Partial Log, BnB
Aug. 29th, 2004 03:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evilbeejJet + Natasha. Unfinished. Contains my geekiest pose ever.
Checking your watch every thirty seconds does not make the time go faster. It's a proven scientific fact. It does /not/, however, make the time go slower -- this is also a proven scientific fact, though it's much more counterintuitive. This knowledge is floating around in the head of one Natasha Irons, as she checks her watch for the thirtieth time in fifteen minutes, sprawled across an incredibly uncomfortable padded orange vinyl bench in the lobby across from the classroom Jet is currently in. Thirty seconds until his class is over. Gnnnnrgh. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. The stylish wear at the hems of her jeans just caught on the natty split orange vinyl. She sits up and starts working at extricating her trouser-leg. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. A fly frantically throws itself, again and again, against the flickering buzzing flourescent light in the ceiling. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Her trouser leg is freed, and Natasha checks her watch again, standing up. "Five. Four. Three. Two..."
Jet leaves class, and goes to an excellent cafe in Lyons and is about to order his usual, when he suddenly realizes: "Wait, was that Natasha?" "Qui?" says the cute serving girl, but by the time she says it, he's back in Metropolis right in front of Natasha. "Hey!" he says, happy to see her, leaning in to put his hand on her waist and kiss her cheek. In public, in front of everyone, where anyone could see, totally naturally and with utter confidence! "What's up?"
Which makes Natasha grin a lot, long-fingered hand coming up to rest on the back of his shoulder, fingers wrapping lightly around. "Hey yourself. Remember how you never got to go upstairs because Unc's a fat-headed paranoid loon?" Her free hand reaches back behind her; she pulls something out of her back pocket and steps in and to the side a little, closer to Jet but with more open space on the one side -- you know how it goes. And she holds a card up, dangling from a lanyard. It says 'HARUMI MAITA' on it, and it also says 'LEVEL 3 ACCESS' and 'STEELWORKS' on it, and it also has a nifty holographic bar-code on it, and a little computer chip in it, and stuff like that, and it looks all official. "How 'bout defy defy defy mark two, homes?"
Jet says, "Oh, Natasha, thanks...thanks, this is awesome! But I don't want to get you in too much trouble. Like top secret government trouble, not just family trouble." Jet has not quite grasped that family trouble for Natasha can involve people who can pick up mountains. "Do you want to get some coffee? I have some time before I have to be anywhere."
"Coffee is godlike and vitally important," affirms Natasha; this is apparently an agreement, because her arm - right, the one that had the hand on Jet's shoulder - gets a much better grip, sliding all the way around. "And you can forget top secret government trouble. The government can go stick something terrible someplace terrible, sideways; they ain't got nothin' I can't hit back harder if they do anything gotarded. People might tell you John Henry Irons is in charge of Steelworks, yo-- I'm in charge of John Henry Irons."
Jet says, "Confidence. I love it." He then adds, examining the ID, although it's just him from the neck up, "...where'd you get this picture of me? ...is that my shower curtain in the corner?" And when his arm goes around her it touches nothing but bare smooth skin on the back and sides of her waist. "...huh." He sticks it in his own backpack. "You like Kona? I know a place where they have great Kona. I was gonna call you tonight. This guy I went bowling with and fought dinosaurs with wants to meet you."
"I /love/ Kona. Bowling Dino Guy better not think he's getting a date. I'm perfectly happy to meet your friends, Harumi, but if they drool you're paying for the dry-cleaning--" Incredible how Natasha can actually string words together while the speedster's hand's slipping across her midsection like that. But she can. And they make sense. Even if her arms go around him a little tighter -- and that's not just to hang on if he's about to speed-dub them the hell outta there. "--and I went to jetshowercam.com. I mean, it's better than relying on those stupid newspaper pictures. Better quality pictures." Utterly. Innocent. Expression.
