Morning Commute


devon2_icon.gif graeme2_icon.gif

Scene Title Morning Commute
Synopsis After the morning commute, in the port town to hell, or at least, that's what's discussed.
Date September 14, 2011

Subway car through NYC

The morning commute, what little of it is left these days, is over, which makes the ride home from the Doctors Brennan's clinic smoother than expected. The subway cars are relatively empty, one in fact occupied by a boy and a man at one end, and an older gentleman at the other. The old man, in a navy blue windbreaker, black slacks, and brown loafers, is engrossed in a newspaper held between his hands. The others, sitting opposite and the length of the car away, appear to be in quiet conversation with each other. At least to the casual glance.

The younger of the two, Devon, still in the same shorts and long sleeved shirt as the day before, does less of the talking. He's propped himself up in the corner of his seat, wedged into the corner formed by seat back and outer wall of the car, as comfortable as he can make himself. Which isn't very, judging by his expression, a tightness about his eyes and mouth. His skateboard rests across his legs, wheels up, and held in place by his arms, one of which is encased in plaster and bandages. Bruising on his face stands out in sharp contrast against the paleness brought on from a lack of sleep the night before.

The teen's head tips toward the side, resting against the cool pane of glass. Lights in the tunnel zip past, his eyes catching on the bright flashes, brief interruptions of an otherwise dim world.

Graeme eventually does fall silent, finding nothing more to say other than what he's already said. His arm is once more in a sling, though he's been impatient, adjusting the straps of it numerous times when there's silence. Mainly, he's been talking to keep himself from thinking about things, keep his mind occupied. Slowly, he pulls out his phone, looks at it, the same text he's looked at many times. "Aric's pissed that I wouldn't let him go get the car to give us a ride," he says, grinning. "Not that I'm not in enough trouble anyway." He shakes his head, looking over at Devon. "Could be worse."

"Did he tell Liz where we were last night?" Devon looks at Graeme, eyes alone moving, head still propped against the window. He shifts in his seat a fraction, wincing, breath catching for an instant. "It'll be worse when she finds out what happened. Why we were out all night." That's assuming she hadn't heard already. "I don't want Aric knowing where the Brennan's live or work, either."

"He knows where they work, he drove me to an appointmet after the gala incident, once," Graeme responds, "though he didn't come in, or anything." He pauses, twiddling his thumbs. "All he told Liz is that we weren't able to get back by curfew, and that we were safe." A grimace. "I didn't mention the relatively." Graeme gets to his feet, despite that they have a fair amount of distance left to go before their stop. "Like I said… something's going to end up breaking. Or lots of things. Maybe we should get Trask to be present when we tell her."

By his expression, the boy doesn't appear too pleased with Aric knowing where the clinic is. Not much can be done about it, however. His good hand raises to scrub over his face, flinching when fingers find the very tender bruise along his jaw. "I owe Doctor B a lot. And his family. If they…" He won't consider the possibility of trouble finding the Brennan's, but it’s there like an itch he can't scratch. And they've already lost Marlena, which Devon can't help but feel partially responsible for.

Eyes lowering to the upturned wheels of his skateboard, Devon's hand drops again to thumb one. "Just face it. I don't want to lie to her or try and manipulate the situation. I can't —won't. We shouldn't ask Trask to be there just to keep things under control. It's dishonest." He looks up at Graeme as his thumb slides off the wheel causing it to spin freely for several seconds.

Graeme bounces on his heels, eyes focused on some distant place out the subway window, though there's no question that he has heard what the teenager said, but he doesn't respond to the first part of things, acknowledging it with a nod, instead. "It was half a joke," he says, though the teacher has been more deadpan than usual about his humour since the night before, making telling the difference between jokes and not jokes somewhat difficult. "Plus, in case you forgot, I can't be in the same room as Trask when I'm injured, even if I can deal with him the rest of the time." Half, though, because he's sure that what little glass remains in the windows of the safehouse remains better if it's intact. "I texted her that we're on our way back, so. Hopefully she hasn't been up all night, or anything." A frown crosses the teacher's face, though. He knows how likely that is.

The same thought crosses Devon's mind, expressed in a sigh as his head tips back to rest more in the angle of the seat and window. He'd be surprised if Liz had slept much at all last night in spite of assurances that he and Graeme were safe. "Sorry," he mumbles, gaze going back out the window. Whether it's to the misunderstanding or the events is difficult to tell, the word is spoken globally. Several minutes pass before the boy moves again, this time to pick at a spot of cotton wrapping poked out at the edge of the plaster surrounding his arm. "…You angry about last night?"

The teacher shakes his head. "No." A pause. "I'm not. I'm mad at myself for not paying more attention to everything, perhaps, but I'm not angry." Eventually, Graeme sits back down on the edge of the seat, pulling his sweatshirt, which is at least clean again, in various directions around his shoulder so that it isn't pulling. A wince follows the movement, pushed back as immediately as it shows through. "Are you?"

"Not really," Devon answers with a shrug. "Not at you." The woman and her cronies, perhaps, his tone implies. "I can't believe she just shot you. Guns aren't… they only have one purpose, and she… It's like people don't care about anything anymore." He pushes a finger along his forearm, wincing, but working the finger under the edge of his cast. "What's wrong with this world? Seems like since… Midtown at least things've been going to hell."

Graeme shrugs, folowed by another grimace as he forgets that it's not the best idea to be doing things involving moving his shoulder. "Could have been worse, I suppose," Graeme says. "I wasn't lying when I said that it's pretty much not bothering me anymore, or anything. It's a bit sore, but." The teacher's gaze falls somewhere beyond the windows once again. "At least they didn't shoot you."

"I expected them to," the boy admits quietly. Fingers still left exposed by the cast flex slightly, as though trying to curl into a fist. It doesn't go far, tendon and muscle moving within and pulling at fractured bone sending pain radiating again through his arm. He bites down on his lower lip, brows pinching together. "They could've killed you, Graeme. They could've killed you and me and… You and Aric should come to Australia with us. Get out of this port town to Hell before you really do wind up dead."

"She wasn't actually that good of a shot, but yeah. Otherwise, she would have actually gotten my shoulder, or worse, I wasn't that far away from her." The idea is given thought, Graeme falling silent for the time while he does so. "I'll think about it, bring it up with Aric, and with Liz," he eventually says. "But, yeah. Maybe you're right, about that." Graeme turns, to look out the other windows of the subway car, across the empty space, falling silent once again. It's as much as he's going to say on the subject, apparently, at least for the moment.

Devon sighs again, eyes turning to gaze out the window. He lets the silence sit and fill the space, not sure of anything else he could say on the last twelve or so hours. He shifts in his seat a little, choking off a whimper that threatens to take him. He manages to get a foot up onto his seat, uninjured arm wrapped around it, temple come to rest against his knee. His attention stays focused beyond the window, eyes flicking when the glow of the next light catches, tracking the movement before moving on again. But his expression isn't vacant or distant, looking more worried, sad.

The rest of the train ride home is done in silence, save for the rumble related to the movement of the subway car. Stops come and go with little notice, until a nod from Graeme signals their stop. Gathering up his skateboard, unfolding himself from his own chair while the older man stands, Devon falls in to follow the teacher. Together they exit the train and take to the stairs, weaving their way to the streets and the last stretch of roads that lead the way home.

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