Grim Grinning Ghosts (James)

[James Fawcett]

"Honey! Yeah it's uhhh...clover honey."

James wasn't well versed in the different types of honey, sticking with clover out of familiarity rather than true preference. But once again, he didn't know what Simon might prefer here. He might care a lot, as difficult as it was to envision his friend espousing a strong opinion on much of anything. He was so mild mannered in a way James felt kinship with.

Maybe that was why he liked the other man's company; they were so similar in so many ways.

"And uhh...help yourself to whatever fruit you want. Or anything else."

There was no food in either fridge or pantry that he had his heart set on, as sometimes happened. But of course as the host he was supposed to offer even if he did care.

He deposited the loaf of bread on the counter, untwisting the red plastic tie that held the plastic closed before meandering back to grab the peanut butter. Maybe peeked her nose around the corner before winding towards Simon, rubbing against his ankles with a "Prrrt?" of curiosity.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Simon had sampled clover honey on a handful of occasions, primarily in the weeks after Cyrus had visited a farmer’s market and brought him home a treat. Left to his own devices, on those instances where he managed to step foot in the supermarket to buy groceries himself, he invariably bought the standard type sold in the plastic bear.

Either would work here.

“That’s fine,” he confirmed softly, promising through implication that he would not pitch a fit over the other man’s fancier honey. If anything, he felt a bit bad about putting James out.

Followed by a hushed “thank you” regarding the fruit, as he shuffled to the counter, availing himself of the nearest banana that did not turn floppy in his hand. Still firm enough not to gush in three directions when he bit into it.

This would do.

Armed now with a banana, he returned to the counter, sliding his hand into the bread bag, fingers avoiding the heels and the slices immediately adjacent; those always lacked surface area enough for a good sandwich in favor of softer slices nearer the center. Two of those, and he cast about for a knife.

The tickle of whiskers and wet nose against his ankle nearly startled Simon; the bread sliced fell to the counter as his grip loosened reflexively.

It was just the cat.

He crouched down slowly, with none of his brother’s grace, one hand extended, palm poised to scratch her ears. “Do you…want a sandwich too?”

[James Fawcett]

Maybe purred at Simon's attention, one paw lifting to pat at the extended palm.

The honey didn't immediately materialize from the pantry, forcing James to rummage around the spice cabinet until he found it. Why had he put it there rather than in the rack on the pantry door where he normally kept it? He genuinely couldn't recall. But he placed it on the counter along with the peanut butter, allowing Simon to help himself to as much as he liked. There was no reason to be stingy when he could easily replenish his supplies with another trip to the store (which, frankly, was always a good excuse to call Cyrus over; somehow the other man seemed to enjoy grocery shopping.)

"Can I get you some...coffee?"

That was the only beverage other than tea that he had on hand at the moment; he kept intending to stock up on hot cocoa, but whenever he went to the store he forgot.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Simon mimicked Maybe’s actions, one finger inching back and forth to brush at her paw,ears forgotten in this moment with her more engaged appendage. Despite her mercurial mood shifts, she was a good girl, and Simon had always been as fond of cats as they were of him (and of Cyrus). He addressed James over his shoulder. “Would it, uh, would it be okay if I gave her a couple of treats?”

He knew through his brother that James kept some in one of the cabinets or closets, because Cyrus had left a message once about feeding them to her from his hand and how she only ever purred in his company, nuzzling his fingertips and kneading his lap like the gentlest of newborns.

To the extent that he could be said to do so at all, Simon perked up at the mention of coffee. Distantly he felt recrimination coupled with a thought about the absence of hot chocolate, and he couldn’t deny that he would prefer that, but he was a coffee drinker every morning, and it would do in a pinch in the afternoon. Better that than the overly sweetened ice tea that Southerners preferred. He’d tried a batch in college, and his tongue itched so much that he’d wanted to cut it out of his mouth and scrub it lightly with a steel wool. “That’d…be great. Thanks.”

As the honey joined the peanut butter on the counter, Simon briefly yearned for telekinesis. Then he could make his sandwich without running off the cat.

[James Fawcett]

"Oh! Yeah, lemme get those for you."

