Participants:
| Scene Title | Differing Opinions |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | And despite their differing opinions, the evening goes on. |
| Date | March 5, 2011 |
Dorchester Towers: Remi and Graeme's Apartment
It's been a long day. Remi had to go in and work a bit extra today, with one of the primary dancers needing to come in to practice for an upcoming show. She stayed for a while, then left the dancer to her own devices to make her way home. Now, the woman is relaxing on the couch, a glass of wine on the coffee table next to her. She's laid out, her feet propped up.
On the television, there's a movie playing. Something French. It's nice, relaxing after a long day.
Long before the key clicks in the door, Remi should be able to sense the arrival of her roommate. Graeme is … a bit of a mess, jumbled, distant, not quite there and definitely more hyperactive than usual. But the sense of wrong is not really the same as the times where the man has been upset; it's more subtle, something from earlier in the evening more likely than not. The door shuts behind him, and he very deliberately deadbolts the door behind him.
"Evening," he calls out, blinking back the residual shakiness that he's been feeling. before taking off his shoes, taking off his jacket.
Blue eyes are already on the door, the television paused, when Graeme finally puts his key in the lock. She even sits up on the couch, her chin and arms resting over the back of it as she watches Graeme enter. "Bonsoir, Graeme." She offers this in gentle greeting, brows raised. "Something is wrong. What's ze problem?" He can't lie to her, and she'll find a way to figure it out.
Graeme shrugs a bit. He's not even really sure why there's still a problem, overall, and so he looks over at Remi, before turning in the direction of the kitchen. "I'll be alright in a bit," he says. "I ran into a negator while I was out." He shudders, a little. "Is there still leftovers from the Italian we had, or from whatever you had earlier? I think I need more food than the hamburger I had on the way back."
Remi tilts her head to one side, before raising from the couch and making her way over to Graeme in the kitchen. First, she wraps her arms around his waist, giving him a tight squeeze. "A negator?" She would like to meet this negator, so she is asking questions in an attempt to lead his thoughts. Common trick that works spectacularly well, most of the time that she uses it. Even if people lie, they tend to inwardly mumble to themselves about their lies. Not that Graeme needs to know about that trick of hers.
"Zat must 'ave been rough." She murmurs this as she moves past him, slipping into the kitchen with the intent of pulling out some leftovers and cooking some food for him. "Go sit down, oui? I will pile your plate 'igh and get it 'ot for you."
Remarkably, Graeme obeys, padding softly over towards the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest as he sometimes does when he's more towards out of it, on the side of the couch that has become his side, more or less. "Yeah. Some guy in the coffeeshop I'd stopped at." He leans back, a bit. "It wasn't pleasant." There's a pause. "Though he apologised."
Remi does as she promised, piling his plate high with leftovers, before popping it into the microwave to heat up. Half of it is pasta, half of it is Remi's leftover chinese food, some sweet and sour shrimp. Then, she moves into the archway from the kitchen, watching Graeme. "It was an accident, I'm sure, oui?" She arches her brows, before tipping her head toward him.
"Would it be strange for me to say zat I would like to meet a negator one day? I mean…as much as it causes headaches, I don't think zat I would like to take negation drugs, but…" She closes her eyes for a moment, before she suddenly walks over to Graeme, unceremoniously pressing her hand up to his forehead. Then, her face creases into one of concentration…
And suddenly, Graeme can hear the dull mumble of thoughts, echoing around in his head. The late evening thoughts of their neighbors, dulled down through further concentration. A brief glimpse into the din that is her mind at all times. And it is brief, only a second of the sound, before her hand is pulling away, and she's making her way back into the kitchen. "I'd love to 'ave some silence."
Graeme winces a bit, tilting his head to one side and pulling away, a little. "Yeah," he says, quietly. "I can understand why you might want to." Still, that doesn't lessen his own dislike of the sensation, and he looks up at Remi. "If I never end up under the influence of a negator again, it'll be too soon." He pauses, shudders once more. "My ability's more physical, and being cut off from it … it hurts." In more ways than one.
As the microwave beeps, Remi opens it, stirring the food, before setting it to cook another forty-five seconds. Then, she turns back to the arch that leads into the kitchen. "Well, I 'ope you never do end up under ze influence of a negator again." She can't say the same for herself. It would probably be a welcome relief. She'd probably kiss the guy, really. "Are you going to be okay?"
