Word: Uncomfortable
He's watching me. I can feel it. Watching me and laughing.
The bastard. He knows how much I hate this, but he just ignores my discomfort. No, that's not true; he does everything he possibly can to make it worse.
It sounded like such a simple mission, when we first received it. A simple undercover job, visiting a small seaside town and figuring out where they've been hiding all the weapons. Of course, most things do sound simple on paper. It's when you put them into practice that everything goes to hell.
The problem is that as we are undercover, we have to do everything we can to blend in and act like Regular Joe. Normality hs never been one of my strongest points. What I didn't realise at first was that blending in meant socialising.
So here we are, sat in a bar on a Saturday night like any normal guys our age. But we're not normal guys, and it's pretty hard to get past that. My talents run from hand-to-hand combat and espionage to disarming nuclear warheads. They don't include small talk.
Duo is in his element, of course. Chatting away to anyone that happens to be listening and, most of the time, anyone that isn't. I just sit here, staring into my beer and trying to look 'normal'.
But no, he can't just let me be. He has to try and drag me into his inane conversations.
"So Paul," he says- he can't call me Heero of course, not in here- "you ever played baseball?"
I glare at him, but it doesn't seem to have much effect. "No."
This doesn't faze him. "I know it's an old sport, when out of fashion before the colonies were even built, but I still like it. What do you think, Liz?"
The stupid blonde girl giggles. "I saw a game once. They looked weird."
"Well, I suppose it's not everyone's cup of borrovan. Paul here, he used to be our high school basketball star." He slaps me on the arm, no doubt bruising his hand. "You wouldn't know it to look at him, wouldya?" That dumb blonde laughs as though she's never heard such a witty remark in her whole life. I've never played basketball, of course. I never even went to high school. "He's shrunk since then, of course. Got his legs blown off by a Mobile Doll." She stops laughing then, and she gets that look- you know, like she's not sure if he's kidding or not and it hurts all three of her brain cells to try figuring it out.
"Well, you should hear what he got blown off," I say nastily.
After the girl leaves he slaps me on the arm again, wincing and shaking his hand. "Hey, that was almost funny Paul! We'll have you socialising like anything in no time."
I doubt it, somehow. Because I feel so goddamn uncomfortable, you wouldn't believe. He knows that, and he sees that, and he's laughing at me.
He's watching me. I can feel it. Watching me and laughing.
The bastard. He knows how much I hate this, but he just ignores my discomfort. No, that's not true; he does everything he possibly can to make it worse.
It sounded like such a simple mission, when we first received it. A simple undercover job, visiting a small seaside town and figuring out where they've been hiding all the weapons. Of course, most things do sound simple on paper. It's when you put them into practice that everything goes to hell.
The problem is that as we are undercover, we have to do everything we can to blend in and act like Regular Joe. Normality hs never been one of my strongest points. What I didn't realise at first was that blending in meant socialising.
So here we are, sat in a bar on a Saturday night like any normal guys our age. But we're not normal guys, and it's pretty hard to get past that. My talents run from hand-to-hand combat and espionage to disarming nuclear warheads. They don't include small talk.
Duo is in his element, of course. Chatting away to anyone that happens to be listening and, most of the time, anyone that isn't. I just sit here, staring into my beer and trying to look 'normal'.
But no, he can't just let me be. He has to try and drag me into his inane conversations.
"So Paul," he says- he can't call me Heero of course, not in here- "you ever played baseball?"
I glare at him, but it doesn't seem to have much effect. "No."
This doesn't faze him. "I know it's an old sport, when out of fashion before the colonies were even built, but I still like it. What do you think, Liz?"
The stupid blonde girl giggles. "I saw a game once. They looked weird."
"Well, I suppose it's not everyone's cup of borrovan. Paul here, he used to be our high school basketball star." He slaps me on the arm, no doubt bruising his hand. "You wouldn't know it to look at him, wouldya?" That dumb blonde laughs as though she's never heard such a witty remark in her whole life. I've never played basketball, of course. I never even went to high school. "He's shrunk since then, of course. Got his legs blown off by a Mobile Doll." She stops laughing then, and she gets that look- you know, like she's not sure if he's kidding or not and it hurts all three of her brain cells to try figuring it out.
"Well, you should hear what he got blown off," I say nastily.
After the girl leaves he slaps me on the arm again, wincing and shaking his hand. "Hey, that was almost funny Paul! We'll have you socialising like anything in no time."
I doubt it, somehow. Because I feel so goddamn uncomfortable, you wouldn't believe. He knows that, and he sees that, and he's laughing at me.