Agent Orange (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
24d_245t_tcdd) wrote2012-03-03 10:48 pm
24d_245t_tcdd) wrote2012-03-03 10:48 pm
Entry tags:
Briefing #1
It was soothing to work on his equipment, it always had been. Something about the comforting certainty that he was doing all of the minor pieces of work that would truly keep him alive in the lifestyle that he'd embraced with open arms and whole heart allowed him to find a form of serenity that was sadly lacking in the majority of his daily life. Spang, of course, would state that he was always serene, but Spang was a vivacious man with a personality that could stun an ox at fifty feet.
It would be a lie to say that AO was allowing his mind to drift from what he was doing; his attention was on the movement of his hands as he examined and tested every inch of every piece of equipment that he used. Once a month on every piece of equipment, nightly on whatever he'd used, to be certain that he was going to be safe. As safe as possible, at any rate.
He replaced this strap, and polished this buckle, oiled thatbit of leather and trimmed that loose thread before treating it with a small dab of clear nail polish, focused on his task with a devotion most normally seen in fanatics, lovers, and obsessive compulsives, and he found it good.
It wasn't until later, when the last nightstick, the last holster, and the last piece of Kevlar was put away, until the mask was safe in it's compartment next to the gloves and socks, above the boots, under the coat and hat, that he began to turn the strange meeting over in his mind.
As he cooked (plain, simple fare, healthy but bland), as he ate, as he sat in the chair that was the big indulgence in a small house otherwise furnished at a Spartan level of décor, he allowed his thoughts to slip backwards to the hours spent out of space and time.
She was beautiful. He was a healthy, heterosexual male in the prime of his life, he wouldn't attempt to pretend that he hadn't noticed that about her. It was a flashy kind of beauty, the type that would cause women to sigh and men to drool and he was as affected by the piercing green eyes and red hair as any other man with a healthy libido. She wasn't his type, so to speak, but as his type was as out of his potential grasp as the average super-model it didn't really matter. He knew his reach, and even if he were willing to risk a bond of the heart he would never be in Rachel's league.
She was powerful. That was as attractive as her beauty. His blood rushed away from his face at the memory, the powerful memory, of seeing through her eyes for those endless moments. It wasn't her "super" powers that made him inclined to respect her, it was the fact that she could survive the deluge of information that poured into her at every moment. She had passed it off as normal for herself, but assuming that she was human in any measurable way it was a miracle that she'd survived long enough to learn to cope with it.
She was funny. Not in the way of cracking jokes and trying to tease, but in the way that her lips twisted or her eyebrows danced as they traded information. It reached into long-denied parts of his psyche and made him want to know more. What made her smile, what made her laugh, why did those eyes of hers light up like that when she'd said that? And what put the sad twist in her expressions? How could he help her wipe that sadness away, even for a moment?
She was traumatized. It wasn't obvious, he didn't think, not to the average observer. Agent Orange, however, was not the average observer. He'd seen the tracks left by suffering in a million faces and a million ways. She bore up under it, she didn't throw her trauma around, but it lingered in the way that she apologised for being, and that made him want to protect. She could most probably erase him from existence entirely, but he wanted to protect her from that suffering.
She was accepting. He knew, he knew, that he put people off when in the mask. He wasn't much better out of it, and that was fine by him. He was at best a wallpaper person, at worst the kind of bogeyman who leaves no trace of his passing. Yet she spoke with him as though his voice wasn't out of the ordinary, as though she spent every day with people who wore masks, as though he was normal. Some of it was probably her world, he acknowledged that, yet it was surprisingly comforting to know that somewhere in the universes someone existed who wasn't put off by his persona. He had to wonder if she would like his civilian self as well, or if he would be wallpaper to her too.
As the night turned to the witching hour and he slipped into his bed for a few hours of sleep before work in the morning he concluded that it had been a fascinating encounter and he devoutly hoped that he would see her again.
It would be a lie to say that AO was allowing his mind to drift from what he was doing; his attention was on the movement of his hands as he examined and tested every inch of every piece of equipment that he used. Once a month on every piece of equipment, nightly on whatever he'd used, to be certain that he was going to be safe. As safe as possible, at any rate.
He replaced this strap, and polished this buckle, oiled thatbit of leather and trimmed that loose thread before treating it with a small dab of clear nail polish, focused on his task with a devotion most normally seen in fanatics, lovers, and obsessive compulsives, and he found it good.
It wasn't until later, when the last nightstick, the last holster, and the last piece of Kevlar was put away, until the mask was safe in it's compartment next to the gloves and socks, above the boots, under the coat and hat, that he began to turn the strange meeting over in his mind.
As he cooked (plain, simple fare, healthy but bland), as he ate, as he sat in the chair that was the big indulgence in a small house otherwise furnished at a Spartan level of décor, he allowed his thoughts to slip backwards to the hours spent out of space and time.
She was beautiful. He was a healthy, heterosexual male in the prime of his life, he wouldn't attempt to pretend that he hadn't noticed that about her. It was a flashy kind of beauty, the type that would cause women to sigh and men to drool and he was as affected by the piercing green eyes and red hair as any other man with a healthy libido. She wasn't his type, so to speak, but as his type was as out of his potential grasp as the average super-model it didn't really matter. He knew his reach, and even if he were willing to risk a bond of the heart he would never be in Rachel's league.
She was powerful. That was as attractive as her beauty. His blood rushed away from his face at the memory, the powerful memory, of seeing through her eyes for those endless moments. It wasn't her "super" powers that made him inclined to respect her, it was the fact that she could survive the deluge of information that poured into her at every moment. She had passed it off as normal for herself, but assuming that she was human in any measurable way it was a miracle that she'd survived long enough to learn to cope with it.
She was funny. Not in the way of cracking jokes and trying to tease, but in the way that her lips twisted or her eyebrows danced as they traded information. It reached into long-denied parts of his psyche and made him want to know more. What made her smile, what made her laugh, why did those eyes of hers light up like that when she'd said that? And what put the sad twist in her expressions? How could he help her wipe that sadness away, even for a moment?
She was traumatized. It wasn't obvious, he didn't think, not to the average observer. Agent Orange, however, was not the average observer. He'd seen the tracks left by suffering in a million faces and a million ways. She bore up under it, she didn't throw her trauma around, but it lingered in the way that she apologised for being, and that made him want to protect. She could most probably erase him from existence entirely, but he wanted to protect her from that suffering.
She was accepting. He knew, he knew, that he put people off when in the mask. He wasn't much better out of it, and that was fine by him. He was at best a wallpaper person, at worst the kind of bogeyman who leaves no trace of his passing. Yet she spoke with him as though his voice wasn't out of the ordinary, as though she spent every day with people who wore masks, as though he was normal. Some of it was probably her world, he acknowledged that, yet it was surprisingly comforting to know that somewhere in the universes someone existed who wasn't put off by his persona. He had to wonder if she would like his civilian self as well, or if he would be wallpaper to her too.
As the night turned to the witching hour and he slipped into his bed for a few hours of sleep before work in the morning he concluded that it had been a fascinating encounter and he devoutly hoped that he would see her again.