Ninja'd Martha Stewart


devon_icon.gif russo_icon.gif

Scene Title Ninja'd Martha Stewart
Synopsis Cynicism and bitterness do not good mentors make…
Date February 22, 2011

Dorchester Towers — Russo's Apartment

With nights being difficult, mornings are a welcomed blessing. It's been two days since the Dome came down, two days since life resumed, and two days since Devon had begun living under the watchful eye of his employer.

Morning has meant coffee waiting, fresh brewed, and toast prepared. This morning is no different. Devon has arranged a mug and pot of coffee beside a small plate with toast and jam. A simple glass of water accompanies his own toast, nibbled on while leaning against the counter. In a t-shirt and board shorts this morning, the teenager looks to be healing physically, though shadows around his eyes still tell of the psychological effects he suffers.

"That's not necessary you know," Brad's voice cuts the silence as barefooted steps drive him (still wearing pyjama pants) into the kitchen. "You're not my intern here," his lips crack into an appreciative smile. "This is your home as much as mine.." He still appreciates the coffee, preparing a mug for him to enjoy his morning brew.

The plate is retrieved and peanut butter spread on his own toast. Followed by a layer of grape jelly. Mmmm. PB and J on toast. His head tilts at Devon as he takes a loud crunchy bite of the toast, chewing carefully and then swallowing just as carefully.

"How you sleeping?" his eyebrows raise slightly as he leans against the counter, always choosing not to sit at the kitchen table if he can help it; brings back memories he'd rather forget.

"Fine," Devon replies. It's a lie, an obvious one. He'd had problems with nightmares before, now he can't seem to keep them away. Nights are fitful enough and he's been waking himself up for fear of slipping too far into slumber, where the darker memories dwell. "I know it's not necessary, but I'm up early enough so I might as well."

The boy eyes his own toast, then takes a real bite, chewing without really tasting. "Am I needed at the studio today?" It sounds hopeful, he'd prefer to be busy.

Hope and workaholocism are Brad's old friends. With softened eyes he leans forward, a little away from the counter. "I could always use a hand," there's no attempt to squelch the teen's pride by asking if he's ready, just the simple fact help is always needed. "And thanks. For breakfast. Toast is good.." he smirks slightly, a faint curl of his lips, "I swear while you're here I'll teach you to cook amazing food. You'll thank me someday. Women swoon over a guy who can cook." Sheepishly his eyebrows arch and his smirk fades, "I'm sure the fellas are the same if that's where your interests lie." He tries to reduce his own assumptions.

"I was thinking.." he clears his throat "..if you wanted to not go to the studio, I could probably duck out for a day.." he takes another bite of his toast and chews it, as if chewing on his latest scheme a little longer. "Thought— " he frowns slightly. "I know how to throw a punch. Fighting is one of the few things I'm truly good at and it might be worthwhile if you picked up some of the instinct. It's served me well through the years…"

"I'm ready to get back into things," Devon says, lowering the rest of the toast to the napkin he'd taken for himself and straightening. He waves off the thanks, he's up anyway and it's small things to show his gratitude for the man who'd opened his house for a stranger. A grin stretches, a remnant of his former self. "Women will swoon, sounds great.

Sweeping the crumbs into a hand, then brushing those off onto his napkin, Devon looks up at Brad. Deep consideration is given the offer. Part of him thinks it a little soon, a small part of reasoning, a little fear of being hit again. But at the same time he nods. "Yeah, we could do that instead. I have some experience, outside of…" the Dome. "I think …It'd me a good idea."

The smile Devon receives in turn borders on mischievous, "If you learn to garden your own vegetables and herbs, you're money. I swear it's true. The best food is home grown and home made. One out of two isn't bad, but food— " The foodie in him has his blue-eyes trailing up to the ceiling, mystically transformed from television host to lover of good food. "— food has the power to transform any situation. I swear it's true. People who are well fed are happy people. If I ever get a morning show I'll cook."

