Song of Innocence

[Tom Harriman]

The sun was still obscured by the hills, the sky still washed in the gradually paling indigo of early morning. There was barely enough light to see; there were even a few stars managing to glimmer through, one last gasp of interstellar light before they too were consumed by the morning. A breath of wind swirled around, lifting a scouring haze of dust and debris from the ground, swirling it through the air so it bit at his skin.

He didn't care. Didn't stir; even flinch. Lying there, he felt like he was part of the hillside; part of the world. He'd been there for hours; all night, nearly. Just lying there, watching the cosmos he adored wheel above his head. He wouldn't move, not a muscle, until there was only one star left visible in the sky: one very specific, astronomically local star in particular.

Crimson washed out across the whispy veil of clouds, heralding the impending sunrise. Minutes passed; hours maybe. They felt like seconds; insignificant moments in time. The sky began to grow golden and warm, as the sun slowly - reluctantly - clambered its way out from behind the oceanic horizon. He heard the collective sigh as the world slowly awoke, the wildlife that had scampered around in the darkness replaced by the ones that would populate the daylight, like some strange, natural world changing of the guards. He observed it all with fascination; percieved the ecosystem in which he dwelt shifting around him.

Finally, pure and direct sunlight washed down on him, casting a warm and white-light brilliance across his skin. He sighed himself. Smiled. Hello world, his mind muttered to the dawn; a slight breath of a chuckle escaped him at the mild humour and irony in that.

He moved at last, peeling himself away from the hillside; rolled his shoulders to shift the tight-fitting t-shirt that had almost fuzed to his skin with early morning condensation. He tugged at the fabric central to his chest, the repeat motion wafting a slight, moist breeze up towards his face. He released the shirt; scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw that he should really think about shaving off. He'd worry about that later.

Clambering to his feet, he spurred his legs into action, ignoring their protests at being asked to do something that they hadn't for so long that they'd almost forgotten how. His fingers wrapped around the collar of a leather jacket, draped through the open window of his car; one fluid motion flung the jacket over a shoulder, arms somehow finding their way into the sleeves.

He pulled open the door; slid himself into the beltless bench seat, hand falling instantly to the ignition as soon as it had slammed the door closed. He paused for a moment as his foot failed to find the clutch pedal; mentally talking himself through the preflight checks, the engine rumbled into life with a deep, almost animal roar. A smile cracked across his face. The Chevrolet was hardly the newest, coolest, or most fashionable form of conveyance but, he figured, if you were going to cruise your way around the Californian countryside, you might as well look the part while you were doing it. To that end, a hand delved into a jacket pocket, tugged out a set of glasses, and flicked them open, a practiced motion placing them on his face.

"Hello world," he repeated, allowed this time, shooting himself a quick glance in the rear view mirror. A rev of engine followed, as he steered the wheels vaguely in the direction of the road. "And hello Los Angeles."

* * *

The wind ruffled his hair through the open window as he cruised, arm rested on the metalwork of the door, along the highway that led into the city - on the wrong side, which was a disconcerting experience given how he'd learned to drive back home in Britain. One might have thought that after five years, he might have grown accustomed to it by now. But it still felt damned strange.

He pulled out in a fluid swoop, the Impala pulling him effortlessly past a cliché - one of those huge eighteen-wheeler things that you saw the stereotypical American trucker driving around with in all those movies and TV shows. He threw it a sidelong glance as it passed by; a CB Radio antenna and an Optimus Prime paint job. Another smile cracked on his features. Classy.

Countryside began to shrink away, buildings springing up in its place. The forest of towers from central LA loomed ominously on the horizon ahead. Without a hint of regret, and a notable flavour of relief, he turned onto the next exit, his Chevrolet conveying him away from the broad river of tarmac, or ashfelt, or pavement, or whatever it was he was meant to call it now, and headed into one of the suburbs.