The response was apologetic, as if James were at fault for somehow not realizing that Simon might want to feed his cat some treats. Because as a good host he ought to have known without Simon asking. That he had never been good at determining things without people asking wasn't the point; a good host would have. And so he moved away from the pantry towards the cabinet over the fridge, pulling down a plastic tub of greenies. The treats rattled in the container, causing Maybe to perk up her head, ears alert and attention now distracted from her human servant.

"Um, is there anything else I can get you? Oh, wait, coffee. Sorry," He mumbled as he reminded himself before his friend had time to answer, shuffling the one step it took to return to the kitchen counter and the coffee maker that took up the entire space between the stove and the wall. There were a handful of mugs in the cabinet above this, most of them related to church events he'd participated in and he grabbed the nearest one while the coffee percolated.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Had Simon more closely resembled his brother, all grace and charm and typical social cues, he would have smiled at the other man, offered some assurance that it was fine, or a clever quip to earn a smile in return. Simon, instead, fixed his gaze on Maybe’s face, a vast improvement over his shoes (invisible from where he crouched) or the spot on the floor separating himself from the cat, and mumbled unintelligibly. He did manage to thank James when the latter appeared with the little tub of treats, before popping open the lid and digging his fingers inside.

Four seemed a fair compromise for treats, absent the nutrition information, and based on Maybe’s size. If t was one too many, that was hardly the worst mistake he would make today, let alone this week. Treats tucked safely inside his fist as he closed the container before Maybe could shove her face inside, utilizing that unique feline ability to mimic the fluidity of liquid to fit into any space no matter how small, inconvenient, or oddly-shaped. Then he held out his hand, palm upward, and uncurled his fingers to allow her to eat.

“Are you, uh, having a cup too?” He asked finally, addressing his host while still focused on the cat as a more comfortable compromise. By which he meant to inquire whether he was putting the other man out with a hot beverage rather than opting for tap water.

[James Fawcett]

"That's a good idea," James realized, as if he hadn't given any thought to what he himself might drink. Because he hadn't, focused too hard on making sure his guest was comfortable because even without any particular gifts in this area he could glean that Simon kind of wasn't.

Kinship.

Two awkward peas in a pod.

He grabbed another mug, this one emblazoned with the logo of a halfway house his parent's church did fundraisers for. "It gets so cold up here. D'you ever get used to it? Or is this why everyone up here drinks coffee instead of tea?"

By which he meant iced (sweet) tea, the beverage of choice for his home state for all meals after breakfast. Instead it felt like everyone he knew existed on coffee all throughout the day, which felt...risky, given caffeine's notoriety for keeping people awake long past the time they ought to have been asleep, but who was he to judge?

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

“It was cold where I grew up,” Simon replied softly. Cleveland was not only situated in the North but it was located on Lake Erie, subjecting the city to Lake Effect snow every winter that would turn the streets white and coat everything in a thin sheet of ice as temperatures dipped so low that even a few minutes of bare skin exposed to the air risked frostbite. By December, crowds were little more than a sea of colorful coats, hats, and scarves. “Then I got sent to Hammel.”

Here, in Pilot Ridge.

“I, uh, I’ve never know anything different.” And could one be said to not be used to one’s home environment? Not that he would ever become impervious to hypothermia, his powers purely mental and weak at that, rather than the protective physiology of those with physical or elemental powers. This was where he lived, and it was what he was suited for.

Maybe’s tongue tickled his palm as she lapped up the last of her treats; his empty hand paused to scratch under her chin and then pat her head three times before he scooted back, pushed off from the floor, and shuffled to the sink to wash up.

“We drink tea…” he protested, knowing that James meant iced rather than hot which had always been popular among certain segments, dating back to the American founding under British influence and reinforced through waves of immigration across cultures and regions. The North enjoyed ice tea, but they didn’t douse it in sugar the way their Southern brethren insisted was the One True Method.

“But coffee, it-” He paused, ran his tongue along his lips as the words were swallowed by the sound of running water. The heat was nice, sending a pleasant single along his fingertips as they pinkened under the spray. Before he could indulge too much, he shut off the faucet, plucking up the nearest towel to fluff them dry, turned to his bread, and completed his thought. “Everyone’s tired, you know?”

