(Untitled)

[fn_rebel]

Characters: angle_on_it & fn_rebel
When: The day after the Stepford Event.
Where: Somewhere on Queen Anne's Row Sokka's house
Rating: PG?
Summary: Sokka's lost his PCD with everything on it. Jet wants to express his feelings.

Comments

[angle_on_it]

Surprise, a guest! Fortunate for you, Jet, the tribesman was actually awake and up and about. Since Harold Saxon has spoken to him, Sokka hadn't had much to think about. Enough nervous energy to expense, though, made sure he found something to do.

Sokka was in the main room, some metal samples scattered around him. He eyed Jet, surprised to see his friend come through the door with such fervor. "That's me," he admitted, an eyebrow raised. "Come on in. Make yourself at home. Can I take swords?" It was something of a joking invitation, but it had a bit of an edge. He'd like to not have to replace that door, okay?

[fn_rebel]

Jet stared for a few moments. Yes, his annoyance was there - though not completely at Sokka, but at the situation it put them and their hard work in.

Quickly, at an almost jogging pace, he approached the tribesman without second thought. The swords comment - he couldn't tell if it was meant to be funny. A part of him didn't want to dwell on it. Still gripping the handles in his fists, Jet reached down to grab Sokka's shirt and pull him to his feet.

"Do you have any idea what you did? What you lost?" He was almost yelling and wasn't bothering to restrain himself. He didn't have to do that anymore. He could get right to the point.

...even if Sokka might not get it right away.

[angle_on_it]

Eyes widened, Sokka held up his hands innocently and gaped at the man he wondered if he really knew. He called out in a warning tone, "Jet! What's wrong with you?" There was no debating that this was some kind of joke -- Sokka felts the burn of Jet's glare, and his too-tight grip was pulling the seamed edge of Sokka's tunic painfully tight against the back of his neck.

It only took a second before Sokka chose to react. He reached a hand to grab Jet's wrist, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Maybe the Animus had done something? Sokka repeated himself, this time more intensely, "What's wrong?" He dropped that last part because, dammit, he had faith there was more here than met the eye. Jet wasn't a bad guy, this was something else.

[fn_rebel]

He was seemingly able to block out the first call Sokka gave out. There was so much he had to say, so much he felt he had to lecture, but he couldn't find the words. His face was twisted with anger and disgust and--

Once he felt the hand on his wrist he loosened his hold and let his eyes soften, if only slightly.

He couldn't be a loose canon anymore. He was working to change that, even before he got to this place. But the thoughts didn't calm him down any. He roughly releases Sokka's shirt, part of him hoping Sokka can catch his balance.

"Why don't you remember? Sokka, we put weeks into that work! And you-- you just threw it all away! And you don't even care!"