Jack glanced around the apartment, eyeing the clutter. His place was much tidier due to a weekly cleaning regime that had been ingrained in him since a child. Of course standards had slipped slightly since his newly acquired single status. He was growing more accustomed to the sights of a sink filled with dirty dishes waiting to be cleaned, a discarded mug in his room or his bathrobe laying across a sofa. Jack thought the random left out things sort of added something... something new.

"Water would do just fine, thanks." Jack answered. He hovered for a moment, not really wanting to 'make himself at home'. It was quite likely that wanting to watch Sam could be considered creepy. Simply put, Jack liked to observe people go about doing their things. It was unfortunate that most individuals did not appreciate being watched.

"I think it's a law somewhere that mother's must have crazy quirks." Jack grinned, slipped off his shoes and made his way into the livingroom.

He chose not to sit on the nearby couch and stood. Jack licked his lips and swallowed. His nerves seemed to be improving and he smiled slightly. He had a good feeling about this Samuel Greene person.

Apathy . . . ? Sam almost asked allowed, but decided it probably wasn't worth the convoluted answer he suspected he would get for the trouble. Keep things simple. Laid back was a lifestyle that he had perfected by doing so. He certainly wasn't about to change that now.

KISS. [OOC: This means Keep it simple stupid, Mauri]


He juggled the box with care. It was more difficult than it looked, but he was used to it. If he had more than one box he took the little red wagon that was a memento from his youth. It was also very handy when dragging a cart full of art supplies by yourself. It was something he'd started up in college, he'd never managed to return the wagon to his parents.

His door unlocked easily, and he held it open for Jack.

"Home sweet home?" he heard the man ask.

"Something like that," he smiled easily. Though it wasn't very much of a home.

The living room was clean enough, but the rest of the house was a mess. He very much hoped there would be no reason for Jack to go into the bedroom or the kitchen, though.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, seeing no reason to be impolite. "I think I have water, tea, and diet sprite--" he winced, "my mom always insists I have it for her and then only drinks one can so it sits around for months."

He motioned to the couch which took up the center of the room, placed before a small TV set, "Please, make yourself at home."

During the drive Jack had time to think. His mind was a mix of eagerness, curiosity, optimism and fear. Sure it felt exhilarating to embark on his new adventures, to move out of his own safety bubble so to speak. He made lists of things he wanted to do or accomplish. He scribbled down various little activities, big or small, on his calendar. Even if he didn't have a clear picture of where he wanted to end up at he felt liberated to, day by day, be on step closer to a new him. Nonetheless, it all was overwhelming and Jack had a tendency to ignore that fact. Any negative feeling or thought was categorized as nervousness; it sounded a lot better than a potential warning sign.

Jack smiled casually as he met up with Samuel in the parking lot. "Apathy works in my favor this time."

He followed the artist into the apartment complex. He nearly offered to take the box when they reached the main entrance but it seemed Samuel was skilled at managing to be able to unlock it and not drop the cardboard box in the process.

The apartment building caused Jack to give a small sigh; he was remembering his first place, the little one bedroom apartment that, despite its shabbiness, offered him complete freedom. Briefly, the idea of moving out of his current living establishment popped up. He was still in the rented and remodled duplex that Amber and him had shared. It was nice, the landlord was nice and the area was nice. It did, however, lack furniture and served as a reminder of his former life. Jack would consider it later.

They reached Samuel's door and Jack said, "Home sweet home?"

"You can follow if you like," Sam said. He walked over to a red truck and hefted the box into the truck bed. "My apartment's on the other side of town." He patted the side of the truck, "She's getting a bit old, but she's a reliable enough ride."

He climbed into the truck, "I'll meet you at the edge of the lot and you can follow me on. Which one is yours?"

He nodded at Jack's response and whistled mentally, pricy. It made him curious as to what he was getting into. Probably a hobbyist. Well, that was simple enough really. Sounded like he could pay for the lessons too, even better.

He waved to Jack as his car came into view and then pulled out onto the street. The trip took twenty minutes in the medium-light traffic, and he was careful to make sure he didn't leave Jack behind. He pulled into a spot in his apartment's lot, watching as Jack pulled in next to him.

"Technically there's a guest lot," he said as Jack walked up while he unloaded the cardboard box. "But no one really ever cares."

