legionworld | (no subject)

Who| The Boy Who Would Be Agent North Dakota (and the man himself, occasionally)
What| mostly, a young man being either very responsible or very irresponsible, depending on the precise moment
Where| all over Legion World, see starters for details
When| for the duration of Time Ripples

we are young we run free
Within a handful of hours of waking up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house full of unfamiliar military-looking supplies, Gabriel's figured out more or less what the situation is. Sure, he spends a few hours at the beginning there creeping though the habitats with a paranoia-backpack full of weaponry and food, but hey. No one has to know about that. Once he's figured out that this superhero thing is actually apparently real, he can be found for several hours zipping around the habitat deck performing a series of increasingly hair-raising manuvers, really getting his flying skills down and testing the essentials, like how much speed assist you really can get from a freefall. Trying out the shield-bubbles is reserved for periods when he's catching his breath, and he spends awhile figuring out how big he can make them (surprisingly big), if they can move or not (they can, apparently, under certain circumstances), and at one point if he can use them to float on a body of water (he can, but trial-and-error shows the bubble definitely has to be big enough to be buoyant). It's not a stretch to see North's features in the lanky seventeen year old, though both his unruly fluff of white-blond hair and the silver ring curled around his bottom lip are outside his usual regulation standards.

you won't wanna be nowhere else
Once he's figured out his powers well enough - and once he starts grasping the actual scope of the situation - he takes to the full breadth of Legion World itself, a sort of patrol by way of fascinated sightseeing. He's back to the backpack, though with all the reports of actual kids running around, there's less in the way of weapons and more in the way of snacks and amusements. He doesn't know what he's going to do with anyone who de-aged to three but still has laser vision, but he guesses that with the bubbles and all, he's probably one of the best people to handle it. When he feels like taking a breather from all the novelty he ends up crashing at Taylor's place, which is both comfier and far less quiet than what's apparently his own house. Without his sister around, it's nice to have someone, and Taylor has a habit of bringing people back on a regular basis. It means he's making things to munch on pretty regularly, but all things considered, playing co-host to a bunch of his (apparently) similarly-afflicted teammates at least lets him pretend that this is kind of normal.

just leave your problems on the shelf
It's that same hunger for normalcy that leads him to post a quick sign-up for pick-up basketball outside of one of the sim rooms. And, in a few cases, offer unsolicited advice to likely-looking teammates that they should really consider signing up for a game.

Hey, it's a base full of super heroes. Who doesn't want to see that match?

(stay up late, we don't sleep)
It all makes a lot more sense when he's older - the hours when the ripples trough enough that he's suddenly North again, with years and years of memories behind him and all the old calluses and scars back where they should be, along with the jarring clarity of who he was beside who he is without those gradual intervening decades to soften the comparison. The first time he comes back Theta's all over him, and he spends a lot of his time when he's not a teenager doing what he did on the Mother of Invention, walking wherever his feet take him, reassuring the little nightlight flicker in the back of his mind that it's all right, that he's doing great, that it won't last forever. Sometimes he's talking apparently to himself, a low constant murmur, sometimes he's just humming a vague semblance of a tune. Sometimes he's quiet, metronome of his footsteps broken only by the occasional chuckle or hum. Rarely, there's a little flicker of purple and blue over his shoulder, though that blinks out the moment anyone else draws too close.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"There's worse things to have than a slightly intimidating cheer squad," he chuckles, flipping on the lights and gesturing Taylor inside with him. He goes right for the kitchen, the well-loved drip coffee maker that he sets to filling and running with the ease of handling equipment he's run dozens of times already.

So this is York before York, huh. Command and a tight squad and, if not happiness, at lease as close as they get in their line of work. It's hard to imagine why he'd give all of that up for Freelancer - even knowing how rosy-tinted their view of the project had been when they'd joined up.

He must come here a lot, if the coffee maker's that familiar. Taylor...well. Wanders to the livingroom and looks everything over. There's a moment where things feel deeply familiar to him, a warmth and relaxation in his bones he can't quite blame on the beer. Something about this place screams safe and not just because the furniture all has solid sightlines and easy access to exit points.