Jet blinks. "....you're serious?" He's embarassed. She's embarassed him. This is a new sensation for him. He doesn't know whether to laugh. He's grinning, though. "Okay, hang on." he says, and picks her up like carrying her over some threshold, one arm below her knees. It scrunches her up a bit in his arms, but on the other hand it brings their faces nicely close together.
The world becomes a blur, she smells salt, then feels a humid cool breeze. "Aloha. Welcome to Kona." Jet says. The beach at Kona, to be exact, with a little coffeeshop up the slope. "I can't help but notice what fine and lovely eyes you have." he says, not putting her down right away. Yeah, at this distance, there's no way he could miss them.
"I am /very/ glad you noticed," replies Natasha, smiling crookedly, leaning her head forward, touching her forehead to Jet's briefly. "Or I'd have to make sure your goggles were prescription -- I'm serious. If everyone /else/ can look at you online, I better, huh?" Now it's a crooked grin, and she's not making any attempts to get back on her feet, or anything, she's--
--she's making quite sure of her balance, so she doesn't tip Jet's; she's carefully arranging her centers, where her weight primarily rests; she's tilted her head so it's not so much forehead-touching as hey that's a kiss, isn't it? Arms linked behind Jet's neck, curled into the careful scrunch, and that's definitely a kiss.
Jet does not have to be balanced. She couldn't tip him over with a forklift. Not even with a kiss. The waves run up to his feet, run away again - he kisses her hungry and eager and again, tastes her tongue. He smells like the fine paper of a pleasant library, college outside the antiseptic confines of science and nestled only in stacks of rustling poetry. He lets her feet touch the sand only so that she can kiss him harder. And when she is drawing breath he does his best to take it away again with words: "Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art. They draw but what they see, know not the heart." Don't drown. Your uncle would kill him.
The difference between Natasha and Natasha in the robot suit -- well, one of many many -- is that she can't Google up Jet's poetry, pretending to match him on his own ground, pretending she's as literate and romantic as that: no, she listens, eyes bright, taking in the scent of the /words/ after kissing him, the feel of the lines. Bright and /attentive/ - and that may be the most staggering of all. It's difficult to get the girl's full attention, her mind wanders so much and so rapidly - but Harumi Maita can anchor it, has done so in the past, will do so in the future.
She is gears and diagrams, motor oil and raw power, hydraulics and mathematical brilliance - the branch of philosophy that was firmly labelled science, from the classical era to the Rennaissance to the Age of Reason; well met indeed by the literary, that which the classics nurtured abreast of science, that which Da Vinci loved as thoroughly in his own understanding of the universe, that Age of Romance that preceded the rise of empiricism. The only drowning Natasha Irons is doing is in the moment.
It's a moment before she can shake herself to functional awareness, a place from which she can pull words. "So," she says with a shaky little laugh, "I'm a Fair Witness? Oh I hope not."
Jet takes her waist again, walks with her up the beach towards the coffee house. "Fair in a lot of ways." he counsels, then says. "So my friend. Don't mean to name-drop, but he's Nightwing. Not really any other way to say it, since I don't know his secret identity or anything, but we were bowling and he said he wanted to talk to you about something, and I said I'd pass it along." He idly wets his lips as they walk up towards the coffeeshop as if wishing to taste her just one last time before they get there.
Well, he could get away with it if he were bound and determined, but the mood's a little ruined by his casual name-dropping revelation. "You were, uh..." starts Natasha, clearly trying to keep a straight face, managing only by having an obviously about-to-crack-up voice. "...you were BOWLING with NIGHTWING?" Okay, dead laughing now. It's probably the mental image of the badass costume with the black and the blue and the mask and the spooky and the expression and everything, and, well, uh...
...bowling shoes.
Jet doesn't have /perfect/ timing, just really good timing. And much of it is comic timing. He grins. "Yeah! I mean.....well, to be perfectly honest, he /stinks/ at bowling. I mean really bad. So you know who I'm talking about then! With the blue and the mask and the...yeah, him."