The hour or so of driving it had taken him to escape the smog and light pollution, and find somewhere satisfactory for his stargazing had made him late; he spotted kids that seemed vaguely the right age, and who were heading in approximately the right direction as he passed. He risked a glance at his wrist; silently cursed himself for forgetting that he'd pawned nearly everything when he'd escaped from New York. Maybe he'd taken his fresh start a little too seriously; but hell, why bother doing things by half?

A gap opened up in the buildings; the road swerved to the left; he hesitated at the junction, waiting for the car opposite - something equally American, and likely equally allergic to corners - to pull in first. He followed, tailing it for a few hundred yards as they made their way towards the staff parking spaces. Thankfully, a couple of SUV's had left a nice, well-defined space between them that he tucked the Chevrolet into; he hated parking in empty spaces. Probably because he was so damn compulsive about being as close to dead-center between the two lines as he could manage. At least the towering monstrosities either side would make it nice and easy to aim.

He killed the engine; clambered out of the car; glanced in the direction of whoever it had been following. Young-ish blonde woman; he couldn't place her name, but then he'd only been working there three days, so he could probably be excused for that. She smiled; thought about offering him a wave, but changed her mind part-way through and disguised the gesture by brushing her hair over an ear. He offered her one of those smile and raise your eyebrow type expressions in reply; the kind of wave you gave someone when you didn't want to make a big show of it.

Reaching back into the car, he stretched across to the far side of the front seat, grabbed his bag, clicked down the lock on the door, and shoved it closed behind him. Striding towards the main school building like he owned the place - he'd decided that was probably the best way of getting the damned students to move out of the way - he shoved his way through the double doors, negotiated the slalem of social groups that littered the corridor, and let himself into the relative refuge of his classroom.

Well, it wasn't really his classroom. It was some other teacher guy's, but he'd gone and done him the favour of breaking his leg skiing over the summer; Tom had managed to snipe his job for the next few months while he healed.

Dumping his shoulder bag on the front desk, shrugging his jacket, and tossing it over the back of his chair, he ripped open the zip on his bag and haulled out the spare shirt that he'd had the forethought to pack. Stripping his day-old, dew-stained and dusty black tee, he gave himself a quick once-over with a can of something that claimed to be an antiperspirant and, if the commercials were to be believed, would make every woman for miles throw themselves at him - probably not a wise idea given that he was about to spend the rest of the day trapped in a room with a bunch of horny teenagers, but oh well - and then carefully unfolded his fresh shirt, wafting it about to encourage out the worst of the creases that the folding and bag storage had ironed into it.

There was a click as the door opened; he frowned, turned in that general direction as he tugged the shirt on over his arms. "Hello?" he asked, remembering to tone down his natural accent.

[Alice Kelly]

"Hi... " a soft voice replied, barely audible over the echoing of lockers slamming and students loitering about in the hallways before their classes began that followed her in.

The blond woman only barely peered through the door, her left hand clutching a venti Starbucks cup for dear life while the right had plucked a white ear-bud from it's place and left it slightly dangling in her grasp.

Alice bit her lower lip slightly as her head nodded. "Right... not the auditorium. Swear I'll never get the lay of this place. I'm not even remotely near, am I?" A small sheepish smile crept across her features, more out of the fact she had apparently walked in on one of the younger staff members getting dressed than her own embarrassment at being unable to find where she needed to be... again.

Alice blamed the fact they made her get up so early. It had made more sense to her to come after school, late afternoon hours, when she could work on the mural they had commissioned her to paint along one wall of the school's auditorium in peace and quiet. The school's principal had other ideas, however and thought it was best she work while the rest of the staff was there - he had mentioned something about budget cuts and security. Whatever.

All Alice knew was it meant she had to get up early. Which also meant that the Starbucks on her drive from her lousy single room apartment to the school had seen her at the exact same time for the last four days. Today they hadn't even asked her what she wanted, it was just "Hey, Wonderland... the usual?" to which she'd given a noncommittal grunt as she attempted to keep herself from curling up on one of the comfy looking seats and going back to sleep.