He takes another bite of his toast, finishing off the piece with quiet consideration. "The building has a sun deck. We could go there." His head lolls to the side and his lips purse slightly, "Honestly, I won't hurt you. I can control my fists," not his blasty hands, but his fists. "And learning to dodge a punch is pure instinct, learning to deliver one is just muscle memory."

Devon can't help but grin again. He hadn't pegged Russo as a food person. Maybe, maybe wines or fine cheeses, definitely one who'd know restaurants. "Why don't we try here? Gardening I mean. Some things would have to come from an organics store, but herbs and tomatoes can be done at home. Hydroponics and grow lamps."

Assurances that he won't be hurt have Devon then shrugging, single shoulder lifting and falling. The other is still on the mend, tender and stiff but stitched and dressed. "It's fine. I trust you." He tries lightening the response with a grin and another shrug. "Let's do that for a bit then… we could go into work?"

"We could do that," Brad shoots Devon a broadened grin. "I have a townhouse— it was my mother's, I grew up there.. and while I don't live there I still look after the garden. Mowing the grass? It's wonderful. The smell. The sound. The colour. I love it." He shrugs slightly, "It would be good to grow something inside though. Better herbs. Always better when fresher. Like dill. You add dill to anything and it improves ten-fold— "

As far as the rooftop is concerned, "Sounds good. I'll get dressed." His eyes trail down to the board shorts, "You might want pants, it's a chilly day out there…"

"Herbs make the general space feel fresh also," Devon amends with a small shrug. "Little extra air from the plants, green smells." His head tips in a nod, a small grin etching forth again. He clears away the remains of his toast and napkin, depositing them in the trash. "There's a greenhouse or.. something like that nearby. I can check it out later."

Devon looks over his shorts as he picks up his glass of water. "Yeah. Still winter." The cold is still a slap in the face, figuratively. The water is finished off, glass rinsed and left on the counter for later use. "Jeans okay?"

"Whatever you're comfortable moving in," Russo calls as he trudges back towards his room to change. A hand is thrown up in the air as a wave and he disappears into his room.

Fifteen Minutes Later

The Sun Deck

"Just.. " Russo cringes slightly as he shows, quite literally shows, Devon his fist (i.e. he's not trying to deck the kid). "It's tight, but not to the point where I'm inflexible. Does that make sense? And thumb out. Always thumb out." He smirks slightly, "This one time when I was… " he tilts his head at Devon "I think I was younger than you. I ended up in this schoolyard tussle and fractured my thumb."

"But yeah, the trick here," Brad shrugs "Is recognizing that it's not about the first itself, right?"

Devon actually grins at the outstretched fist, a brow raising slightly. He's a little more worried about actually being hit than that which does the hitting. "I took some classes when I was younger… grammar school, I think." He lifts his own hands, rolling first one and then the other into knuckly fists, then looks at Brad.

"Good. That… yeah. It helps if you learned early," Brad's grin broadens as he punches at the air, twisting across the body. "Now a good hit isn't about your arms really at all— aside from aim. A good hit starts with the balls of your feet. Hoist yourself onto them and bend your knees slightly and then.." he punches at the air, "..twist. See? Your whole body needs to go into it, right?" He nods.

Devon imitates the motion, to an extent. Some muscle memory remains as he produces his own punch, controlled, utilizing the uninjured arm. The action is a little slower than he would like, body giving small protests to being used though it's certainly time to start trying. In his mind. There are no complaints, though.

With a nod of approval, Brad uses his other hand to demonstrate a jab. There's a quick little punch, less twist than the cross or his hook. "A jab is merely a distraction. That's the goal, right? It's not about trying to deliver intense pain, it's your weaker punch. Still twist into it, alright?" His eyebrows lift high upon his forehead.

