Taxes, Taxes, Glorious Taxes! (Sean)

[Ricky O'Cassidy]

(October 15th, 2019)

Ricky slumped down in his chair, sighing in relief. He finally got the notices back from the IRS that all of the school's taxes were in order for 2018, and that the school would not be audited like they had thought due to the surge of private donations in recent years. That meant he had until after the holidays worry-free - after that came fourth-quarter filings, sending out W-2s for all staff, and his annual tax-prep courses in February. Not only that, his personal extension went through yesterday, barely squeaking in under the deadline due to multiple errors and back-and-forth communications with the agent on his case.

Maybe it was time for a break - he'd been working almost nonstop on this (outside of payroll deductions and managing the school funds) for six weeks. Having a few minutes to relax would be nice.

Taking the time to carefully stand from his desk, the Irish-American picked up his coffee mug by the handle and opened his door. He looked both ways before leaving the room, and shut the door firmly before turning toward the rest of the main office. Unfortunately, despite his care, Ricky's suit jacket had gotten stuck in the jamb, so as he stepped forward it snapped tight and pulled his arm back, smashing the plain white mug into the wall and shattering it. The accountant stared at the handle still sitting in his (unscathed) hand, then to the door. He checked the knob: locked, of course. Patted his belt, then his pockets, and sighed. No keys. They were probably still on his desk.

Oh well. Better to clean up this mess and wait for the janitor, who would undoubtedly be by soon. It was Tuesday afternoon, and classes were over.

Ricky shrugged out of the trapped jacket, and began picking up the broken bits of ceramic. A coffee break would have to wait.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Just another tumultuous Tuesday.

Nobody had warned Sean explicitly about the stress that his new position entailed. Nobody had to. Between almost thirty years of employment, a close relationship with one of the Headmasters who held the title for a full decade, and the scope of his telepathy, he knew. He had accepted the promotion fully aware, not with the bright-eyed naivety of a new hire who had Plans™ to enact only to cower in his office during the first emergency.

Still, between the new bureaucratic duties and the therapy sessions he kept with his students, he now held to an even stricter schedule with far less down time.

As a result, the end of the day never came early enough, and his devotion to caffeine had only grown over the past few months.

He had only a bit of paperwork to complete before he could leave for the day, and already he had decided to trade cooking for takeout, to call his husband and double-check what he wanted if they ordered from the diner on the outskirts of town. To see him to that finish line, the telepath had emerged from his office to refill his coffee mug one last time and rifle through the snacks in the lounge for anything to stave off hunger until a proper supper.

Just as he returned, he was confronted with the sight of Ricky kneeling in front of his own office. A swift glance at the door found it shut with a suit jacket dangling from the jamb.

Only Ricky.

The man's misfortune was legendary, and a few fellow staff members still believed he had latent meta-human ability.

“Would you like some help?”

[Ricky O'Cassidy]

The accountant perked up at the voice, and had a smile on his face the second before he lifted his head. Exasperated as he could be when he made mistakes, his luck didn't bother him at this point. It was simply A Thing^TM, something he'd lived with his whole life. His only disappointment came from when the luck was entirely of his own making. Like this time; he stepped too close to the door while closing it, and had neglected to check for his keys before he left the room.

Never mind that his door was one of the older ones in the Hammel offices and had a tendency to stick or jam if not closed just right, and that more carbines had broken on him than he'd ever wish to count.

"That would be great, thanks." Sean (though he supposed Dr. Neville was probably more appropriate now, given the man's promotion, temporary though it was) was always ready and able to help people, and had steady hands. If anyone could help him clean up the mess he'd made without making a bigger, bloodier mess of it, it'd be him. "At least this is only the third one this month; must be a new record."

Ricky had heard the gossip, had laughed about it often enough because really; what would he do with powers? He'd seen some of the shenanigans these students got up to, often had to manage the exorbitantly large Damages & Repairs budget when things went wrong. If he had powers on top of this ridiculous luck, the world might well be doomed.

"Coffee break?" he asked, taking a particularly jagged chunk by the only available flat spaces and carefully laying on his palm without touching the edges. "I was just on my way out there myself."

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean remained the same man he had been before his temporary elevation to Headmaster, as evidenced by his distaste for coworkers addressing him by honorifics. If Ricky were to call him “Dr. Neville,” he would correct him quickly, inviting him to call him “Sean” as he had for the past fifteen years. He had accepted the promotion as a practical matter, to help the school with continuity while they expanded their candidate search rather than hastily putting together a candidate list and speeding through the interview process.

