Scott and Trowa
Oct. 2nd, 2017 10:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ax_nanashi posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ax_mainScott and Trowa have a brief, sweet bonding over their love of wheels.
Scott had hardly believed his eyes a couple of months ago when he'd set eyes on an old, non-functioning motorcycle. It was in rough condition, to be sure, but even then she was a thing of beauty. He'd started rebuilding her within a day, and without permission. Still, Xavier was a telepath, and it hadn't bee long before Scott was caught. Rather than calling him on the carpet for it, the Professor had told him the bike was his to keep.
He'd been given an escape vehicle, and it was one more brick in the foundation of trust between Scott and Xavier.
Now, she was nearing completion, having been rebuilt over time through scavenging, bargaining, and a metric fuckton of elbow grease. And, if Scott did say so himself, she was gorgeous.
She was also currently being examined by a too-thin kid in a battered camo jacket. The kid was crouched by the rear wheel, looking the machine over with a sharp gaze, drumming his fingers on the knee of his jeans.
"Can I help you?" Scott asked as he drew closer. He wasn't possessive about much, but this bike was his baby.
The boy looked up, his eyes shaded by a drape of stiff, coarse bangs.
"Did you do this? It's good work."
Scott couldn't help but be a bit pleased at the praise. "Yeah. Built her from the ground up," he said.
"I've never worked on one this new." He rose to his feet easily and walked around the bike in slow circle, obviously admiring, despite his closed-off expression. "Is this for class here?"
Scott shook his head. "Personal project. You like bikes, huh?"
"I like machines. Trucks. Bikes. Jeeps." The kid had an accent, something verging on Russian, but not quite there. "I had to patch a boat engine once, but it was mostly distraction. I prefer wheels."
Scott preferred wheels too. He'd preferred wings, once, but those days were long gone. "You sound like you know a thing or two about engines," Scott said, looking a bit impressed. "What's your name?"
"Trowa Barton. I arrived a few days ago." He looked at Scott expectantly.
"Scott Summers." He offered Trowa a hand to shake.
Trowa shook his hand briefly, but then his attention was on the bike again.
"You have ridden it?"
Scott nodded. "A few times. She's not quite done." Though admittedly 'done' would be a moving target. Scott knew himself well enough to know he'd probably tinker with his girl until he physically couldn't.
The faintest ghost of a smile appeared on Trowa's lips. "There's more to do?"
"Isn't there always?" Scott smiled, just a touch, as well.
"Hn." Trowa couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the motorcycle. "It's obvious you don't need my help. But if you're ever in need of an extra set of hands, I'm in room 111."
Scott looked at the other teen for a long moment, weighing him with his eyes. He'd learned young, and fast, the value of gut-instincts and judgments. (And yes, sure, the Professor was right, he couldn't just judge everyone all the time, but old habits died hard and it had kept Scott alive so far.) He was loathe to let anyone else touch his baby, but he'd gotten her road-worthy himself at least, the rest was just gravy.
Finally, he said, "Well, you're an engine guy; I've been looking at turbo-ing her next..."
Trowa's visible eye widened slightly in surprise. "I'll have to do some research. But I'll bring you some options. Unless you have something in mind already?"
"We can each do some research and then put our heads together," Scott offered. He'd already done some, but he hadn't landed on specifics yet.
Trowa nodded. "The library here. Would it have anything?"
"They should, though most of the hardcopy stuff is related to cars. We can use the school's computers, though, too," Scott said.
"Hn." Trowa nodded, though he looked less than thrilled with that option. "All right. When should we meet again?"
Scott pulled a tiny planner, which after several months of life in his back-pocket had clearly seen better days, out of and flipped it open to check. "In a week? Same time, same day?"
"Affirmative." And then he was gone, every inch a man with a mission.
Scott had hardly believed his eyes a couple of months ago when he'd set eyes on an old, non-functioning motorcycle. It was in rough condition, to be sure, but even then she was a thing of beauty. He'd started rebuilding her within a day, and without permission. Still, Xavier was a telepath, and it hadn't bee long before Scott was caught. Rather than calling him on the carpet for it, the Professor had told him the bike was his to keep.
He'd been given an escape vehicle, and it was one more brick in the foundation of trust between Scott and Xavier.
Now, she was nearing completion, having been rebuilt over time through scavenging, bargaining, and a metric fuckton of elbow grease. And, if Scott did say so himself, she was gorgeous.
She was also currently being examined by a too-thin kid in a battered camo jacket. The kid was crouched by the rear wheel, looking the machine over with a sharp gaze, drumming his fingers on the knee of his jeans.
"Can I help you?" Scott asked as he drew closer. He wasn't possessive about much, but this bike was his baby.
The boy looked up, his eyes shaded by a drape of stiff, coarse bangs.
"Did you do this? It's good work."
Scott couldn't help but be a bit pleased at the praise. "Yeah. Built her from the ground up," he said.
"I've never worked on one this new." He rose to his feet easily and walked around the bike in slow circle, obviously admiring, despite his closed-off expression. "Is this for class here?"
Scott shook his head. "Personal project. You like bikes, huh?"
"I like machines. Trucks. Bikes. Jeeps." The kid had an accent, something verging on Russian, but not quite there. "I had to patch a boat engine once, but it was mostly distraction. I prefer wheels."
Scott preferred wheels too. He'd preferred wings, once, but those days were long gone. "You sound like you know a thing or two about engines," Scott said, looking a bit impressed. "What's your name?"
"Trowa Barton. I arrived a few days ago." He looked at Scott expectantly.
"Scott Summers." He offered Trowa a hand to shake.
Trowa shook his hand briefly, but then his attention was on the bike again.
"You have ridden it?"
Scott nodded. "A few times. She's not quite done." Though admittedly 'done' would be a moving target. Scott knew himself well enough to know he'd probably tinker with his girl until he physically couldn't.
The faintest ghost of a smile appeared on Trowa's lips. "There's more to do?"
"Isn't there always?" Scott smiled, just a touch, as well.
"Hn." Trowa couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the motorcycle. "It's obvious you don't need my help. But if you're ever in need of an extra set of hands, I'm in room 111."
Scott looked at the other teen for a long moment, weighing him with his eyes. He'd learned young, and fast, the value of gut-instincts and judgments. (And yes, sure, the Professor was right, he couldn't just judge everyone all the time, but old habits died hard and it had kept Scott alive so far.) He was loathe to let anyone else touch his baby, but he'd gotten her road-worthy himself at least, the rest was just gravy.
Finally, he said, "Well, you're an engine guy; I've been looking at turbo-ing her next..."
Trowa's visible eye widened slightly in surprise. "I'll have to do some research. But I'll bring you some options. Unless you have something in mind already?"
"We can each do some research and then put our heads together," Scott offered. He'd already done some, but he hadn't landed on specifics yet.
Trowa nodded. "The library here. Would it have anything?"
"They should, though most of the hardcopy stuff is related to cars. We can use the school's computers, though, too," Scott said.
"Hn." Trowa nodded, though he looked less than thrilled with that option. "All right. When should we meet again?"
Scott pulled a tiny planner, which after several months of life in his back-pocket had clearly seen better days, out of and flipped it open to check. "In a week? Same time, same day?"
"Affirmative." And then he was gone, every inch a man with a mission.
