Participants:
| Scene Title | Caught in the Cookie Jar |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Late night convergence in the common room of the Endgame safehouse ends up with Devon caught in the middle a bit as well. |
| Date | July 24, 2011 |
Skinny Brickfront, Endgame Safehouse
It's still plenty warm in the house, though night has fallen. It's at least no longer stifling. And at this hour, most people have sought out their beds and the respective privacy of their rooms in order to cool off before attempting sleep.
Seemingly everyone, that is except for Devon.
The teenager, some hour-ish or so ago, had emerged from the room he's again sharing with Graeme when the teacher came in. The man looked as though he'd wanted to be alone anyway. Devon has since taken up residency at one of the large spools acting as a table, sitting on a camp chair. His shirt rests in a heap near his feet, and in one hand is a spoon. It's angled to give him an inverted view of the bandage fixed to his side, the bandage that covers a wound from which spreads an unpleasant looking bruise. The boy's other hand picks at a corner of the bandage, carefully trying to peel the thing off.
The Frenchwoman herself is close to sleep. She'd already be asleep, really, if it weren't for the fact that she suddenly had a very large thirst come over her. She's wearing PJs today, loose pants and a loose shirt and a pair of slippers, as she shuffles down the stairs. She looks rather tired, really, rubbing at her eyes and yawning to announce her presence.
The sight of Devon causes the telepath to pause, before she quietly begins her tired shuffle toward him. "Looks painful," she murmurs in a soft tone, stepping closer. "Do you need 'elp?" She tilts her head, eyes upon the bandage. "Seems like two 'ands would be better zan one, in zis case." Though she is rather hesitant to touch the boy, knowing what will likely follow.
Graeme eventually does emerge from his room, after some time, after having given himself some time to just chill out.
Returning to the main room to find the teenager and Remi brings an annoyed frown to his face, and instead of merely chiding the teen he shakes his head. The teen earns a quizzical look. "He does not need help, and he's going to stop doing that," the teacher says, with the authority and certainty in his voice that is in fact echoed in his manner, as he pulls a second camp chair up next to the table, not sitting down yet.
Having not truly expected anyone for a while, or simply assuming that he'd be alone long enough to get rid of the gauze and tape, Devon startles at the voice. "Jeez fu—," he breathes, half jumping in his seat. A knee knocks into the edge of the spool and settles him down again, hand and arm alike coming down protectively over the injury on his side. A near groan and a pained grimmace, the boy slants a look toward the pair of interrupting voices.
It's difficult to say which causes more anxiety. Devon makes a hasty grab for his shirt when he recognizes Remi, the action producing another flinch of discomfort. To Graeme, he simply looks caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, a slight reddening to his ears and a flicker of nervous apprehension crossing his countenance.
A small glower is offered to Graeme as he starts grumbling from the Frenchwoman, her eyes turning away from him just as quickly as she looked up at him. Still angry at the teacher. Then, blue eyes turn toward Devon, and Remi promptly hands his shirt to him. "Don't flatter yourself, boy, I've seen much more impressive bare chests zan yours. Per'aps ze bandages need changing, oui? And zat will give you an excuse to stare at your wound, oui?"
Then, Remi disappears for a moment, most likely to fetch the first aid kit, though she does take the opportunity to spare a bit of a glare toward Graeme.
Graeme is, as usual, careful to keep his thoughts quiet and contained. "Just what did you think you were about to be doing?" he asks, crouching down and leaning on the spool table, albeit giving Devon some personal space. Eyebrows are up in a definitely more accusative look than the first one, and this time he simply waits for the Frenchwoman to get back.
Though he takes his shirt from the telepath, Devon can't help but be curious. He'd been trying to show some respect to the woman, for the same reasons he almost never goes around shirtless in the common areas of the house. It wasn't for flattery of anyone, but because it seems more proper as a young man to not flounce about without his shirt. One of those long ago learned manners from his parents.
"It's itchy," the teen states haltingly as he looks back to Graeme, "and it hurts. And it hasn't been exposed since it happened." The shirt is dragged over his head, the spoon he'd been using as a mirror placed on the spool once his arms are pushed through the sleeves. "Wasn't going to mess with the stitches, but with the heat I thought it might feel better not covered."
Moments later, Remi appears, carrying the first aid kit. Another unhappy glance is cast toward Graeme, though the teacher is paid little mind, at least for now. She sets the kit down and opens it up, pulling out fresh gauze and tape, as well as substances that will (painfully) clean the outer wound. The telepath approaches, waving the supplies.
"I can rub alco'ol on your skin without touching ze wound. Alco'ol 'as a cooling effect, oui?" She nods quietly, gesturing for Devon to remove the shirt. "It will 'elp you feel cooler. And ze fresh bandages, zey will 'elp too. With zis 'eat, you shouldn't go too long without changing ze bandages." Remi fans a hand at her face. "Bandages absorb sweat, oui?"
