Squeamish
| Squeamish | |
|---|---|
| Players |
In search of a proper apology, Solomon ambushes Darwin at his high school. |
Getting a Ph.D. isn't really about being smart. It's about being persistent, good at tracking down otherwise useless details, and being _just unhinged enough_ that turning a very small thing into a major undertaking seems like a good idea. That's why Solomon was so successful in his program, and one of the reasons why he's made the effort to research his mysterious attacker and stalk...er, track, down where they work. The fact that it's a high school just provides...opportunity. It's a short notice opportunity, but it's also a Friday, and everyone's delighted to have something ELSE to do on a Friday than teach. So a few phone calls are made, and today, Solomon is here. In Darwin's school. In his cafeteria, as it happens, in a booth that is surrounded by little insect terrariums. Filled with insects and arachnids. From the beautiful (some of the beetles, butterflies, and mantids) to the grotesque (cockroaches, vinegaroons, and centipedes), and even one tank that has a shank of beef that is being devoured by flesh eating beetles. Solomon is dressed for work, which means suit and tie - although his right arm is dangling down by his side and he's moving it as little as possible. He keeps up a steady flow of chatter with kids who are alternatively fascinated and grossed out, but his eyes stay on the doors, just waiting for...something. Darwin is nursing some godawful headache from indulging in what was left of a bottle of tequila the night before, and is hoping that the vending machine for various flavors of caffeine doesn't have a line behind it. He almost reaches salvation, when he spots a booth. A booth filled with live insects. A booth manned by /that fucker/. Darwin beelines over, anger obvious in bunch of his shoulders and the instinctive baring of teeth. Still, he tries to play the curious teacher as he approaches the display, all too aware of their innocent company. "Oh wow, hey, look at that-- they're just... ripping that shank to pieces, wow, so educational," he says, failing to keep the clench out of his voice. BARK-BARK-BARK. "Guys, they're serving pizza today," he reminds, attempting to urge the high schoolers away. He sports an outfit more put-together today, a beige turtleneck to go with the dark overcoat that has been thoroughly cleansed at this point. Solomon just lights up with a wide, pleased grin when Darwin comes through the doors. Before the teacher even _sees_ him. He practically wiggles in place with anticipation, even as he pulls out one of the exhibits to show a girl, saying, "In the Victorian era, it was fairly common to coat some insects in resin, gild the resin, and wear them as jewelry. Here's a butterfly brooch." As she chatters about how she designs jewelry and makes TikTok videos, he greets Darwin with visible pleasure. "You must be the drama teacher I've heard so much about. I don't think we've been properly introduced." He has to put the brooch down, since he's only working with one hand here, but he offers his left hand for a shake. "Dr. Solomon Jessup. _So_ nice to meet you." The teenagers look from one to the other. They're not stupid, and Solomon isn't a good actor. He's _enjoying this too much_. And the pizza deflection isn't all that subtle, either. Still, most of them get the point, and decide that this is a good time to get their food, leaving a little moment of quiet around the two men. Darwin does not move. He may as well be made of stone as he stands there and endures that wide grin, and waits for Solomon's explanation of brooches to finish. The intensity of his stare only worsens when Solomon finally, /formally/ introduces himself. "Darwin Pace," he says through his teeth, grasping Solomon's hand with a trembling tightness. Then, he whispers harshly, "What exactly are you doing here." He gaze drops to Solomon's arm at his side. "I was hoping that would've fallen off by now." Solomon's grin sharpens as he feels the strength of the grasp. He bobs their joined hands up and down, then tries to retrieve his hand, gently. "Mr. Pace. A pleasure." His voice is all faux-innocence as he says, "I'm just educating the youth of the city on lesser known science careers, and the vital role that our insect friends play in a healthy ecology, even here in urban environments." Then he leans forward to whisper back, "Also, you haven't apologized yet. I'm sure that...bugs you. So I thought I'd give you the opportunity." His lips twist in sudden irritation at the mention of his _still useless_ arm, but he pretends to sniff the air in front of Darwin's face, and snaps back, "Why, is the bacterial load _that_ heavy in your mouth? Do you not brush at all? I suppose that explains the smell. Think of the example you're setting for the children." "/Vital role/," Darwin scoffs, releasing Solomon's hand. At the returned whisper, his brows lift, and indignance twists his features. Some serious snark follows, and were this directed at /anyone/ but him, Darwin might've laughed. But it is /scalding/. Smell, what smell!? Is there a smell? That little seed roots deep, and Solomon can watch as Darwin attempts to casually lift his wrist to huff against, sniffing. Just to check. "Shut up. Just-- shut up, you-- You sent another bug after me! I thought we had an agreement! Why should I apologize if you're just gonna' stalk me and come into /my/ school and traumatize /my/ students with your disgusting..." He glances down, mostly at those flesh-eating beetles. "...Why don't you just molt and grow a new arm," he snips. Solomon's eyebrows go up, genuine surprise