(no subject)
And now, for Kerlin's challenge-
(Without a cut, because LJ hates me tonight)
She cannot get to him, and she finds herself far more irritated by this than she should be.
The meet was scheduled for 6:15. It is now 6:25 and she is fighting rush-hour traffic in a downpour that literally came out of no where, leaving puzzled meteorologists to scratch their heads and Sydney to curse violently.
She knows she can call him. She could. Encode some message and then laugh lightly when she realized it was the wrong number, some empty-headed thing a twenty-something in traffic and torrential rain would do, and that would be it. There were other ways to get a countermission.
... and not seeing him before a mission would not be that traumatic. It wouldn't.
(She lies to herself often.)
And so she sits seething in traffic, inching ahead and forcing herself not to lean on her horn because polite people don't do that. When her exit comes, she speeds off the ramp, far past the limit, water arching as she skids around corners dangerously because she is fifteen minutes late and he is waiting, pacing and worrying and she left on time, dammit, she didn't realize it was raining. She has only checked for tails sporadically as she drove, and now she makes herself circle twice and take two wrong turns before being satisfied that she wasn't followed by an overzealous Security Section lackey.
The parking lot outside the warehouse is nothing more than a lake, and she has to yank off her boots and leave them in the car. She pulls her jacket over her head- where is her umbrella?- and sprints to the warehouse, water splashing her bare calves and drenching her back and running down her face as the wind blows it towards her.
The cement of the floor is frigid, and her teeth chatter as she slides towards the chain-link enclosure.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Vaughn paces, and she feels a stab of guilt. That she shouldn't feel. Oh no. He's her handler. He has to wait.
"Vaughn!" She cries, or hisses, or calls, and opens the gate, and his face-
- is entirely appropriate for a business relationship. He was worried about not seeing her before her flight, not being able to prepare her for her countermission. Worried for her safety in a professional capacity only.
She pushes back the wet strands of her hair and listens to him attentively as he details her mission. And when he offers her his jacket, she reminds herself forcefully, as she had about honking, that she should not let his warm, dry jacket cover her shivering, wet form- and nor should she ignore the rest of his instructions because she can smell his cologne wrapped around her.
Because chivalry is acceptable.
... Really.
(Without a cut, because LJ hates me tonight)
She cannot get to him, and she finds herself far more irritated by this than she should be.
The meet was scheduled for 6:15. It is now 6:25 and she is fighting rush-hour traffic in a downpour that literally came out of no where, leaving puzzled meteorologists to scratch their heads and Sydney to curse violently.
She knows she can call him. She could. Encode some message and then laugh lightly when she realized it was the wrong number, some empty-headed thing a twenty-something in traffic and torrential rain would do, and that would be it. There were other ways to get a countermission.
... and not seeing him before a mission would not be that traumatic. It wouldn't.
(She lies to herself often.)
And so she sits seething in traffic, inching ahead and forcing herself not to lean on her horn because polite people don't do that. When her exit comes, she speeds off the ramp, far past the limit, water arching as she skids around corners dangerously because she is fifteen minutes late and he is waiting, pacing and worrying and she left on time, dammit, she didn't realize it was raining. She has only checked for tails sporadically as she drove, and now she makes herself circle twice and take two wrong turns before being satisfied that she wasn't followed by an overzealous Security Section lackey.
The parking lot outside the warehouse is nothing more than a lake, and she has to yank off her boots and leave them in the car. She pulls her jacket over her head- where is her umbrella?- and sprints to the warehouse, water splashing her bare calves and drenching her back and running down her face as the wind blows it towards her.
The cement of the floor is frigid, and her teeth chatter as she slides towards the chain-link enclosure.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Vaughn paces, and she feels a stab of guilt. That she shouldn't feel. Oh no. He's her handler. He has to wait.
"Vaughn!" She cries, or hisses, or calls, and opens the gate, and his face-
- is entirely appropriate for a business relationship. He was worried about not seeing her before her flight, not being able to prepare her for her countermission. Worried for her safety in a professional capacity only.
She pushes back the wet strands of her hair and listens to him attentively as he details her mission. And when he offers her his jacket, she reminds herself forcefully, as she had about honking, that she should not let his warm, dry jacket cover her shivering, wet form- and nor should she ignore the rest of his instructions because she can smell his cologne wrapped around her.
Because chivalry is acceptable.
... Really.