04 / 29 / 10 - Harrison, Jean-Paul
Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
I tell myself that, yet I can't quite make myself do it. I can't forgive him quite so readily. The things he said -- I was not the one trespassed against, not really. But maybe that is just an excuse I tell myself so that I feel better about holding on to this anger.
=XF= Shooting Range - Training Facilities - Chemeketa Military Base
Spaced a little ways from the main training complex by the curve of a narrow path, the outdoor shooting range is backed by a retaining wall of grey brick. Unshielded from wind and weather, the firing point is a stretch of flattened concrete with individual places marked in black paint. The even ground between firing point and the black and white movable targets arrayed to the south is green with close-cropped grass. Lanes are marked off between individual targets by rows of dark spokes poking out of the earth. Three poles on either side of the range reflect wind speed and direction in the flap of triangular flags in red, white and blue.
After a long, boring session of guard duty, the only thing to do is find the time to actually shoot that gun. It's how Harrison has chosen to follow up on his responsibilities. His dark jeans and dark t-shirt are well-warmed by the California sun, he's already geared up in ear and eye protection as he works his way efficiently through a clip of his M9 Beretta.
Jean-Paul's steps draaag as he trudges toward the shooting range for his weekly 'yes, I do remember which way to point this thing' practice session. His gun is standard-issue -- and for that matter, so is the rest. As he gets closer, making out the sounds of someone already there, he pulls up his own ear protection. When he notices who it is, there's a moment's temptation to turn around and leave before Harrison notices him: he pauses, steps sliding to a stand-still. Then he pushes forward, and finds the lane farthest.
It's not long for the clip to be spent at the brisk pace Harrison sets for himself. It's only at this point that he notices his company (far, far away) down as many lanes as he can manage. He hesitates. It is writ visibly on his face, that indecision. It doesn't disappear when he flips the safety on his pistol and holsters it, or when he moves his target forward to take a better look. Even as his eyes scan over his handiwork, there is a coiling tension of decisions not yet made and unhappy about the fact.
Checking over his gun before he brings it up to fire, Jean-Paul glances down the lane toward the target, and then double-checks his clip. Yep. Bullets. ...boo. He shifts his stance and lifts the gun, taking all the necessary safety precautions that I am way too lazy to google, and then fires. He doesn't blam-blam-blam like Harrison. He takes each shot carefully, realigning after the first one skips toward the edge of the target.
With a quick tug, Harrison removes his used target and puts a fresh one in to return to the end of the lane. It is apparently a courtesy rather than a continuation of his own training, however: he makes no move to put in a fresh clip. Rather, he stalls. He checks his gun. He moves over towards the weapons locker for the cleaning materials so he can start taking apart his sidearm and wiping down the pieces. From the way his gaze takes in Jean-Paul's process, he is waiting. (He will wait for a while, if need be. Slow cleaning of weapons. Perhaps twice.)
Is he waiting for Jean-Paul to finish? Hope you're patient, Harrison. Blam, blam, blam in steady progression. Certainly not the best shot on the base, he probably isn't far from being one of the worst -- at least in terms of who has the cert. Sure, he qualifies ... but in this area, he hardly excels. At long last, he finishes, and lowers his gun with safety absently engaged to bring his own target forward. He just sort of eyes it, in no hurry to double back and join Harrison.
He's...sort of patient. Harrison works slowly through the process of gun cleaning, but it's with a distinct air of grumpy, dreaded anticipation. Waiting for something he's not happy about doing. If he does it. (Either way, unhappy.) But when Jean-Paul is actually finished shooting, when it's safe for Harrison to pull down his his ear protection to hang loose around his neck -- he steels himself. "Hey."
"What?" Jean-Paul says with a tug at his own. His tone is briskly cool -- and the farthest thing from welcoming. He circles one of the holes in the target with the touch of his fingers.
Tension ripples tighter across his shoulders and up his spine. Harrison snaps something into place with perhaps a little more force than is strictly necessary. Difficult to tell which way the anger is directed. "I was a shit." He keeps his eyes on his work.
Quiet answers Harrison's heartfelt apology. Jean-Paul rips down the target with a short gesture to put another one up and send it back, and then turns away to join him by the weapons locker. Again, with a certain amount of /space/. "Yes," he says, finally. "You were."
Harrison is quiet for a stretch of time after that. The pieces of his sidearm come together one by one, snapping into place all clean and fresh-oiled. "I don't--" His jaw twitches and firms. "Whatever. I was a shit."
"Fine." Slower about cleaning, not nearly so practiced, Jean-Paul glances to the side to watch as Harrison puts things back together -- but only briefly. He looks down again, focusing on his tasking.
