08-06-2013, 03:01 PM
She didn’t quite relax, but as Hood didn’t spin around and shoot her with a blow dart or something, a lot of tension drained from her throat. He dragged a can over, sat, and practically tried to paralyze her with the intensity of that gaze. He did a pretty good job of it too, but mostly because Rune felt like she’d been hit by a truck rather than actual intimidation. Mostly.
The first things out of his mouth was far from what she expected. Actually, she didn’t know what to expect. All she knew was what was right in front of her. She knew only what her eyes saw and went only where her nose led. That frosty bite, cold as the glassy color of his irises, dripped into his story and Rune found herself blinking in disbelief.
He’s a spook!??
For someone who wrangled a gangly Rak-sha out of toolshed in Montana and smoked a blood-thirsty choopy out of its foxhole in Arizona, Rune has having a little bit of trouble coming to grips with this. He’s an Anti-CCD spook. American? She ran her eyes up and down where he sat. Maybe he was American. And he killed five ghul. That was impressive.
His next series of commands clawed at her frayed patience, and she stared flatly back. Since it seemed neither of them was going to kill the other one, she held herself from rolling her eyes. Barely.
He shoved himself up but a streak of sarcasm escaped anyway. ”Maybe I ain’t tryin’ to catch flies,” she muttered under her breath and pulled herself up, swiping her dirty palms against her thighs then retrieving the stake. She thought about slipping it back in her pocket, but set it aside instead. She didn't live this life because she was looking for sororities and ice cream socials.
She was in the process of shrugging her jacket off when he slipped his shirt from his shoulders. Don’t look, she told herself and made busy work of unbuckling her own holsters. She set the equipment aside, but when he spoke again, she dutifully looked, and immediately regretted it.
Her mouth went dry.
She frantically tried to think something to say, but all she muttered was poorly constructed comebacks. A bad play on words about horses and mounties. Alexander Keith was a Canadian beer, after all.
She glanced at the trap door leading up, definitely considering those ice pack and just exactly how she was going to wedge them... places, then looked back as he was messing with putting pressure on the cut. It looked like nothing worse than a bad cat scratch. Knowing men, he was probably ready to get it stapled. ”Seriously?” She mouthed, ired, then stalked over. Her boots thudding loudly as she came, just so he was aware of their proximity to one another. She was still slightly suspicious of him, especially after having learned he was like the American Jim Bond (James Bond’s son).
She snatched the first aid kit, rummaged for a square patch of gauze and tore the paper sealant. Then dug out a bottle of peroxide and tube of antibiotic ointment, placing them alongside the bodytape. ”I ain’t a kindergartener and don’t need a nap. Turn.” She gave a little loopy-loop motion with one finger and waited, pink brows furrowed demandingly. The cut was in a kind of hard to reach spot, after all. ”I’ve patched up guys with nothin’ but an old sock and a shoelace off my boot.” She showed him the high-tech, tactical boots cladding her feet. They were waterproof, steel-toed, and practical. ”I can handle a fancy sterile kit gauze.”
The first things out of his mouth was far from what she expected. Actually, she didn’t know what to expect. All she knew was what was right in front of her. She knew only what her eyes saw and went only where her nose led. That frosty bite, cold as the glassy color of his irises, dripped into his story and Rune found herself blinking in disbelief.
He’s a spook!??
For someone who wrangled a gangly Rak-sha out of toolshed in Montana and smoked a blood-thirsty choopy out of its foxhole in Arizona, Rune has having a little bit of trouble coming to grips with this. He’s an Anti-CCD spook. American? She ran her eyes up and down where he sat. Maybe he was American. And he killed five ghul. That was impressive.
His next series of commands clawed at her frayed patience, and she stared flatly back. Since it seemed neither of them was going to kill the other one, she held herself from rolling her eyes. Barely.
He shoved himself up but a streak of sarcasm escaped anyway. ”Maybe I ain’t tryin’ to catch flies,” she muttered under her breath and pulled herself up, swiping her dirty palms against her thighs then retrieving the stake. She thought about slipping it back in her pocket, but set it aside instead. She didn't live this life because she was looking for sororities and ice cream socials.
She was in the process of shrugging her jacket off when he slipped his shirt from his shoulders. Don’t look, she told herself and made busy work of unbuckling her own holsters. She set the equipment aside, but when he spoke again, she dutifully looked, and immediately regretted it.
Her mouth went dry.
She frantically tried to think something to say, but all she muttered was poorly constructed comebacks. A bad play on words about horses and mounties. Alexander Keith was a Canadian beer, after all.
She glanced at the trap door leading up, definitely considering those ice pack and just exactly how she was going to wedge them... places, then looked back as he was messing with putting pressure on the cut. It looked like nothing worse than a bad cat scratch. Knowing men, he was probably ready to get it stapled. ”Seriously?” She mouthed, ired, then stalked over. Her boots thudding loudly as she came, just so he was aware of their proximity to one another. She was still slightly suspicious of him, especially after having learned he was like the American Jim Bond (James Bond’s son).
She snatched the first aid kit, rummaged for a square patch of gauze and tore the paper sealant. Then dug out a bottle of peroxide and tube of antibiotic ointment, placing them alongside the bodytape. ”I ain’t a kindergartener and don’t need a nap. Turn.” She gave a little loopy-loop motion with one finger and waited, pink brows furrowed demandingly. The cut was in a kind of hard to reach spot, after all. ”I’ve patched up guys with nothin’ but an old sock and a shoelace off my boot.” She showed him the high-tech, tactical boots cladding her feet. They were waterproof, steel-toed, and practical. ”I can handle a fancy sterile kit gauze.”