Checking your watch every thirty seconds does not make the time go faster. It's a proven scientific fact. It does /not/, however, make the time go slower -- this is also a proven scientific fact, though it's much more counterintuitive. This knowledge is floating around in the head of one Natasha Irons, as she checks her watch for the thirtieth time in fifteen minutes, sprawled across an incredibly uncomfortable padded orange vinyl bench in the lobby across from the classroom Jet is currently in. Thirty seconds until his class is over. Gnnnnrgh. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. The stylish wear at the hems of her jeans just caught on the natty split orange vinyl. She sits up and starts working at extricating her trouser-leg. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. A fly frantically throws itself, again and again, against the flickering buzzing flourescent light in the ceiling. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Her trouser leg is freed, and Natasha checks her watch again, standing up. "Five. Four. Three. Two..."
Jet leaves class, and goes to an excellent cafe in Lyons and is about to order his usual, when he suddenly realizes: "Wait, was that Natasha?" "Qui?" says the cute serving girl, but by the time she says it, he's back in Metropolis right in front of Natasha. "Hey!" he says, happy to see her, leaning in to put his hand on her waist and kiss her cheek. In public, in front of everyone, where anyone could see, totally naturally and with utter confidence! "What's up?"
Which makes Natasha grin a lot, long-fingered hand coming up to rest on the back of his shoulder, fingers wrapping lightly around. "Hey yourself. Remember how you never got to go upstairs because Unc's a fat-headed paranoid loon?" Her free hand reaches back behind her; she pulls something out of her back pocket and steps in and to the side a little, closer to Jet but with more open space on the one side -- you know how it goes. And she holds a card up, dangling from a lanyard. It says 'HARUMI MAITA' on it, and it also says 'LEVEL 3 ACCESS' and 'STEELWORKS' on it, and it also has a nifty holographic bar-code on it, and a little computer chip in it, and stuff like that, and it looks all official. "How 'bout defy defy defy mark two, homes?"
Jet says, "Oh, Natasha, thanks...thanks, this is awesome! But I don't want to get you in too much trouble. Like top secret government trouble, not just family trouble." Jet has not quite grasped that family trouble for Natasha can involve people who can pick up mountains. "Do you want to get some coffee? I have some time before I have to be anywhere."
"Coffee is godlike and vitally important," affirms Natasha; this is apparently an agreement, because her arm - right, the one that had the hand on Jet's shoulder - gets a much better grip, sliding all the way around. "And you can forget top secret government trouble. The government can go stick something terrible someplace terrible, sideways; they ain't got nothin' I can't hit back harder if they do anything gotarded. People might tell you John Henry Irons is in charge of Steelworks, yo-- I'm in charge of John Henry Irons."
Jet says, "Confidence. I love it." He then adds, examining the ID, although it's just him from the neck up, "...where'd you get this picture of me? ...is that my shower curtain in the corner?" And when his arm goes around her it touches nothing but bare smooth skin on the back and sides of her waist. "...huh." He sticks it in his own backpack. "You like Kona? I know a place where they have great Kona. I was gonna call you tonight. This guy I went bowling with and fought dinosaurs with wants to meet you."
"I /love/ Kona. Bowling Dino Guy better not think he's getting a date. I'm perfectly happy to meet your friends, Harumi, but if they drool you're paying for the dry-cleaning--" Incredible how Natasha can actually string words together while the speedster's hand's slipping across her midsection like that. But she can. And they make sense. Even if her arms go around him a little tighter -- and that's not just to hang on if he's about to speed-dub them the hell outta there. "--and I went to jetshowercam.com. I mean, it's better than relying on those stupid newspaper pictures. Better quality pictures." Utterly. Innocent. Expression.