flickering there. "...I have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't told a soul about you. How would I? I only figured out where you worked last night. You didn't exactly leave a calling card. Or even offer to pay for my medical bills." He clucks his tongue. "Poor show. And I don't know any 'other bugs'," he adds, thoughtfully. As for the rest? It gets a haughty little sniff of disdain. "My insects aren't disgusting, nor are the students traumatized. That," he flicks his fingers at the beetle tank, "is used to demonstrate how insects help dispose of carrion that would otherwise carry disease and health hazards to people and animals." His eyes widen. "Would you like to see what I have on the medical applications of maggots?" Solomon's confusion seems genuine enough that Darwin's anger falters. Hm. At the offer of a lesson on maggots, Darwin lifts his hand. "Not... not today, thanks." He rubs his face with both hands, then pushes his fingers into his hair, combing it back as he sorts through his emotions. "Alright, fuck. Rrrgh. I'm sorry for attacking you. I should've... made certain. These spirits... they're a blight." He eyes Solomon warily. "I don't understand. Just heal yourself." Solomon's nostrils flare, and he stares at Darwin for a long moment. Then he shrugs. One-shouldered, because the other hurts. "Thank you. And it's fine. Everyone makes mistakes. I probably shouldn't have done what I did...although the manager was really fucking rude." There's a soft little laugh, although it doesn't have a lot of humor to it. "I can't just 'heal myself', Pace. I don't work like that. You, on the other hand, are looking remarkably unbroken compared to when I saw you last. Lucky bastard." A passing student didn't hear most of that, but has a /laser/ comprehension for curse words. She hisses to a friend, "You hear what he said?" Solomon rolls his eyes. "This is a high school," Darwin reminds with a faint grin. He takes a careful look around, then reaches to drag a stool from a nearby table, perching across from Solomon with one palm braced on the display table. He sits there, surrounded by bugs. He swallows. It's /slightly/ unnerving. Every little skitter on his periphery causes a full-body shiver. "I don't enjoy admitting defeat but you swept my ass. That took half a day to heal. Now tell me, Solomon, does your type make a habit of cursing every local business they don't like? Is this school at risk?" "And they should already be very familiar with all of those words," Solomon says, blithely. "I sure was at their age." When Darwin fetches a seat, Solomon sits down on the stool that some kind person at the school supplied him with earlier, his long, spindly legs sticking out a bit awkwardly. The bugs seem content to go about their buggy lives without caring what's happening outside their glass. It's probably a coincidence that a big, hairy tarantula decides to walk to the corner of its tank that's closest to Darwin and just...chill...with its many black eyes staring right at him. Probably coincidence. Solomon has a little of that unnerving, unwavering stare going on, although his eyes are human and blue. He's also not modest enough not to grin at the admission of defeat. It does shut off at the question. He sounds genuinely offended. "I'm not going to hurt children, Pace. No more than you're going to /eat/ them." Darwin holds a hand to the side of his face to try and block out that tarantula's staring. "God," he mutters, and his gaze drifts back up to Solomon's, which is only /slightly/ more tolerable. The comparison makes his nose wrinkle. Point taken. Slightly more aware of the roaming youths, Darwin reaches into his coat for a notepad, scrawls something and pushes it over to Solomon. It reads "fairy?" "I really am sorry about your arm. I could try to find some help for it. I know an EMT-in-training, if you're trying to be discreet," Darwin offers. Solomon notes the movement, and his lips quirk upwards. "...are you really scared of bugs?" he asks, amusement bubbling in his voice. And then he's being passed a note, in school, except by a teacher. It clearly tickles the hell out of him, and even more when he leans over to read it. He whispers, "If you're going to ask me out on a date, you should update your language from the seventies." But then, relenting a little, he gives a brief nod. "Not what we usually call ourselves, but close enough." He shakes his head at the offer. "It's fine. It's healing. It just hurts like hell. I don't--" then he stops. "EMT-in-training. Young guy, curly hair, ridiculously optimistic and generous? Kinda skittish?" "It's just how they move," Darwin grumbles. "I'm not /scared/." Then Solomon checks the note, and Darwin flushes pink almost instantly. He stares, caught between flustered annoyance and the very edge of amusement. It's a weird emotion. "Bring me up to date, then. What do you go by? I think I've brushed up against two others. I don't want to piss anyone off. Especially if they can apparently /bend reality/." He lifts his chin, smiling a little wider, "You know him? Javi? I think something is afflicting him..." It's not polite, but Solomon laughs unabashedly at Darwin's expression. "I know him," Solomon says. "He's a friend. And something afflicts everyone in this damn city. He's got a decent handle on it, though. He'll read you in if he feels comfortable." Only once that's covered does he circle around to the question asked about himself. "Call us Changelings if you like." A glance at the tarantula, before he asks, with so much fake innocence, "You want to hold one of the tarantulas? I've got one who's chill enough for kids to handle, even." Darwin