ANZAC
Who: Logan 'Fucking' Mortlock and Iorangi 'Kick your face in' John Paul Key
When: Friday, April 23- Evening
Where: The conveniently abandoned warehouses on the edge of town
What: Making like the ANZAC- "I've got something to tell you, bastard, so listen up!"
Damn eyepatch.
John cracked his knuckles in a futile effort to distract from the urge to rip the irritant off his head and render it to pieces. Psychosomatic response to nerves, probably. Except that he was certainly not the type to be anxious over anything other than a deadline. The reason he was feverishly stalking around in between massive rusting storage units had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the worst fucking idea he'd had since cruising the Southern Island back in Aotearoa with nothing more than a sack full of notebooks and one half full canteen. Disregarding the sheer idiocy of it, the situation had no call for the nervous twitching in his hands.
It had to be the eyepatch.
He bit back a laugh at the mental imagery of Logan's inevitable responses before he found his fingers had gone to tracing the thing and the bubbling laughter instantly died. Oh they'd dinged one another up something pretty before. He'd had enough blackened eyes amongst the bruises and the scrapes. The eyepatch itself wasn't particularly worrisome.
It was the reason behind it. The sensations it invoked that made John revoke his attempt to keep the infernal thing on and gingerly slip it off, sliding it into the breast pocket of his obnoxiously patterned shirt.
Logan didn't need to know about the shuffleboard incident. And he certainly didn't need to know just how...
Vulnerable it made him feel.
"Fuckin' doctors..." Gravel scattered from the savage kick he gave to the roadway. John observed it with a hooded gaze and leaned bodily against the wall.
Black, wavering evening shadows in one eye.
Absolutely nothing in the other.
When: Friday, April 23- Evening
Where: The conveniently abandoned warehouses on the edge of town
What: Making like the ANZAC- "I've got something to tell you, bastard, so listen up!"
Damn eyepatch.
John cracked his knuckles in a futile effort to distract from the urge to rip the irritant off his head and render it to pieces. Psychosomatic response to nerves, probably. Except that he was certainly not the type to be anxious over anything other than a deadline. The reason he was feverishly stalking around in between massive rusting storage units had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the worst fucking idea he'd had since cruising the Southern Island back in Aotearoa with nothing more than a sack full of notebooks and one half full canteen. Disregarding the sheer idiocy of it, the situation had no call for the nervous twitching in his hands.
It had to be the eyepatch.
He bit back a laugh at the mental imagery of Logan's inevitable responses before he found his fingers had gone to tracing the thing and the bubbling laughter instantly died. Oh they'd dinged one another up something pretty before. He'd had enough blackened eyes amongst the bruises and the scrapes. The eyepatch itself wasn't particularly worrisome.
It was the reason behind it. The sensations it invoked that made John revoke his attempt to keep the infernal thing on and gingerly slip it off, sliding it into the breast pocket of his obnoxiously patterned shirt.
Logan didn't need to know about the shuffleboard incident. And he certainly didn't need to know just how...
Vulnerable it made him feel.
"Fuckin' doctors..." Gravel scattered from the savage kick he gave to the roadway. John observed it with a hooded gaze and leaned bodily against the wall.
Black, wavering evening shadows in one eye.
Absolutely nothing in the other.