Lazy vs. Gym Class (Ter)

[Samuel Rixon]

Sam stared pensively up at the sky. The weather was still warm, which was great for him. He could be outside in shorts and a t-shirt without coming down with a cold. On the darker side, it also made it harder for him to get out of gym. The few times during the winter the teachers deemed it a great idea to play something insane like tackle football in the snow, he got a legitimate pass saying he couldn’t go. No matter how many layers he could wrap himself in, the low temperature was no play for a pyrokinetic.

Too bad that didn’t work in the summer, too.

He watched his other classmates as they trudged onto the field. Most of them seemed happy to be outside, and excited for whatever the lesson was going to hold for them. For Sam, it was just an hour of torture. Oh sure, he looked like he was in fine shape. He was relatively slender, despite the hours he’d spent playing videogames with Vincent, or inhaling junk food. Metabolism, blessed by thy name.

He just couldn’t run a mile. Or a foot. Unless it involved scampering down the halls after Vincent, or running away from something. For gym? It wasn’t going to happen.

Sulking, he followed his classmates out to the field, where he could see their teacher waiting. A glance at his watch revealed they’d only been in class for about two minutes.

It was going to be a long, long fifty eight minutes.

[Terrowin Guthrie]

Terrowin was already in a bad mood. The last class had left him frustrated and dispirited, considering the fact that not even half of the class could run a mile in under eight minutes. That, to him, was utterly depressing and made him fearful for the future generation. He might have been a little biased, considering he could to the mile in about thirty seconds, but it was still a healthy goal to have, and the fact that so many young people were so out of shape was just disheartening.

And now, he had to deal with this class. This class, which consisted of the one and only Sam Rixon. Sam, who made a point to complain at any available moment and come up with any possible excuse to get out of class. Terrowin had been tempted to slap the boy on multiple occasions, but he didn't want to risk losing his job. Even if he did deserve it.

"A'right, class, today is field day," he called out as soon as the students were lined up in order outside. He heard a collective groan from many of them, and scowled. "We'll start by runnin' a mile. Anyone who can't do this in eight minutes or less gets detention. Got it?" He wouldn't really put them in detention, but it was a good motivator. It was amazing how much more energy some of the students could get when faced with the possibility of being stuck in a room under strict surveillance. Some students muttered angrily to one another, and Terrowin growled,"Quiet! After runnin' we'll get into teams an' do relays. Now everyone, go ahead an' line up. We'll start soon." He zipped around them as they trudged to the track, keeping an eye on the ones complaining the most and making a mental note to at least try to be a little patient. However, patience did not come easily to the speedster, and all it would take was one particularly badly-behaving student to send him off the edge.

[Samuel Rixon]

Sam was silently wishing that Mr. Guthrie would do something like get a sudden case of the flu, or spontaneously combust, so that they would all be spared the hour of torture. Sadly, that wasn’t likely. The closer he got (trailing a good few feet behind the rest of the crowd, of course), the more he realized that Terrowin looked like he was already in a piss-tacular mood. Great.

At the news of field day, Sam very nearly dropped into a heap on the ground right then. Field day was the worst, because it was just running. It wasn’t like football or soccer, where you could look like you were playing by simply trailing in the vague direction your team was travelling in. Running was just... running. And humiliating, if you were the last student going.

If Terrowin made him run faster and longer than he could manage, he might legitimately throw up.

A mile? What person in their right mind could run a full mile? Sam nudged the student next to him and mimed a gagging act. His antics were nothing new, and were met with no more than an eye roll. Well crap. Sam pulled a face and turned back to face their teacher.

“Uuuughhhh.” A mile, then relays? And what was with the detention threat? There was no way he could run it in eight minutes. Time for clarification. His hand shot up at the same time he called out. “Did you say eight, or eighty?” Again, he was given a few dirty looks. Jerks. He was trying to do them a favor!

He shuffled half heartedly to the track, wishing he could drop dead. Or a sudden arctic wind kicked up. Maybe he could bribe a weather manipulator to make it snow. Then he’d have to go inside.

But no such thing happened as he found himself in the line. Wishing for anything to stop this torture before it started, he closed his eyes. He could hope.

