2019-05-05 - Under the Bleachers

There's a lull between periods during the school day, when Emily has some down-time to grade papers or stare off into the distance and there's not a single obnoxious teenager to bug her. It's that time of the day right now, and Emily's still in her classroom with the door shut because I said so and this scene isn't going to work out right if you don't listen to me.

ANYWAY.

Logan and Emily haven't really talked about her new job. He suggested several weeks ago that she should apply, she blew him off (and failed to blow him off,if you know what I mean) and then one night she mentioned when she'd be starting, and that was it as far as conversation went. But he packs her a lunch in a brown paper bag every morning, leaves it in the fridge, and goes about his day of breaking and repairing things around the house. In the evening, there is dinner and at night, most nights, they sleep under the covers in the bed in the basement.

But today.. today is different. There was no brown paper bag lunch waiting for her in the fridge and Logan was already working in the garden outside by the time she left for work. Now, in this lull between periods, Emily may feel the sensation as she's sitting in her classroom that someone is watching her, but her 'marginal victory' means that she only catches movement by the door seconds before knuckle tap-tap-tap upon it and the door swings open. Logan comes into the room in a pair of worn jeans and a poor person sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, carrying a black lunch box. There's a flicker of a glance around the classroom before his eyes settle on her, a faint smirk rebelling against his otherwise serious expression."Uhhh, Miss Harris? I was wondering if we could talk about my grades. Maybe there's something I could do, yanno. To bring them up."

For a second, when there was no lunch waiting for her and she closed the refrigerator and she stared at it - then reopened it and looked again, pawing through everything and making frustrated sounds at jars that were obviously hiding food from her - Emily stood in the doorway and looked at Logan and thought things at him very hard. Unfortunately, their telepath died, so it didn't do any good, and she just left, planning to find (unsexy) ways to punish Logan for failing to live up to his end of the completely unspoken bargain.

All that was this morning. Now it's not morning, and she's planned herself a healthy, vending machine lunch: Coke, chips, candy, the really important food groups represented in the line of items on the edge of her desk. Sure, she's definitely grading papers and not, y'know, reading, looking up from her book a second before that knock-knock like some student is about to get punched in the face for interrupting her lunchtime. It occurs to her too late that she could lock the door and be very quiet and they might go away.

And then it occurs to her to fold her lips, press her index finger against them for a second and clear her throat, schooling her expression to seriousness. "It's awfully late in the semester to start talking about extra credit, Mister Miller. But come in." Ba dum. "I'm sure we can figure out something." Also, seriously, "If that's not for me," the lunch box, "I'm going to hit you with it a bunch."

Logan's brows climb up-up-up as she invites him to come, so come he does. Into the room, that is, nudging the door shut behind him. "I'll do anything," he expresses, emphasizes with a wag of his brows, and then saunters over to drop the lunchbox onto the desk. It hits the surface with a loud thud. "I thought you'd appreciate a .." wait for it. "Hot lunch. So here I am," the smirk returns as he comes to perch onto the edge of her desk. "And I also brought lasagna."

It would be a stretch to call the look up-and-down that Emily gives Logan appreciative, but it's... inappropriately attentive, at the very least. "I'm going to make a hard push," it's Innuendo Day, so she pauses before clarifying, "for uniforms next year." She puts a handy little piece of paper in the book before standing, coming around the desk to give him an equally inappropriately attentive kiss. "Thank you for lunch, it's a start toward getting back into my good graces."

"Mm. Yeah," regarding the uniforms, Logan cants his head to the side to cast his own 'inappropriately attentive' look to Emily. It's more down than up, and lingers at her legs, before his shoulders roll back. "You teachers can just wear whatever you want. A uniform would be good. I'm fully in support of that notion," he grins, leaning forward to return the kiss and ramp up the inappropriateness by snaking an arm around her waist and letting his hand ride low on the small of her back. "It's good lasagna. And I put a cookie in there, too," because he's so sweet~. "How long you got before the bell rings?"

"Wow, you're just well on your way to becoming teacher's pet, aren't you." Re: the cookie. Also re: the way she starts peeling his Homeless Person gear up from his waist and leaning into him in the kind of way that would get her fired if Emily didn't have to rock back down onto her heels to see the clock. She tips her head to the side, doing math in her head - "Thirty-one minutes." Nope. "Forty-one minutes." She teaches English, not Math, don't judge. "Did you already eat?" Honest question, not like 'how he can get extra credit.'