It was not a power trip.

With permission, or the invitation, to assist him, retreated briefly to his office to set down his coffee mug, and, while in the room, retrieved his dustpan and broom, before returning to the hall and Ricky’s side. Given some of the student mishaps that had occurred in his office over the years, he had found it easier to keep cleaning supplies on hand rather than wait for the janitorial staff to appear every time something went awry.

Slowly, mindful of his knees, he knelt to the side of the ceramic shards, stretching out the hand that held the broom to sweep some of the smaller pieces into the waiting dustpan in his other hand. “I need the afternoon pick-me-up,” he admitted almost ruefully. Caffeine, sweets, and alcohol were his three vices - Josh was in another category entirely. “I put a fresh pot on before I left, so you’ll have something to look forward to when we finish here.”

[Ricky O'Cassidy]

Far from thinking of Sean as some sort of dictator (he would have laughed at the idea; the man was too kind and mindful for that), Ricky had simply grown up in a family and community where accomplishments were usually met with an increase in respectful language. The telepath would probably understand that, given his own upbringing; regardless, he kept thinking of his coworker by his given name. After all, aside from some minor administrative duties now, Sean wasn't technically his boss - the Board was, and always would be. The use of "Dr." would have been for the same reason as if Sean had gotten his doctorate after Ricky met him, in this case.

Still, Ricky had been calling him by his first name for years. Unless he asked for a change, it was unlikely to do so.

Breathing a sign of relief at the cleaning supplies, the shorter man finished picking up the largest shards and dumped them carefully into a nearby (and lined; he double checked) wastebasket. Most fortunate that the main office was floored in linoleum, rather than carpet or some other hard-to-clean material. "That sounds delightful," he agreed. "Usually I get the dregs this time of day, since everyone who doesn't go home right after school grabs it up before me. It's better than the night pot, at least."

The janitors and late afternoon trainers often brewed the last pot before he went home. As much as he liked coffee, it seemed to be the consensus to brew coffee strong enough to make jet fuel in the evening. Unless he was running later than usual, he usually just opted for grabbing a beer at the bar below his apartment instead - more consistent, and less likely to keep him up until three am.

"I finally finished jumping through all those IRS hoops I told you about in September," he added, standing up and offering a hand to help up Sean if his knees were bothering him today. "I even sent everything via fax, email, and in the mail, so they have documents in quadruple in case their system glitches again."

Which is what had happened with not only his personal return this year, but his request for an extension for the school back in spring. This year's tax season had not been as kind to taxpayers as had been promised.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Once Ricky had cleared the floor of the larger ceramic shards, Sean took his turn, carefully sweeping the surrounding area to remove the smaller fragments that might be invisible to the naked, non-enhanced eye. Not that he expected anyone to walk through the halls barefoot, but they still wanted to avoid accidentally embedding a shard in someone’s foot, or piercing their hand if they tripped and braced themselves for their fall.

“I know. The last time I stayed late and had an evening shift pot, I could swear it not only cleared my sinuses but I found new hair on my chest.” He liked strong coffee as much as the next person, but he required it sweeter and lighter than the viscous oil that constituted the night-shift brew. “There was still a doughnut hole or two in the box as well, unless someone snapped them up between when I left and now.”

A distinct possibility given the toll so many powers took on metabolism, appetite, and energy stores.

“That’s great news. I know that they’re behind on their backlog, but knowing that we won’t face an audit for tardiness is a cause for celebration.” Avoiding any additional bureaucracy affecting the Institute was a cause for celebration. “Were there any irregularities that I need to know about? Or can we set that firmly in the past until next April?”

After a final pass, the telepath set down the broom. He took the offered hand without hesitation, large fingers gripping Ricky’s smaller ones to gain perch before slowly rising to his feet. The inevitable wear and tear on the human body with each passing day, week, month, and year. What had once been a simple task, where he didn’t even require his hands to push off from the floor, now took its toll and left him increasingly feeble.

Not feeble. He was only sixty-two years old. And sixty-two was the new fifty-two.

Rising to his feet with the helping hand, he stretched, left knee popping softly while he found his balance. Now standing freely, he brought the dustpan to the same trash receptacle, dumping the contents unceremoniously, and then lightly tapping it against the edge twice to send the smallest particles scattering into the bag.

