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Scott and Ororo - At the protest
Ororo and Scott keep an eye on things at the rally.
Ororo had seen protests before. They had been great opportunities to pick the pockets of people focused on other things, back in Cairo. But none of them had really touched her personally. She'd never wondered what it would be like to stand (or, in this case, sit) with the protesters.
As things were, she was standing with Scott at the front of the curious onlookers. The ones who were neither with the protesters, nor with the counter-protesters waving hate signs and chanting hate chants on the other side of the circle of sitters, separated from them by a cordon of police officers, and a standing line of protest security, civilians who had volunteered to help. Her all too striking hair was hid under a long black wig, so she would not draw attention. They weren't there to protest, only to keep an eye on things.
She had not expected how difficult it would be to be faced with the hatred pouring from the counter-protesters, however, and her jaw was tense, her gaze hard. "So this is America," she said quietly, for Scott's ears only.
"Part of it," he murmured in agreement. He was dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Like he might be the kind of guy who wore glasses like his for the aesthetic of it. "We've got our fair share of hatred, same as everywhere else."
Everywhere else didn't claim to be the best country in the world. Everywhere else didn't pretend to be a shining beacon of all things good and right. Truth, justice, and the American way? There was nothing true or just in this. But that was not a conversation Ororo wanted to get into, not here and now, with their hatred rubbing her raw. She was so grateful that Jean wasn't there to feel it.
"Fair doesn't seem appropriate," she only replied. She knew the idiomatic use of it, but it still bore saying.
He watched shouting in both sides, for a long moment. Hate shouted down with acceptance, or at least tolerance. Slurs. Oblique threats. An under-currant on the protester side of solidarity. For better or worse, American civics at work. "Hatred is rarely fair," he admitted.
Ororo smiled faintly at that. How true it was. "On that, we agree," she confirmed. Without looking at him, she slid her hand in his, to hold it. It was something for her to draw comfort from, but she hoped that he would, too.
He wrapped his fingers around hers; disagreements or not, he was here for her.
Scott supposed it said something troubling about him - had to live up to that troubled youth label somehow, he supposed - but the raw hatred didn't upset him. It kept him vigilant, to be sure. Raw hate could easily erupt into violence. But it wasn't what actually made him afraid.
Random mutant-hating psychos he could deal with. They could deal with. They were isolated and easily neutralized threats.
The cops with the firearms. Then he was afraid of. Scott had too often been at the mercy of an uncaring state to trust that it had his back now. He suspected Ororo didn't trust them much further than he did.
"A lot of cops," he observed softly.
"Unsurprising," Ororo replied. Tensions surrounding the 'mutant issue' were only raising. At least New York City was supposed to be a mutant-friendly city, so their orders had to be better here than in some other places. But fear was fear, and there was no telling what a scared police officer might do. She might not have lived in America for very long, but this one book had stayed with her, The Hate U Give. It had explained more to her about what being Black in America meant than she had learned in the rest of her stay here, sheltered as they were at Xavier's. "But... yes," she acknowledged what Scott likely had meant about the cops, about the danger they represented.
"I count...three, no four, handguns. And that guy has a sawed-off shotgun," he said softly, nodding his head in those directions. None of them had made for their guns, though, at least not yet.
"I only have two handguns, and that shotgun," Ororo replied with a frown. Maybe they ought to get some classes in gun-detection, because she clearly wasn't as good as... "Okay, three." She was only missing one now.
"The way that guy is shifting," Scott murmured, gesturing surreptitiously. "Carrying behind his back, in his waistband. Like an idiot."
"Thank you," Ororo told him as she followed his gesture, and studied the man - and the way he regularly checked his waistband with one hand. "I see what you mean."
Suddenly, one of the counterprotesters managed to break through the police cordon and spit in the face of one of the security volunteers. Her hand tightened around Scott's as security intervened, and handed him off to the police. It was over in under a minute, but her heart was still thudding hard in her chest.
His fingers twitched, as though aching to come up to his visor, but he managed not to otherwise outwardly react. The line of people dividing the counterprotesters from the main event had volunteered for that job, and had to have known what it would entail. They didn't need rescuing, and his intervention would only escalate the problems. "At least they handled it quick."
"I didn't fully realize that this would be hell on my nerves," Ororo admitted, quiet despite her tension.
"It's hard, facing people that think you're barely human," Scott agreed softly. "Even if they don't realize they mean you."
Ororo shook her head slowly. "That, I expected." Especially after rescuing Nick. "It's the way this could all go to hell in an instant." She tried to remember the idiom that would fit the situation, but couldn't quite get there. "Something about gunpowder?"
"Sitting on a powder keg," he murmured. "Absolutely."
"That," Ororo confirmed steadily. She squeezed Scott's hand briefly. "But I am glad I came."
He nodded. "If it does blow up, I'd rather we be here than....not." Even with everything else going on, and fuck knew there was plenty, that was still true.
Ororo looked away from the protest, to watch his profile, instead. "We're lucky to have you. I hope you know that." She suspected that he didn't, but that didn't stop her from hoping.
A flash of surprise crossed his face before he could help it. "Uh, thanks."
Ororo smiled a little as she looked back ahead. "Some day, I'm going to give you a compliment. And you're no longer going to be surprised." A pause, and, "I look forward to that day."
He looked genuinely perplexed, but elbowed her gently in gratitude. "You're a good teammate. And a good friend."