[Terrowin Guthrie]

Terrowin glared at Sam as he rose his hand and blurted out an obviously rhetorical question. "Seven minutes fer ye, Sam," he growled. "Next time think before ye try tae be smart with me. Oi'm not in th' mood fer dealin' with lazy students. So get yer ass out there an' stop complainin'." Okay, maybe he was being a little harsh, but he was NOT going to put up with any of Sam's nonsense, especially now. He had a feeling he might actually lash out at him if he had to deal with much more.

He had a change of plan. "Instead o' detention, ye'll each need tae give me twenty push-ups for each minute past eight it takes ye tae complete the mile," he said. He looked pointedly at Sam. "Well, past seven for Mr. Rixon." He hid a smug smirk.

Taking his whistle in hand, he held it at the ready. "Remember, kids, Oi only have yer best interests at heart," he told them, mockingly innocent. "On yer marks... Get set.... FWEET!" He blew the whistle, and the students shot off at different speeds, some using their abilities to their advantage, others having no such advantages and going at their own pace. Terrowin crossed his arms and studied them, itching to be running himself. One disadvantage to having super speed - keeping still was practically torture.

[Samuel Rixon]

Seven minutes?! SEVEN?! Sam very nearly keeled over right then and there. He could maybe manage fifteen. Twelve if he forced himself to run even when he was gasping for air and his muscles were screaming at him. Giving Terrowin a baleful look, he stared ahead and set his jaw. There was a reason he despised gym class. Again, he wanted his teacher’s head to explode.

Why did no one in this class have that power? He would have paid them to do it.

If Terrowin wasn’t in the mood for dealing with lazy students, then Sam was going to be particularly badly behaved during class. It was only fair. Besides, he hadn’t faked an injury in quite a while. It was about time for an Oscar-worthy performance.

Especially if push ups were involved. He groaned along with the rest of his classmates, all the while trying to work out the best plan of action. By the time they’d all gathered at the start of the track, he’d figured out his plan of attack. He was going to look like he was trying. He’d sprint into the middle of the pack as best he could, so Terrowin couldn’t see him, then fake a trip and spend the rest of the time on the sidelines nursing a ‘hurt’ ankle.

This was going to be so easy.

He readied himself, and as soon as the whistle blew he was off, looking very much like he was determined to avoid the push up punishment. He even made it a decent distance before the others started noticeably pulling away.

Time to put his plan into action. He faked a faltered step with the cover of the others. What he hadn’t planned for was getting bumped. His faked falter turned into a violent jerk of his ankle, and down he went into the grass. He didn’t even have to fake the fall.

Or the pain. He winced and reached for his foot, gingerly poking at it. It didn’t feel broken, but still. “Ow ow ow ow owww.”

Terrowin? Pity, please?

[Terrowin Guthrie]

Terrowin paced back and forth, watching the performance of the students. He was pleased to see this class was already doing better than the previous one - his mood began to lighten, just a little. Even Sam was actually making an effort, which was surprising. And suspicious. He furrowed his brows.

It didn't take too long before he saw what Sam was doing. "Bloody 'ell," Terrowin growled. He was NOT in the mood for one of Sam's games. True, he hadn't pulled the "I'm hurt and need to skip gym" prank in a while, but most students never did, so that was no excuse. He paused. Was it really worth the effort of trying to get him up and going again? Or should he just send him to detention so he didn't have to deal with it? It was tempting, but, since Terrowin was supposed to actually make an effort in helping these kids become healthy, he gave a long, weary sigh and stalked over to where Sam was groaning on the ground.

"Sam, Oi ain't playin' yer games. Stop pretendin' like yer hurt an' get back up." He stood over the boy, kind of glad that Sam was on the ground, because otherwise he would be looking up, and that was just humiliating. "Oi'm sendin' ye tae detention if ye don't man up. This is pathetic." Normally he wouldn't be quite so harsh, but... This was Sam Rixon. And Terrowin was not in the mood to listen to him whine.

[Samuel Rixon]

Honestly, Sam had thought he’d been doing a stellar job of faking effort. If he’d just applied that much planning and energy into actually doing the exercise at hand, rather than finding ways out of it, he might have made it to the end of the mile.

Maybe he might have gotten out of class unscathed as well.