[Ricky O'Cassidy]

Many powers drained energy in a variety of ways; especially the vast array of psychic powers, which always seemed to correlate with drops in blood sugar (both sudden and gradual). As such, baked goods regularly found their way into the lounges and offices throughout the school, both store-bought and handmade. Frankly, he thoroughly enjoyed Tiberius' penchant for making fruit and vegetable breads in the cooler months (persimmon bread was always a highlight of the Christmas season), but otherwise could take or leave the sweet stuff. "I'll pass, thanks; I still have half my lunch left, if no one's eaten it on accident again."

Even if they had, he had a stash of single-serve snacks in his office... once he got back in, that is.

Lower center of gravity helped in pulling the tall man to his feet, and Ricky shook his head. "No, we just need to make sure the Coleys file the correct donation forms next trimester. Untangling that one wasn't hard, but I think they forget that it's a donation change, not an income bracket change, that warrants new paperwork." He laughed, slightly abashed. "But I suppose that's a good problem to have, right? Means more supplies for the kids that come here with nothing but their name."

There weren't many, but in a school of Hammel's size and a nation of their wealth, a "few" were a few too many in his book.

"Under the new administration, we need to make sure all of our transfer work visas and green card applications are up-to-date, though." Here the accountant turned sober; he hated when his job forced him to think about current policy. "I expect Hammel may maintain its exception status, but I wouldn't count on it, and I'd rather we didn't lose so many people at once if that changes." Or at all.

His work made him consider that losing at least one member of every department in the school, in addition to the only medical doctor on staff, would certainly waver public trust in the school (for those who knew of it), and thus damage the funding the school received privately. His personal ethics noted entire families would be displaced before their children were out of school, some of whom would be at risk of detention due to their minor status. Neither of which he was keen on, through both upbringing and personal attachment to the people in question. He didn't get on with all of them, didn't see some outside these walls, but that didn't mean they were disposable.

He shook off the gloom of the thought. Here's hoping next year changes things. "I'll make sure to send out reminders via email and mailbox notice for those who are due," he added, warming the conversation up again. "But if you could make sure they all got them when you see them?"

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean would not twist the other man’s arm and force him to partake of the treats in the staff lounge. He might be an acolyte of the baked good and the worshiper of all foods sweet and glucose-heavy, but he had set aside proselytizing when he left the Church.

“I hope not. I sent out a reminder the other month about minding the labels in the refrigerator.” Not merely as a favor to Ricky but because at a school like Hammel, where powers and side effects often dictated special diets, it was far more harmful than accidentally scarfing down the last apple in the family fruit bowl.

With the dustbin empty, he set the cleaning supplies to the side, a mental note to return them to his office when the conversation ended, but in no hurry to force the latter to enjoy the former. He nodded along as Ricky explained what few hiccups had occurred, only somewhat surprised to hear that it might have originated with the Coleys, if for no other reason than his understanding of wealth that vast entailed an army of accountants and one would think that somebody would have noticed before hand. However, he trusted Ricky’s expertise over that of unknown entities and thus replied, “I have a parent conference coming up, and I’ll add that to the list as an aside. I’m sure their accountant will get in touch with you afterward.”

But that was beyond the scope of Sean’s involvement. The conversation took a darker turn as Ricky outlined his fears, which matched conversations Sean had shared with other faculty or alone with his husband at night, far from prying ears.

“We won’t lose anyone.” Sean’s confidence was inspiring if not quite contagious, his expression placid as a lake, his voice firm as a redwood. Yet, so briefly, his bright blue eyes flashed with an intensity rarely seen outside of a protest, an argument with his sister, or commiseration with Josh. Others not privy to his inner self might interpret this as the same liberal naivete that had allowed the rightward shift of the Overton window throughout his life. The belief that good would prevail over evil, and that a crisis of conscience would lead to the cruel policies rescinded.

It was nothing of the sort.

Rather, if a confrontation awaited them in the future, Sean simply wouldn’t allow his students or coworkers to be ripped away by ICE, to be locked up in detention centers or deported in the middle of the night to nations they had left behind or else never knew. Unlike some of the armchair warriors who boasted online, he also had the ability to back up this plan. It would be illegal, but he had traveled this path before, and despite not relishing it, the telepath knew that as much as they might pretend otherwise, the law was not always moral, and not everything moral was legal.

