Cohost writing prompt: @Making-up-Mech-Pilots — Mech Pilot who does not need a Therapist they need hoes
It's been a long, long day, and the general performance of the mecha infantry in the joint tactical exercise has already, and will continue, to get people thoroughly chewed out. Aggro's tired and antsy and can't help running her mouth, not even knowing what kind of habitual shit she's slinging in all directions, until she's brought up short by Saint snapping back at her. Saint, whose unfailing even temper got her the callsign, raises her voice, and the mech garage goes kinda quiet like people are waiting to see Aggro flip and buy herself another disciplinary.
"I think your fucking bumper sticker's wrong," Saint says, nodding savagely at the stencilled lettering on Aggro's machine, that she's so far got away with: I don't need therapy, I just need hoes.
Hands clenched and ears full of static, Aggro looks down from her open cockpit at Saint's tight shoulders and clenched jaw, and thinks: she's looking at someone she can't, shouldn't push any further.
She makes herself suck in a deep breath, snort, and curtly wave the other pilot away. And Saint stomps off, looking like she'll bust someone's face; but she's not Aggro, so she gets out of the garage without it happening.
She lets it lie until she's slept on it.
"Hey."
Saint eyes her warily over a book, grunts, and Aggro does the little breathing exercise that doesn't do shit, in-two-three-four-five, hold-two-three-four-five—
"I'm in therapy," she says. "Have been for six months. I'm trying to work on — backing off people. Off you. Backslid yesterday, gonna have to talk about that next session." In-two-three-four-five—
"You talk about me in therapy?" Saint says in a flat way that could be a lead-in to anything, and Aggro tamps down on the bright knee-jerk temper, breathing through it, acknowledging that it comes from a place of—
"A lot, actually," she says. "I looked at you first day in and thought, that's someone who belongs here. And that's not something ever I see in the mirror." She fiddles with her sleeves. "I got this bad impulse to try to drag people down to my level."
The book in Saint's hands dips slowly, like she's forgotten it, as she looks narrowly at Aggro. "Nearly got to see that, last night."
"Yeah," Aggro says, and looks away, but she started this, so she pushes the words out. "Never wanted it less."
"Are you—" Saint puts the book down next to her. "Are you apologising to me?"
"I'm working round to it," Aggro allows, hating the fragile note in it.
"I lose my temper, and you apologise," Saint says quietly, as if she's musing to herself. "This is a strange fucking week."
"Strange as me being in therapy?"
"Nah," Saint says. "That figures. I noticed you've been working on your shit."
"You noticed?" Aggro says, head slewing around like she'll strip the gears off something. It's almost a panicky feeling: seen?
"Yeah," Saint says casually, like it's nothing. "Therapy's hard. You're doing good."
"Yeah. Well." Aggro's horrified to find her eyes welling up. "Shit," and Saint pulls a wry face that's just about bearable, not too close to pity.
"Well, now you get to tell everyone you came to apologise and Rulebook McNo-Fun made you cry for being the bigger person," she says, and Aggro laughs, a sucking, desperate thing.
"Fuck off," she says gratefully.