Jet blinks. "....you're serious?" He's embarassed. She's embarassed him. This is a new sensation for him. He doesn't know whether to laugh. He's grinning, though. "Okay, hang on." he says, and picks her up like carrying her over some threshold, one arm below her knees. It scrunches her up a bit in his arms, but on the other hand it brings their faces nicely close together.
The world becomes a blur, she smells salt, then feels a humid cool breeze. "Aloha. Welcome to Kona." Jet says. The beach at Kona, to be exact, with a little coffeeshop up the slope. "I can't help but notice what fine and lovely eyes you have." he says, not putting her down right away. Yeah, at this distance, there's no way he could miss them.
"I am /very/ glad you noticed," replies Natasha, smiling crookedly, leaning her head forward, touching her forehead to Jet's briefly. "Or I'd have to make sure your goggles were prescription -- I'm serious. If everyone /else/ can look at you online, I better, huh?" Now it's a crooked grin, and she's not making any attempts to get back on her feet, or anything, she's--
--she's making quite sure of her balance, so she doesn't tip Jet's; she's carefully arranging her centers, where her weight primarily rests; she's tilted her head so it's not so much forehead-touching as hey that's a kiss, isn't it? Arms linked behind Jet's neck, curled into the careful scrunch, and that's definitely a kiss.
Jet does not have to be balanced. She couldn't tip him over with a forklift. Not even with a kiss. The waves run up to his feet, run away again - he kisses her hungry and eager and again, tastes her tongue. He smells like the fine paper of a pleasant library, college outside the antiseptic confines of science and nestled only in stacks of rustling poetry. He lets her feet touch the sand only so that she can kiss him harder. And when she is drawing breath he does his best to take it away again with words: "Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art. They draw but what they see, know not the heart." Don't drown. Your uncle would kill him.
The difference between Natasha and Natasha in the robot suit -- well, one of many many -- is that she can't Google up Jet's poetry, pretending to match him on his own ground, pretending she's as literate and romantic as that: no, she listens, eyes bright, taking in the scent of the /words/ after kissing him, the feel of the lines. Bright and /attentive/ - and that may be the most staggering of all. It's difficult to get the girl's full attention, her mind wanders so much and so rapidly - but Harumi Maita can anchor it, has done so in the past, will do so in the future.
She is gears and diagrams, motor oil and raw power, hydraulics and mathematical brilliance - the branch of philosophy that was firmly labelled science, from the classical era to the Rennaissance to the Age of Reason; well met indeed by the literary, that which the classics nurtured abreast of science, that which Da Vinci loved as thoroughly in his own understanding of the universe, that Age of Romance that preceded the rise of empiricism. The only drowning Natasha Irons is doing is in the moment.
It's a moment before she can shake herself to functional awareness, a place from which she can pull words. "So," she says with a shaky little laugh, "I'm a Fair Witness? Oh I hope not."
Jet takes her waist again, walks with her up the beach towards the coffee house. "Fair in a lot of ways." he counsels, then says. "So my friend. Don't mean to name-drop, but he's Nightwing. Not really any other way to say it, since I don't know his secret identity or anything, but we were bowling and he said he wanted to talk to you about something, and I said I'd pass it along." He idly wets his lips as they walk up towards the coffeeshop as if wishing to taste her just one last time before they get there.
Well, he could get away with it if he were bound and determined, but the mood's a little ruined by his casual name-dropping revelation. "You were, uh..." starts Natasha, clearly trying to keep a straight face, managing only by having an obviously about-to-crack-up voice. "...you were BOWLING with NIGHTWING?" Okay, dead laughing now. It's probably the mental image of the badass costume with the black and the blue and the mask and the spooky and the expression and everything, and, well, uh...
...bowling shoes.
Jet doesn't have /perfect/ timing, just really good timing. And much of it is comic timing. He grins. "Yeah! I mean.....well, to be perfectly honest, he /stinks/ at bowling. I mean really bad. So you know who I'm talking about then! With the blue and the mask and the...yeah, him."