has something to prove now, though his eyes narrow on that faux innocence. "Are you trying to eat my chills or whatever? Okay, fine. Try it. Make yourself a feast. It'll be fine," he insists, holding his hand out expectantly. "I eat carapace for breakfast!" he declares. Annnnd now they have audience. Look, there's no way a bunch of teenagers are going to miss one of their teachers holding a giant arachnid. And possibly getting bit and dying. Solomon grins. "I will feast on your fear," he agrees, cheerfully, and to the audience it no doubt sounds like a weird joke from a weird guy. Either way, he carefully opens the tank and reaches his hand in to gently urge one of the spiders onto his hand. "Hold your hand still; she'll only startle if you do." He lifts it out; it has bristly hairs, a large abdomen, and spiky pedipalps that look like horrible black fangs. "Just relax," he says, softly. It's hard to say if he's talking to Darwin or the spider. Either way, he starts to bring it over so that it can creep, slowly and carefully, from his hand to Darwin's wrist. It's easy. It's easy to focus on literally anything else. Darwin's got papers to grade. Have to meet up with Gareth for lunch. Have to buy burritos for Javi. Pay the rent. Oh, students. An audience. "Hey guys, so weird, right?" he says, stiffening the moment he feels legs touch his skin. With his free hand, he rolls up his coat sleeve to pull it tight, so that this spider doesn't get any crazy ideas. "S-so," he says, staring down at those big, black fangs. "Doctor Jessup here is going to tell us about tarantulas and how, in spite of /everything/, they're beneficial to the environment." There's really no hiding this wellspring of fresh fear. Each little tiny fuzzy step the tarantula takes, Darwin shudders and extends his arm further. "Anyone else wanna' hold?" he asks, voice one note higher than usual. Solomon chuckles as he watches poor Darwin sweat. The tarantula just sits on his hand, reaching out with one foreleg to gently pat pat pat his skin, feeling around for a good route if it DID want to go somewhere. But honestly, she seems pretty okay to just chill. With a smile, Solomon tells the audience, "Tarantulas primarily eat insects, so they play an important role in controlling local insect populations. Although, in turn, some wasps lay their eggs so that their larva will hatch on - or inside - tarantulas and eat them in turn." "Like...dead tarantulas, though. Right?" one kid asks. Solomon grins. "Sometimes. Wasps are jerks. Tarantulas, though, are pretty gentle, typically. That doesn't mean they're entirely safe - they will bite if they feel threatened or cornered. But with training and patience, they can be kept as pets." He reaches out and gently pushes the spider back onto his own hand. Despite several requests, he doesn't allow any of the students to hold her, but does let a few touch the bristly hairs on her abdomen before gently putting her back into her tank. Brochures on entomology are distributed, and students drift away as things get, shudder, educational. When the crowd has thinned again, he tells Darwin. "That was very brave." It's deadpan, so hard to tell if he's being serious or mocking the poor guy. Darwin looks like he might be sick from the explanation of wasp eggs. When the students disperse, and the tarantula is back in her tank, Darwin slumps, looking three shades paler. He glowers up at Solomon, clearly taking the comment as mockery. "Yeah, well." He reaches to pull back his notepad, peeling a sheet away with his number and handing it over. "Here. For... I don't know. Just in case," he gruffs, then stands, smoothing his coat out. "...You mentioned a war. What do you know about that?" Solomon takes the piece of paper with another twinkle in his eyes. "You're //squeamish// for someone as violent as you are." He looks at the number, and it looks for a moment like he's going to make another date joke. Instead, he tucks the number in his pocket, and pulls out a business card, offering it over. He wasn't lying about his name, anyway - it's got his title as Assistant Professor, that he works at the University of Chicago, and his office and cell phone numbers. Even his e-mail. "Not much. Just what someone else said - that there are your kind, or what I assume is your kind, and then other kind who think your kind suck and want to murder them. Apparently the underworld Prince," and now his voice is very low, "has been hiring some of the Other Kind to do work for him, which ticks off Your Kind." Darwin studies the card, the four corners propped in his fingertips. Then he looks up, eyes wide. He parts his lips, but struggles to articulate anything more than a very concerned, "Mm." He tucks the card away, patting his coat for his phone. "I see. Alright. That's worrisome but alright. They're called Pure. The ones that think we suck." He smiles a little. "Thanks for the enrichment. Now go back to your fancy ass university where everyone curses." Solomon _sees that look_. His lips set in a thin line, silently _daring_ the werewolf high school teacher to say anything about the fear-eating bug professor. When nothing is said, he sniffs, and relaxes a little. "Pure what, I wonder." He holds up a hand. "Not asking for an explanation. Not here, anyway." At the directive, his grin returns, toothy. "I will. At the end of the day. I'm here for another three hours. So many young minds to...influence. Run along, Mr. Pace. I'm sure you have classes to teach." Darwin promptly prickles. "Don't tell me to run along," he snaps and pivots to stalk off, coat aflutter, "No one tells me to /run along/," he mutters into the distance. | |