Origami Cranes


devon2_icon.gif graeme2_icon.gif

Scene Title Origami Cranes
Synopsis The idea of either Devon or Graeme making origami cranes is rather … ridiculous. Other things they talk about, less so.
Date May 6, 2011

The Nite Owl

The Nite Owl is a survivor from ages past - one of those ancient diners with huge plate glass windows, checkerboard linoleum floor, and a neon owl over the entrance that blinks at those entering. Inside, there's an L-shaped main counter, complete with vintage soda fountain and worn steel stools. All of the cooking is done on the ranges ranked against the rear wall. The outer wall is lined with booths upholstered in cracked scarlet vinyl, tables trimmed with polished chrome. Despite its age, it's been lovingly maintained. The air is redolent with the scent of fresh coffee, vanilla, and frying food.

"Told you," Devon says for what could seem like the some hundredth time since leaving the basketball court. "You're too old to beat my mad skills." He's pretty beside himself, having beat the older man at a game of HORSE and has spent the walk to the Nite Owl teasing good naturedly and playing with the game ball. "It's all about the wrist action to make those baskets count.

Now he and Graeme sit in a booth with the ball resting on the bench beside the teen. Orders for lunch had been placed, along with an appetizer of chicken strips, one of which Devon now stabs into the air to punctuate his point. "It was only a matter of time before I decided to stop letting you win," he claims with a grin, acting every bit as a teenager should. To further solidify his claim, he tears off a bite of the chicken strip and leans back in his seat.

And Graeme, in turn, has been good-naturedly teasing Devon back. "You just got lucky, this time. When I get full range of motion back in my shoulder, you're going to have to watch out." A knowing nod follows, Graeme flipping one of the chicken strips over between his fingers idly, a long practised trick of the variety usually done with coins, but the teacher is making it work with food either way. "You're too young to know when you get a lucky break." There's an easy laugh, and then Graeme leans back in the booth. "One of these days we should play soccer, though." It's said with the tone that Graeme doesn't think the teen would stand a chance at it.

"Whatever," Devon counters with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Luck had nothing to do with it. You're just coming up with excuses for your mediocre ball skills." He tears off another bite of chicken strip and laughs. No surprise the coach would suggest soccer, but it's met with a sly raising of a brow. "Yeah, soccer's probably the only way you're going to beat me now. Why not suggest a real sport, like rugby?" Yeah, the last is definitely a joke at Graeme's expense, chased with a grin.

Placing the half mauled chicken strip on his little appetizer plate, Devon brushes off his hands. "Good game though. How is your shoulder doing? We don't have to keep playing ball if it isn't helping any."

"You're bigger than me. I don't stand a chance against you at rugby. Or at least, when you remember how to place your body weight so you don't get knocked over, I don't stand a chance. You're easy to knock over, most of the time, though. Which would give me an advantage." Graeme grins, gentle reminder of the previous lesson in hand to hand slipped into the conversation before Graeme actually takes a bite of the chicken strip, having dunked it into the little cup of ranch dressing in front of him. "It's not bad. Stiff, sometimes. I think." Graeme shrugs. The I think is emphasised, slightly. "Better and better, though."

"That's good," Devon says as he reaches out to grab hold of his drink. Root beer! As usual. "You get it checked out recently, make sure it's all healing the way it should?" He's not really one to talk, he never did get an official doctor's opinion of his own shoulder. In fact the wound he'd taken was cleaned and stitched up by Melissa. Not that he'll admit if it's still bothering him, even to himself. "But if it's too much for you, we can… Make origami or something."

Graeme nearly sputters at the mention of origami. He just can't help it, but the image of the teenager folding bitty little pieces of paper is far, far too much for him to be able to manage. "Hey, I'll have you know I can fold throwing stars," Graeme says, mock-defensively. "And cranes. And I think I could make a frog, at one point. Though we prolly ought to spend some more time on you improving your blocks rather than your free-throw." He grins, and shrugs. "Got it checked out a while ago, and then when the stitches came out, and Aric's been bugging me to go again, but." Another shrug, and Graeme manages to eat the second half of the chicken strip. "Sooner than later, I suppose." And then he'll be able to make good on his promise to Savannah, too.

Devon snuffs a laugh into his cup, barely keeping root beer from being sprayed everywhere. Somehow, picturing Graeme making paper cranes is even less realistic than himself making paper cranes. "My blocks are fine," he retorts after clearing his throat. "Hell, I'm not even that bad in a fight. Surprised you, didn't I?" There's some seriousness to his tone, a brow rising slightly. He snags the remainder of his chicken strip, placing his glass back on the table, then leans back again. "How's everything else going?"

"You're not that bad, you surprised me, but I cut my own response off, there," Graeme reminds, still chidingly a bit. And he can make paper cranes, regardless of how amusing the concept seems. It amuses him, too. "If I hadn't done so, you'd have been up against the wall or on the floor … You still need to work on your blocks." Unsaid, that in an actual fight the other guy wouldn't be curbing the response when it got to that, and Graeme falls silent momentarily as their food comes, his double pastrami set in front of him and then the waitress is retreating back again.