Again the motion is mimicked, still with the same, undamaged side. Feet rotating slightly, shoulder and hips moving to add a light snap to the motion. It remains slower than he'd like, but again, it's something he'll get through. "Jab, follow up with a punch, right?"

"Exactly," Russo grins and winks. "There you are.. just make sure you stay loose. And exercise is going to help you in the long run." He frowns lightly at the damaged side. "We could get you into physio or something. I mean.. I could afford if you want.. and I'd like you to have full motion back when you're recovered well enough."

He does some small arm circles, stretching out his arms in the process to loosen everything in him. He grins even broader. "We'll get into kicks when you're a little more stable. And when you're comfortable we'll.. we'll spar for real, okay? I don't want to make it worse.."

"Don't worry about it," Devon says quietly. He places a hand to his shoulder, but half grins. "I'll work it so it doesn't get too stiff. Right now it's… still healing. Really just needs some rest and it'll be fine." To prove his point, the boy stretches that shoulder a little, bringing the arm across his chest though it produces a pained wince almost immediately. "Let's just give it a few days," the boy asks, teeth clenched for the moment.

"Yeah… that might be enough for today," Brad shoots Devon a tick of a smile. "JUst.. be careful, right? Don't overdo it." He releases a quiet sigh and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Keep working it a little to keep it loose and then.." he shrugs lightly. "We'll go from there." He winks again. "It also occurs to me we should discuss…" He cringes slightly, "your gun… right?" He frowns lightly.

"Pressing his eyes closed, Devon doesn't respond until the shock of pain is gone. When he straightens again, he's still a little hunched toward that painful side, eyes still tight. "My gun," he repeats, a tone of detachment. It's his, but it's more like taking claim to something unpleasant. "What about it?"

"Just.." Brad closes his own eyes now. "I'd like to know what you plan to do with it. Keep it? Carry it around?" His teeth play at his lip as his head shakes, "I just think.. if you plan on using it again, we need to get you lessons. Real lessons. Not just me showing you how. And you need practice. You can't… you can't just carry around a weapon for no reason."

"It's mine," Devon says quietly, a tone akin to that which he'd explained pieces of his experience with. Not quite cold or severe, but lacking the body of his more normal demeanor. "I'm not going out there again without it. Not after…" He gives a shake of his head.

Silence overtakes Brad as he wordlessly nods. His head turns away, off towards the skyline in some kind of awkwardness. He releases a quiet breath, and another nod of his head. He turns back to face Devon. "Alright. We make a deal." He swallows hard, the tightness in his throat growing, "I'll give you your ammo back when you leave the house." His lips twist to side somewhat indecisively. "But only while you don't like carrying the gun. I know.. it should terrify you. It should. And you can carry it as long as you don't like it." He frowns, "But no bullets.. no ammo.. if you start liking it…" he nods faintly. "Deal?"

Silently, Devon watches Russo, eyes only moving to follow. It's not some kind of trophy, he's seen enough gun fighting to satisfy any taste for shooter style video games. But it's a mixed blessing and a weighty reminder of the decisions he's made. "I wanted to be an actor," he says, eyes picking out some point of city below. "I hate that thing, what it does, what I've done with it. But …Deal."

"Alright then. It's decided. Just. Try not to use it, okay?" There's another nod from Brad Russo as his hand disappear into his pockets. He shifts his head towards the door. "We should get to work. Try and get a full day's worth of stuff in. Come on."

Devon lets out a breath, and with it only a shadow of the demeanor shift remains. He turns for the door with a nod, eyes casting toward Brad. "Suits today, Mister Russo? Or is it casual dress?" All talk of guns or fighting is put away, left to simmer and be dwelled over at a later time.

"Suit up, Devon," Brad beams as he tugs on what would be the lapels of his shirt if his grey t-shirt had lapels. He opens the door back into the building. "The surest way to convince anyone that you're capable and competent is to look the role, Kid. Honestly, that's why uniforms work for jobs. It helps transform an individual when they need to."

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