Locked.

[h_hollister]

After her chat with Severus and Dez earlier, Hips gets out her hanging bag. She hasn't used it in weeks, due to drama and running away and all that.

And it feels good.

It hurts, too. She's let things slide. So muscles protest at the punches being thrown, but she works through it.

She's worked too hard to let herself go, now.

The walkman that Perry gave her for Christmas is in use, with upbeat, powerful, happy music blaring in her ears.

Each punch is tension released, a worry let go of. Personal. Not the same as important.

Jerusalem? Not personal. Not really important, either. Just a job.

Severus? Getting steadily better, and that's what's important.

Rimmer? Personal. Not important.

Wade? Personal. Not important.

Thunder? Personal. Deeply so. Not important. Not to anybody else but her. And she knows that eventually this open ended THING between them will be resolved, one way or the other. Preferably with both of them ending up happy.

She's sweating, now, and her breathing rate is high and deep.

Each punch is a little bit of fear gone.

Comments

[wadewilson.livejournal.com]

Wade just looks at the two of them like they're both insane.

"I am OFFICIALLY going to upchuck the fuck up, Chuck. Does puking on you both count as a threatening move?"

He slaps his forehead a couple of times in frustration.

"LOOK, Captain Freelove, tuck your harem in your pants for a minute and you, stop living up to your nickname, Hippie. Freemo, are you seriously telling me you haven't popped open a goddamned biology book yet? Love's nice, love's happy, love's rare, yadda yadda, but that's not the POINT."

"LISTEN. You're not Eternal Robot Mook anymore, you don't have a billion goddamned years to bop around the galaxy getting your Shatner on. You're a human being, and unless you're an afflicted sap like me, you've got maybe SIXTY years tops. SIXTY. That's A Billion minus Nine Hundred Ninety-Nine Million, Nine Hundred Ninety-Nine Thousand, Nine Hundred and fucking FORTY. That's IT. WRAP YOUR MIND AROUND IT, CRAPWEASEL, and realize that it's basic human nature, encoded in the goddamned Dioxyribo-Nucleic ASSHOLE that your job on this earth is to find a MATE and PROCREATE."

"It's not about Whitey holdin' love down, it's about protecting your stupid fucking family. It's how the human mind works on a completely basic, instinctive level, regardless of whether they've got William Wallace's FREEDOM screaming in their heads all the time or if they think they don't even want kids. Your PROGENY stand a better chance of not being killed in a drug deal at age 12 or turning into psychotic, damaged assholes like me if ol' Maw and Paw are together and focused on actually RAISING the little brat they pounded out instead of wondering where the next honeypot's gonna come from. It's not a guarantee, but the odds are a hell of a lot better."

"It's BIOLOGY, not TECHNOLOGY, numb nuts. Nobody's pointing a finger at you and throwing you out of their little circle-jerk because THE MAN told 'em to. It's people following their genetic PROGRAMMING, Fuckcheese, and your trash can robo-ass should be able to follow THAT much. Yeah, it's a smidge harder to understand than a bunch of digits somehow equalling 'kill everything that moves' like you're used to, but pay attention to something other than your goddamned pecker once in a while and maybe you'll LEARN a thing or three."

[crackofthunder.livejournal.com]

Again, it takes him a moment to translate.

But he doesn't have a quick response to this. He blinks a bit, considering this, although his first reaction is to be extremely annoyed that this moron he hates keeps making points he has to think about on each painful occasion he has to talk to him.

Sixty years. He hasn't really thought about that yet. Procreation barely occurred to him outside of protecting himself from doing it, and occasionally marveling at a human child.

He's speechless for the moment.

[h-hollister.livejournal.com]

Hips, on the other hand, isn't. Her calm finally cracks and breaks.

"Well, thank you so much for that. I'm not being a goddamn hippie. Thunder's got a point, too. But whatever, we've both seen how that works out, so I'm not going to press the issue.

"I'm not trying to own anybody. I don't smegging WANT OWNERSHIP over anybody. Nor do I want to boff every guy that knocks on my door. I'm not so sick in the melon that I need that sort of garbage. I'm pretty rare; I can't have sex without it MEANING something. Which both of you should smegging well know, as I've stressed it repeatedly. YOU, Wilson, seem to think that it shouldn't mean as much as it does to me. YOU, Thunder, seem to think that I'd be able to find happiness in the arms of a stranger. Well, I can't. I can't change the way I feel about love and sex, nor do I want to. I want a partner. A friend. Somebody who'll look out for me. Somebody I can look out for right back. Somebody who loves me.

"And I know you're not willing, Wilson. So don't worry about me asking for it any more. Find it with Terry."

She turns to look at Thunder. "There it is. Ball's in your court."

[wadewilson.livejournal.com]

"Well, lah-de-dah. That's exactly what I'm talking about. Watchin' each other's asses and protecting the investment, yadda yadda schmadda schmadda gadda-da-vida. Now that Tardboy the Thrusting has a thought or two rolling around in his head, this has officially become Not My Business In The Least. Toodles, kids, send me the telegram from your honeymoon in Hoboken."

With a two-finger salute to Thunder, he fizzles right out of view. As is his penchant. Gets the last word in.

[crackofthunder.livejournal.com]

He breathes a little easier now that the irritant is gone.

He's still got a lot to think on, though.

"How long do I have to return this ball?"

[h-hollister.livejournal.com]

She also breathes easier, and puts the bazookoid back in the closet before answering. The anger is gone.

"As long as you need, Thunder. As long as you like. We'd have a lot of work to do, but I think you're worth it. I think we're worth it."

She tentatively reaches out and brushes her fingers up the back of his hand. "You look good with glowing red eyes, in case I didn't mention." A little smile accompanying that. "Hell, you'd look good painted blue and dressed like a Smurf."

[crackofthunder.livejournal.com]

"The red eyes only happen when I'm agitated, it seems. I hope you don't come to prefer them."

His fingers stretch against hers for a moment, before he pulls back.

"I need the time to think. I... I will see you soon. Thank you."

Quietly, he steps back, and out the door again.

[h-hollister.livejournal.com]

She follows him to the door and watches him go. Good thing everybody's out tonight...

"You're welcome. I'll be here," she whispers at his retreating back.

She closes the door behind her, sits down on her bed, closes her eyes, trying to find her calm again... Then changes her mind.

Her eyes fly open and she flings her door open and runs out after him.