[Open]

[beforeblue]

Who: Agent Washington and You!
Where: Around Wonderland
When: Mid-March-ish
Rating: PG-13?
Summary: The depressing life of Agent Washington
The Story:

I
Running outside is something that Wash has missed in the Project. The training space on the Mother of Invention just wasn't the same. It was too even, too flat, and the recycled air didn't have the cold tang of the pre and just-post dawn. It's one of the perks of Wonderland Wash thinks, as much as the place has perks when they're getting put through extended psychological experimentation.

He jogs a wide circle around the mansion and then heads out through the gardens and down to the beach, trying to cover as much different terrain as he can. It's quiet at this time of the morning, but late enough that he can pretend that he just gets up early instead of not actually sleeping.


II
It is not an uncommon sight to see Wash in the gym or the training room at any hour of day or night, practising both in full armour and without. The daytime hours are more likely to find him enthusiastic and friendly. But as the hours draw on, and it gets later and he still can't face sleeping, the punches become a little more vicious, the shooting more intent, obsessively so.


III
When he's not training, wearing himself to the bone until he's exhausted enough to sleep, he heads out to the bar or to the roof of the mansion on a night. Tries not to drink too much because that is a path he doesn't want to go down. Seen too many people lose themselves in that. But sometimes it makes things easier. Helps him to relax enough to sleep, even if just for a couple of hours.

Comments

II

[goodwoofjames]

[Sirius, for all he criticizes his family for repressing and ignoring, is pretty good at denial. So he doesn't even notice the irony when he finally finds the source of the thudding leather noises echoing through the halls and says:]

Bit late for training, isn't it?

Re: II

[beforeblue]

[He's stripped down to the armour undersuit for this. It feels more visceral that way. Good as the armour feedback is, sometimes he needs to feel the impact of skin against the leather of the punching bag.

He catches the bag when he hears someone speak, and then turns to see Sirius there. He shakes his head, dragging a hand through it. It's damp with sweat.]

I need to stay in shape. It's quiet at this time.

[goodwoofjames]

True. But it'd be more fun with friends, I would think.

[He gives the bag a curious push.]

I broke a couple bones in my hand the last time I punched someone. But I lost fewer house points than I would have for a jinx, and the wanker deserved it.

[beforeblue]

I usually have my team. We train together most of the time.

[But he doesn't have that here, and no-one is around who he could really ask to spar while he's wearing armour.]

Sounds like you need to learn how to punch. What's a jinx? [Or a house point for that matter.]

[goodwoofjames]

They're spells you use when someone deserves it. Nothing too bad, but bad enough that they might think twice next time.

[He holds up a fist.]

Can you teach me? How to throw a good punch?

[beforeblue]

Huh. That sounds useful. [He can think of a few times when he could have done with something like that.]

Sure. [He smiles a little. This is something he can do.]

So, first thing is, you want to make sure your thumb is on the outside of your fist, not tucked in. If it's tucked inside your fist, you will break it.

[goodwoofjames]

[Sirius fixes this, nodding.]

Makes sense. My thumb was one of the ones that broke.

[beforeblue]

Yeah, it's an easy mistake to make.

So next, you want to make sure you're hitting with your knuckles, not the flats of your fingers. Knuckles are stronger and less likely to break. And make sure you keep your wrist aligned with the rest of your arm.

[goodwoofjames]

[Sirius nods and lines up his arm, pointing his knuckles out first. It feels awkward.]

You'd think there would be some instinct to it. This doesn't feel natural, really.

[interpersonal]

There are only so many nights Elena Gilbert can hunker down in the library before she starts to get a mild form of cabin fever. She discovered the rooftop earlier in the week, and she frequents it whenever she needs some fresh air. This world is too small; contained. There's only so much running ground. Shawl securely wrapped around her shoulders and a journal in hand, she makes her way over.

Except someone's beaten her to the punch.

"Oh." She blinks, and then looks to Wash . "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone else was here."

[beforeblue]

The roof is usually pretty quiet, but even then, it's not entirely uncommon for people to head up there. He hadn't been able to sleep again so he's up there dressed in his armour bodysuit and a blanket. The suit works decently to keep him warm but it's a chilly night.

He glances up at the woman, eyes narrowed for a moment before he shrugs. "s'okay, not like I've got dibs on the roof."

[interpersonal]

Elena eventually notices the armour, and she regards it thoughtfully with muted curiosity. A half-smile works its way to her lips, more self-deprecating than not. "Point, but I imagine people come here for the same reasons I do. You'd think a mansion this big wouldn't get stifling, but ..."

It does, and she likes to respect people's privacy if she can.