Her smile deepened. "Good."
Ororo had seen protests before. They had been great opportunities to pick the pockets of people focused on other things, back in Cairo. But none of them had really touched her personally. She'd never wondered what it would be like to stand (or, in this case, sit) with the protesters.
As things were, she was standing with Scott at the front of the curious onlookers. The ones who were neither with the protesters, nor with the counter-protesters waving hate signs and chanting hate chants on the other side of the circle of sitters, separated from them by a cordon of police officers, and a standing line of protest security, civilians who had volunteered to help. Her all too striking hair was hid under a long black wig, so she would not draw attention. They weren't there to protest, only to keep an eye on things.
She had not expected how difficult it would be to be faced with the hatred pouring from the counter-protesters, however, and her jaw was tense, her gaze hard. "So this is America," she said quietly, for Scott's ears only.
"Part of it," he murmured in agreement. He was dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Like he might be the kind of guy who wore glasses like his for the aesthetic of it. "We've got our fair share of hatred, same as everywhere else."
Everywhere else didn't claim to be the best country in the world. Everywhere else didn't pretend to be a shining beacon of all things good and right. Truth, justice, and the American way? There was nothing true or just in this. But that was not a conversation Ororo wanted to get into, not here and now, with their hatred rubbing her raw. She was so grateful that Jean wasn't there to feel it.
"Fair doesn't seem appropriate," she only replied. She knew the idiomatic use of it, but it still bore saying.
He watched shouting in both sides, for a long moment. Hate shouted down with acceptance, or at least tolerance. Slurs. Oblique threats. An under-currant on the protester side of solidarity. For better or worse, American civics at work. "Hatred is rarely fair," he admitted.
Ororo smiled faintly at that. How true it was. "On that, we agree," she confirmed. Without looking at him, she slid her hand in his, to hold it. It was something for her to draw comfort from, but she hoped that he would, too.
He wrapped his fingers around hers; disagreements or not, he was here for her.
Scott supposed it said something troubling about him - had to live up to that troubled youth label somehow, he supposed - but the raw hatred didn't upset him. It kept him vigilant, to be sure. Raw hate could easily erupt into violence. But it wasn't what actually made him afraid.
Random mutant-hating psychos he could deal with. They could deal with. They were isolated and easily neutralized threats.
The cops with the firearms. Then he was afraid of. Scott had too often been at the mercy of an uncaring state to trust that it had his back now. He suspected Ororo didn't trust them much further than he did.
"A lot of cops," he observed softly.
"Unsurprising," Ororo replied. Tensions surrounding the 'mutant issue' were only raising. At least New York City was supposed to be a mutant-friendly city, so their orders had to be better here than in some other places. But fear was fear, and there was no telling what a scared police officer might do. She might not have lived in America for very long, but this one book had stayed with her, The Hate U Give. It had explained more to her about what being Black in America meant than she had learned in the rest of her stay here, sheltered as they were at Xavier's. "But... yes," she acknowledged what Scott likely had meant about the cops, about the danger they represented.
"I count...three, no four, handguns. And that guy has a sawed-off shotgun," he said softly, nodding his head in those directions. None of them had made for their guns, though, at least not yet.
"I only have two handguns, and that shotgun," Ororo replied with a frown. Maybe they ought to get some classes in gun-detection, because she clearly wasn't as good as... "Okay, three." She was only missing one now.
"The way that guy is shifting," Scott murmured, gesturing surreptitiously. "Carrying behind his back, in his waistband. Like an idiot."
"Thank you," Ororo told him as she followed his gesture, and studied the man - and the way he regularly checked his waistband with one hand. "I see what you mean."
Suddenly, one of the counterprotesters managed to break through the police cordon and spit in the face of one of the security volunteers. Her hand tightened around Scott's as security intervened, and handed him off to the police. It was over in under a minute, but her heart was still thudding hard in her chest.
His fingers twitched, as though aching to come up to his visor, but he managed not to otherwise outwardly react. The line of people dividing the counterprotesters from the main event had volunteered for that job, and had to have known what it would entail. They didn't need rescuing, and his intervention would only escalate the problems. "At least they handled it quick."
"I didn't fully realize that this would be hell on my nerves," Ororo admitted, quiet despite her tension.
"It's hard, facing people that think you're barely human," Scott agreed softly. "Even if they don't realize they mean you."
Ororo shook her head slowly. "That, I expected." Especially after rescuing Nick. "It's the way this could all go to hell in an instant." She tried to remember the idiom that would fit the situation, but couldn't quite get there. "Something about gunpowder?"
"Sitting on a powder keg," he murmured. "Absolutely."
"That," Ororo confirmed steadily. She squeezed Scott's hand briefly. "But I am glad I came."
He nodded. "If it does blow up, I'd rather we be here than....not." Even with everything else going on, and fuck knew there was plenty, that was still true.
Ororo looked away from the protest, to watch his profile, instead. "We're lucky to have you. I hope you know that." She suspected that he didn't, but that didn't stop her from hoping.
A flash of surprise crossed his face before he could help it. "Uh, thanks."
Ororo smiled a little as she looked back ahead. "Some day, I'm going to give you a compliment. And you're no longer going to be surprised." A pause, and, "I look forward to that day."
He looked genuinely perplexed, but elbowed her gently in gratitude. "You're a good teammate. And a good friend."
Her smile deepened. "Good."