The cup, now only half filled with her 'white chocolate mocha with two extra shots of espresso, low fat, no whipped cream' was sipped at as she glanced around the empty class room before letting her eyes fall on the... well not exactly unattractive... occupant.

"I'd ask if you knew where I took the wrong turn but... aren't you that new guy?" Not that Alice was entirely familiar with the faculty. Though she had met some of them before the summer when she had been hired to paint a giant head of the school's mascot in the gym.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom flashed a grin, pulling the tee over his head, and tugging it down towards his waist. It was sleeveless, and clung a little too tightly, but whatever. He'd left his button-up shirt dumped on the seat of the chair the night before; green, and in a loosely military style, complete with epaullettes and everything. It was weird how comforting it was, wearing clothes like that, even if they were some sort of weird American version of what he was used to. It was like an anchor: something to cling onto, and provide a little stability while his life was busy being inverted.

"Is'nae the auditorium, no," he threw back, hoisting the shirt from his seat and shaking out as many of the creases as he could, nose wrinkled. He flashed her the smile that had always served him so well in the past - not flirtatious enough, but certainly charming and disarming. Enough to set women at ease around him at any rate, or at least make them second guess their determination to beat him round the head with a tennis racket; that had certainly not been the reaction he'd expected when he'd started the "It's not you, it's me," speach. "Sorry lassie," he offered, with a hint of a shrug.

His attention turned back to the shirt, carefully inspecting the sleeves that he perpetually wore rolled up, ensuring that the stitches he'd thrown in to save time in the mornings - making sure the two sleeves were exactly symmetrical, and rolled up exactly the same amount could take a while in the wee small hours - were still there: when you had a pedantic attention to appearence and detail drilled into you by the British Army, it was nigh impossible to buck the trend.

"An' aye," he added, almost as an afterthought; his attention ficked back to his visitor, a flash of mischief twinkling in his eyes. "New guy'd be me. Name's Tom."

[Alice Kelly]

Tom's accent had a bad side affect of getting a smile out of her, though the shirt he had pulled on had started the reaction. He was certainly the first teacher she had ever seen dress like that. Alice figured the man was about to break a lot of teenage hearts and probably had no idea. She half wondered if it was usual attire in academics from... wherever he was from. England? Ireland...? Maybe Scottland. Her mind couldn't place it and she wasn't about to try.

"Just 'Tom'? No Mr. Whoever or Professor Suchandsuch?" Her smile turned into a playful smirk for just a moment. "Well Tom, I'm Alice... don't work here though so you don't have to remember that. I'm just a temporary... uhh..." she paused as she tried to think of a word for it, "contractor, I guess?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom cracked a lopsided smile flashing plenty of teeth, head cocking to the side as he casually massaged the back of his neck. "Technically," he offered back, "It's Cap'n Thomas James Harriman, PhD; but I didnae wanna make things too complicated f' the wee ones, y'ken?" He shrugged, limps crinkling closed to mimick the gesture. "I'm here t' teach them f' just a few months: donnae wanna distract 'em askin' me questions on where I served, what I did, an' all that."

He chuckled, perching himself on the corner of his borrowed desk, and folding his arms loosely across his body. "Reminds me o' my own school days - we used t' find out everything we could 'bout the teacher's personal life; throw in questions t' get them talkin', and waste time at the start o' the lessons." His eyes twinkled. "Not plannin' t' let these kids use ma own plans against me."

His expression shifted, ever so slightly, the faintest ghost of a frown tugging at his eyebrows. "Contractor, y'say?" he asked, a thread of light-hearted curiosity threading through his words. The odd turn of phrase likely precluded her being a temporary teacher like himself; then he remembered she'd been bound for the auditorium, and his mind began to draw parallels and connections. "Y' wouldnae be the artist th've got paintin' that wall now, would y'?"

[Alice Kelly]

Alice finally let the ear-bud of her headphones drop, letting it hang loosely. She let herself lean against the door-jam, both hands gripping the paper cup filled with liquid wake-up.