"I gotta find some way to compete with all these strapping young lads and their raging hormones that are all hot for teacher," replies Logan, as though bringing her cookies will keep her out of the news for being the stunningly gorgeous teacher that bangs her students. She tips her head back and he tips his head towards her, and she can blame her poor math skills on the distraction of his mouth warm on her neck, a line of kisses leading him back up to her chin. He pecks there, then again at her lips, before he shakes his head. "I brought some for me, too," he says of lunch. "You wanna go eat outside? We could sneak behind the bleachers, it'll be just like old times."

Killed sister, shacks up with brother-in-law, is imprisoned in basement by said brother-in-law, why not add 'bangs students' to the list? Emily clearly hasn't given the rumor mill enough to grind. Speaking of grind... Logan's about a second from getting climbed on top of on the desk with the neck-kissing, and it's only the intrigued, "Oohhh," about the bleachers that prevents this. Also the shuffling of people in the hallway outside the door that neither of them had the presence of mind to lock. "Just like old times, only now with one-hundred-percent more possibility to get fired instead of just suspended." Which shouldn't make her eyes so happily bright, but it does.

In customary Emily fashion, she walks off to put this plan into action immediately, only swiping keys to lock the room because some of the stuff in here belongs to the school and not her personally.

Clearly the banging students thing would just be a not-so-subtle cry for help to be freed from the dungeon she's kept in at night. Either way, Logan was all ready for desk-climbing and even encourages it with a grab to her backside, but.. you know, then he had to go and open his mouth. Best laid plans (or best plans to get laid? whatever). Emily doesn't wait, and Logan's resigned to follow, grabbing the lunchbox before he hops off the desk to go with. "More like fifty-percent more possibility. They didn't fire the janitor and he's been jerking off in the closet for years," he remarks, draping his arm around her shoulder as they leave the classroom, so that the math teacher who's side-eyeing them in the hall can have something to gossip about later.

"If you're lucky, I might give you something even better than a cookie," he remarks, wagging his brows at her.

Yeah, if you think about it? Logan would be just the worst guard ever, letting his prisoner go out into the world all unattended. Emily, locking the door, "I think that's an affirmative action thing." The janitor. "Because he has a hook for a hand? He'd sue the school if they fired him. Do you think he ever uses the hook?" To beat off, she means. This conversation plays perfectly into looping an arm around his waist in return, smiling a completely manic smile at the math teacher in answer to her side-eye there. A couple of students skitter out of the way as they drag themselves down the hall, the people least likely to be scandalized since they're deep in their own hormonal drama, and - let's be real - kids probably like the crazy new English teacher and are deeply intrigued by the hot homeless guy she hangs out with. "What? Like a... Capri Sun?!" she guesses gamely.

Does Logan think he ever uses the hook? "He's had to have used it at least once. I know I would've," he holds his (perfectly hookless) hand out in front of them both, level with his waist, to consider it, curling his fingers into the shape of a hook. Then he shrugs, and continues on. "But he probably has other attachments that makes it easier." There's a pause, a blink, and then: "Million dollar idea. Pocket pussy hook hand attachment. It's genius. We'll be rich!" Yes, he says that within ear shot of the math teacher. Then he holds the door open to escort Emily out onto the school grounds.

It was warm outside. Sooner rather than later, Logan was going to have to give up the sweatshirts and find some kind of short-sleeved homeless gear. But for now? He just rolls his sleeves up higher, and squints over to her. "If all it takes is a Capri Sun to please you, I'm clearly trying too hard," he considers. "But no. Not a Capri Sun. You're free to reach into my pocket and find it though."

Million dollar idea! Emily is so read for it, eagerly hanging on every word - but he obviously went to a different place than she did, and her eagerness dims into a disappointed twist of her lips up at him. "I thought you were going to say we cut off your hand and get you a bunch of fun attachments for the stump." Why aren't they in sync about this, Logan?! She mumbles something about being happy with a Capri Sun but being really happy with stump-attachments.

People who live in this kind of rain learn to cope with it enough to stay under the eaves of buildings; there are probably covered outdoor walkways, too, so they don't get immediately soaked. Leaving Emily free to untangle herself from Logan and start digging through his pockets immediately, which should make walking fun for him. She scoots around behind him, starting with the back-pockets, and shoves her hands way down in there; anything she finds is getting rifled through, and - if there's nothing - at least he gets a good groping out of her efforts.

