Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2012-10-16 07:08 pm
flint_garou) wrote2012-10-16 07:08 pm
Entry tags:
What tribe means.
So maybe try learning, already.
16 October, 2012
The moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (9% full).
While it's been a while since Devon held any formal capacity in manning the doors, he's doing so tonight. Though not engrossed in the monitors, he's lost in a book. His head is pillowed on an arm, eyes trailing over the words on the pages opened to him. Very typical of the teenager he is, in all respects except one. He's still covered in blue scales.
Flint comes out of the stairwell with a laundry bag in hand, and glances, brows ticking upward. The galliard gives the ahroun a look, but doesn't say anything. Flint is predominantly covered in sawdust, smells of the 4th floor workshop that he's spent so much time in recently.
Devon only half glances toward the stairs when Flint appears, the action seeming drawn by the sound than any malcontent toward the Galliard. He sits up, however, after a moment or two, and drags a hand over his eyes to run away the haze from reading. "Hey, Flint," he says, as usual quietly.
"Hey Devon," comes the response, though Flint doesn't pause from his itinerary for the laundry room. "Still?" Brows furrow and the galliard goes to put up the laundry he'd come down to do in the first place. Eventually, Flint does call out, "That looks really uncomfortable, you know."
Devon looks down at the desk top, shoulders pushing upward regardless of whether Flint can see it or not. "Took some getting used to it. Kind of wondering if I'm going to shed like a snake, or if I'll ever return to normal."
Flint rolls his eyes, thankfully towards the washing machine in the laundry room, and eventually comes back out into the lobby once the machine is rumbling away. There's a shrug of his shoulders offered to Devon. "If you shed you could make things. I mean, snakeskin." It's hard to tell if that's an attempt at a joke.
"I… don't really think it's the same thing," Devon says. He gives Flint a questioning look, brows pushing together slightly. "Not sure anyone would want Devon-skin anything."
Flint frowns as the attempt at a joke falls rather flat, and then moves over to one of the couches. "Shedding sounds uncomfortable too," the galliard offers. "Hopefully you don't."
Devon leans forward again, chin resting against his arm. "Awkward enough running around like this," he agrees, still quietly. "You don't think… if this never gets fixed? That Mouse'll …that I'll …from the Walkers..?"
"It'll get fixed," Flint offers, his head turned to one side. "But… No. Mouse-rhya wouldn't. She. No." The younger cliath pauses and then continues, running a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. "If you worry about that, it's counterproductive. Focus on finding things you can do. Go out to Edgewood, and stuff. When there's a— the caern is back—" Flint pauses and just purses his lips and leans back.
"She might," Devon counters, though it lacks intensity of argument. "She's not happy. What if she wants me to face the half moons? Has that ever happened? I tried doing what I thought was a good idea, and I tried telling her what happened…" Breathing out in a sigh, he tilts his head to look at the Galliard. "Especially with everything else I've done wrong, great reason to finally get rid of me."
Flint bares his teeth at the Ahroun, but it's not really challenge. "She's not, happy. With me either, you know." He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, but his gaze finds the ceiling. "But. What… I've been told is that you live, and you learn, and you do better next time. And if I c-can, so the fuck can you."
Devon's brows draw down into a frown, and it's almost as if he might take the Galliard's words and expression as a challenge. "No offense, but I'm really tired of hearing that. You'll do better next time. Yeah, every time next time has come around I've failed more."
"Yeah well?" Flint snaps, a little irritable. There's really no challenge in the tone, nonetheless. "Right now, I make one wrong step, and I do face Fallout-rhya. Or Salem-rhya." Flint gets up and paces back towards the laundry, chin jutting out, shoulders square perhaps with tension more than self-confidence. "Again. So maybe try learning, already."
"At least they know what the hell to do with you," Devon snaps back. "Fuck! At least they give a shit about what happened to you, instead of just calling me ten types of idiot and leaving me to sink or swim in whatever trouble I've fallen into."
Flint turns at the doorway, and steps back into the lobby, and then leans against the wall. "They give a shit!" Flint responds, grimacing. "You just can't see it!" His volume doesn't really increase much. "And you go off and act like twenty types if, of idiot, then so. Tell someone— where you're going, t-take backup, give a shit about yourself."
"I don't see it because it isn't there," Devon returns. "When have they ever given two shits about me? When have they ever cared, bothered to see me, helped with anything when I wasn't actively bleeding in front of them? No one's so much as ever asked how I was managing with anything! No 'Good job on that, Dev' or 'Haven't seen you in a while, how've you been'. Just Devon's a fucking moron!"