"I suppose I might be. If you can consider what they have me doing as 'art'" Her eyes rolled slightly before a small fidget brought her gaze to the silver watch on her left wrist. Still about fifteen minutes to go until the students would start filing in... those that cared about being on time, at least.

"So before I go and make my bi-weekly ramen budget, where you from, anyway?" Another small smirk came to her, "And how often do your students ask you questions just to hear you speak?"

[Tom Harriman]

Tom fought the urge to narrow his eyes, forgetting how - in a country as large as America, especially - people weren't so attuned to the drastic differences between Britain's numerous accents and dialects. Not that she was from America, of course; Tom on the other hand was much more sensitive with accents, and had picked up the subtleties that placed her being from somewhere north of the border, though where in Canada was still evading him. Further reconnaissance would be required, he decided, just to satiate his curiosity.

You've been toning it down too, idiot, his mind reminded him, which prompted a flash of nervous smile. "Scotland," he replied, reinforcing the smile and turning it positive. "Though I w's actually born 'n Truro, doon 'n Cornwall - south 'f England. Wouldnae expect a Canadian such as y'self t' pick up on all tha' o'course: y' got enough t' worry about wi' y' own selection o' accents an' dialects."

He faked another frown, though couldn't fight the smirking, mischevious smile that crept onto his lips. "And wha' is it about m' accent tha' the students 'd be so eager t' hear? Y' implyin' tha' there's a certain -" He poured as much charm and flirt into his words as they could concievably allow, advancing a few slow, cautious paces towards her, tone softening and lowering to deliver the remainder of his question as a purr. "- allurin' charm t' the way m' voice sounds?"

[Alice Kelly]

Alice was practically a deer caught in headlights, incapable of moving and yet wanting to run. He was one of the first people who had picked up on her country of birth that she had met in the states, not that she found it alarming, but it was strange to have someone pick it out and point it out to her.

But that wasn't the reason her cheeks suddenly flushed. Was... was this man flirting with her? She brought the coffee back to her lips, nibbling on the edge of the hole in the white plastic top to avoid answering his question at first. It was with a great sense of reluctance that Alice forced herself to stop.

"Well... I mean, you know, some girls..." she stammered, overly aware of the small nuances in her tone and pronunciation that she never would have noticed back home... or if Tom hadn't mentioned it.

It was her determination to avoid conversation that let her eyes wander. First to his desk, then to her fingernails which seemed to be a more vibrant shade of blue than she remembered having the ladies at the salon paint the tips, to the details on her watch that seemed to posses the same shift towards a higher saturation in color... then to the green logo on the coffee cup that was... well, practically glowing... Shit.

The bell that rang out through the hallways was a sudden welcome sound. The door that remained slightly closed against her opened up as several students walked in and past Alice and Tom.

Her eyes fleetingly met his before she forced a smile. "I... should go." She turned and exited the room before he could respond.

[Tom Harriman]

That her automatic reaction to his advances - light-hearted as they might have been - filled him with a strange mix of disappointment, hurt, and worry. And then, she ran away? His body sagged, not truely comprehending what it was that he'd done, but realising that he was somehow responsible for her discomfort. A recent messy break-up? Some sort of abusive bastard ex? He dreaded to think, and distracted himself from doing so by mentally beating the crap out of himself.

His class was arriving; once again - and not entirely dissonant with Alice's predictions - a cluster of girls had swarmed to the front of the class, occupying the front few rows of desks so completely that the geeky kids were forced to retreat towards the seats at the back, usually reserved for the much cooler kids. One girl fluttered her eyelids at him; he ignored it completely, mind already bursting out of the door and sprinting down the corridor, waiting for his body to catch up.

"Excuse me, lads 'n lasses," he appologised - seriously; did that girl just swoon - legs spurring his body into motion towards the door. He managed to stop himself from running, compromising between his impulses and better judgement with a brisk walking pace. A trio of cheerleaders watched him pass; his mind allowed a momentary spark of amusement at how much he would have loved it if the girls back in Britain had been allowed to wear that sort of thing at school back when he was a student. Of course, up in Scotland, the minimal outfits probably would have hospitalised most of the cheerleaders with hypothermia; but then, given the kind of things that girls nowadays wore out and about on a late night in Glasgow, they were probably impervious to cold.