[beforeblue]

"There's not a whole lot outside it," Wash agrees. "And there's a lot of fucked up people." Probably more than it's fair share considering the size of the place.

[interpersonal]

Maybe it's the fact she hasn't slept well in weeks. Maybe it's the fact it's so candidly honest that it's almost refreshing. Whatever the reason, a startled laugh works its way up Elena's throat. "You don't mince words, do you?"

[beforeblue]

Wash grins for a moment, and shrugs. "I never have. Lead to me getting my ass kicked a few times though." And worse. A court martial was nothing to laugh about in the middle of a war.

[interpersonal]

"I bet," Elena says, her lips tugging into a small grin in spite of herself. His approach reminds her of Tyler Lockwood, a little; he never allowed himself a pretense, blunt to the very end. She gingerly sits down, placing the journal aside for the time being.

(Besides, if the latest network entries are anything to go by, he isn't wrong.)

"Have you been here long?"

[beforeblue]

"What can I say? The military doesn't appreciate it when I mouth off." Or y'know, when he puts his staff sergeant in medical because he disagreed with bullshit orders.

"Eight months or so, I guess. Not quite a year. You?"

I

[rosswood]

Alex doesn't even pretend that he sleeps, because he's lucky to get in eight hours by the end of each week. A dark line of tally marks runs up the length of one inner arm. He's been keeping track of the days here, his own personal calendar.

He's been walking along the edge of the beach since before the sun rose, camera out, his movements zombielike and mechanical since every instinct is screaming at him to get some goddamn sleep. By the time faint fingers of sunlight start crinkling the horizon, he's sitting against a big smooth rock, camera lying beside him. The sky's still a muddy predawn gray. No one else should be up.

But he hears the crunch of semi-rapid footsteps, and it puts him on the alert at once. Alex scrambles to his feet. The camera swings up to film whoever might be approaching. Old habits die hard, after all.

Re: I

[beforeblue]

Running was always one of his favourite parts of his training routine. Well, once he'd got used to it at least. He doesn't have to do much when he runs, except keep running. All he has to focus on is his steps and his breathing. It's peaceful. It lets him zone out for a while and that was a valuable thing when you were exhausted and hurting.

The sand provides an interesting surface to run on, much more giving than the metal floor of the MoI or the concrete of various bases. It shifts beneath his feet, making him work for it.

He spots a dark figure along the beach, raising something up to his face as he approaches. Instincts kick in, seeing a gun in his hand, a scope for a rifle, and Wash throws himself to the ground and rolls, aiming a kick to sweep the guy's legs out from beneath him.

[rosswood]

Whatever Alex was expecting, it sure as shit wasn't that. He's taken off guard at once and lands flat on his ass, the camera going flying from his hand to bounce and roll uselessly across the sand. He tries to force himself upright, but the slips and slides underfoot.

Every instinct shrieks that he's about to get a heavy blow dealt to the face so he scrambles to seize a handful of sand and fling it blindly at his attacker, with limited success.

[beforeblue]

He gets his arm up just in time to protect his face from most of the sand. It still leaves him blinking furiously, but he can see enough to lunge for the gun, the black spot on the sand. His hands close around it and...

He stops dead, staring at the camera in his hands. It's just a camera, now he can see it up close. Nothing like a gun, not really, wrong shape, wrong size.

"Fuck."

[rosswood]

He gets himself up on one elbow, braced for another hit. When it doesn't come, he slits one eye open to stare at his attacker, only to realize that he's stopped in his tracks - pretty much the opposite of hostile.

Alex lies there, wide-eyed, panting, trying vainly to marshal his thoughts into something coherent.

All he comes up with is:

"What the hell, man?"

[beforeblue]

He keeps staring at the camera, turning it over in his hands like it will somehow, magically transform into a gun. Guns make sense and right now he feels like he's had the floor pulled out from beneath him.

He looks up when the man... kid? It's hard to tell these days and that probably means he's getting old, or maybe just jaded, when he speaks.

"I- I thought it was a gun."

[rosswood]

"You what?" He watches the other guy look at the camera like it's some newfangled invention. He'd ask if he's from one of those weird-ass pre-industrial age worlds, but if he knows what a gun is then he probably knows what a camera is, right?

He flings out an open hand wildly to gesture at it, his tone climbing with disbelief. "It's a fucking camera."

[beforeblue]

:Yeah well, I realise that now," Wash says, a screech entering his voice. "Even if it's a goddam antique." Who the hell used this kind of camera anyway? It was about five centuries out of date. "But from a distance it looked like... I thought it was a gun with a scope."

Shit, he is too tired to be dealing with this.