Graeme looks at Remi and holds out his hand, obvious expecting her to simply hand over the first aid kit. There's some concern being shown for her, now, rather than force her to deal with potential skin contact when Graeme is just as capable and has first aid training and certification due to being a teacher, nor does he move from where he's positioned himself near Devon to let Remi in.
"Thanks for bringing the first aid kit," he says. "Mainly, my concern was that Devon shouldn't be trying to remove the bandage himself. It's awkwardly positioned." That slow drawl does carry a bit of an edge right now. Another glance, and Graeme fidgets idly, hands drumming on the table in a habit familiar to both Frenchwoman and teenager. "And we'll see what should be done after I've removed the bandage." There's a decision in there that he's not leaving it to chance, overall.
While he may be just a kid, Devon is in no way unintelligent. He's well aware of what alcohol is, and exactly how it will feel if it touches that wound. "That's alright, Remi," he says quietly, raising a hand to fend off any attempt she might make to administer any aid. "It's… I'll take care of it later. No big deal." He hedges toward a grin, more for the telepath's benefit to see that he's fine. Graeme would see the lie in it.
The boy begins to stand, head shaking slightly. "It was a bad idea," he resumes, this time agreeing with the teacher. "Shouldn't've tried to take care of it. I'll just leave it. Go… put myself to bed. Or …grab some water first. Then go."
There's a pause as Remi offers a faintly resentful look for his presumptuousness, where the ballerina's inherent stubbornness almost gets the better of her. But the moment passes, and Remi instead shakes her head once, and pushes the first aid kit into Graeme's hands, careful to avoid touching him. No touchie, that would be Remi's new motto these days.
After a moment, she circles around, moving to the other side of Devon. Seeing what she sees…she can't help but feel some sort of warmth toward the teenager, obnoxious as he may be. Suddenly, completely unprompted, the telepath dips down, planting a big kiss on Devon's cheek. "Sweet, brave boy. Let Graeme tend to your wound. You've earned a rest and some aid in tending your wound." One slender hand briefly brushes over Devon's hair. Then, she pulls away, turning toward the kitchen…though she does linger to see a reaction.
Graeme is equally careful in taking the first aid kit from her, though his annoyance is at the ballerina's assumptions, that much is clear even from the guarded thoughts. "We'll just grab some water bottles and go back up to the room. I can deal with this there, probably better," Graeme decides, after a moment of thought with a careful, neutral look. The idea is half offered to Devon for consideration, half decided upon anyway as the teen and teacher do share a room, and he is now in possession of the first aid kit. An eyebrow is raised and that perhaps quizzical look offered to Remi. What's gotten into you? It's a silent query, followed by an aloud addition. "No, nevermind. Don't answer."
The kiss to his cheek is a surprise, so much so that Devon pulls away rather forcefully. He upsets the stool he'd been sitting in and backs into Graeme. One hand comes up protectively over his side, a tightness drawing around his eyes with the abrupt movements and jarring stops. "Please," he starts quietly, eyes following Remi. "Don't patronize me. It wasn't brave, and I'm not a hero."
Rather than protest the teacher's suggestion, Devon glances back at Graeme in apology then nods. Leaving the spoon on the spool, and the chair upended, the boy carefully maneuvers himself away from the common room and toward the aforementioned room. Just a brief pause stays in him the common room, an even more brief questioning look cast between the two adults. With a tight sigh, the wondering is dismissed and he turns for the hall that leads to the rooms.
Remi pauses, glancing back at Graeme. I see things, remember? I saw him…I saw how he got this wound, through Liz's eyes. I felt what she felt as if it had just happened in front of me. That's what's gotten into me. I can see every. Single. Thing. And all it takes is a brush of the hand. I've seen your nightmares, I've felt what it feels like to die. So do not presume that something has gotten into me. All of you have gotten into me. Thankfully, that's meant for Graeme's mind only.
Blue eyes turn toward Devon as he departs. I know you don't want me in your head, but…I'm not patronizing. It's sincere. It was stupid, oui, but it was brave of you to protect Liz. I admire you for it. I don't have that kind of courage. She glances toward Graeme once, her expression cooler than the expression that followed the teen out of the room.
Then, she's turning once more, aimed for the kitchen.
"I said, don't answer," Graeme mutters, but it's half-hearted, and Remi may note the undercurrents of thought that don't really blame her even as he tries to steer his thoughts away from the things that bother him during the quieter moments, things that were starting to come up again especially with mention of them. It's one thing for him not to hide his thoughts from Aric, but a big part of Graeme still considers Remi someone to protect. Someone to protect from his nightmares, most of all.
Rather than grab the water bottles from the kitchen, the teacher makes his way down to the basement, to the fridge that is run down there in order to grab several water bottles for both him and Devon, enough to last them through the night. Without having to spend more time in the same room as Remi. Then he makes his way back through the common room and up the stairs to follow Devon, water bottles in one arm and first aid kit put back together and tucked under the other.