An ironic half-chuckle resounded in his mind. Species-wide mutant ability.

Finally he caught up with Alice, only just managing to make it look like that's what he was trying to do. Not wanting to create a scene by shouting down the corridor after her, instead he reached out, fingertips gingerly brushing against the bare skin on her arm. She flinched, but at least she stopped walking. He offered a sheepish smile. "Listen, I'm, ah -"

Sorry? You don't even know what you're sorry for!

The irritating voice in his head was right; consolodating himself, he switched to a different approach, stowing away his usual confidence and instead allowing a little of his carefully repressed bumbling nervousness to creep in. He cocked a finger, aiming his index towards the Starbucks cup like an infant portrayal of a cowboy pistol. "Can I buy y' a refill for tha' a' lunch? And, oh, I dunno... some food t' go along w' it, maybe?"

[Alice Kelly]

No way is this happening... As far as Alice could recall guys didn't, well, do this. Not for her. Her brain was reminding her rather quickly of the misery that was High School, followed by the relief that college had put an end to most of the stupid social bullshit from that age. Only to find they had been replaced by new types of bullshit and she didn't quite fit in with the artist crowds there either. Guys were always going for the girls who stood out; whether they were the drunken sorority sister, the future film star, the over-the-top poet... they got men's attention. Not her, not the quiet girl in the corner who was constantly doodling on anything with a flat surface... Who makes anyone sick if they get close enough. Sure there had been a few brave souls now and there, but they hadn't stayed long. Just lingered enough to find out-

Enough of the self abuse...

"Okay." The fact she had even let the word leave her was surprising and she didn't make an attempt to hide it. "I mean... Sure, that sounds good."

Alice was already calculating the odds that she would probably somehow completely alienate herself from this man at some point by the end of the day. It wasn't anything new, but sure, why not let the cute teacher guy with the really cute accent buy her lunch? Didn't she deserve to have a nice thing happen every once in a while even it if was already doomed to failure? Though, you did kinda try and make a breakaway and he came after you... so, when does the music kick in, we both break into song... and then I wake up and tell myself no more TV shows with musical stuff before bed?

"I don't really have a set lunch time..." She couldn't bring a full halt to the minor pauses between words. Deep even breaths... come on, don't fuck it up already. You start with that colors shit again and he's going to freak if he notices...

"I'll, uh, just be in the auditorium, though. Uhm, just come get me when you want to go." Her eyes finally lifted from, well just about everywhere else except him, to briefly meet with his. "If... that works for you, of course."

[Tom Harriman]

There was something about her - some air cast about her; some quality; some radiance - that made it so he couldn't tear his eyes away. She was cute alright, and prettier than a Highland cabin draped in the first flurry of winter snow; but it was more than that. It was intangeable. And whatever it was, it left him feeling weird inside; a little nervous; nauseous, maybe. What was it - butterflies? Was a girl giving him butterflies for the first time since he was twelve?

It'd certainly explain a lot; like the fact that he'd raced after her into the corridor. Tom Harriman never chased girls. He shoots; and if the arrow falls short? The lady'd damn well scamper over, pick it up, and bring it back to him. Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration, but he certainly wasn't the bumbling, nervous pre-teen that had actually peed himself with nerves trying to ask a girl - who'd later turned out to be a lesbian; sweet irony - out to a movie. British Army training, and the occasional slap, punch, or roundhouse up the side of the head by his fellow Paratroopers had stamped all those nervous traits thoroughly into the fibres of the carpetting way deep down in the back of his mind.

So why the hell were they back now? Whatever the reason - whatever had compelled him to ignore his 'pleanty more fish in the sea' approach to life - he damn well wanted to find out. And, well... lunch seemed as good a way as any. So he flashed the smile: charming; disarming; heart-melting; pant-warming; the full works. The one that made women weak at the knees. The swooninator.

