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2012-11-11 02:36 pm (UTC)
He knows what it is after a few minutes. Watching the guy take to a wave like several other people who hit the shores in Hawaii. The set of his shoulders, the efficient ways of movements that never slip out of everything. That men and women keep even dozens of years after service ends. More than forty-five thousands people counted in the military bases of these small islands, it's almost easier to guess than than it is to lean toward natives.
He's younger still though. Not young, but younger. Enough the movements scream it now. Now that he knows what he's looking like. But it bullrushes into the ride then. Which reads like a book. The ocean always does. How you're doing, how well you can let go. He starts out a little rusty, edges all wrong, even though the movements are right. Which raises questions, of course. He's either new, from somewhere else. Or he doesn't get out often. Except.
The guys knows how to surf. It comes back like a skin, slowly cleaner and clearer. Like a bike you don't forget riding. Just the edges are rusty. But everything is wearing off a he watches. It's becoming more natural, rubbing off the slick of everything else coloring it. The way the ocean does. Selfish and demanding, the water and waves give you time for nothing else. Nothing more than the ride, the high, listening to how it's changing, where it's going, how its flowing. There isn't time for anything.
The wave ends the way they all do, tossing a surfer free and sucking half back into the surf, while sending smaller and smaller waves forward, on and on, to the beach. Endless movement, happening dozens of places around them, when he's still watching. Because he comes out closer, he comes out attentive. Short hair and wiry build, even solid, but closer, and it's all Steve needs.
It locks into place, even from this far out. The face settling to a hazier set of space and time, but pulling up familiar. Dark uniforms and darker deeds. Sheppard. Enough to make him wonder, how here and why now, even though he knows the twisted roads lead everywhere and anywhere, eve here. After all, he's in Hawaii and he was never going to end up coming back here except for funerals and maybe the occasional vacations, far in the future, when ran out of other places to be in port, or on mission.
But the wind and the waves, the wicked paths of time seem to have had their way again, when he's raising a hand, giving half a wave. Sort of like an attention, but nowhere near a salute. Dropping it to his curve around his mouth, when he's calling out, over the roar of crashing water, with the edge a sardonic smirk, even though it's opened his face up all amused and bright with the surprising settling into him like sun, "You should keep your day job. You fly better than you ride still."
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