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maskormenacelogs2014-11-15 05:10 pm
starbuckaroobanzai) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-11-15 05:10 pm
Entry tags:
[closed]
WHO: Dana Scully, Saul Goodman
WHERE: Heropa
WHEN: Mid-November
WHAT: Maybe not exactly a meet-cute.
WARNINGS: N...one that I can think of offhand, will update if necessary.
It's warm this far south, warmer than D.C., warmer than home and Scully hasn't settled in to it yet. It makes her want to linger in the evenings, anticipating a sudden downturn, anticipating snow and ice that will probably never arrive and certainly not linger if it does. This isn't the only thing about her which hasn't settled. Months in now and still everything about her screams law enforcement. Hundreds of subtleties come together — a particular straightness of the spine conspires with the dress-code economy of her attire to whisper her history, that information amplified by the restless wariness that clings to her like a perfume, and the particular sillage is of gunsmoke. And the less dramatic — coffee, paperwork, a life spent in the in-betweens: automobiles and airports, weekends in the office and weekdays on surveillance, waiting for something to happen. She's doing the same sort of waiting now.
Sundown approaches with a marginal increase in rapidity, only a handful of hours into the future now as she leaves work, scrubbed clean of lab and morgue smells but still carrying thoughts of work along with her as she walks, eyes turned heavenward. There that thoughtful expectation, though what she's waiting for even she doesn't know. Something. Anything. A sign.
As usual, nothing comes. No burst of insight, no lights in the sky. Nobody calls out for help on a frequency she can hear. Nothing draws her onward to some hidden place, to some secrets heretofore unspoken. Nothing and less than nothing, just a shape in her periphery which in her distraction and frustration she ignores, at least until the collision of shoulders, the force of her stride and whatever wistful grasps at imagination she had been entertaining shattered. Maybe that's the sign in and of itself -- a reminder to keep her head out of the clouds.
"Jesus, I'm sorry," she offers, stopping to prove her regret is genuine and looking up (it's always up) at the interloper, a stranger, if a halfway familiar one. The face rings some kind of bell, anyway, which is enough to give her still more pause.
WHERE: Heropa
WHEN: Mid-November
WHAT: Maybe not exactly a meet-cute.
WARNINGS: N...one that I can think of offhand, will update if necessary.
It's warm this far south, warmer than D.C., warmer than home and Scully hasn't settled in to it yet. It makes her want to linger in the evenings, anticipating a sudden downturn, anticipating snow and ice that will probably never arrive and certainly not linger if it does. This isn't the only thing about her which hasn't settled. Months in now and still everything about her screams law enforcement. Hundreds of subtleties come together — a particular straightness of the spine conspires with the dress-code economy of her attire to whisper her history, that information amplified by the restless wariness that clings to her like a perfume, and the particular sillage is of gunsmoke. And the less dramatic — coffee, paperwork, a life spent in the in-betweens: automobiles and airports, weekends in the office and weekdays on surveillance, waiting for something to happen. She's doing the same sort of waiting now.
Sundown approaches with a marginal increase in rapidity, only a handful of hours into the future now as she leaves work, scrubbed clean of lab and morgue smells but still carrying thoughts of work along with her as she walks, eyes turned heavenward. There that thoughtful expectation, though what she's waiting for even she doesn't know. Something. Anything. A sign.
As usual, nothing comes. No burst of insight, no lights in the sky. Nobody calls out for help on a frequency she can hear. Nothing draws her onward to some hidden place, to some secrets heretofore unspoken. Nothing and less than nothing, just a shape in her periphery which in her distraction and frustration she ignores, at least until the collision of shoulders, the force of her stride and whatever wistful grasps at imagination she had been entertaining shattered. Maybe that's the sign in and of itself -- a reminder to keep her head out of the clouds.
"Jesus, I'm sorry," she offers, stopping to prove her regret is genuine and looking up (it's always up) at the interloper, a stranger, if a halfway familiar one. The face rings some kind of bell, anyway, which is enough to give her still more pause.