"I figured the cutting off my hand part was just a given. How else would we test the million dollar idea attachment?" Logan raises brows at her like: come on now, get with the program! and carries on with his life. For two steps. Until she's reaching into his back pockets and making him go: "Ooh!" with a straightening of his back onto the toes of his sneakers from all that groping. There's something in there for sure, but she's gonna have to reach real deep, get really all up in there.

Or, actually, it's rather easy to find. A small baggie with a joint. On school property no less! Just call him Logan 'Bad Boy' Miller. "Figured you might need it. Can't imagine this job's too easy," not that they've really discussed it.

"But that attachment's for you. We need way more product offerings." Emily pokes around with some very violatey fingers while she looks for whatever is in his pockets that's not a Capri Sun. And maybe she's found the baggy, but she still proceeds to rifle through his front pockets, too, which makes walking tricky but is Logan about to complain about this? She's betting no. About the time the have to make a dash into the open, out from under the covered walkways, she unrolls the baggy, looks at its contents, then shoves it against her chest with a fold of her mouth and a sketchy look around.

"You're gonna get me fiiiiiired." With the molesting and the cannabis. Not that she's saying no to either! "I guess afternoon classes will be 'everyone open your books and read quietly.'"

"We'll have to brainstorm. Maybe before we cut off my hand, we can experiment with just duct taping the attachments and going from there." Wise thoughts, Logan. But she's reaching into his front pockets and there are no complaints, just a grab of her hand from the outside to push her hand into a better position. Just a brief fix, until they're making the mad dash for the bleachers and he's laughing in the rain.

"You're only gonna get fired if you get caught," he remarks only after they're under the bleachers, and he's found the right spot that isn't going to get them regularly dripped on. "And even then?" He handwobbles, Emily's future unclear. "Besides, half your class is probably high anyway."

Emily scoffs at this idea that they should test their plans. "You have to commit, Logan." With a very, very committed squeeze before he gets away. She has to dress like a real person for this job, and the shoes don't lend themselves to mad dashes across soggy terrain, so she does a good bit of the different kind of grabbing on this skedaddle, pulling on his arm and sweater a few times when her balance is threatened. But everyone makes it one piece, even if she's going to look like... well, someone that got high and made out under the bleachers on her lunch by the time this adventure is over.

Assuming Logan had the foresight to bring a lighter, and Emily's pilfering uncovered it, she will just get this party started, looking up at the underside of the bleachers and picking her way through the rails and spiders and trampled grass and broken paper cups and miscellaneous detritus. "After lunch?" With a half-cough. "Try all but the four little nerds that ruin it for the rest of the class. I hate those kids." Here, take this joint.

What kind of idiot brings a joint and not a lighter? It's totally in there, it just requires a bit of extra digging in the front pocket. Logan idly kicks a broken cup across the trampled grass before he finds a spot to lean, extracting the little containers of lasagna and plastic forks from the lunch box. One for her, one for him. "Fuck those kids," he agrees, passing the lasagna to her in favor of the joint.

"You settling in okay though?" There's no joke there, just a real question. He blows the smoke out into the rain and then balances the Tupperware to take a bite. "I heard a little about what happened to Mrs. Bixler while I was working in the front yard. They were saying she fucking flipped out and went nuts on the class," he passes the joint back. "Funny, yanno. We gave her hell and she wouldn't even blink back then."

"Exactly. Smart kids are the worst." Says Wits-4 to Wits-3. But at least they're out here working on dumbing themselves down instead of studying, good for them. Emily takes the plastic box of food, briefly looking up and over at Logan with a silent conveyance - was this his most thoroughly considered plan? eating lasagna under the bleachers? But she still tucks into it, getting her back all dusty where she leans against a pair of cross-beams that make a convenient metal X behind her.