"I'll tell you what," he offered, snaring her eyes for complete contact with his own twinkling gaze. "My kids do have a set lunch, so I'll come find y', a' soon as I've dismissed them. Alrigh'?"

[Alice Kelly]

Alice nodded her head, keenly aware that if she even tried to speak at that moment she probably would have squeaked or said something stupid. His smile wasn't lost on her, though she didn't exactly crumple to the ground, either. It did, however, have that horrible affect of making her again question if she wasn't sleeping or if this wasn't some cruel joke.

Oh well... guess I'll find out...

"Uhm... I'll see you then..." It was softly spoken, but probably some miracle Alice managed to make it happen without her entire world bursting into strange colors.

Though that did make all sorts of other things pop into her head about what exactly might have been happening at that moment, and all the possibilities weren't exactly pleasant.

"You should probably get back to class now, though?" Her head nodded down the hallway they had both come from.

[Tom Harriman]

Class? A ghost of a confused frown swept across Tom's face, as he wondered why he might need to go to class, having not been a school student for nearly fifteen -

Oh, right. The class I'm meant to be teaching right now.

With a sheepish, lopsided smile, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Aye, I should probably -" He didn't bother finishing the sentiment aloud, leaving Alice to infer it's obvious conclusion. It wasn't entirely intentional of course; he'd manage to stumble into her eyes and, well, they were pretty distracting. They were so bright, so vivid; they almost seemed to glow -

"Right." He took a few careful paces backwards, a physical movement apparently the only way to spur his body into obedience. "I guess I'll see y' at lunch." With a fluid motion he turned, casually ambling off down the corridor. He fought the urge to fall into the cliché of looking back; willed himself not to succome to the impulse. He made it five paces before his willpower collapsed, his eyes sneaking a crafty glance over his shoulder in her direction. Smooth, Harriman, his subconscious chastened. Real smooth.

He was always back to the door of the classroom, still busily berrating himself inside his head, when a commotion further up the corridor grasped his attention. Instinct spurring him into motion, he set off at a brisk walk, that broke almost into a run as his eyes settled on the small cluster of students. All of them should have been in class already; no doubt they were the drips and drabs who'd left departing for school until the last possible minutes. He recognised a few faces, though couldn't place the name. He didn't bother trying as he saw what the focus of the crowd was.

"I didn't do anything, I swear," one of the crowd insisted, as Harriman pushed his way past, dropping to a knee beside the collapsed student. The kid's name was José: that much he remembered; his mouthful of a surname was a little more illusive, however. From the look of things, he'd passed out; a quick gentle check of his pulse and his forehead confirmed a slightly elevated heart rate, and a lack of fever. Still, even when the damage was likely minimal, Harriman knew better than to move the kid: military training filled you with common sense like that.

His eyes focussed on the student that had issued his official statement already. "Fetch th' nurse," he instructed, no scope for non-compliance in the tone of his words. His eyes dropped back to the unconscious student. "Hang in there, José."

[Alice Kelly]

The great thing about painting, aside from the soothing quality it had, was the fact it let time pass by quickly without seeming like it was really going anywhere at all. The fact Alice had turned her iPod to assault her ears with various musicals helped a bunch though. She had started the theme with Chicago, oblivious to the fact she often found herself filling in the roll of Miss Roxie Hart when inspiration let go of inhibition, insanely thankful they let her be alone when working on the mural. With the final reprise of All That Jazz she'd moved on to something more recent and suitably in the same strain of girl power - Wicked. Though thankfully with a change came her sense of control once more, keeping her humming through most of it.

Volume of the music kept her oblivious of just about anything, letting her focus on the slightly taxing task that Alice had undertaken in the last hour - the wholly uncreative replication of the seal of Los Angeles that they had insisted show up somewhere in the piece. Of course, it would have been finished if she hadn't kept stopping to mime out ridiculous parts of the play as the tracks came on... Oh well, it wasn't like Alice was being paid hourly for the project, she could have her fun.

