father. I'm running late for an appointment; be a dear and show him the way, would you?"

Before either could protest, Clarity winked, deposited a diplomatic pat of approval on each of their shoulders, and disappeared in a snap of disturbed air.

[Ridley Rhee]

The laborious sigh that rattled from Ridley's lungs was teeming with an old, old patience, worn thin almost to the point of breaking.

"I really hate it when she does that," he explained to Tom, shaking his head.

The boy rocked back on his heels, his hands clasped neatly at his back like he'd seen his dad do. "Well, come on. I'll give you a tour first - I do the best ones, because I skip the boring stuff."

[Tom Harriman]

You and me both, Tom mused silently, but kept the thought firmly to himself. Clarity may be gone, but he knew better than to say anything in front of her child that might eventually make it's way back to her.

Abandoned with only a small child for company, Tom tried to size up the young boy, watching him play at being a grown-up. It was endearing in a way: one of those evolution imperative things that children had cooked up to stop primitive parents getting annoyed and abandoning them. He felt suddenly lost and confused; while sure, he'd been a teacher for a while there, the kids that he was used to dealing with were older, en masse, and were there for the specific purpose of learning a specific set of things from him.

How the hell was Tom supposed to interact with one youngster on their own?

He fought the urge to sigh, instead shrugging his shoulders in surrender. "Sure thing, kid. Lead the way."