She nods at his real question, giving it a real answer. "They don't feel like my students, but I'm - " Shrugging. Not losing her mind. And look at them, gossiping about other people. "Mhm, and she wasn't like us? But did you know she lost it the day after you took a wrong turn?" DROVE HIS CAR OFF A CLIFF. "I kinda think I should go visit her, wherever she landed? Like - hey, Missus B, it's okay, I've totally been there." More stoned, more food. "P.S. Sorry for all the times I cut your class with my sister and Logan?" She trails off, shaking her head, maybe not the perfect conversation for someone that just flipped her lid. Considering how the three of them turned out. <.<

It's probably not difficult to come to the conclusion that this had not been Logan's thoroughly considered plan. At least the bleacher part, considering the annoyed look he passes upwards when a dirty drip of water lands perilously close to his lasagna. He shifts, frowns, and scoots over to the X that she's leaned herself against instead, bumping his hip into her own. "I bet that conversation would go over a hell of a lot better with cookies. I'll make another dozen," he decides, swallowing another bite of lasagna.

"It's .. good though, yanno? This whole thing. Better than the diner," he scoots a noodle piece around the container with his fork. "Never in a million years did I think we'd be back here though, of all places," he must mean standing under the bleachers. "Was it always this fucking gross down here?"

"And here, Missus B, Logan made you cookies. To say sorry for all the times he fell asleep in class." Emily finishes this imaginary conversation with a laugh that's way, way dryer than this little hidey-hole. Here, smoke this, she passes it off to him and watches smoke leak out in between the bleachers overhead, getting lost to the rain, then tilts her head, forehead-to-shoulder, while she picks at food with her fork. There are many bites taken during this conversation.

He's saying it's better than the diner, so she asks, "Why?" And here's a sample of progress: she can ask him questions and it doesn't sound like ANSWER ME OR I WILL CUT YOU anymore. Just, like, genuine curiosity why he thinks it's better. And, "Yeah, pretty sure it was always fucking gross. We were just fucking gross back then, too." She reaches across, plucks the sleeve of his sweater between her thumb and forefinger, and makes her point silently: he might still be a little gross sometimes.

"Not my fault her class was the worst. We can't all be interested in books," there's a pointed look to her. "'Sides, I had to nap. How else was I gonna be able to stay up all night and have you teach me all the things I missed while I was sleeping?" He flashes her a big grin and then blows smoke up through the bleacher slats. While he's at it, he sticks his empty Tupperware container up there too; he'll grab it later, assuming he remembers he put it up there to begin with.

He shifts on the crossbeam to slouch, taking another drag of the joint as she calls him gross. "This sweatshirt's not gross, it's .. vintage." Yeah, 'vintage'. As for why it's a good thing? "I dunno. You didn't go through all that schooling shit to be a waitress," point. "And it's.. not.." he looks down at the ground, kicks a piece of trash. "As temporary, I guess."

Emily passes off her plastic-ware, expecting Logan will understand that she wants him to put her dishes up there, too. "Well, I'm definitely not going to tell her that part." About the boring class. "But if you stay up all night tonight," eyebrows, "I'll teach you all new things you miss while you're sleeping." The eyebrows that were wagging a second ago just wind up staying lifted when he uses the word 'vintage,' and she smiles at him glassily, a pat-on-the-head smile. She cough-laughs at 'schooling shit' and tacks on, "Says the guy with the degree in management who makes pancakes and swings hammers for a living."

But it's not really a criticism, so says the companionable shoulder-bump that follows. "I get you." Not as temporary. "Though. If you think about it. Come June fourteenth? I'm unemployed all summer. Think about how much help I can be to you all summer!" Read: think about how much shit she can give him all summer!

Their mind-reader might be dead but Logan gets this silent gesture, stretching to stick her container beside his own where they were totally going to forget about them now. There'll be so much cursing later when he realizes he's lost two perfectly good Tupperware containers to the bleachers, damn it all to Hell! "I didn't want to get that stupid degree anyway," mumbles Logan, who puts his mind to more important things. Like all the things she's going to 'teach' him tonight.

As for the summer? "I hope you don't think you're going to get a lot of rest. I've got a laundry list of things you can do for me," to me, whatever. "I'm gonna work your ass off," it's a promise that he seals with a kiss, but it's the kind of kiss that he has to turn into and press her up against the crossbeam to do proper.

Maybe the one-handed janitor will find the Tupperware and give them a nice new home.

Emily grins a small grin about the degree he didn't want to get. "I know, poor sullen Logan. But it paid the bills while you went off to learn how to boil the perfect egg, right?"

