Participants:
| Scene Title | Difficulties Processing |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After a very horrifying experience, Devon returns to Roosevelt Island and Melissa to tell of what happened. |
| Date | February 15, 2011 |
The Dome:Westview Apartments:Melissa's Apartment
It's early. Way too early. Especially way too early since there's no need to be waking up to do such mundane things as shower or go to work. Nope, there's just trying to make it through another day trapped in the Evo-Dome. Yet, despite the hour, Melissa is awake, and, though still groggy, is smiling.
Rosie is still asleep, but Junie is wide awake, enjoying a bottle as she sits in a bouncy chair. Nearby is Mel, drinking one of her precious few sodas, desperate for the caffeine, and with a lack of electricity, there's no way to make coffee. So Coke it is!
The drink is taken with her to the door when it's knocked on, and she's yawning even as she opens it. "Devon? Honey, you don't have to knock. There's not much of a point," she mumbles, opening the door wide.
The teenager had spent the night walking and it shows. Exhaustion is the only thing more powerful than the detached sorrow on the boy's face, giving him a particularly distant look. The lingering smell of death seems to have followed him, yet Devon stands in clean clothing and a different pair of shoes. He must have found some wetnaps somewhere as well, for the grime that had been building up on his face and hands has been wiped at.
One arm is still favored, tucked into the strap of the rifle Devon had picked up just a couple days before. "Sorry," he answers quietly, voice a little rough on the edges. "Habit." Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he steps inside. "Should've left when you and Perry did. —Tell people not to teleport into the wall of the dome."
It takes a minute, but Melissa does notice those looks on his face, and it's forcing her to wake up faster than even the caffeine can manage. She shuts the door behind him, and concern shows on her face as she nods and motions for him to follow her into the kitchen. Junie won't get what they're talking about, but it's the principle of the matter.
She motions him towards a chair while she moves to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. It may not work right now, but it's habit to put drinks in the fridge. It's opened, then given to him. "What happened, honey? I'm guessing someone tried to teleport through the bubble and it didn't go well. I'm guessing that we're probably lost them?" she asks gently.
With a glance toward Junie, Devon follows into the kitchen. The rifle at his back is pulled off, eliciting a small wince in the motion. The weapon is set on the floor, propped against the chair as he seats himself at the table. His uninjured hand comes up again to rake through his hair before he turns toward Melissa.
"Guy was suppose to get married," the teenager explains, dispassionate in spite of the sadness that still lingers. "His fiance and friends were there. He just.. freaked and tried to get out." Devon presses his hand to his forehead, elbow resting against the table. "It turned him into hamburger."
That makes Melissa wince, even as she moves to one of the cabinets, pulling out a bottle of Tylenol and setting it in front of him, next to the water. Only then does she sit down. "Can't blame him for wanting to get out, especially if his fiance is out there and he's stuck in here. And someone had to try at some point."
A hand is reached out to touch his, her expression sympathetic. "I'm sorry that you had to see it, Devon. Death of any sort isn't an easy thing. And one like that is particularly hard. And because of that…if, after you finish that water, you want a drink, a real drink, I'll give it to you."
Mention of the water draws Devon's attention to it, and after a moment he picks it up. It takes a couple of tries before he's managed to open it, draining nearly half before setting the bottle down again. "We couldn't talk him out of it, just gave up." He gives a small shake of his head, a futile attempt trying to rid his mind of the imagery. He's in shock, to be sure, however distant or casual he may sound of the previous night's events.
With a glance toward the Tylenol, the teenager picks up the bottle and works the cap off. A couple of the pills are worked out and swallowed, the cap replaced after. "Something's wrong with my shoulder," he says randomly, picking up the water again. "Looks strange, not just bruised.”
"Take your shirt off, let me see. If it's dislocated we can fix it. It'll hurt like a son of a bitch, but I can negate that." Though unless she's very careful, Melissa would feel it. "If something were broken you'd know, so I'm betting it's dislocated," she says, moving around the table to stand next to him.