With one final slide of oiled metal, the Beretta is whole again. Harrison sets it down carefully and steadies his gaze on it as his fingers slip away to grip the edge of the table. "It wasn't all my fault" comes out a bit sudden. "I'm not saying that didn't make it less of a shit -- But it wasn't /all/ my fault."
"That's different than 'It wasn't my fault,'" Jean-Paul says, his tone still cool, still crisp, but sliding more pointedly tense.
"Yeah." Harrison's fingers press tight against the surface of the table. "It is." He looks about to continue, to say something else, but he snaps his jaw shut tight.
"Since you're accepting your part, don't worry: I'm sure that there is blame enough to go around." Voice low and carrying just a hint of a buried snarl, Jean-Paul moves sharply through the routine.
"She has--" To his credit, Harrison searches for delicacy. "--problems." He takes a slow, rough breath and continues to not look at Jean-Paul. "If she's doing better now, then it's -- good." This takes effort to admit, to find that generosity. "That she left."
"Yes." One doesn't slam a gun together, but the very pointed restraint of Jean-Paul's gestures speak volumes. "She does, and it is."
"I just wanted her to be happy." That said, Harrison loosens his fingers from the table and lifts his sidearm to holster it back at his side. Where sidearms go. Very quietly, a little gruff, he says, "I'm sorry."
It is Jean-Paul's turn to lower his gun and brace a hand, fingers and then palm flattening against the surface. He is quiet before he then glances over at Harrison, looking at him for perhaps the first time since he stepped up to the line to shoot. "Fine," he says, which is perhaps acceptance without real forgiveness. "But if you ever talk about her like you were again--."
"Yeah, I get it." Harrison lifts one hand to rub, tight and not quite idle, at his wrist. His dark eyes flit over, meeting Jean-Paul's for a quick, painful moment before drawing back away.
Jean-Paul gives a curt nod and then falls into a tense silence. Everything that needed to be said has obviously been said, and his gun isn't gonna maintenance itself all up.
Harrison returns the nod with a quick jerk of his chin. He stands there one moment longer, tense and unhappy, before he turns away to head back.
Everyone's tense and unhappy! X-Factor: good times.
X-Factor: it cures depression!
s/cures/causes
Harrison apologizes. JP graciously forgives.
I tell myself that, yet I can't quite make myself do it. I can't forgive him quite so readily. The things he said -- I was not the one trespassed against, not really. But maybe that is just an excuse I tell myself so that I feel better about holding on to this anger.
=XF= Shooting Range - Training Facilities - Chemeketa Military Base
Spaced a little ways from the main training complex by the curve of a narrow path, the outdoor shooting range is backed by a retaining wall of grey brick. Unshielded from wind and weather, the firing point is a stretch of flattened concrete with individual places marked in black paint. The even ground between firing point and the black and white movable targets arrayed to the south is green with close-cropped grass. Lanes are marked off between individual targets by rows of dark spokes poking out of the earth. Three poles on either side of the range reflect wind speed and direction in the flap of triangular flags in red, white and blue.
After a long, boring session of guard duty, the only thing to do is find the time to actually shoot that gun. It's how Harrison has chosen to follow up on his responsibilities. His dark jeans and dark t-shirt are well-warmed by the California sun, he's already geared up in ear and eye protection as he works his way efficiently through a clip of his M9 Beretta.
Jean-Paul's steps draaag as he trudges toward the shooting range for his weekly 'yes, I do remember which way to point this thing' practice session. His gun is standard-issue -- and for that matter, so is the rest. As he gets closer, making out the sounds of someone already there, he pulls up his own ear protection. When he notices who it is, there's a moment's temptation to turn around and leave before Harrison notices him: he pauses, steps sliding to a stand-still. Then he pushes forward, and finds the lane farthest.
It's not long for the clip to be spent at the brisk pace Harrison sets for himself. It's only at this point that he notices his company (far, far away) down as many lanes as he can manage. He hesitates. It is writ visibly on his face, that indecision. It doesn't disappear when he flips the safety on his pistol and holsters it, or when he moves his target forward to take a better look. Even as his eyes scan over his handiwork, there is a coiling tension of decisions not yet made and unhappy about the fact.
Checking over his gun before he brings it up to fire, Jean-Paul glances down the lane toward the target, and then double-checks his clip. Yep. Bullets. ...boo. He shifts his stance and lifts the gun, taking all the necessary safety precautions that I am way too lazy to google, and then fires. He doesn't blam-blam-blam like Harrison. He takes each shot carefully, realigning after the first one skips toward the edge of the target.