They must have finished that joint, 'cause Emily sure doesn't have it anymore by the time that crossbeam kissing starts. What she does have is the return to putting her hands under his vintage sweatshirt, though it's only for a brief adventure before they hang off the waistband of his jeans, and she leans her head back from his (even though getting smooshed into a metal cross-beam, no matter how sexily, is not comfortable and knocking the back of her head against the metal just really drives that point home, oof). "There will be no lessons and no working of any asses until I get my fucking cookie, just so we're clear here. So hold your horses," yes, she's the one with the handsiness, cope, "and fork it over."

Logan's not even going to quip back about his perfect egg boiling abilities. He's got better things to do, like flick the joint into the grass so it can maybe start a small fire while he's getting busy with Emily up against this pole. He's got his hands in her hair while she's got hers in better places, and just when he thinks that he should try to hike something of hers up? She's off knocking the back of her head into the metal. Oof. He winces sympathetically, and then nips at her bottom lip. "You are such a fucking tease," he mumbles adoringly (and with as much affection as frustration) before he peels off of her and goes to fetch her cookie as commanded.

Logan would know her favorite kind of cookie, and that's what this is, neatly wrapped in Saran wrap. It's handed off before he shoves his sweatshirt back down into place. "We should go to dinner tonight," he decides, turning to lean back into the crossbeam. "Out some place. Wherever you want. I'm tired of fucking cooking," says the guy who got his second degree in making toast. "And I figured we could go on a.. fucking date or whatever." He's just so romantic~

Really, Emily probably prefers the lip-bite to the sympathetic wince and proves him one hundred percent right with the tug she gives the front of his pants before he gets away entirely, and she sort of puts herself to rights. As much as a stoned lit teacher getting frisky under the bleachers is every going to look like she's 'decent' again, anyway. The cookie gets taken to replace him, beam, and it's oatmeal raisin but only because chocolate chip is generic. "I mean," while she picks the raisins out with her fingers to eat them first. "We have fucking dates, like, pretty regularly now." Like because there's always that 'till shit goes sideways' caveat.

"But okay. Let's go among the normal people, Logan. You're gonna have to clean yourself up, though." The raisin-picking-finger traces the outline of him and his all-fixed sweatshirt. "Do you even own a shirt with a collar these days?" She's thinking no.

Logan casts a look of mild disgust to the raisin she picks from its oatmeal casing. These were cookies he wouldn't even sample while he made them, and yet he did it all for her~. "Yeah, well. I figure one of these days you're gonna get tired of all the fucking dates in the basement, so.." Mumble mumble, what's wrong with the goddamn basement? And yet."What's wrong with my shirt? I washed it," last week. "And I took a fucking shower today," he looks down the front of his sweatshirt with a frown. He'll just ignore the spaghetti-sauce stain and the hole. It looks perfectly suitable. But whatever.

"I probably got a Polo somewhere. I think." He looks askance to her, and reaches to draw a finger down over her hip. "But if I wear a shirt with a collar, you gotta wear a short skirt. With no panties." Because that's fair.

He figures she's gonna get tired of - "Really?" No, legit. Emily is honestly surprised to learn that Logan thinks she's going to wind up over what they do in that basement. "Not that I dislike seeing you out in the wide world," she looks up at the dingy under-bleaches, bites cookie, doesn't tack on the bit about how she didn't expect Logan to gaf. All of that to say, she's surprised-and-touched that he's thinking about her feelings, aww~.

"Are you planning to wear underwear?" Around her cookie-bite, with a hand-swat. No, she is still eating her cookie. They're not to the groping bits yet. "'Cause a skirt for a collar seems totally fair, but I'm not catching a breeze if you're not." Despite having just swatted his hand away, she adds, "We're not in the basement right now."

"Yeah. Well. It's not a big fucking deal, it's just dinner someplace," Logan replies, rolling his shoulders back as she gets melty over his thinking of her feelings~. "And we can watch a movie upstairs on the sofa or whatever. No guests this weekend anyway, might as well get to use my fucking house," mumble mumble.

It was far easier to touch her, even if she swats his hand. It doesn't deter him, and he steps to turn into her as she bites the cookie and talks about breezes and not being in the basement. He grabs her hand by the wrist, the one not holding the cookie, and his lips twist into a smirk. "Am I planning on wearing underwear?" he repeats her question, "I'm not even wearing underwear right now."

And she was right. They weren't in the basement. Which is why he pulls her hand right down into his pants, so she can see he's not lying.