For a split second Jack considered the proposition. It was doubtful that Samuel Greene, a pleasant art teacher who clearly dealt with the aliens well would turn out to be a psychotic murderer in his spare time. Horror movies said otherwise.

"Sure, I have some time to come over," Jack responded optimistically, pushing out thoughts of him getting stabbed by paintbrushes. By some time, he meant a lot of time. Other then a few random things jotted down (that could be rearranged at any point), his schedule was basically open. All the time. Every day.

He followed Samuel out of the room, "It's alright if I just follow you? Or do you need a ride? Or do you get a ride from someone else? Ehh..." Jack had a difficult time gauging how old the other was other than he was younger. God... Thirty years old. It was depressing. Soon he'd be too old to even consider being a part of alien making.

When the last child left Sam turned to Jack, standing in the corner.

"Sorry about that. They should have told me, we could have picked a time to meet or something. I'd see if you wanted to chat over coffee or something but," he laughed at himself, "I'm not exactly presentable right now, am I?"

He picked up a cardboard box off the floor and started loading the finger paints into it. The paintings had left with the children. He hefted the box and started to the door.

"Sorry they do some sort of other class in here in about ten minutes. They'll get snippy if we're still here." He gestured for Jack to follow him. "Since I'm not really fit to go anywhere you can come to my flat and talk if you like. Or we can schedule a time to talk later. I guess I really need to know just what you're expecting before I can respond to your offer."

Jack observed the scene of the children putting their various supplies away; they were happily chattering, innocent, enjoying life. It made him think about Amber. More specifically, about the talk they had had every so often about starting a family. He hadn't been certain in the least bit. Babies looked incredibly alien like to him. And parenting involved so much responsibility: had to make sure the alien didn't die, wasn't horribly maimed, didn't turn into a psycho and ultimately became a successful human being in the end. And meanwhile, the parent had the pleasure of worrying nonstop and putting dollar after dollar into a trust fund hoping the little bugger would actually use the hard earned money wisely.

Of course, he told Amber that he would be delighted to be a father and they should seriously consider it when they were married and things stabilized. After all, she was the woman he went to bed with every night - a truthful answer would have been deadly.

Months later, the truth did reveal itself. Its entire self and, somehow, it hadn't been a catastrophe. It was then that family talks ceased. Marriage talks ceased. And their relationship ceased. Just like that. All the time, money, vacations and emotions invested into a single person gone... and it only took a few days to sort out and tie up all the loose ends and watch her walk out, bags in hand. It almost made Jack sick.

He felt more alive and that put his heart at ease (mostly). And now he was facing his hopefully soon to be art teacher and life was going to be good. It had to be good because Jack really didn't have a back up plan.

Jack had moved out of the door frame and was hanging in the nearby corner waiting patiently and hoping he didn't look like a strange creep. He watched Samuel clean up various tables and talk with the alie-children. The teacher seemed at ease and gave off a good vibe. Although, Jack respected anyone that could deal with children, elderly or the disabled.

"Oh," Sam blinked and looked his visitor over. "Um . . . no, I don't think anyone mentioned that."

He barely saved another container of paint from overturning. There was a pattern forming where the kids were concerned, which only could mean the carpet was destined to be stained before the classes ended later this month. He'd fight valiantly, but he was fated to fail.

"Uh, give me a minute. We were just about to start cleaning up, actually," he gave Jack one of his trademark smiles. Cute they were, or so he'd been told. Except he wasn't cute.

He turned back to the kids, raising his voices so they would all listen. "Hey, guys. Class is almost over, it's time to start cleaning up. Put your paintings on the table over there to dry," he pointed, pointing was the easiest way to explain things whether you where speaking to a child or an adult. Can't really misunderstand pointing. "Then wash up at the sink."

Boy was he glad this room had a sink in it. He wasn't quite sure why. It had never been a kitchen, was too large to be a bathroom. But he was thankful all the same. Otherwise he'd be taking kids single-file to the bathroom. That was too much like elementary school. He didn't want to be reduced to elementary school.

He turned to Jack again. "Hi, name's Samuel Greene, but I guess you already know that."

He offered his hand, before realizing belatedly it was smeared with red paint. He quickly wiped it off on his shirt. Blue and red streaks, he was vaguely patriotic.

"Ah ha, sorry about that. Anyway, if you can wait a few minutes while I wipe things up then we can talk a bit."

