shatterverse | (no subject)

"Two years isn't nothing."

And even if it's for the better, "It's still a change."

Rachel frowns at her.

"What the hell do you want me to say? You want me to complain about how hard it is to look this way? You just said not to lie to you."

Jo who's the queen of not answering.
Or of choosing answers that don't tell.

Until she can't talk and people can't not notice.

She shrugged. "Easier and better is not a wrong answer."

Frown turns to scowl very easily.

"If it isn't easier it's not harder. It's how I look Jo."

And since when has that ever been important?

"And it's new for everyone looking at you who is not Tobias."

Should we not mention the fact they have classless friends?

Rachel blinks, surprise flitting over her face. And her anger, her scowl, covers any possible hurt.

"If it bothers you so damn much, don't look at me."

Certain classless 'friends' are never, have never, and never will be at the forefront of her mind.

Except wherein they matter.

They wouldn't even come to mind if they didn't.

"If I cared you wouldn't be here." And she wouldn't ask.

This isn't helping Rachel's frown. And anger is always easier than... well, anything else.

"Then what do you want?"

Talking, explaining, without having to answer specific questions... that's also a lot harder than anger.

"For you to stop being so easily distracted."

It's almost cruel, but there's a good point in it, too.

Because it's not the same reason she asked the question either.

Rachel opens her mouth immediately.

And-- stops.

There's not a whole lot to say to that. But she can still glare.

And shove the rifle into Jo's hands.

"Go find someone else's mind to screw with. I don't need it."

Jo's hands met Rachel's. "You do." The rifle fell between them.

"This isn't about charging in, with single minded focus and vision."

Because Rachel had that. You couldn't miss it. Well.
Maybe the Winchesters could. Maybe even her boyfriend.

"Everything is a distraction in this. You have to handle it."

Rachel stares, flinching automatically from the touch - and letting the rifle drop to the ground between them.

Her face flushes. Less because of the admonishment and more because she'd just been played.

Through gritted teeth: "Fine" as she bends to snatch up the gun.

Jo let her hands meet and fall as Rachel did.

There are too many points. A playing field is never level.
Balance is never never something they will actually have.

She won't play nice. Not the way people did with her.
This isn't a safe haven from the storm. This a war torn world.
Where Rachel doesn't get to rely on keeping her face and body.

Jo took a few steps back just watching.

She's waiting now, expecting words and questions, distractions. Focusing on two things, the gun and the target and impressing her teacher, and making sure she isn't embarrassed again, that Jo doesn't get another one over her.

She expects the questions. She has the answers in mind. Her concentration on the gun is nearly as important and as such, the gun and the preparation for distraction are the only things in her mind.

The rifle echoes through the forest and a hole appears in the target.

Not dead center. But the best she's ever done.

Resentment and embarrassment are good teachers.
Jo's known them well over the years.
She's still a student there.
Especially recently.

"Better." Beat. "Again."

Rachel's jaw sets at the words but she doesn't move otherwise.

Her world zeroes in. There's nothing - empty space - but the target and the gun and Jo's voice, expected and silent and unnecessary. But present.

She fires again, closer to the target, body in perfect position and unmoving.

The tension is there.

But it's not stopped Rachel.

"Faster."

She does. Immediately, without question, lets the shot go without the pause she had before, loads with the same amount of care but without hesitation, fires again, reaches for the next magazine.

Again. Again. The adrenaline is in holding herself still and steady, remembering the precise motions to load, reload, fire, again, tension in her shoulders as she waits for the question and prepares her answer.

The target. The gun.

Jo's silence.

And then it happens.

At the fifth shot afterward.

Counting her load. Counting to shot.
Counting her shots. Watching her body.

It comes right as Rachel's fingers are moving between the load and the trigger. The explosive sound of a steel from steel, the force of a bullet, shot right over Rachel's hand, right over the rifle. If it makes two inches above her hand, and less than seven from her face, it's a miracle.

But it never once touches her, and Jo never flinches the whole time.

The target. The gun. And Jo's silence.

If she had claws or teeth or power, she would use that weapon to respond to the threat. But she has an extension of herself.

The butt of the rifle is swung hard at Jo's nose, Rachel's face blank and hard as her body swivels instinctively.

Jo takes it. Hard and straight.

Not to the face, the butt slams her shoulder turning fast.

She knows what to expect. In one second she went from irritant to deadly threat. And one within a foots distance. She has to catch herself on a rail, pain spasming through her arm, down her side, her spine.

But her nose isn't broken. And neither is her jaw.

And if she wants to compliment that Rachel didn't morph;
She gasps through pain, gritting her teeth, "You lose."

Rachel is breathing hard - but through her nose. Her face is hard, blank. Her eyes are small bright points.

They widen - slightly - when Jo speaks, and dart down to the gun in her hands, as if surprised to see it there.

Then her hands tighten on it, hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

"Don't think I did," she growls softly.

Jo's look is sharp and narrow.
"You hit me for shooting over your shot."

Not at you. Not beside you.
Someone shooting over her. With her.

Pain isn't a victory. Especially when:
"And you lost your whole focus on the target."

She's also pointing out Rachel won't be alone in the eventuality.
The reasons and situations it would take for Rachel to choose this.
But far be it for that to be a straight point from Jo.

Because when you aren't alone, the distraction isn't only words.

Rachel blinks, face clearing for just a moment. Because she did, she struck an ally. She hurt someone on her own team.

And that has her scowling again, face flushing with color.

"I've never hit anyone on my side before," she hisses, hands still tight on the rifle. "Not in a battle, not ever."

Jo rubbed her shoulder, blowing her bangs upward.
Trying not to focus on how good the pain feels through her.

"I shot James in the shoulder the first time he did it."

Close range. And no one heard the end of it for months.
Ellen Harvelle blistered the roof and everyone involved.