The look on Terrowin’s face as he approached did not bode well. Sam knew that, and if he’d been smart, and uninjured, he would have scrambled back up and tried to catch up with the rest of the class. He knew his teacher had a temper, and if he’d read the hints better a little earlier, he’d know that this was not a good place to be in.

He inched backwards, wincing the whole way. “I’m not pretending! It hurts!” As if to prove it, he wrapped his hands around it and whimpered. “That’s child abuse!” Yes, he was pulling that card again. “If it was someone else, you wouldn’t be such a dick about it.” Forgive him, he’s hurt and unhappy. Still, if Terrowin wanted to see it for himself, Sam pushed himself up off the ground and tested his weight on his ankle. It would hold him, but it hurt like hell. He pulled it back off the ground and looked down at his teacher. “See?”

Sam, considering you just called him a dick, I don’t think he’s inclined to ‘see’ anything.

[Terrowin Guthrie]

Terrowin rubbed a hand over his face, trying his best to keep from yelling. The last thing he wanted to do was cause a scene. Still, he didn't believe for a second that Sam was actually hurt. He had cried wolf faaar too many times before. "First of all, yer nineteen, so it ain't child abuse," he growled. Why was Sam still at Hammel anyway?

Oh, right. Because he acted like this all the time rather than get any work done.

His temper flared even more at being called a dick. "Ye better watch yer damn mouth, boy," she snapped. "Oi know we don't have any love lost between us, but Oi'm yer elder, which means ye bloody well give me some respect." He stopped, forcing himself to take a deep breath. It was true, if it had been anyone else, he would have at least stopped to check and see if they were actually hurt. Yes, he didn't have to worry about most students faking it, but he supposed he should at least give Sam the benefit of the doubt, as much as he disliked it.

He ran an angry hand through his scruffy hair. "Fine. Sit down, lemme look at it." If nothing else, to make him feel less short so that Sam couldn't look down at him anymore. The frustrations of being short....

[Samuel Rixon]

Scene causing was one of Sam’s specialties. And if Terrowin wasn’t going to play nice, there was going to be A Scene. “I’m still someone’s child! That.... you’re abusing!” Logic, Sam has it. It might not have been good logic, but it was logic all the same.

He’d realized his error the moment the word ‘dick’ left his mouth. He knew it would make his teacher even more pissed off, but when he was hurt and no one believed him, well... he figured that he had a right to mouth off. There would be a phone call to Spencer tonight, and lots of moaning and cussing and begging for sympathy. “Fine,” he hissed. The look on his face betrayed the agreement of some sort of respect for Terrowin, but at least he’d said it.

Finally! With a vaguely smug look, Sam eased himself back down to the ground, trying to keep his ankle out as best he could. Once his butt was safely back on the grass, he inched his sock down and gave Terrowin an expectant look, as if to say ‘I told you so.’ “See? ‘s broken or something. I’m not lying!”

[Terrowin Guthrie]

Terrowin snorted at Sam's 'logic'. "In that case, everyone is a child," he retorted. "We're all someone's child. Granted, mine live in Australia, but that ain't the point." Why was he even bothering to argue? It was like he was dealing with a child. A tall, whiny, pyromaniac child.

Terrowin didn't expect Sam to respect him anymore, but he wasn't just about to let him walk all over him either. He let out a puff of a sigh as Sam sat back down, hiding his gladness that he no longer had to look up. He waited while Sam tugged his sock down, tapping his foot impatiently until Sam looked up at him expectantly. "It's ain't broken, Oi can tell from here," he said, stooping down. He examined his ankle a little, now noticing that there was a slight purple color around the top of his foot. Bloody hell. He was actually telling the truth, even if he had been exaggerating the depth of his injuries.

"It does look like ye sprained it a little," he grumbled. "But," he glared at him. "It's yer own fault fer tryin' tae fake an injury. Oi saw what ye were tryin' tae do. Hopefully this'll be a lesson not tae do it again. C'mon, let's get ye some ice, t' calm down any swellin' or inflammation." With another sigh, he offered a hand to help Sam stand. Once he was up, Terrowin briefly glanced at the students still running. Most were just finishing their first lap. "Ye all keep runnin', Oi'll be right back!" he told them, turning back to Sam. "A'right, child, let's get yer boo-boo fixed," he said, chuckling drily.