It takes some working, and a fair amount of pained looks, but Devon removes jacket and t-shirt. As he pulls the shirt over his head, he squeezes his eyes closed, lips thinning. The shoulder is indeed dislocated, bruised and swollen from the lack of attention and jostling it's received. Opening his eyes again, the boy looks up at Melissa, expression retreating to that emotionless visage he's taken to the last couple of days.
Though she's no doctor, Melissa has received and seen a great many injuries in her twenty-seven years. She looks closely at it, gently prods at it, then sighs softly. "Yeah, it's dislocated. Best way to do this is to get you to brace against something, while I deal with this arm. It'll hurt, bad, so I'm going to take care of that. Trust me, you don't want to feel that. Okay?"
"Just fix it," Devon asks quietly and not unkindly, tensing as fingers touch against the tender injury. "I don't care if it hurts or not." The pain would be something, enough to distract from the horror he'd seen just hours before. The boy stands, moving away from the table to brace against a wall.
He may not care, but Melissa does. She moves with him, one hand on his shoulder, feeling around gently, the other wrapping around his wrist. She's silent, using her ability to numb all the pain he's feeling,a nd all the pain he will feel shortly. She doesn't bother counting, or giving him warning, just sets about fixing it, until the joint is back where it's supposed to be.
The snap-pop of a joint being returned to its original place has Devon flinching more than the pain itself. But once it's returned to where it belongs, he sags against the wall. "Thanks," he says quietly, lifting his gaze to Melissa. "…Sorry for not listening before, letting you look and fix it. Didn't seem that bad."
Melissa tentatively uses her ability to prod, to see how much pain he's in now that his arm is back how it should be. Finding it lessened, she eases off on the pain relief and smiles a bit. "Hey, it's cool. Just remember this if and when you get hurt again, okay? I like you, Devon. I don't like knowing that people I like are in pain. And not just because I can feel it. Literally."
Devon shrugs the one shoulder, the one which hadn't been damaged. The other feels better, to be certain, but memory of how it had felt is sharp. "There were people who could've used help before me," he informs her, sans bravado as usual. Returning to the table, he pulls his shirt on again then drains the last of that bottle of water. "Is your couch still free," he asks, crushing the bottle down.
"Maybe. But my first aid abilities are limited. I can dig out a bullet with the best of them, and do stuff like this," Melissa motions to his shoulder. "But I can't do much more than that. Trust me, if someone had been hurt a lot worse with something I could've done? I would've helped them." She smiles then. "And my couch is always free for you, hon."
Limited in understanding, Devon doesn't argue. He can't explain one ability for the next, having limited experience or knowledge of it, he'll simply have to take Melissa's word. She'd know anyway, it's her gift. Rubbing a hand across his face, Devon picks up the rifle. Better to have it on him then where little fingers can find it. "Thanks, Melissa… I can't… go into my house. For long. —I would like to try and sleep a little, though."
Melissa nods. "Of course. And if there's anything up there you need, just let me know and I'll go get it for you, alright? And yeah, get some sleep. I'll keep the rugrats off of you, though if you wake up with one of them passed out and sucking their thumb next to you don't be surprised. Rosie's still upset, and Junie just seems to know that something isn't right."
Devon nods, understanding. Something isn't right, but if adults or near-adults are having difficulties processing, then the youngest amongst them don't need to know about it. "I'll try not to sleep too long," he promises, turning for the couch. Sleeping too long would bring about other problems he'd rather not face.
The rifle is checked, magazine removed and chamber cleared before being placed in the V between seat and back. It's safer there, more difficult for small fingers to find. Magazine and round both go into Devon's pocket before he sinks onto the couch. It doesn't take long for the teenager to find sleep, one hand protectively covering the rifle and the other arm covering his face. But it won't be long again before he's up, escaping from the dreams that always hide where sleep is deepest.
