(no subject)
Padraig trudges, jaw set firm, on his final patrol circuit of the day. The slim form of Hurricane potters along by his side, occasionally murmuring non-sweet nothings to himself. Tired legs are nonetheless taking measured steps, blistering feet given no quarter, no sympathy, on the relentless trek around Brotherhood Isle.
"So, why're you doin' extra shifts? Did you fuck up really bad or something?" asks the skinny teen.
What the fuck do I do? "It's not a recruit's place to discuss such matters." Padraig states, flatly. "Besides, I'm not in the mood for talking."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, man."
The scowl sets firmer, normally sparkling blue eyes betraying a murky resignation. Little shit needs to learn to -- Fuck. No. Calm down, dickhead. You deserve this. And what about Amara? Shit, there has to be something I can do to talk to her. Apologise to her. My fuck-up damaging us both. And Pyro - is he receiving lectures about how much of a dick I am at this very moment?
"FUCK!" Padraig releases, interrupting the chatter coming from his side. Hurricane startles, before the Irishman shakes his head, slowly. "Sorry, man. Bad day." And silence falls, the two scanning around as is their duty.
Not my fault. I thought he'd -- /They/'d appreciate it. Everyone. No. Shouldn't have done it. Arrogant prick, I am. No more. Nothing without orders, nothing without permission, nothing without advice.
"So." Padraig begins, lightening his tone almost successfully. "How's everything been with you?" Without Amara, without Pyro, other relationships and acquaintances must be improved. There's always Chrome. Good lad. Apu, another good one. Derek's cool enough, though I've not seen him much recently. Ellen? Maybe. Syphon? Perhaps.
His step becomes forcefully less measured, a stroll. "Good shit, man. Hoping to get that sword training in soon, with Mystique." No Amara. Fuck. Other distractions. Training, patrolling, chores, cooking, anything. There has to be something.
The lightened step fades swiftly back into a trudge. My own fucking fault. I just hope Amara can forgive me, and St.John doesn't end up detesting me, despite what I tried to do for him. Fuck. I'm sorry. I just wish I could tell you.
"Mind's elsewhere," he admits, "Sorry." Regretful, true apology rings in his tone. "Fucked up day." Repeating yourself? Dick. Just concentrate on the job.
And that he does, falling to a more determined silence as blistered feet take a continued beating from floor and boot. I can't even apologise.
Trudge, trudge, trudge. He moves, not quite listless, not quite resigned, but with a definitive setting to his jaw that speaks only of the job to be done.
A journal, because I felt it appropriate.