[James Fawcett]

Oh, right. Not everywhere had the same climate as his home did, even if that felt much more normal to James than snow and cold. Quite possibly should he take either Ettinger down to Hahira they would consider it too hot, even outside of the summer season, which was admittedly typically scorching. May through September could see highs in the nineties, with humidity that could make the temperatures feel even higher.

He grabbed a filter for the coffee grounds and allowed the water to percolate, slowly dribbling coffee into a little pot that looked like it stepped out of a catalog from the seventies. And it might have; James had inherited this coffee maker from his parents. He hadn't asked them when they'd acquired it, only knew that they'd had it since he was a child and had replaced it with a Keurig before his disgrace. They'd allowed him to have it because Luke and Wilda had their own already, and Rachel and her husband had sneered at accepting something so ancient when they had the money for new.

"Yeah. I guess that's true. It's...hard to sleep."

Actually James liked sleeping, but it was difficult to fall asleep when he was supposed to and then difficult to wake up again in the mornings, when he'd finally managed to drift into coziness and sleep. If he could have shifted his sleep schedule he might have been better off, but he didn't have control over his work schedule to that extent.

But it was fine.

"Do you want milk or sugar?" He asked as the trickle of coffee finally slowed to a halt. He pulled the pot away, pouring deep brown liquid into one of the two mugs on the counter.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Simon coped poorly with humidity, which caused his clothing to stick to his skin and disrupted his already poor sleep by setting him to toss and turn and then wake in a pile of sweat in the middle of the night. But heat in the summer sounded nice, if for no other reason than because he constantly ran cold, and spending even a few days somewhere that didn’t require additional layers might do him well.

Then again, he preferred long sleeves; nothing could make him roll them up, a reason why he now avoided the beach. And having an oversized shirt into which to bury himself, like a rabbit in a hutch, often was the difference between his ability to cope with his surroundings and the need to turn tail and run.

It was difficult to sleep, or at least, when he did, he still woke with bone-weary exhaustion, no matter if he slept for two hours or twelve, or if he disappeared for a couple of days for Cyrus to take control. The caffeine helped in that regard, and it often felt as though all of the North operated under a similar cloud of fatigue.

He set the two slices of bread on other side of the plate and picked up the knife, swirling it around the jar of peanut butter to scoop up a fair amount, and then spread it across the surface of each slice to form a nice, even layer. This was followed by squirting honey on each side and spreading it to form a thin sheen, and then slicing the bananas into exactly twelve pieces that he arranged in a deliberate pattern that implied he made every sandwich in exactly the same way.

“Uh, milk would be good. Thanks.”

[James Fawcett]

James abandoned the mugs on the counter to move towards the fridge. As soon as the door opened cool air wafted towards them, and Maybe placed both front paws onto the lower shelf. Tufts of cat hair could be seen inside the fridge in between the drawers, but James didn't appear to notice as he hauled the milk from it's place and set it down beside the mugs of coffee.

Probably he ought to say something. What was a normal topic of conversation? Something that wasn't about theology or how cold it was up here. They'd already discussed their Halloween plans, which was nice but meant there wasn't really a good way to continue there.

"So...is it true I need to beware the Grey twins?"

Students, a never ending source of conversational topics.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Mention of the Grey twins took Simon so aback that the knife slipped while slicing his sandwich, lobbing off the corner rather than properly bisecting it diagonally across.

What type of telepath was he, to be surprised by a question that someone standing right next to him asked, when it meant they had to have thought about it first? His trainer would be appalled.

“Uh…” Hardly the most eloquent response.

His brow furrowed, lapsing into silence as he concentrated on his sandwich, knife lifted to try again in a vain effort to salvage his snack without chopping it into little bits like a toddler would. He managed, with the little corner piece shunted to the side, and only when he’d finished, did he pop it into his mouth.

That bought him a couple of seconds while he chewed.

No banana slice in that corner. How disappointing.