"When they worry because you've up and gone and think that going after you's just going, going— g-going to. Alienate you more. But they worry and they fucking care so don't accuse them of not!" This gets another raise in volume from the galliard, and then Flint lets out a breath, angles his gaze away from the other cliath enough to not be provoking.
"Yeah, they care so much." Devon shoves himself away from the desk, sending his book sliding across the top and away. "So fucking much that all they can do is fucking ignore me when I'm around or shit all over anything I've done and call me the idiot when it screws up because they don't help." He stands and slams the chair back into place, though the requirement that he's on duty keeps him from escaping totally.
Flint bites his lower lip, takes a breath, collects himself and pushes down his own Rage. "Ask people other'n me for help. Hell, ask me! I'd have. If I could, you know. But ask first, not later." The galliard's jaw clenches. "But you have to, do everything—" Flint takes another deep breath, calms himself further. "You're not on your own, damn it. And calm down, neither of us. Need to break anything tonight. It'd. Given that."
"Ask for help." Devon nearly laughs at that concept. "Ask for help?! The fuck have I been doing for the last six months?" The book he'd knocked to the floor gets kicked toward the basement as he starts further away from the Galliard. "Something's wrong with me. I need help. I don't remember who any of the Walkers are and I need help. But. Oh, wait. No. I'm a fucking moron for not solving my own damn problems, but everyone cares so damn much and all I have to do is ask for help!" His words are punctuated with fists striking a wall, frustrated far more than angry.
Flint's expression twists to a discontent frown. "Sorry," Flint mutters. "You want, I can watch the cameras a while. I'm doing laundry anyway."
Devon's fists beat against the wall again, once more before he drops his forehead against it. "What I want. What I want is to know. To know that… People care. That they have my back. Not just saying it but… but fucking being there if I call. Or before I call. To just…" Words are sought after, but he ends with just dropping his head against the wall again.
For the moment, the galliard just listens, and nods. Flint's hands loop around opposite wrists, and he leans back, then glances to Devon again. "Yeah," he says, acknowledgement, a fair amount of understanding.
Devon passes a long moment in silence, head hanging, pressed against the wall. Then, with a sigh he turns enough to slide down the wall and sit on the floor. His head still hangs, held in his hands.
Flint takes another deep breath, and doesn't add to the awkward silence with words. Instead, he heads back for the laundry room.
16 October, 2012
The moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (9% full).
While it's been a while since Devon held any formal capacity in manning the doors, he's doing so tonight. Though not engrossed in the monitors, he's lost in a book. His head is pillowed on an arm, eyes trailing over the words on the pages opened to him. Very typical of the teenager he is, in all respects except one. He's still covered in blue scales.
Flint comes out of the stairwell with a laundry bag in hand, and glances, brows ticking upward. The galliard gives the ahroun a look, but doesn't say anything. Flint is predominantly covered in sawdust, smells of the 4th floor workshop that he's spent so much time in recently.
Devon only half glances toward the stairs when Flint appears, the action seeming drawn by the sound than any malcontent toward the Galliard. He sits up, however, after a moment or two, and drags a hand over his eyes to run away the haze from reading. "Hey, Flint," he says, as usual quietly.
"Hey Devon," comes the response, though Flint doesn't pause from his itinerary for the laundry room. "Still?" Brows furrow and the galliard goes to put up the laundry he'd come down to do in the first place. Eventually, Flint does call out, "That looks really uncomfortable, you know."
Devon looks down at the desk top, shoulders pushing upward regardless of whether Flint can see it or not. "Took some getting used to it. Kind of wondering if I'm going to shed like a snake, or if I'll ever return to normal."
Flint rolls his eyes, thankfully towards the washing machine in the laundry room, and eventually comes back out into the lobby once the machine is rumbling away. There's a shrug of his shoulders offered to Devon. "If you shed you could make things. I mean, snakeskin." It's hard to tell if that's an attempt at a joke.
"I… don't really think it's the same thing," Devon says. He gives Flint a questioning look, brows pushing together slightly. "Not sure anyone would want Devon-skin anything."
Flint frowns as the attempt at a joke falls rather flat, and then moves over to one of the couches. "Shedding sounds uncomfortable too," the galliard offers. "Hopefully you don't."
Devon leans forward again, chin resting against his arm. "Awkward enough running around like this," he agrees, still quietly. "You don't think… if this never gets fixed? That Mouse'll …that I'll …from the Walkers..?"