With a quick tug, Harrison removes his used target and puts a fresh one in to return to the end of the lane. It is apparently a courtesy rather than a continuation of his own training, however: he makes no move to put in a fresh clip. Rather, he stalls. He checks his gun. He moves over towards the weapons locker for the cleaning materials so he can start taking apart his sidearm and wiping down the pieces. From the way his gaze takes in Jean-Paul's process, he is waiting. (He will wait for a while, if need be. Slow cleaning of weapons. Perhaps twice.)
Is he waiting for Jean-Paul to finish? Hope you're patient, Harrison. Blam, blam, blam in steady progression. Certainly not the best shot on the base, he probably isn't far from being one of the worst -- at least in terms of who has the cert. Sure, he qualifies ... but in this area, he hardly excels. At long last, he finishes, and lowers his gun with safety absently engaged to bring his own target forward. He just sort of eyes it, in no hurry to double back and join Harrison.
He's...sort of patient. Harrison works slowly through the process of gun cleaning, but it's with a distinct air of grumpy, dreaded anticipation. Waiting for something he's not happy about doing. If he does it. (Either way, unhappy.) But when Jean-Paul is actually finished shooting, when it's safe for Harrison to pull down his his ear protection to hang loose around his neck -- he steels himself. "Hey."
"What?" Jean-Paul says with a tug at his own. His tone is briskly cool -- and the farthest thing from welcoming. He circles one of the holes in the target with the touch of his fingers.
Tension ripples tighter across his shoulders and up his spine. Harrison snaps something into place with perhaps a little more force than is strictly necessary. Difficult to tell which way the anger is directed. "I was a shit." He keeps his eyes on his work.
Quiet answers Harrison's heartfelt apology. Jean-Paul rips down the target with a short gesture to put another one up and send it back, and then turns away to join him by the weapons locker. Again, with a certain amount of /space/. "Yes," he says, finally. "You were."
Harrison is quiet for a stretch of time after that. The pieces of his sidearm come together one by one, snapping into place all clean and fresh-oiled. "I don't--" His jaw twitches and firms. "Whatever. I was a shit."
"Fine." Slower about cleaning, not nearly so practiced, Jean-Paul glances to the side to watch as Harrison puts things back together -- but only briefly. He looks down again, focusing on his tasking.
With one final slide of oiled metal, the Beretta is whole again. Harrison sets it down carefully and steadies his gaze on it as his fingers slip away to grip the edge of the table. "It wasn't all my fault" comes out a bit sudden. "I'm not saying that didn't make it less of a shit -- But it wasn't /all/ my fault."
"That's different than 'It wasn't my fault,'" Jean-Paul says, his tone still cool, still crisp, but sliding more pointedly tense.
"Yeah." Harrison's fingers press tight against the surface of the table. "It is." He looks about to continue, to say something else, but he snaps his jaw shut tight.
"Since you're accepting your part, don't worry: I'm sure that there is blame enough to go around." Voice low and carrying just a hint of a buried snarl, Jean-Paul moves sharply through the routine.
"She has--" To his credit, Harrison searches for delicacy. "--problems." He takes a slow, rough breath and continues to not look at Jean-Paul. "If she's doing better now, then it's -- good." This takes effort to admit, to find that generosity. "That she left."
"Yes." One doesn't slam a gun together, but the very pointed restraint of Jean-Paul's gestures speak volumes. "She does, and it is."
"I just wanted her to be happy." That said, Harrison loosens his fingers from the table and lifts his sidearm to holster it back at his side. Where sidearms go. Very quietly, a little gruff, he says, "I'm sorry."
It is Jean-Paul's turn to lower his gun and brace a hand, fingers and then palm flattening against the surface. He is quiet before he then glances over at Harrison, looking at him for perhaps the first time since he stepped up to the line to shoot. "Fine," he says, which is perhaps acceptance without real forgiveness. "But if you ever talk about her like you were again--."
"Yeah, I get it." Harrison lifts one hand to rub, tight and not quite idle, at his wrist. His dark eyes flit over, meeting Jean-Paul's for a quick, painful moment before drawing back away.
Jean-Paul gives a curt nod and then falls into a tense silence. Everything that needed to be said has obviously been said, and his gun isn't gonna maintenance itself all up.
Harrison returns the nod with a quick jerk of his chin. He stands there one moment longer, tense and unhappy, before he turns away to head back.
Everyone's tense and unhappy! X-Factor: good times.
X-Factor: it cures depression!
s/cures/causes
Harrison apologizes. JP graciously forgives.