Singin' drunken lullabies

The object didn’t hit Tom in the face and Wade is slightly upset about it. He thought it’d be funny to knock the guy out for sheer entertainment, but he’d settle for the cut on Tom’s jaw. “Ya know, a lot of people tell me that one. You should be thanking me though, otherwise you’d be in here bored!” he jumps up and down for a moment before picking up something else.

When the bookend came back at him, Wade dodged in time for it to hit his arm instead of his head. “Ow!” he screams entirely too loud for no real reason. “You could have taken my arm off!” The item cracks and Wade leaves it where it landed hoping Hank might find it later and throw a huge fit about it. He always wanted to see the temper of the Beast. He’d only ever heard gossip about it and never saw it up close. He wondered if it was even a real thing. The guy was sickeningly sweet, it was irritating and punch-in-the-face worthy gross. “So when are you allowed to leave, fancy pants?”

Tom gave a sigh of annoyance at the broken bookend, knowing he would be blamed for the damage. It was his fault, true, but he had cause. He wondered if a self-defense approach would work on old Hank, but preemptively decided to just toss the cracked remains and play the fool instead. Required less effort on his part. And less looking into Hank’s grossly genuine puppy-dog eyes. Yeck. 

At Wade’s question, his gaze instinctively goes to the wall-mounted clock. He still had about thirty minutes left of office hours before he could close up shop and fuck off for a drink and, if he could swing it, a shag. He most certainly wouldn’t be swinging anything with anyone if he had Deadpool leeching onto him all night. “What’s it matter to ye?” He wanted to know, the sarcasm on his voice thick as honey. “Ya hopin’ we could go to the pub, have a beer, like a right couple of mates?”

“What do I even do around here?” Wade scoffs as he digs around in a bookshelf off to the side of the room. This place has so many books, Wade almost wants to knock over every shelf in the class to give Tom something to do instead of sit there on his throne and judge. Picking up a bookend sitting on the top of the shelf, Wade tosses it up and down in his hand a few times before snapping his attention back in Tom’s direction.

“Well, ya see… I have this awesome ability to understand over twenty different languages. Who’s counting though, am I right?” It isn’t like Tom couldn’t just walk down one floor to the very end of the hall and see Wade’s own office. Of course, it didn’t have his real name or even superhero name on the door. It just said ‘Language Course Instructor #1′. “Anyway, he begged me– or more like said ‘I guess Mr. Wilson can teach language courses’ and here I am!” The object Wade picked up earlier is then thrown straight at Tom’s face because Wade wants to see what he’ll do next.

Tom hadn’t known this about the other man. He’d always assumed that... Well, he hadn’t really assumed anything about Wade. He does think it’s an impressive skill to have, but would never say that aloud. Tom wasn’t one to just dole out praise, and he’s certain Wade doesn’t deserve it. And even if he did, Tom’s pride wouldn’t let him utter even the semblance of a kind word toward the other.

Watching Wade with a cocked brow, he anticipates whatever mayhem he was to bring upon him. When that mayhem came in the form of a bookend, he has the mind to move an inch to the right. Though this saves him from a direct hit, it does manage to graze his jaw. A hand goes up to touch the spot, and when he draws his fingers back he notices there’s a little bit of blood. Prick. At least it hadn’t done any real damage to his face. His beautiful, beautiful face. He would’ve surely wrung Wade’s neck. “Yer a right cunt, ye know that?” He told the other man, then proceeded to pick the bookend up from the floor and threw it right back at him.

“I could…” Wade pretends to think it over, “Hmm…” Remy was back, that would be a fun time as always, but really he wasn’t in the mood for Cajun today. “Nope!” he exclaims and sits down on the edge of Tom’s desk. “I love you too much to be one second without you!”

Grabbing a stapler, Wade opens it and places it against Tom’s arm ready to pull the trigger, “You know, I once stapled a paper mask to my face to impress my girlfriend.” He pops the stapler once, then five more times until he processes the fact that it’s empty. “Did you do this on purpose?! Hank always has staples!” he glares at Tom and tosses the useless object behind his back. This betrayal will not go unpunished, he jots this moment down in his mind and moves off the desk to find something else to threaten the teacher’s aide with.

