[ It was the last place Naomi would have pictured them meeting again: Raleigh one of the faces among the many working on the wall, his skin sunburnt and rough while she wandered the grounds, sent out on this assignment as if in punishment for speaking her mind on a column that had criticized the U.N. for their lack of faith in the people who didn't have to put their lives on the line but did anyway.
The first time she noticed his face, she's going through the photos on her laptop, trying to see what she can use for a photo-essay, because no job is a punishment if she can find the right story to spin and if the result makes Gary stew at her gumption -- that's fine, she can leave, the other broadsheets want their hands on her anyway. She stops short because she knows that face, would know it anywhere even if the last photograph of Raleigh Becket dates back three years.
The second time she spots him, he's alone at the bar and she's trying to stretch her patience with his boss because she's prompted the same question for the third time in a row, but apparently wearing a button down boyfriend top doesn't leave her shapeless enough because she can tell where the jackass' thought are -- and they aren't in the head set on his shoulders.
( She's not sure if Raleigh sees her, but if he didn't she wouldn't be surprised. The other men aren't sure how to place him: the pilot without a mech, the washout who's not afraid to scale the heights of the wall.
He just sits, quietly nursing his scotch -- just one, before he leaves, quiet as a ghost. )
The third time doesn't come until weeks after, and she can hear the snide comments whispered over drinks. Leave it to Becket to do nothing and gain the girl's attention followed shortly by laughter and a jibe of Sweetheart, don't waste your breath with that one. The Jaeger Program spat him out for the loser that he is.
( Tomorrow, she swears, she's going to knee that one in the balls. )
She's not the seventeen-year-old who'd written her name on his palm. He's no longer the pilot he once was.
She's hoping none of that matters. That they can start fresh. ] Raleigh, right? [ As if she doesn't have a full dossier documenting his entire career. ] Hi.
no subject
[ It was the last place Naomi would have pictured them meeting again: Raleigh one of the faces among the many working on the wall, his skin sunburnt and rough while she wandered the grounds, sent out on this assignment as if in punishment for speaking her mind on a column that had criticized the U.N. for their lack of faith in the people who didn't have to put their lives on the line but did anyway.
The first time she noticed his face, she's going through the photos on her laptop, trying to see what she can use for a photo-essay, because no job is a punishment if she can find the right story to spin and if the result makes Gary stew at her gumption -- that's fine, she can leave, the other broadsheets want their hands on her anyway. She stops short because she knows that face, would know it anywhere even if the last photograph of Raleigh Becket dates back three years.
The second time she spots him, he's alone at the bar and she's trying to stretch her patience with his boss because she's prompted the same question for the third time in a row, but apparently wearing a button down boyfriend top doesn't leave her shapeless enough because she can tell where the jackass' thought are -- and they aren't in the head set on his shoulders.
( She's not sure if Raleigh sees her, but if he didn't she wouldn't be surprised. The other men aren't sure how to place him: the pilot without a mech, the washout who's not afraid to scale the heights of the wall.
He just sits, quietly nursing his scotch -- just one, before he leaves, quiet as a ghost. )
The third time doesn't come until weeks after, and she can hear the snide comments whispered over drinks. Leave it to Becket to do nothing and gain the girl's attention followed shortly by laughter and a jibe of Sweetheart, don't waste your breath with that one. The Jaeger Program spat him out for the loser that he is.
( Tomorrow, she swears, she's going to knee that one in the balls. )
She's not the seventeen-year-old who'd written her name on his palm. He's no longer the pilot he once was.
She's hoping none of that matters. That they can start fresh. ] Raleigh, right? [ As if she doesn't have a full dossier documenting his entire career. ] Hi.