"It'll get fixed," Flint offers, his head turned to one side. "But… No. Mouse-rhya wouldn't. She. No." The younger cliath pauses and then continues, running a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. "If you worry about that, it's counterproductive. Focus on finding things you can do. Go out to Edgewood, and stuff. When there's a— the caern is back—" Flint pauses and just purses his lips and leans back.
"She might," Devon counters, though it lacks intensity of argument. "She's not happy. What if she wants me to face the half moons? Has that ever happened? I tried doing what I thought was a good idea, and I tried telling her what happened…" Breathing out in a sigh, he tilts his head to look at the Galliard. "Especially with everything else I've done wrong, great reason to finally get rid of me."
Flint bares his teeth at the Ahroun, but it's not really challenge. "She's not, happy. With me either, you know." He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, but his gaze finds the ceiling. "But. What… I've been told is that you live, and you learn, and you do better next time. And if I c-can, so the fuck can you."
Devon's brows draw down into a frown, and it's almost as if he might take the Galliard's words and expression as a challenge. "No offense, but I'm really tired of hearing that. You'll do better next time. Yeah, every time next time has come around I've failed more."
"Yeah well?" Flint snaps, a little irritable. There's really no challenge in the tone, nonetheless. "Right now, I make one wrong step, and I do face Fallout-rhya. Or Salem-rhya." Flint gets up and paces back towards the laundry, chin jutting out, shoulders square perhaps with tension more than self-confidence. "Again. So maybe try learning, already."
"At least they know what the hell to do with you," Devon snaps back. "Fuck! At least they give a shit about what happened to you, instead of just calling me ten types of idiot and leaving me to sink or swim in whatever trouble I've fallen into."
Flint turns at the doorway, and steps back into the lobby, and then leans against the wall. "They give a shit!" Flint responds, grimacing. "You just can't see it!" His volume doesn't really increase much. "And you go off and act like twenty types if, of idiot, then so. Tell someone— where you're going, t-take backup, give a shit about yourself."
"I don't see it because it isn't there," Devon returns. "When have they ever given two shits about me? When have they ever cared, bothered to see me, helped with anything when I wasn't actively bleeding in front of them? No one's so much as ever asked how I was managing with anything! No 'Good job on that, Dev' or 'Haven't seen you in a while, how've you been'. Just Devon's a fucking moron!"
"When they worry because you've up and gone and think that going after you's just going, going— g-going to. Alienate you more. But they worry and they fucking care so don't accuse them of not!" This gets another raise in volume from the galliard, and then Flint lets out a breath, angles his gaze away from the other cliath enough to not be provoking.
"Yeah, they care so much." Devon shoves himself away from the desk, sending his book sliding across the top and away. "So fucking much that all they can do is fucking ignore me when I'm around or shit all over anything I've done and call me the idiot when it screws up because they don't help." He stands and slams the chair back into place, though the requirement that he's on duty keeps him from escaping totally.
Flint bites his lower lip, takes a breath, collects himself and pushes down his own Rage. "Ask people other'n me for help. Hell, ask me! I'd have. If I could, you know. But ask first, not later." The galliard's jaw clenches. "But you have to, do everything—" Flint takes another deep breath, calms himself further. "You're not on your own, damn it. And calm down, neither of us. Need to break anything tonight. It'd. Given that."
"Ask for help." Devon nearly laughs at that concept. "Ask for help?! The fuck have I been doing for the last six months?" The book he'd knocked to the floor gets kicked toward the basement as he starts further away from the Galliard. "Something's wrong with me. I need help. I don't remember who any of the Walkers are and I need help. But. Oh, wait. No. I'm a fucking moron for not solving my own damn problems, but everyone cares so damn much and all I have to do is ask for help!" His words are punctuated with fists striking a wall, frustrated far more than angry.
Flint's expression twists to a discontent frown. "Sorry," Flint mutters. "You want, I can watch the cameras a while. I'm doing laundry anyway."
Devon's fists beat against the wall again, once more before he drops his forehead against it. "What I want. What I want is to know. To know that… People care. That they have my back. Not just saying it but… but fucking being there if I call. Or before I call. To just…" Words are sought after, but he ends with just dropping his head against the wall again.
For the moment, the galliard just listens, and nods. Flint's hands loop around opposite wrists, and he leans back, then glances to Devon again. "Yeah," he says, acknowledgement, a fair amount of understanding.
Devon passes a long moment in silence, head hanging, pressed against the wall. Then, with a sigh he turns enough to slide down the wall and sit on the floor. His head still hangs, held in his hands.
Flint takes another deep breath, and doesn't add to the awkward silence with words. Instead, he heads back for the laundry room.