[Samuel Rixon]

Terrowin’s logic earned him a little scowl from the pyro. “It’s still child abuse,” he grumbled. Quite honestly, he didn’t want to think about Terrowin being someone’s child, because he was old. Ew.

The look he earned made him scowl. Seriously. He was hurt! Yes, he probably didn’t deserve any sort of sympathy, but he was still hurt. “It might be,” he tested, though even he was fairly certain it wasn’t broken. He’d broken his wrist, courtesy of Vincent, in his first year at Hammel. There was no way his ankle could have supported him if it was broken.

He looked a touch smug when Terrowin relented that he was hurt, though he did wince when he touched it. “See? I –“ Wait. Now he was getting chewed out? He pouted a little. “I wasn’t trying to do anything but run a mile without dying.” The fact that he wasn’t making eye contact was probably enough to expose his little lie. At least Terrowin was willing to help him. He accepted the hand and got to his feet, gingerly putting his foot down and wincing. “It’s not a boo-boo,” he grumbled, looking back at the rest of the class. How were they still going? Even if he’d tried, he’d have probably thrown up or passed out. Regardless of the pain, he was still getting out of gym. Score one for the pyro.

[Terrowin Guthrie]

Hey! Terrowin wasn't that old. He was only 31! Still just a young buck. Or so he told himself. He refused to believe it would ever grow really old. He was more likely to die from colliding with something too fast while I was still in his middle ages.

Terrowin hated admitting that he was wrong. But he was, really, a teacher first and foremost, and he couldn't let his pride get in the way of his students' health. Even if that student was Sam Rixon. "Yeah yeah, like ye didn't try an' pretend tae trip. Trust me, lad, Oi can catch things most people can't, so stop tryin' tae get away with stuff." He wasn't just fast - his reflexes and reaction times were much quicker as well. "An' if ye insist on bein' a child, Oi will insist on callin' it a boo-boo." He smirked. "C'mon." They went inside the gym, where Ter took off in a blur to grab some ice. He reappeared about seven seconds later, ice in hand. "Now just because yer gettin' special treatment today, don't think yer gettin' out o' the mile." He gave Sam a stern look. "In a few days, after yer sprain is healed, yer gonna meet me after school so Oi can record yer mile. It's mandatory fer ye tae pass the class, Sam. Ye don't want tae be at Hammel forever, do ye?" She placed the ice around Sam's ankle, securing it with some tape. "Try tae keep yer weight off of it fer a while. It should heal pretty quick. Yer damn lucky ye didn't do any further damage."

[Samuel Rixon]

In Sam’s mind, Terrowin was old enough. Heck, he had siblings about his age, which was just... weird to think about. He might have tried to justify that his brothers and sisters wouldn’t have been such evil teachers, but.... that probably wasn’t true either. Just like if he was Bryan’s teacher, he’d make the kid’s life hell.

He forgot what his point was.

He gave Terrowin a dirty look as he was called out. He’d thought he’d been so clever, too. Apparently not. He didn’t even manage to muster something to say in his defense. Not if Terrowin was so quick to catch things. “Fine,” he grumbled. It wasn’t like it was a shock that he was trying to get out of class.

He struggled back up to his feet and limped along behind Terrowin. Though he was proud of himself for the time being, he was sure this wasn’t going to be the end of this. It made him re-think what he’d done. Well, this garnered him some sympathy, as well as some credit that he didn’t lie all of the time.

Once he reached the gym, Sam flopped back down the floor, watching Terrowin go off in a blur. Bastard. He could probably run ten miles in eight minutes. He gave the ice a look. He didn’t like ice. It burned against his warm skin. But if this was what it would take for his ankle to feel better, he’d put up with it. He pointedly stared at the ceiling as Terrowin lectured him, though the last bit caused him to frown. Of course he didn’t want to stay forever. Now Spencer had graduated, he couldn’t wait to get out. “No,” he muttered. “But I can’t run a mile without dying either.” Who had made these things mandatory? Whoever it was, they sucked.

He winced at the cool burn of the ice, his arms coming up to hug himself in a meek defense against the cold. “How long do I have to ice it for?” Great, Sam, ignore the point about your idiocy.