“Yeh, I fucking know,” he says, certain he’s heard that story more times than he cared to remember. The most baffling part of it was that Wade ever had a girlfriend. He doesn’t flinch when Wade attempts to unload the stapler on him, only rolling his eyes. He’d gotten rid of the staples, that much was true, but not because he’d anticipated the other man aiming it at one of his limbs. Really he did it just to be an asshole, but was glad this kind of behavior was finally paying off.

Jean nearly rolls her eyes to the sky at his cheap pass, she definitely did not want anything with him that badly. But it was fun, it was a distraction. It kept her from thinking about Scott and how she would only let him down. Or Alex and how her feelings for him were not as pure as she made herself and others believe. It would even be a distraction from her father and the obvious innumerable things he was keeping from her. And how sick she was becoming, of her own volition. It would be fun, it would be easy. 

“Depends on how bad you want me to be,” she shrugs, playing into the corny little game they’re playing. Standing up, she flicks her fingers towards the door and it locks audibly. “You’ve got…” she looks to the clock and it takes her under a second before she’s continuing, “about twenty minutes to impress me enough to come back for more.” Rounding the desk, she uses her powers to make his chair turn away from the desk and face her. “I’ve got high hopes for you.”

Tom took as much time as he dared before making a move, for a moment unsure whether she was serious or not. She seemed to be, judging by the command in her tone, making her far ballsier her than he’d originally presumed. He again considers the potential repercussions, before coming to the quick and tidy conclusion that he simply didn’t care. He didn’t care about Xavier’s school or his job all that much, and surely that was all he truly risked to lose. He didn’t even care what the redhead’s real intentions were, for if there was one thing he knew for certain it was that everybody had ulterior motives. And while he, naturally, thought the sun rose and set on him, he figures it’s probably not his charm and dashing good looks that are driving her actions.

There was nothing exciting to do around these parts. He was almost never invited on the missions, always being left behind because ‘You can’t kill them, Wade.’ As if. Everyone was going to die some day, except him, the least he could do was give them a mega awesome death! So the next best thing was bothering people. Whether he was just annoying them, drinking with them, or stabbing them if they’re old wolfy boy, Wade found joy in the little things. When Tom groaned, Wade grinned.

Faking an Irish accent because Wade loved doing accents, he replied, “Aw, did Tommy-boy get stuck in the office while Panky is out?”

Tom’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his head at Wade’s presence, least of all at the imitation of his accent. The other man was quickly becoming the bane of his existence. Fatally annoying and seemingly able to pop up anywhere, Wade was like a cockroach in spandex. And with fifty minutes left of office hours, Tom was pretty much at the whim of his verbal jabs, of which he would equate to being flicked in the head over and over again for all eternity. Even that didn’t do him justice. 

“Can’t ya go have a wank somewhere else? I’m working.” He says the last bit with a grand gesture of his arms, knowing full well he hadn’t done jack shit all day. In fact, the most productive thing he’d done in the past few hours was try to find anything potentially embarrassing among Hank’s personal effects. And much to his disappointment, he turned up nothing.

Jean had heard other girls talking about the new arrival. They were over the moon impressed by Tom, they thought he was funny and charming. She thought he was full of shit. Feigning a relieved noise, she leans forward on the desk as well so that their faces are only half a foot apart. Her red hair brushes the desk as she appraises him, by vision only of course because she wasn’t interested in his mind. In fact, she found it incredibly dull compared to the rest of him. And his powers of course, she did seem to be attracted to men who could cause a ruckus. 

“Helpful?” she repeats, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You don’t say…” Poppy was going to get on her case about this later, but what’s a girl to do when both men she has feelings for are with someone else? As if reconsidering asking him, she sighs and sits back while she shakes her head. “I’m a needy girl, Mr. Cassidy,” she warns. “Are you sure you’re willing to help, no matter what?”

This turn of events is a pleasant surprise. The headmaster’s daughter was ballsy, and he respects that. It only made her all the more attractive to him. There certainly was an element of danger to this whole charade, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find the potential dynamic of teacher and student alluring. It was a bit of a gamble, whatever this was. Just flirting with the redhead could get him in some deep shit, of which being sacked would be the least of his troubles. Xavier would no doubt have him telepathically by the balls if he so much as laid a finger on his precious daughter. Of course, this scarcely discouraged him. The possible peril only made him want to pursue this more.

