Participants:
| Scene Title | Boys and Their Toys |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Auggie gets back from his recent flight and starts sussing out his girlfriend on her thoughts about all the new combat birds in Chicago's inventory. |
| Date | June 13, 2009 |
Camp Miller Airfield
In truth, Auggie stopped doing the coastal camera-work for Adventure Airways last week, practicing and preparing for the project for which Ibra had somehow acquisitioned so many fucking combat craft for. Megan doesn't need to know that, though. Not yet. As far as she is concerned, her boy's been working with the natural survey's erosion study and only occasionally borrowing the company's other birds for purely leisure reasons. Right? Right.
The sun burns into the side of Auggie's head like the critical eye of God, or something else similarly wrathful and female, a moment before he finally rolls in under the hangar's striated roof. He is unstrapping himself from the cockpit now, the chamber already depressurized and hot air seaming in against his bare face, newly relieved of goggles and helmet.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he hollers down at the crewman, less out of genuine ire than authentic English breeding. "Would you bloody watch it? Ding the thing and boss is going to 'ave you quartered. Are you on the piss? Dozey colonials." He clambers out, limb over long-sleeved limb, locking his gloved hands on the polished chrome of the bird's sharp-edged wing before he swings down toward tarmac as agile as a monkey, boots scuttling down to Earth.
The crewman deflates somewhat.
He knew she was taking on the job of leading some of Kobrin's soup vans… in point of fact, Megan's not entirely sure that he knew Kobrin intended to let her run the thing as she sees fit. The one thing she is certain of is that he does not expect to roll his aircraft into the hangar and find her there, dressed in camo pants and combat boots that have seen a good bit of wear over the years — sure, he's seen it before. They were dating before her stint in the US Reserves was actually up. But here? Looking like she's been here for several hours — or maybe longer — already? Probably not.
The tall redhead doesn't interrupt, leaning her hips on the edge of a worktable on the far side of the wing, her arms and ankles crossed. She looks …. like she belongs here. But she waits for him to quit berating his crewmember before casually calling, "Just remember which side won the war, Brit." There's a smile on her face as she uncrosses her appendages and pushes off the table, walking across the hangar floor to meet him.
"What?" 'Wot?' Auggie spins, finding his feet with a scuff and thud of boots. Gray brows rocket up his forehead and he looks, for a moment, as if he were not only caught with his mitt plowed down the neck of a cookie jar, but additionally has telltale crumbs sticking to the corners of his mouth. He blinks rapidly. The crewman sniggers. He frowns sidelong, cracks a half a grin.
"I'm late," he guesses instantly, loping over to the redhead, even as he scratches the zipper down in the front of his suit. "For…" he squints at her face, playfully wary, and he begins to pluck haphazard guesses from the air. "Dinner. Supper? I forgot to give you a bell from the waystation. I— " glancing down at her clothes, his expression mingles appreciative and mock-guilty, still. "Didn't pick up the laundry—?"
Megan laughs softly at him. "Hey flyboy," she greets easily. "Nah, you're not late. I was down in the other hangar when I heard you were coming in. Thought I'd meet your plane… for a change." She doesn't make a big thing of their reunion, no big public displays of affection or anything. "You got a debrief?" she asks curiously. "I can hang out here and keep John company," she nods with a cheeky grin toward the ground crew guy who's studiously looking the other way at the moment, "if you need to debrief and change clothes and whatnot."
According to legend, the British don't do PDAs much. Past experience have shown Auggie that he allows exceptions to the rule when he's fresh out of dropping bombs on things. Today was sedentary, but his mind is elsewhere already, a thoughtful tilt to the ordinarily rakish sculpture of his features.
He motions 'at ease' at the crewman, who misinterprets it entirely and spins around to busy himself over a toolbox. Unbothered, the man slings an arm around Megan's shoulders. It is good that she's tall. The gesture becomes comfortably companionable instead of nettlingly protective. "Nah, nothing— like that. Just taking her for a practice run. She ain't my usual." He jerks a gloved thumb over his shoulder at the combat craft resting on the tarmac. "Trying to recapture my glory days. You know.
"It's good you're here, actually. This li-l flyabout got me started thinking, and I hear you been off the beaten path yourself. What do you think? 'Bout Staten Island?"
When he's fresh out of dropping bombs on things (though Meg doesn't know for a fact that's what he's up to some of the time, she can definitely tell which missions just flat 'do it' for him), he tends to be…. let's just call it 'energized.' It amuses the hell out of her, actually — makes for fun homecomings.
"It's a pit," Megan replies succinctly, sliding her arm around his waist as he settles his on her shoulders. Normally to walk like this together she'd hook her thumb through the belt loop at the back of his pants, but with a flight suit on, she'll have to settle for merely gripping his waist. She pivots a bit on her heel and strolls with him along toward the main doors. "Saw the new birds coming in over in the other hangars. Looks like things are about to get interesting," she comments, and then she slants a glance up at him. "Well, now that's annoying. I'd hoped the grapevine would at least shut up long enough for me to tell you myself." She shrugs under his arm. "Took leave from St. Luke's to get the flight nurses here set up on a small clinic. They need as much help as any fuckin' Third World country I've ever set foot in," Meg tells him with a tone of disgust — at the US government, really. "I'm thinking I might go on sabbatical to put in some full time out here. Why?" She looks up as she asks it, wondering what he has in mind.
It is a relationship as old as Adam and Eve—boys and their toys. Leaves Auggie smelling faintly of engines and sweat, though nothing singularly unpleasant about the heterogenous mix and intensity, undercurrent of cologne with citrus, sea spray, and tonka beans in it.