Of course... she also wished the colors would behave. They occasionally seemed to get the mind of their own and shift, or dull themselves, or brighten out beyond a reasonable hue to almost appear psychedelic. Well, the ones in arms reach anyhow... At least the mural itself isn't bubbling and melting off the wall, right? ...Wait... can that even happen?

"-Lar." HA.. best part of the whole damn song!

Alice took a step back from the painting and shook her head as she forced herself to be calm again, the colors returning to their normal state. "Thank you."

As the next track came on, distinctly less... bouncy, Alice allowed herself to go back to work, smirking slightly at the words, letting herself softly mumble most of the first verse. How appropriate.

Before she could really stop herself she was singing along again... "Don't dream too far, don't lose sight of who you are, don't remember that rush of joy..."

Ah headphones: Keeping you from realizing the door was opening to the room you thought you were alone in since the early 1900s...or something like that. Also keeping you from realizing someone was walking in on you were belting out the bridge to a song you are way too amused with as you paint since, well, that day. No, instead it kept her eyes on the colors on the pallet as she mixed more of that particular shade of blue that especially didn't want to sit still.

[Tom Harriman]

"...he could be that boy," Tom found himself joining in, overcome by the inescapable urge to join in with anyone who was singing along to anything. It was something that happened on a frustratingly regular basis with him, and it was an occurance he had grown accustomed to; what he hadn't expected was for his voice to carry so well and so far in the auditorium; nor for it to sound so damn loud.

He grinned sheepishly as Alice plucked a bud from her ear, and threw a look in his direction. He couldn't identify it exactly from this range, but he went for a best-guess, and assumed it was one of those 'What the hell was that?' type things, which were usually sent flying in his direction. "What can a' say?" he said with a shrug, arms held wide defensively. "I've got a soft spot f' musicals. Couldnae escape it, livin' a stone's throw t' Broadway."

Well, that was a half-truth. Or maybe a full truth, but with a silent 'mutant psychic powers enhanced' prefacing the stone's throw. But still, it had been New York. And he had been to Broadway, perhaps a few more times than was appropriate for someone of his particular alignment of personality and sexuality. Whatever, he muttered in his mind. Guy's gotta have something to sing in the shower, right?

"So," he asked, deftly deflecting the topic away from their mutually eclectic taste in music. "You about ready for that coffee?"

[Alice Kelly]

Mor-ti-fi-ca-tion: The kind that made you want to curl up and somehow implode in on yourself so you could escape. That was exactly how Alice felt in that instant where she had pulled the small white self-contained speaker from her ear and had found that she hadn't been hearing things, someone had joined in for that last line and even worse was it was the guy she was supposed to be going out to lunch with. One thing was for certain, the churning sensation that Alice felt in her stomach probably would have been nothing compared to the sudden feeling of illness that Tom may have felt if he had only been a few steps closer to her. Or, at least that was Alice's best guess, she wasn't exactly about to play 'let's experiment just what that's done to me', not for all the world.

She forced a smile at his profession of his soft spot and as she turned to put the pallet and brush she had been working with down, closed her eyes and forced herself to take in several deep breaths. With items set down, time was taken to quickly change some settings on the bright blue iPod, the remaining ear-bud picking up the crackle of static as soon as she set it to the FM transmitter, heard how the static changed, vanished for a bit into overall nothingness and then shift to a comforting soft white-noise... And then Alice turned it off.

Tom's change in topic was welcome and he had tossed it out just as she began swirling the paint brush in a mason jar filled with murky liquid. "Yeah, just give me a few to clean up a little."

What had once been an off-white towel was picked up and she gently began to use it to help clean out the brush the rest of the way. "Didn't think you'd be around this soon."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom shrugged, as casually as he could muster, feeling a little embarassed at the inadvertant revelation of his musical tastes. Admittedly, it could have been worse: she could have wandered in on him, while he was in the middle of belting out one of the boyband classics he'd grown up with back in England; very few people knew about that little secret affection, most likely because of how it would affect his standing in the eyes of collegues and students; and because his Paratrooper comrades from the TA would have beat the crap out of him for it, had they ever caught wind.