After a moment, Graeme just shrugs. If he'd been a little less out of it the times that he'd been affected by Brennan's negation, Graeme might have punched the guy. "Yeah, something like that. Just … I still feel a bit off." He's making a bit of an understatement, as he pulls his knees a little closer to his chest. "It was a bit disorienting, and it might take me a bit to … to get to okay."
The microwave beeps again, and this time, after stirring, Remi brings out a plate full of nice, hot food for Graeme to devour. It was just leftovers that she probably wasn't going to eat, anyhow. Graeme's good for keeping her fridge clean, at the very least. "Well, I am 'ere, oui?" She leans forward as she passes off the plate, planting a kiss on Graeme's forehead. "You just eat, and we can curl up and watch a movie zat is not in French, oui?"
Graeme takes the plate of food, letting his knees down a bit so that it rests on them, not more than six inches from his face as he begins to eat, then pauses, with a mental reminder to himself to let the food cool lest he unknowingly burn his tongue or something. Still, several of the shrimp disappear off of the plate, interspersed with bites of pasta.
"Yeah," comes the response, in between food that's eaten at a pace slightly toned down from 'inhale'. Food is, at the very least, helping Graeme to feel a little more grounded, more solid, less detached and distant.
Remi offers a faint smile to her room mate, before she settles down onto the couch, scooting close to him and picking up the remote so she can start skimming through movies that are available to watch. Then, her eyelashes flutter, and she turns to peer over at Graeme. "Avoid negation gas, if it effects you so badly, oui?" She reaches out, running a hand through his hair. Then, she's back to flipping through selections of movies.
There's another slight shudder, and Graeme nods. What he hasn't said, but has thought, is that the rollercoaster with negation has left his usually tight grip on his thoughts and emotions in minor turmoil. It's probably obvious enough to the telepath anyway. The pasta is cleared off of his plate, and he shifts, carefully, a little closer to Remi. The woman's presence is an anchor, for the moment.
Once he's finished with his meal and the plate is set off to the side, Remi promptly scoots closer, wrapping her arms around Graeme's waist and offering him a warm squeeze, resting her head against his chest once she's gotten a movie playing. Right now, Graeme needs a comforting environment, so Remi is doing her best to provide him as much. Poor guy has been through so much so recently, he could really use a hug.
There's hesitation, but Graeme wraps his arm around her shoulder, leaning back a bit. There's some attention paid to the movie, but most of it is him running through basic routines in his head, the little tricks that he uses to keep hims thoughts from being simply a hyperactive, distractable mess most of the time. Something that's easier to maintain than it is to find again once it's been lost. Occasionally, his breath catches in his throat, met with a determined swallow, and soon, he's paying more attention to the movie.
Remi, tired as she is from her glass of wine and her long day at work, eventually ends up falling asleep on Graeme. It doesn't help that he's so warm, it gives him that wonderful cat-like quality of making her want to nap with him. He's so damn comfortable. She's snuggled up tight, too, all but clinging to him as she drifts off into the land of slumber time.
For a brief period, perhaps an hour, a little less, Graeme too drifts off, a little restless. No dreams for him, but he twitches every so often, and then wakes up, with that being as much sleep as he's going to manage at once at the moment. A faint smile plays on his face as he realises that he'd fallen asleep on the couch.
He's trying not to disturb her, he really is. Graeme gets to his feet, picking Remi up, and begins to make the slow steps to carry her to her bed. He's careful about it, pulling back her blankets and then setting his roommate down in the centre of her bed.
He does fairly well at not disturbing the telepath, save for prompting a small, squeaky groan of discontent as he jostles Remi a little too much. When he tries to lay her down, it takes a little bit of maneuvering and work to get away fully, the little redheaded woman clinging to Graeme. He gets another squeaky grunt of protest as he pulls away, before she settles back into the world of sleep.
"Night."
Graeme rests a hand on Remi's shoulder, before drawing the blankets up and over her, and slipping quietly out of her room, walking over to his own. The door is shut behind him, less precautionary this time but still to create the illusion of space, and Graeme slips his sweater off, tossing it unceremoniously into his hamper.
He's slept, and Graeme will probably get another two hours of sleep at four in the morning or something, if not three, then. In the mean time, he stretches, using the section of wall padded for the punching bag. He runs through punches, interspersed with sit-ups, push-ups, kicks, stretches, and sometimes the occasional few minutes of quiet tears, until he's finally tired enough to lay down, tired enough to go to sleep. "Still overrated," he mumbles aloud, amused with himself almost, as his head finds the pillow, without even actually bothering to get into pyjamas.