He was going to do it. No matter what. Today was the day. Jack had actually decided that yesterday night. Yesterday was supposed to be the day until the time magically flew by and he pushed the day forward. But today was the day and that's all that mattered.

Jack was sitting in his parked car looking at the community building. He glanced down at his attire - faded jeans and a white tee - and once again reassured himself that it was fine as he was only going to be talking. He was not art savvy, but he was certain that white coloured clothing and art were naturally a dangerous combination.

"Ok, get up and do it," Jack said to himself calmly.

He followed his directions, exited his vehicle and walked briskly toward the main doors. Seize the day! was a motto he'd grown attached to since his little transformation. Each step he took replaced his nervousness with a slowly, but steadily building excitement. Today was the day.

Earlier that week Jack had phoned the center in relation to signing up for art classes. Instead of a success, he had been told by an unapologetic receptionist that he'd missed the sign up date and all the classes had started a few weeks ago. Also, it was their policy that interested learners start at the beginning and thus wait for the next classes in a few months time. Normally Jack would have thanked her for the time and hung up the phone quickly. But that was the old Jack. The new Jack pressed her for more information not wanting to give up. He asked if there was any teacher that would possibly give private lessons. Samuel Greene might. She told Jack contact numbers and times he taught. Jack preferred to not deal with business over the phone so here he was inside and searching to find the correct room number.

Turning a corner, he could hear squeals and laughter. He could hear children. It made him smile. Samuel Greene apparently taught children's classes according to the receptionist. Jack hoped that his age wouldn't be a problem. His art skills could very much be akin to a 10 year old's anyhow.

Reaching the right door, he knocked, waited, and let himself in. He stood underneath the door frame and scanned the room full of short kids; it was easy to spot the only other adult besides him. The children didn't pay much attention to their new guest, most of them engaged in their colourful creations. They probably are better than me...

Jack smiled when Samuel Greene (he assumed) noticed his prescience, "Mr. Greene, I don't know if Nancy told you I'd be stopping by this week to talk with you..." He swallowed then forced himself to finish his introduction, "I'm Jack Hayes. Was interested in discussing private lessons." While waiting for a response, the conclusion he drew from Samuel Greene was, He sure looks the part of art teacher.

There was something about working with kids that always brought a smile to Sam's face. His smiles were small, showing a little bit of his teeth, and he'd been told he closed his eyes a little bit. Like a contented kitten. He objected to the comparison on basis of cuteness, it was the same as calling himself cute. He wasn't cute. He refused to be cute.

"That looks awesome!" he said to one of the kids, who looked up at him with a grin that was missing a few teeth. The child's fingers were stained with paint and Sam couldn't really tell what the painting was supposed to be of. But it was creative!

He moved on to the next, a small girl painting what looked like a mermaid. He said some encouraging words to her, moving on to the next. Repeat. And who said the life of an artist was different than the mundane life of an assembly line worker? Everything came down to repetition eventually in any job. It was just a matter of how much wiggle room existed for throwing in the occasional spontaneity.

And there was his spontaneity now. He just barely caught a jar of blue finger paint before it spilled onto the grass.

"Careful, Tommy," he shot the boy a small grin. The boy grinned sheepishly back, a bit embarassed.

"Sorry, Mr. Greene," he said. "I got excited."

He ruffled the boy's hair. "No worries. I caught it before it could make a mess."

Moving on he realized he'd unconsciously wiped his hands on his T-shirt. Which was now streaked with blue in lines that conspicuously matched the spacing of his fingers. And another clean shirt bites the dust. Oh well, he preferred them paint-stained anyway, it gave them character. Or something like that.

It was a hot day, not really surprising in the middle of summer, and he was working up a good sweat. Perfect compliment to blue paint, he thought wryly. Oh yes, he'd have all the boys falling over him. He wiped sweat from his hand and turned back to his young charges.

The job hadn't appealed to him at first. As a single child he'd never really gotten on with other kids growing up the way he imagined that people who had siblings did. And children were something of a foreign concept to him now. However, commissions were slow in coming and teaching children classes at the local community building had easily offered better pay. Money triumphed every time, it simply came down to that.

It was just a bonus that he was actually enjoying working with the little brats. But only if they didn't manage to spill paint over his sneakers. Again.