"It's five minutes in't' th' kids' lunch," he offered, by way of both explanation and appology; his mind couldn't quite comprehend how he'd managed to factor in the latter aspect, but somehow his tone of voice had managed to achieve it, and he wasn't going to argue with that little piece of convenience and luck. "Although y' probably didnae hear th' bell over the sound of..."

He winced, realising that he'd managed to drag themselves back to the very conversation topic that Alice had so deftly diverted them away from. Grasping at straws, he grabbed a hold on the first potential escape route he could think of. "C'mon," he said softly, "Time's a' wastin'." He reached out, offering a hand in your direction. "If we eat now, I'll hang back after school an' help y' out as best I can. Deal?"

[Alice Kelly]

There was a moments hesitation before Alice finally put the paint brush and towel down. It wasn't suitably clean to her standards but, well, as Tom had so aptly put it, time was waiting.

A small smile graced her features as her head shook just slightly at him. Another small hesitation preceded Alice put her hand in his. "Only if you can mix colors. Though it did take me a few weeks to learn to get the perfect shades that I wanted, but you look like a fast learner."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom widened his own smile into a grin, a flash of a wink twitching through his eye. "I'm sure I'll be able t' pick it up," he assured, gently leading her away from the mural she'd been slaving over. He hesitated for a moment at the base of the stairway, releasing Alice's hand; his fingers accidentally brushed against her shoulder as a faint surge of chivalry gestured for her to go first. He didn't falter too far behind though; assaulting the steps with long-legged strides, he still made it to the summit in time to open the door and hold it for her.

The corridor was a minefield of students, swarming about the place like drunken bees, completely incapable of travelling in a straight line from point to point. They ducked, dodged, wove and wandered listlessly from classroom to classroom, hesitating at lockers, stepping into locker rooms, or joining the throng of students playing pot luck with the cafeteria menu. His eyes recognised the odd pupil here and there; hovering at the entrance to the office of the school newspaper was Chloe who, much to Tom's disappointment, didn't have the surname 'Sullivan'. His disappointment had partly been abated by the amusingly-named Kent Clarke in one of his classes, but still: one could never have too many pop culture references in his life.

The doors were already open, propped up by a couple of kids from the football team; still lingering a step behind Alice's shoulder, Tom stepped out into the glorious sunshine, sickeningly warm and bright compared to what he'd grown accustomed to back in England; or even in the deep, dreary grey canyons of New York. He'd experienced more insense warmth and sunshine of course; a brief shudder crept through him as his mind imagined the abrasive presence of Middle Eastern sand that seemed to still linger in everything he owned even all these years since the TA had deployed him out there.

They descended the steps, crossed the brief stretch of grass, and found themselves in the staff car park. "Yes," Tom answered with a note of pride in his voice, preempting the question he assumed was about to come, gesturing towards where his baby nestled between two dull and boring box-like SUVs. "Tha' is a '67 Impala. The Winchesters'd be so damn proud."

[Alice Kelly]

"Who...?" Alice hadn't expected to ask the question aloud, so attempted to pass if off more as a joke than an honest what the hell are you talking about?

She was sure it was in reference to something the last few years without cable television or extra cash to go to the movies had denied her of, seeing as how the only vision her mind could conjure when met with the name 'Winchester' was of some stuffy high class doctor from Boston who had once said that awesome line of "Shut up Beethoven, you hack!". Alice somehow doubted that particular 'Winchester' would have approved of the car, though.

Not that some fictional character's opinion mattered. She liked it. But then again, somewhere around high school Alice had learned that she had a giant soft spot for almost any car from the 60s - so long as it wasn't a Ford.

"You're just full of surprises aren't you?" A small smirk formed on her lips. "Or are you just trying to be as uncliche of a teacher as possible?"