Participants:
| Scene Title | Some Peace and Quiet |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Graeme goes to the safehouse, in search of some peace and quiet. And finds it, but there's a teenager as well. |
| Date | May 28, 2011 |
Endgame Safehouse, Ruins of Cliffside Apartments
Midmorning, Graeme'd come over to the Endgame safehouse, announced himself a little more tersely than is usual for the man who is usually patient to the exclusion of all else, and proceeded to set up on the floor against a wall, with grading, muttering something about quiet and such things not being found during business hours otherwise. And for the most part of the past hour, that's what he's done, graded papers, a bottle of water to one side, along a folder of papers, and the small revolver sits on the floor to the other side. Now, though, apparently finished, the folder is picked up, papers straightened in his lap, then put away in the messenger bag, and Graeme stares up at the ceiling.
Elisabeth has given him space. Whatever it is that she's working on, she is polite enough to keep it entirely muted. She sits at the keyboard in her own room, the door open in case he needs something, playing the instrument with a focus that many might envy.
Someone called ahead. Or at least sent a text. Devon didn't feel too much like having any more firearms trained in his direction, or the threat of them being turned on him, so he sent a message saying he was headed over. Of course, it takes far longer after that for him to show up, a bus ride or two and then several blocks covered on foot before arriving through normal means. And once inside, the teenager stands himself near the entrance, hands gripping the straps to his pack to let the normal inhabitants know he's around before making his way cautiously up the stairs.
Except it wasn't Graeme that got the text message, not being one of the regular inhabitants of the safehouse, and for a moment when Devon appears, there's a hand that strays to where the gun at his side is. Then he notices that no, it's actually the teenager, and then gun is put down, not having made it even an inch off of the ground. "Hey there Devon," he says, greeting without actually getting up.
The sound of feet on the stairs carries easily to the audiokinetic. The stairwell is set up to squeak in certain places so even if Devon was trying to be sneaky, it would be hard. She comes out of her room and down the hall, spotting the boy. And she smiles slightly. "Hey there," she too greets, her tone easy.
An exasperated sigh and shake of Devon's head greet Graeme's movements. "What is it I got to do so you all stop twitching for weapons when I show up?" His eyes roll, though he tempers his snark with a grin. "Hey," his greeting includes both as his eyes flick to Elisabeth. "Got something for you," is continued to Liz, his pack coming off a shoulder and some digging following into the larger of the pouch. "And came looking for Jaiden." Out of the pack a plastic shopping bag is produced and inside the promised disposable phone.
Graeme just grins, although unlike some things, there's no specific apology offered, simply that Graeme's hands fold in his lap. There's a grin offered up to Liz, though, when she comes into view, and then Graeme stretches, almost lazily. "Dunno where Jaiden is, though." A glance to Elisabeth. "She prolly does."
Elisabeth's brows shoot up and she moves to take the phone. "You didn't have to do that," she tells the boy. "But thank you. Graeme's been picking them up, and Jaiden's been picking them up from various places." She grins. "He hasn't come back in from scrounging yet. What's up?"
"Well now you got a third who's capable of rounding up phones." Devon relinquishes the bag, then closes his pack. "Nothing's up. Just came by to see if he's ready to show me the ropes. All that." One shoulder rolls out a shrug.
Graeme nods to Devon, further pushing aside the messenger bag in order to stand and lean against the wall. "How's your shoulder doing?" The question comes with some small amount of concern, albeit hidden fairly well.
A brow quirks. Elisabeth wasn't aware of shoulder problems with the boy, and her blue eyes shoot to him narrowly.
"Better now that you're not locking it up," Devon states, arms folding over his chest. He catches Liz's look and shakes his head. "It's nothing, injury from the Dome, Graeme decided to see how flexible I was while we were practicing."
There's a look given in return to Devon, though Graeme also catches Liz's look to Devon. "Just checking." There's a pause, before Graeme continues. "Less easy to remember which was which at the time."