“Hammel is a sanctuary, and nothing can change that.”

Sean shifted from that train of thought as easily as Ricky did, focusing on the trees of bureaucracy over the forest of justice. “Of course. I have to send out reminders for the staff meeting before I leave today, and I’ll add those to the list.”

[Ricky O'Cassidy]

Ricky shrugged; if it happened, it happened. That's why he was prepared. He tried to be as much as possible, but sometimes things just got away from him or he forgot.

That made him wonder if he remembered to pack his lunch in one of his permanently marked bags or a paper one. Had he been in a hurry this morning? Did he write his name on it? Eh, no point in worrying about it now. He could always grab something from the cafeteria, too.

As for the Coley finances, the CPA was used to it. Even without his ridiculous levels of luck, he had seen more than enough of these sorts of simple mistakes when he worked in California, as well as his starting years here at Hammel. Either someone new was being trained to take over an aspect of their wealth, someone forgot the limits of the aforementioned form, or one of the household did it themselves without consultation. "Make sure they know I'm not upset at all," he asked. "Mistakes happen, and it was an easy fix. No one needs to get in trouble for it."

Because goodness knows how upsetting the wealthy elite had gone for most people lately. Or, ever.

Though his concerns were assuaged by the confidence of the new Headmaster, Ricky still had a kernel of unease. Not because he didn't believe that everyone here would sacrifice what they had to in order to make his proclamation true, but because he worried what would happen as a direct result. For now, it looked like the school was too valuable to lose any staff; its purpose too necessary to risk closing it down. He would simply have to have faith. What else could he do?

Ricky's grateful smile erased the last bit of that for now; he worked best when he had oversight. "Thanks; I'll get those sent out in the next few hours, then."

He had nothing better to do tonight - may as well get in the salary-guaranteed overtime to ensure everything ran smoothly.

Taking another look at his jacket, he sighed, disappointed. Hopefully, it wasn't ripped - he rather liked this suit and didn't want to have to take it in for repairs so soon. He looked back quickly enough, though, and grinned his particular brand of laissez-faire at the psychic. "So, shall we, then? Coffee sounds even better right about now."

[Dr. Sean Neville]

These were the perks of keeping a mini-fridge in his office. Sean had not worried about lunch poaching, accidental or deliberate, since his residency days. He kept his office locked to protect the student files, which brought the additional benefit of protecting his lunch and snacks in the process. His sandwich or his leftovers from the night before remained unscathed each day, available only to him to enjoy at his leisure or when his blood sugar hit its nadir.

“I’ll make sure they know. It shouldn’t be a problem.” Not that Sean was privy to the hiring and firing decisions of the Coley clan, but his understanding of that world from the periphery involved entrenched relationships. A few mistakes here and there would not lead a family like that to fire their accountant, attorney, or money manager, particularly if they had seen them through good times and bad and the mistakes were easily rectified. He envisioned no consequences beyond filing an additional form or two in their system that protected the wealthy at the expense of the impoverished.

Sean had abandoned faith long ago, no longer capable of placing trust in a higher power or the randomness of the universe as some of his fellow atheists used as a substitution. After spending the first twenty-five years of his life believing in both eternal damnation and the concept of heaven, he took comfort in the knowledge that it was only what humans did for each other, to each other, that had lasting repercussions. He trusted his coworkers and had confidence in his own abilities and strength of character to do what was necessary if the situation arose, even as he expected only the worst from the parade of criminals that comprised the current administration. A collection that made Obi-Wan Kenobi’s den of scum and villainy veritable saints by comparison.

“Please do.” Sean would add it to his in-pile for the following morning, as he had no intention of remaining on campus for the next few hours, not with Josh waiting at home, his husband for once not keeping an excessively long day. The telepath intended to take advantage of the respite, but come the next morning, he would review his work emails prior to his first scheduled session.

Sean followed Ricky’s gaze to the jacket still trapped between the door and the jamb. A matter for the maintenance staff tonight, who would free the garment and leave it in Ricky’s office, or possibly bring it to the school lost and found given the other man’s luck despite finding it lodged within the accountant’s office space. A matter for the following morning.

With the invitation, he nodded, pausing to retrieve the broom and dust pan. “If you wait up, I can swap these out for my mug and we can repair together?”