"Not bad, though. Work is work. I feel much more useful now that I'm not just carrying things back and forth from the kitchen to the supply room to the bar, overall."

It's a club sandwich that's placed in front of Devon, and a winning smile that's directed to the waitress before she returns to her work. "You don't know that I would've been up against a wall," he points out, pulling a toothpick from one half of his sandwich. It's a little bluff, but even he doesn't know how it would have ended had things gotten heated.

Picking up the de-picked half of sandwich, Devon nods slightly. "My employer's been really busy with… something. Actually the whole studio's been busy. Keep finding myself with more free time." Which could be a good or bad thing, the teenager seems a little undecided about it.

"I do know that I can still throw you unless you work on getting your weight distributed correctly at all times," Graeme says, with a grin followed by a shrug as he tucks away some of the sandwich, the voracious appetite that comes of his ability on rare full display. He's just not bothering to eat 'politely'. It's not necessary at the moment, and so it's in between bites that he actually talks. Another shrug follows the words, though. No use dwelling on it. "Free time's nice. I've still got more of that than I know what to do with—" a grin "—but I cheat, since there're 22 hours in the waking day for me."

"You can throw me because I let you," Devon counters. It's probably a lie, one the kid doesn't mind throwing out there, said in an easy going nature. He bites into his sandwich, not showing quite the same exuberance for eating as the older man across from him. His appetite has never quiet been the same since the Dome. "Oh by the way," he switches topics around a mouthful of ham and turkey and bread, motioning at Graeme with the half sandwich. "You never said your friend was that pretty blonde chick at the photo exhibit opening."

Whether or not Graeme's got objection to Devon's retort, it's unvoiced, and he lets the teenager change the subject. Though it's filed away for future attention. "I didn't?" A small grin. "How forgetful of me. Yes, she's blonde, and yeah, she was at the exhibit opening. You never said you met her," he counters. "I'm sorry, the exhibit opening got rather hectic, and all that."

"Not before then, no. Ran into her a few days ago, and we had a nice little talk about my bad habits." In other words, Devon's brandishing of firearms at formal events. Something he doesn't look too embarrassed about at the moment. "She's pretty though, and hella smart. Kinda skittish, too, not that I blame her." Another bite follows those words, then the sandwich is placed on his plate.

There's a nod. "All things given, yeah," Graeme agrees. He was in government custody for a bit for as simple a thing as knowing Elisabeth, and even before that, he had harboured no illusions about just how bad things were getting. "If she wasn't, I'd have to wonder if she wasn't feeling well, wasn't herself or the like. Especially upon running into people unexpectedly, I'd guess." There's a quick glance around, but the tables nearest him are unoccupied. "And she can run circles around me any day of the week." The admission is quiet, wistful, before Graeme finishes the half a sandwich in his hand and begins on the french fries, also being dipped in the ranch dressing for the moment.

A grin pulls up one half of the teenager's expression, eyes lifting to Graeme for a moment. He leans forward and picks up his drink again, glancing toward the counter and the entrance as he takes a drink. "I'm glad to see she's doing well, all things considered. I'm impressed with her design and her care." He pauses, then lets out a little laugh. "Told her to look me up if she needed anything. Seemed like she might've been needing something, but she doesn't know me." And he respects the need for subtleties and discretion.

"I'll reiterate the message when I see her," Graeme says. "There are … things going to be happening soon. Like I told Melissa, I'm not so sure on the details at the moment, but that's for its own reason." He picks up the second half of the sandwich. "Also, next week, you want to hit the shooting range? Instead of basketball? I'm going to be picking up a handgun soon, and figured …" The topic is changed once again, after a moment of pause. "Though I'm not sure what, yet. Probably something similar to what I learned on when I was getting my guard card the first time. I'd like to get an armed endorsement again, but it's probably better at the moment if I don't, given all the circumstances." There's a grin. "However, once I get it, I want to be sure I've gotten some practise. My friend had … advised me that brushing up on it might be wise, and then the gala happened and all."

An absent nod follows Graeme's offer, but it's what's said next that draws Devon's attention up from eyeing his sandwich. He frowns slightly, a look of concern and thought that's followed by a slow nod. "We …need to go somewhere else to talk," he decides, rather than respond further along the lines of handguns and shooting. His eyes tick meaningfully toward the counter then back to the older man, a brow raising. Discretion. "But we can do that, instead of basketball. My brother thinks I need to sharpen my skills too, for the riflery team."

There's a brief grin. "Yeah." And as Graeme said, he doesn't know anything anyway. "I agree with your brother. Any day of the week." It's an acknowledgment of the change of topic. "Plus, then I can spare myself the embarrassment of you beating me further at basketball."

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