the first time he meets her, he falls hard; hard into her shield. the sound of sirens rings in his ears as he looks up at the wide-eyed brunette bending down to help him up. at first thought, he thinks nothing of her, only his escape, but when he ducks behind a wall and hears her cover for him, he has to sneak a second peak behind the cargo sitting against the docks.
she knew who he was, and she still covered for him. why? what did she get out of it?
it turns out, nothing. brigette lindhold believed in forgiveness, in heroes, in ... him. she spent the night tinkering on his arm as he glowered at her, only to hide the raw astonishment he felt towards her. no one had done this for him before. no one had thought he was enough to be helped, and for no price but out of goodness.
jamison wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept, of course, but it felt alien to him. in the outback, it was every man for himself, and this man, this rat, had a mission. it raged inside him, a rage that he had held since childhood. a rage that drove him mad. he wasn’t interested in goodness. he was interested in revenge against the omnics and the corrupt bastards that made it all possible. the corrupt few that could sit in their lofty towers and watch as people starved and cried and set the world ablaze. that world had no goodness.
so he wondered how brigette lindholm fit in it.
the second night, she washed his hair, and he sat in a hot bath as her fingers ran through his hair, pulling grime and dirt out. and she wasn’t disgusted by it at all.
on the third night, he pulled off his arm and his knee and lay under the bridge against the river bank, beside her, wide-eyed at the vulnerability that washed over him. she tinkered away under the moonlight, oil smudged against her cheek and dirt under her nails. he returned the favor, and held her hands under the river water to clean them.
the fourth night... was his last night in rialto. he was wanted, and his mission here had been over days ago. it was time to move on, but the promise of seeing her again was too mesmerising, and so he found himself with the fanciest get up he could muster, a leather jacket over his bare chest, and pants he had stolen, that didn’t quite fit, held up by a too-tight belt (also stolen). okay, everything he was wearing was stolen.
why does he feel so nervous? she’s just a girl. he closes his eyes and remembers slamming into her, and it’s that sensation of pain that excites him and makes him muster his bravery to cross the bridge. when he sees her, he can hardly believe it’s her. she’s beautiful but... he can’t quite place his finger on it.
“oi, oi, that you, brig?” he jogs up to her with that limp. he doesn’t even need to stand up at full height to hover over her, but he makes an effort to be all gentlemanly and what-not. “what’s this?” he reaches out, void of any social protocol, and loops his finger in the strap of her dress, giving it a small tug.
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