Simon set the cutting board and the knife into the sink for lack of a better idea of what to do with it, picked up the banana peel, and then cast about until he found the trash can. After disposing of the fruit skin, he brought his fingers to his lips, tongue licked away the little bits of fruit and an errant dab of peanut butter from the tip of his index finger.

He’d stalled long enough.

“They’re…” He tried a different tack while retrieving his sandwich plate. “You’ve probably never had to work with a gestalt pair before, right?”

They were rare even among meta-humans, the likelihood of anyone meeting them outside of Hammel or Pilot Ridge was infinitesimally small, and any pair who had yet to synchronize were shipped off to Vermont, ensuring that, outside of a couple of days after manifesting which were meaningless, teachers never watched them on their journey.

Without looking at the other man, Simon shuffled back to the table, plopping down in his chair. His pumpkin was still occupying most of his space, and the bucket of guts and seeds took up most of the center. He gazed forlornly between the table and the sandwich in his hand, resigning himself to using his lap as a surface instead, better than than accidental contamination.

“They’re rambunctious and short-sighted, and because of, uh, the way gestalt pairs work, even when they bounce ideas off each other, there’s no voice of reason because it’s kind of like asking yourself in a mirror if something’s a good idea. So they don’t stop.”

[James Fawcett]

James shook his head in denial when Simon asked his question. He hadn't even known such a thing as gestalt pairs existed until he was hired at Hammel and given the new teacher orientation. In fact, he wondered at times why the headmaster had even hired him in the first place - he was so at sea with some of these powers and how they affected the kids he was tasked with teaching.

At least he had the confidence that he knew what he was doing with music.

"They sound like my older brother," He offered, trying to imagine if Luke had a second body to bounce ideas off of at their age. Rambunctious and short-sighted were two words that had been applied to the elder Fawcett child on more than one occasion, and there had been many a broken bone as a result of his antics. And yet he was considered fun and always had friends, which was more than James could say about himself.

"But I dunno, I think you and I....if we asked ourselves in a mirror if something was a good idea, we'd probably end up talkin' ourselves out of it even if it was a good one."

He hoped against hope that he was correct that Simon was similar to himself here; he certainly seemed to be.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

“That, uh, couldn’t have been easy to grow up with,” Simon murmured sympathetically. His own older sister had hardly been rambunctuous, but she had an active social life and she was head-strong which had been difficult for very introverted, people-averse Simon before Cyrus sprang forth as everything he wasn’t.He couldn’t imagine his sister jumping off the roof, but not all of her boyfriends had been…smart, measured, or any number of traits that encompassed cooler heads prevailing.

At least her husband was better on the front. Simon might have little to say to him during family gatherings, but he and Rachel we were well-suited and he was decent father material.

Not that Simon had much to stand on in that area.

James’s other remark was met with silence as Simon’s gaze dropped to his plate and he picked at his sandwich before taking the first cautious bite. A mouth stuffed with bread and peanut butter was the perfect excuse not to talk about himself or what he saw, heard, or envisioned in the mirror. How about if he asked a question, Cyrus would answer it?

Simon might not have had a twin until grade school, but James didn’t have a twin at all.

He sipped his coffee, swishing it around his mouth to peel honey from his teeth, impervious to the scalding temperature, swallowed, and said, “It’s…” He chewed his lip briefly as he turned over how to say this. “If I was a gestalt, I wouldn’t be me. I’d be Cyrus.”

Cyrus was the dominant personality. Already it was a wonder that he hadn’t subsumed Simon completely over the past twenty-plus years.

[James Fawcett]

"Oh...oh," James remarked, ashamed that he hadn't recalled that Cyrus and Simon were twins rather than simply brothers the same way as himself and Luke. Which was ridiculous, given how similar their appearance was despite the wildly different personalities. They were identical twins, it shouldn't have been that easy to forget.

"If it was between me'n' Luke I think he'd win out, too," He offered, as if that might make up for his oversight. "Guess it's a good thing for both of us, huh? I wouldn't get to have you for a friend."

And as much as he sometimes wished Cyrus was present when he and Simon were together he wanted to spend time with Simon. He liked his coworker, found his presence easy to cope with in a way that was rare to find with other people.