"They mean well." He offers, wandering back to the kitchen, cocking a hip to lean against the counter. "You have to tell me what sold you though- was it the 'Sarge can dance' line or the 'Sarge will climb you like a tree' line? Or something else. I'm never sure which is the one that gets me a walk somewhere nice."

"You really do not give yourself enough credit." The observation comes with a bemused look, nearly incredulous. It's night and day from the swagger and quip of the guy who strolled into the project like he'd been there for years, the guy who apparently thought he had a shot with Carolina. It's a hell of a thing to see and hear for himself, and he's briefly distracted from the next item in his mental to-do list of "explain exactly what their situation is."

"Only as much as I'm due." Which, according to past experience, was sometimes more than he was due if the usual pattern falls into place. But this isn't- it's a good time. A fun night. It doesn't have to be anything else. "You are the first military guy they've walked me over to in...ever."

They'd avoided the sort since Malcolm, honestly. "Not saying I mind. Not at all." And it's subtle, the drag of his eyes, less cocksure than the normal blatant appreciate glance he'd give someone he was gonna roll around with for awhile.

He still doesn't remember Casbah.

He remembers what he saw, what they aired, but the night itself is still a blackout blur without any finer details. He has the bruises he remembers waking up with, and the footage of the preceding moments, and his and Taylor's laugh-it-off non-discussion of the whole thing. Next to those, that look is crisp scoped-in high-def, those eyes roaming across him in a prickle of warmth and this Taylor who's barely Taylor at all leaned so close he could loop an arm around him without more than a lean.

He'd never said he'd want to do it again. But he never said he wouldn't, and for a second all Gabriel can feel is the quiet in the room and the pressure of time around them, flowing so fast he thinks he might drown if he can't grab onto something.

"Yeah?" He licks his lips, smile turning self-aware and slight as he catches his bottom lip in a brief nip of teeth. "Do you I'd have a chance without your squad vouching for me?"

York-that-will-be would've swung this differently. Hell, Taylor-that-was would've done it different a year ago, three years ago. But this is Sergeant Murray and even when he's on leave that weight and posture and hard learned reserve doesn't just flitter away. It does ease somewhat. Enough for him to allow this moment of human connection- listing forward ever so slightly, eyes flicking from this guy's eyes to his lips and-

Wait, shit. He can't remember his name. God he swears he had game at some point in his life that just got lost to...well. A list of names in the back of his head, a list Ramierz has memorized from their time in Basic.

"As long as your name isn't Brandon or Malcolm? Yeah. I'm a sucker for blue eyes, broad shoulders, and good manners." He doesn't close the distance just yet. Can't. Because this guy's got a name and he, for the life of him, can't remember.

It happens so easily. No project, no competition, no missions, just the gutter of a coffee pot and the thinnest excuse for contact and they're here. Just them. Taylor and-

"-Gabriel." He feels his heartbeat pick up in the uncertainty of whether there's a jibe waiting for that or not, eyes flickering up and waiting for whatever answer Sergeant Murray has waiting for him.

No jibe, no smirk. Just an 'ah' because either he'd been told before or they'd gone by last names and either way? Remembering, getting a reminder, earning a first name? Coils warm and cozy in the pit of his stomach. Easiest thing in the world to follow the unspoken instructions as he leans in, leans up (god the guy's tall), and presses their lips together.

It's light and sweet, a greeting more than anything else. Even if there's something more in the lazy swipe of Taylor's tongue over Gabriel's bottom lip. "And damn if you don't have the lips of an angel."

Still Taylor enough. He gives a low, unamused huff of breath even as he smirks, turning and trapping him between his arms and up against the counter, still close enough to feel him breathe.

"Okay, enough of that," he murmurs, warm and low, the only warning Taylor gets before he closes the distance again and shuts him up the best way he knows how.

"Of what?" He follows Gabriel's lead easily, head tipping back, lips curled in what could grow into his cocky smirk in a few years, maybe. One way or the other, it's easy to pull him in. To tip his head back and just- go with it.