Her review gives him food for thought. August grinds a pensive noise with his mouth that sounds a little like his stomach does when he's especially hungry, angles a sidelong glance at the woman from over the few inches' space they have between them.
"Like you said," he says, gesturing with his free hand. "Things are about to get interesting. And you remember the legend behind your man, don' you?" There's a brief show of teeth; flattering himself. "The last time things got interesting anywhere 'round where civvies was living, he quit Her Majesty's air forces. Mind you, I trust Ibra, Jake, and the others." With his life, August means, but by now Megan knows that for a soldier, that's different to trusting them with other things.
"I like your notion, though." Shipping medicines in, instead of airborne explosives. "You seen the hospital here? The clinics they've a'ready got?"
"So far as I can tell, they're pretty much on their own," Megan replies. "I haven't made an actual survey but they've been isolated over here for months. The university hospital, from all I've been able to gather, is just barely maintaining. The north end's branch is holding on, they've got boats getting to them. The one on the south end is pretty much gone. Beyley Seton has managed to get some meds through, but I shudder to think what kind of bribes they've been paying to get 'em here," she admits. "Jake Hunter asked me what I wanted for a clinic here and ….. from what I gather, absconded with the supplies we've got. Kobrin's told me to set up a clinic in the hangar for now, so we're running about 4 hours a day right now; no meds in the soup vans. Those are strictly food."
That's sort of funny. Too bad for the university hospital, though, given possibly they also have patients to attend to and too little to make do with. For a moment, Auggie's left rather visibly wondering with whom's supplies Jake had 'absconded with,' but he dismisses this after a moment. Hunter has his way of doing things, and there will be enough sick to go around anyway, doubtless.
"Sounds clever. Third world countries I been to, you could get knifed for carrying 'round Hep meds in the sodding street. 'M glad we're doing this," he decides, after a long moment. "There's a Russian down in the Rookery that everybody talks about when they're talking about medicine. 'Fil—'" his accent clunks into the awkward contouring of the name. "'Filatov?'
"You ever met him?" Whereas most men would think better or shut up right about now, upon realizing that they're kind of talking around the possibility of sending their girlfriend into the most dangerous part of Staten Island, Auggie blithely speaks on. "I heard a thing from a bloke who heard something about some cunt making a right dog's dinner of his medical supplies and office the other month. He might know something about where to get what you need. Chemicals, or another pair 'f hands."
There's a fast, sharp look upward at him and Megan pauses just outside the hangar. "Really? Wonder if that's the guy who's been sending enforcers to check on the soup vans," she muses thoughtfully. "Don't know anything about the guy, but I do know that we've been seeing a number of homeless folks, a lot of people who just don't know where to turn, and a LOT of hookers. Makes me nervous to trust anyone out of the Rookery, though — it's like Mos Eisley times twenty out there. Everyone on the caravan's going armed."
Sounds like the thing to do. Auggie grimaces slightly, cranes his head to peer out into the cerulean blue firmament outside the hangar roof. Summer's coming. All vibrant sunshine and cotton skein clouds. Even over Staten Island, it is beautiful to look at. If he were a little more sentimental about this sort of thing, he'd find it perverse.
Instead, it merely occurs to him that this is a fine day for getting your mark. "Dunno, love. Word of mouth seems to have it that Filatov's mercenary— good work, but at a price. Bloke's got to eat, eh?" August's eyes are roughly the same shade as the ceramic bowl sky overhead, sharpening when he smiles. "Enforcers? What— like an attack, or asking questions, or lending a strongarm in case of aggro?"
Megan shrugs at him again. "Dunno," she tells him. "Definitely someone's muscle. Just watching so far. If we were in Manhattan, I'da taken them for Mob guys." American Mob guys are not exactly in Auggie's personal experience, she figures with a faint grin at him. "Over here? No way to know. Could be any number of people, but the name Logan gets whispered a lot — only as 'the guy to talk to' if you want something over here. So maybe they're his and they're just making sure we don't horn in on his territory."
"What?" 'Wot?' "The little English pimp? I— have no idea why I'd know that," Auggie says instantly, shifting his eyes horizontally to and fro, a parody of paranoia rapidly dispersed with an elaborate snort. "That's possible. Or maybe even Logan's meatheads are getting thin with the food chain being what it is these days. You be careful out there, eh?
"Ibra really wants to clean this mess up," Auggie adds, at length. "Wager it should be an honor to be part of that, shouldn't it?" This sounds suspiciously like flyboy is asking for her opinion regarding application of combat aircraft to Staten Island's state of economic decay and moral squalor, but they have always been vague about his work, and Auggie is not wont to clarify now. Or maybe— just not yet.
"On the upside, maybe you'll get so used to shoveling shite on this island, Central Park on Manhattan will start to look like an impressive dating situation."
She's an ex-military combat nurse, well versed in field medicine, ER medicine, and military bullshit as well as flyboy double-speak. Megan knows when she's being sussed out for something. Just what he's sussing her out on is another question, but those blue eyes turning up to meet his gaze are canny and thoughtful. "Glad you think so," is all she says to him about the 'honor' part. "Cuz I figure I'm about to sign onto the payroll — at least for the Chicago Air portion of all this. Can't do what you do, and pretty sure he doesn't need a nurse on his new techie combat toys." Yes… she knows exactly what the new birds are for, and it doesn't appear to concern her much. She leans into his side, though, and lifts up to kiss him softly. "You wanna actually talk about what's on your mind, flyboy," and she sniffs him with a grin, "Catch a shower and I'll meet up with you to head home in an hour. Gotta close up the meds in the hangar." And there's a slow, very suggestive grin as she moves to slip out of his hands. "Welcome home."