"Be careful. We don't have a good doctor with us, though most of us are at least field medics. But if you mess it up permanently, you'll have to rely on Brennan — and that could get tight, if things go south on his side," Elisabeth says. But it's all she says on the matter, walking toward the kitchen to help herself to the never-ending coffee pot.
"Didn't help I wasn't expecting him to do anything fancy," Devon adds. He glances at Graeme and shakes his head. "Good job, getting me in trouble," he continues, tone teasing. "I really just need to work it more, maybe do some weights to tighten things up again."
Graeme just shrugs a bit, as Liz walks off. "I think that's a call she had to take," he says, when she doesn't return after a moment. "You're not in trouble, though." The response is equally teasing, though. "Weights would probably be a good start, at least once a day if not twice."
Devon glances off in the direction Liz had gone, then looks back to Graeme. "It still twinges sometimes when we play ball, but I never gave it much thought until you put on that arm lock." He shrugs, then moves to make a seat of the floor, pack coming off his shoulder to rest beside him. "No big deal."
"Probably was the better of ways to find out," Graeme says, pensive. "When nothing mattered on the situation. Now, you'll pay more attention to if it twinges." Then there's a bit of a derisive snort, as the teacher realises that he's really one to be talking about these things. The statement is pretty hypocritical of him, overall, and Graeme bends down to pick up the bottle of water from next to the messenger bag, taking a long sip.
Devon might well know, or correctly assume by the derisive nature of the teacher's follow up to his own statement, just how contradictory the statement is to how Graeme handles himself. It draws a sly grin from the younger man, a brow raising in silent jest, but he doesn't speak any more on the subject. Instead, he changes it. "What made you decide to become a teacher?"
Graeme grins in return. There's half a moment where he opens his mouth to utter some protest or other about not actually having to follow his own advice, but it doesn't end up said. But there is an equally wry smile on his face. "Honestly, at first, there was an opening. I was a college student and they needed a coach, so I took the job, and then I had to get a certification if I wanted to keep coaching."
"Well, right." Devon shakes his head, to imply that wasn't quite what he meant. "But how'd you know that's what you wanted to do? What… made you decide to make a career out of it?"
The question gives Graeme pause, for a moment, and he sinks back down to fold himself into a seated position, taking another sip of water. "It needed doing. I was good at it, I was making a difference, and other things seemed less important."
Devon nods, after a long moment of thought. Then, with a sigh, he draws a hand over his head, fingers raking through his hair. "Sorry, just curious. You got me thinking more about school, and Liz asked me what I was looking to study. And school… is something I have mixed feelings about."
Graeme nods, bottle of water resting on his lap. "I can understand, I think," he says. "It took me a while to pick what I wanted to study, And even then, most of the time I spent a good half of my time on sports. I guess I found what I needed to, though. Once I was teaching, I just knew that it was what I was supposed to be doing." There's a pause, before Graeme continues, this time with a question. "So what are you thinking about studying?"
"I really don't know." Devon's answer, as it's been with everyone else inquiring after his academic career, is honest. "Part of me wants to go to school, but I wonder if that isn't my parents talking. Which makes me wonder if I'm just rebelling because school's always been easy for me." He shakes his head, looking up at Graeme. "I wouldn't mind understanding law and how that works, but I can just as easily study it on my own time. Science is an obvious place to go. —I don't know. Maybe I'll become a professional writer, like a playwright."
"If you enjoy learning and school, then you should go. Take advantage of the opportunity," Graeme says. There's a long pause as the teacher settles the strap of the messenger bag over his shoulder, the water bottle settled into a side pocket, and then the revolver carefully unloaded, bullets dropped into a jeans pocket, gun itself tucked into the waist of his jeans. "Come on. You can tell me about it on the walk back to the car, and it'll save you from a bus ride. It's only about two miles to where I parked." When Graeme gets up, after a moment where he disappears into the kitchen — probably to give Elisabeth a hug goodbye — the skateboard is picked up, before he leads Devon down the stairs, and out of the safehouse by a different route through the ruined areas of building probably than the way that the teenager came in.