Tom loved women. But he had only ever loved, that is sincerely and deeply, one woman in particular. And look where that got him. It was far easier to resign himself to the whole thing (which he did swiftly and all at once), finding that meaningless sex suited him just fine. He’s not so brazen to think that might be where this little interaction was heading, as she was no doubt listening and he was, admittedly, still enjoying the banter. “Is that so?” he asks, his eyes trained on her as she sits back in the chair. “Hmmm, I’m not making any promises. Guess it all depends on how bad you want it.” There’s a beat before he picks the sentence back up. “Help. Of course. Might make a special exception.”

When the bar goes quiet, Reyna looks up from where she’s working to see what could’ve scared their patrons into a rare silence. It’s unsurprising to see Thomas Cassidy, given that not many men held the power in this place to quieten it. But Mr Cassidy’s name preceded him, and even those who hadn’t dealt with him, knew of him. Reyna glances over at Lucy who’s already preparing a drink for him, and so returns to cleaning glasses as she was. She would be foolish not to be wary of the man, but she also didn’t like to show fear. Respect was more useful.

When he beckons for her, she puts down her cloth and glass to go over. At his request, she pulls out a small book of matches and offers it to him. “Can I get you anything else, Mr Cassidy?”

“Your time, is all.” He strikes the match on its side and lights his cigarette, taking an easy drag before speaking again. “I think we could be of use to each other.” This was the very reason he’d come to the tavern. After taking notice of her (it was difficult not to, with a face like that) the last time he came around, he’d sent a few of his men to do some investigating. It was but a minor invasion of her privacy in the grand scheme, and it resulted in his becoming privy to details such as her name and address. Personal details one might acquire by simply asking, but Tom preferred to be one step ahead. Two, if he could manage. In his line of work, information often proved a more useful weapon than a shiv or gun, though he had no intention of this conversation taking a threatening turn. No, this was all business. And he’s fairly certain he can get what he wants.

“I’ve got a business proposition for ya,” he says cordially, ashing his cigarette in a little metal tin. Pausing and peering over his shoulder, he is unsure if they were being listened to but found the idea probable. “Let’s you and me go for a walk, what do ya say?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

Klara paused in the doorway when she realised the man at the desk wasn’t Dr McCoy. Especially when she saw the young man who was there’s expression. It seemed like thinly veiled annoyance that she was there, though she had no idea if it was personal. She tried to convince herself it wasn’t, reminding herself what Ms Marie and Wanda taught her about people here. That they weren’t bad.

“I… I is looking for Dr McCoy. I need to talk with him. He is… not here?”

Dark curls shake as he turns his head from left to right, pretending to look around the office as if Hank might be hiding somewhere. He then regards her with a shrug and an expression of faux bemusement. "Looks like that, yeah?” He tips back in his chair and idly looks at the young girl before him. Her accent is thick, and he vaguely recognizes it as being slavic. “I’m here in his place, taking biology questions and such.” His eyes squint a little as he inspects her again, asking bluntly, “Are ya even old enough to be in a biology class?”

When he entered the tavern, all went silent. Patrons stalled their gossip, their arguing, any and all occupations were at once abandoned, and silence fell over the pub. He ventures further inside, drawing deeply on what was left of a cigarette. The eyes that track him are nervous, mindful, and he takes a wicked pleasure in their fear and respect of him; he takes pleasure in the fact that his reputation continues to proceed him. It was not particularly surprising though, given the Black Birds swift and total dominion over these streets. Anyone with half a brain knew he was the man calling the shots. This tavern had fallen under the protection of the gang in the past months, but loyalties could be such a fickle thing. Nobody wanted to end up making enemies with the wrong sort. Though in this part of town, it was often times difficult to discern the wrong from the right. Which sort Thomas Cassidy belonged to was entirely dependent on who you asked. 

He makes his way to the bar, and a blonde barmaid has already set out a glass and a bottle of Irish whisky. He puts out the tiny stub of his cigarette and pours himself a drink, scanning the pub with a bored detachment before knocking it back. The patrons were quick to resume their business in a careful show of absorption, heedful to not challenge his gaze. Tom’s sights eventually come to settle on the dark-haired barmaid cleaning glasses at the other end of the counter. He beckons to her with a vague twitch of his fingers. When she approaches, he languidly pulls out a second cigarette from his jacket pocket and places it between his teeth. “Ya got a match?”