[Ricky O'Cassidy]

"Sure, I don't mind." Best to get all the little things out of the way, after all. Plus, him standing there all by his lonesome without doing anything rarely caused any trouble (unless he was on a time crunch - then all clocks in the immediate vicinity would inexplicably be running late or be broken). Still he glanced around, managed to spot a lump of cloth under a chair in the front. Closer inspection of the object revealed it to be a scarf, so he dropped it into the Lost & Found box behind the reception desk... where he found his keys. Lucky!

Even better, he'd managed to get his door unlocked and open once Sean had returned, and (though rumpled and a bit scuffed) the accountant's suit jacket seemed unharmed. He grinned at his coworker, holding up the keys. "Must've lost them earlier in the day when I went for lunch," he said. "It's the last time I left the office, and I remember leaving my door open then. Someone was nice enough to turn them in."

The amusing thing about his luck was, despite all the randomly hilarious bad, there were spurts of good to counteract it. Usually quite quickly, in fact, or even intermixed among the unfortunate events. So really, all it took most days was an exceeding amount of care and preparation to counteract most things; everything else... well, it just came as it went.

Shifting on the jacket, Ricky brushed it out the best he could and tucked his keys in the pocket before pointing down the hall with his thumb. "Let's go!"

[Dr. Sean Neville]

With the agreement - not permission, social courtesy - Sean briefly took his leave of the younger man, grabbing both broom and dust pan as he retreated to his office. The journey was short and familiar, allowing the telepath to make short work of setting the equipment in his little closet, pausing long enough to wipe his hands with a tissue from the box on his desk to remove any pernicious grime from the floor or the handle, and then to retrieve his coffee mug.

The contents had cooled a bit. Not to the point of rendering the brew intolerable, but it could do with fifteen seconds in the microwave.

Fortunately, their next stop was the staff lounge, where he could avail himself both of fresh coffee and the microwave on the counter along the rear wall.

Upon returning to the corridor, he was greeted to the pleasant sight of Ricky’s coat free from the door, and, upon only the briefest inspection, lacking any visible tears. The O’Cassidy luck struck again, balancing itself out through whatever machinations the random universe unleashed upon them. His smile mirrored Ricky’s, albeit a touch more sedate as all of his expression tended to be. “What does that make the tally for today, between positive surprises and negative ones?”

They fell into step, walking down the hall, passing the doors of their colleagues, en route to the staff lounge.

[Ricky O'Cassidy]

Ricky pondered that, ticking off events mentally and on one hand. "I think that's gotta be six on one and seven on the other? Nine, if you count all the parts of this one separately. But finding out that Vincent and Ferris both brought pastries this morning definitely made up for half of today on its own. Black cherry danishes and croissants."

He wasn't too much of a sweets person, but danishes were a notable exception, and neither the trainer nor the head chef of the cafeteria made them as sticky sweet as the grocery store.

"Did you manage to snag any before they were gone? There were still a few when I came in."

Walking with Sean, who was easily half a foot taller than him, was an exercise in walking faster than usual. As an energetic person, Ricky didn't mind it at all; he simply kept up. A lot of people were taller than him, after all, and it was a lot easier for him to take three steps to their two than it was to make them slow their long strides.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

The assessment was about what Sean had expected, earning a nod and a, “That isn’t too bad for the end of the day.”

Given some of Ricky’s luck, the scale could easily be twice that on one side. Not bad at all.

“I had one this morning when I first stopped in, but now it’s doughnuts.” The home-baked treats always went more quickly than the store-bought. No matter that half of the faculty either baked themselves or had an significant other or family member who provided them with frequent treats, everyone still gravitated to tem, descending like a pack of locusts in the fields. The store-bought also went quickly enough given the sheer number of psychic faculty or the enhanced appetites of so many with kinetic or physical powers where anything, not merely glucose-heavy foods, were inhaled in a vain effort to quench the persistent rumble in their stomachs.

But there was something so comforting about home-baked treats.

Sean was hardly immune there.

“Which might also be gone by the time we get there.” It was the end of the day, after all.

The telepath tried to be mindful when walking with other people, aware of the length of his stride, transforming a single step for him into two for a shorter man and three for some of the students. Yet, even deliberately slowing, and not-so-deliberately coping with stiffness in his knees, he could so easily break ahead of his companions. Fortunately, the path to the staff lounge was familiar, and the distance not too great.