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supertightsTitle: Master of the obvious
Fandom: New Warriors (Marvel)
Prompt: Oceanographers
Medium: fic
Rating: PG
Warnings: Offensive language
Summary: Nita Prentiss is a marine biology major. He's a beach bum on her beach. Twoo love it is not.
He met her on the beach, caught by the blonde hair tied in a long braid down her back, she wore a knitted beanie hat over it, covering right to her ears. It looked handmade, coarse wool, felted flowers sewn on.
“I like your hat,” he grunted. It was the middle of summer in New Zealand after all, didn't matter that it was the coolest summer on record in years. “But your head will get hot. It's the middle of summer.” He was a master at stating the obvious, someone had to do it.
“Wasn't when I arrived,” she replied, with barely a smile. She glanced sideways at him and then returned to what she was doing. “Won't be when I leave.”
“Whatcha doing?” he asked, politely enough, he thought. He picked up a stone, it was stained dark from the spill. He flicked his wrist and it skipped across the surface of the water before sinking a few meters out.
“Water samples don't collect themselves.” Again with the slight smile. “I'm checking for toxic chemicals that might be leaking from the wreck.” She frowned.
He looked at the hand he'd picked the stone up in, it suddenly itched for a clean wipe or something. Damn. Sighing, he sat on a piece of driftwood, up the beach from her. Watching. Waiting. “I didn't think this beach was affected that much. Too far North,” he mumbled, removing his sunglasses and wiping his brow. It was hot out.
“How does a Long Island native end up in Tauranga, New Zealand?” she asked, labelling a sample carefully. “All the coasts could be affected if the tide drifts that way.”
“I could ask you the same, if I knew what accent that was,” he said with a cheeky grin. He plucked a piece of dry grass from the sand and almost put it in his mouth, instead spinning it around in his fingers.
“Atlantean,” she replied after a minute or two of intense scrutiny.
“What, is that in Georgia?” He ran every geography lesson he'd ever had back through his head.
She gave him a look that all but screamed, 'Are you serious?' but refrained from saying more than, “A little further south than that.” She double checked her sample kit and stood up, stretching her back, before bending down to pick up her things.
He walked with her up the dunes. “So you're here with that university?” he asked, doggedly. “Uh, from the States.”
“Maybe.”
A tiny line of vehicles were parked haphazardly near the dirt track that forked off a main highway. One was his. He wondered which one was hers. She dumped the bag on the hood of a pick up truck. Ute. He forgot, here they called it a ute. It had the Conservation Department's emblem on the side though it was faded.
“Ahhh, loaner,” he said. “Can I catch a ride?” He could always walk back later. She gave him a long look.
“I thought that one was yours.” She nodded at the old station wagon at the end of the line. Grey tape held the bumper on the front and one of the side mirrors. There were plenty of dents decorating the side panels too. A surfboard was sticking out one of the passenger windows, wedged in.
“Oh. Yeah. Kind of.”
She got in the ute and turned the key. It made a clicking noise.
“Battery's dead,” he said. Once again stating the obvious.
“No shit.” Her fists punched down on the steering wheel for a few seconds while she cursed. She leaned back and looked at him. “About that ride...”
Fandom: New Warriors (Marvel)
Prompt: Oceanographers
Medium: fic
Rating: PG
Warnings: Offensive language
Summary: Nita Prentiss is a marine biology major. He's a beach bum on her beach. Twoo love it is not.
He met her on the beach, caught by the blonde hair tied in a long braid down her back, she wore a knitted beanie hat over it, covering right to her ears. It looked handmade, coarse wool, felted flowers sewn on.
“I like your hat,” he grunted. It was the middle of summer in New Zealand after all, didn't matter that it was the coolest summer on record in years. “But your head will get hot. It's the middle of summer.” He was a master at stating the obvious, someone had to do it.
“Wasn't when I arrived,” she replied, with barely a smile. She glanced sideways at him and then returned to what she was doing. “Won't be when I leave.”
“Whatcha doing?” he asked, politely enough, he thought. He picked up a stone, it was stained dark from the spill. He flicked his wrist and it skipped across the surface of the water before sinking a few meters out.
“Water samples don't collect themselves.” Again with the slight smile. “I'm checking for toxic chemicals that might be leaking from the wreck.” She frowned.
He looked at the hand he'd picked the stone up in, it suddenly itched for a clean wipe or something. Damn. Sighing, he sat on a piece of driftwood, up the beach from her. Watching. Waiting. “I didn't think this beach was affected that much. Too far North,” he mumbled, removing his sunglasses and wiping his brow. It was hot out.
“How does a Long Island native end up in Tauranga, New Zealand?” she asked, labelling a sample carefully. “All the coasts could be affected if the tide drifts that way.”
“I could ask you the same, if I knew what accent that was,” he said with a cheeky grin. He plucked a piece of dry grass from the sand and almost put it in his mouth, instead spinning it around in his fingers.
“Atlantean,” she replied after a minute or two of intense scrutiny.
“What, is that in Georgia?” He ran every geography lesson he'd ever had back through his head.
She gave him a look that all but screamed, 'Are you serious?' but refrained from saying more than, “A little further south than that.” She double checked her sample kit and stood up, stretching her back, before bending down to pick up her things.
He walked with her up the dunes. “So you're here with that university?” he asked, doggedly. “Uh, from the States.”
“Maybe.”
A tiny line of vehicles were parked haphazardly near the dirt track that forked off a main highway. One was his. He wondered which one was hers. She dumped the bag on the hood of a pick up truck. Ute. He forgot, here they called it a ute. It had the Conservation Department's emblem on the side though it was faded.
“Ahhh, loaner,” he said. “Can I catch a ride?” He could always walk back later. She gave him a long look.
“I thought that one was yours.” She nodded at the old station wagon at the end of the line. Grey tape held the bumper on the front and one of the side mirrors. There were plenty of dents decorating the side panels too. A surfboard was sticking out one of the passenger windows, wedged in.
“Oh. Yeah. Kind of.”
She got in the ute and turned the key. It made a clicking noise.
“Battery's dead,” he said. Once again stating the obvious.
“No shit.” Her fists punched down on the steering wheel for a few seconds while she cursed. She leaned back and looked at him. “About that ride...”
