(no subject)
The black coat wasn't one he'd expected to find in the clothes box. Rodney recognized it instantly, the leather familiar to his touch, like coming home to something he'd missed for a long time. Since coming here, there hadn't really been anything to completely jar him out of a harmless sort of complacency, but if there was going to be anything, this was it. Whatever joy he felt from familiarity was too far outweighed by the question of why the coat had been there at all. He knew what sorts of tricks the island liked to pull on people, but he'd never quite expected to be the victim of such a prank (for lack of a better word) himself.
But, he soon realized, it wasn't the coat that was the key object. Rather, it was what he'd always kept in the pocket. As soon as he picked it up, he could feel a weight in one of the pockets, and he didn't have to fish it out to know what it was.
When he'd still lived in London (when he'd still been invisible) he'd always kept a tin of white facepaint in the pocket of his coat. He'd needed it for people to be able to see him, for people to be able to know where to focus. In pointing out the fact that he couldn't be seen otherwise, it had made him visible. As he reached into the pocket, the cold of the tin seemed almost sharp against his fingers, giving him a moment of pause before he actually pulled it out.
Carrying both objects, he made his way to one of the chairs in the room, draping the coat over his knee before he opened the tin. It was exactly as he'd left it: half full, the swipes of his fingers visible in the surface of the paint. Carefully, he ran his fingertips over the surface, leaving new trails and rubbing off paint onto his own hands. He didn't need to use it anymore, but he already knew that he wasn't just going to put it back in the box. Useless or not, it (and the coat) was too significant. They'd defined him, before, and in a way they still did.
He'd been the invisible man. Had he not had that to offer, he never would have been part of the League. He would never (or at least, so he thought) have ended up here. He would never have been anyone significant in any way, shape, or form. Thieves didn't gain notoriety unless they were truly, truly exceptional, and although he knew he was good, he would never go so far as to say he would have gained any measure of infamy if he hadn't stolen the invisibility elixir. And even then, he'd never really been infamous; it was hard to attribute cons to someone you'd never seen.
Staring down at the paint on his fingers, he let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head as if he expected the practical joke to reveal itself at any moment. Funny how things happened, he supposed. Beside the point, he supposed, but as suspect as it might have looked, he wouldn't have minded having a coat when he'd first arrived.
( ooc: fine time to meet him! st/lt welcome as always. )
But, he soon realized, it wasn't the coat that was the key object. Rather, it was what he'd always kept in the pocket. As soon as he picked it up, he could feel a weight in one of the pockets, and he didn't have to fish it out to know what it was.
When he'd still lived in London (when he'd still been invisible) he'd always kept a tin of white facepaint in the pocket of his coat. He'd needed it for people to be able to see him, for people to be able to know where to focus. In pointing out the fact that he couldn't be seen otherwise, it had made him visible. As he reached into the pocket, the cold of the tin seemed almost sharp against his fingers, giving him a moment of pause before he actually pulled it out.
Carrying both objects, he made his way to one of the chairs in the room, draping the coat over his knee before he opened the tin. It was exactly as he'd left it: half full, the swipes of his fingers visible in the surface of the paint. Carefully, he ran his fingertips over the surface, leaving new trails and rubbing off paint onto his own hands. He didn't need to use it anymore, but he already knew that he wasn't just going to put it back in the box. Useless or not, it (and the coat) was too significant. They'd defined him, before, and in a way they still did.
He'd been the invisible man. Had he not had that to offer, he never would have been part of the League. He would never (or at least, so he thought) have ended up here. He would never have been anyone significant in any way, shape, or form. Thieves didn't gain notoriety unless they were truly, truly exceptional, and although he knew he was good, he would never go so far as to say he would have gained any measure of infamy if he hadn't stolen the invisibility elixir. And even then, he'd never really been infamous; it was hard to attribute cons to someone you'd never seen.
Staring down at the paint on his fingers, he let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head as if he expected the practical joke to reveal itself at any moment. Funny how things happened, he supposed. Beside the point, he supposed, but as suspect as it might have looked, he wouldn't have minded having a coat when he'd first arrived.
( ooc: fine time to meet him! st/lt welcome as always. )