Cohost writing prompt: @Making-up-Mech-Pilots — Mech Pilot who has to stick to the script
Pat walks into the dispatch office, pushing her aviators on top of her head. (Hidden eyes look unfriendly.) "Morning, Callie," she says, making fleeting eye contact with a bright blue neurotypical gaze. (Eyes contact is friendly. Too much is creepy.)
"Morning, Pat. How are you?"
(Not a question.) "Fine. How are you?" (Not a question. Rote SYN/ACK.)
Callie bites the end of her pen, and sighs. (Script deviation. They can successfully do that; you can't.) "Oh, you know," she says. (Ha.) "That time of year." (It's always some disruption, yes.) "Everything's Valentine's stuff again."
(Make a generic noise of sympathy and bail before you look inhuman.)
"Sucks," Pat says, in a tone conveying empathetic understanding, and looks at the job sheet. "Aw, heck. Is this all for today? Who's even got time for dating?" (Safer topic! Safer topic!)
Callie sighs again and gives a brave little smile that probably means a dozen effortlessly-decoded things if you have a mainstream brain, and says, "Yeah, it's a busy one, all right!"
"You coming to the Valentine consolation drinks next week?"
(Rather die.) "Sorry," Pat says apologetically. "You know me and events." (Too truthful. Say something that might be a joke.) "Got to keep my lizard company." (If it's not enough like a joke, it's probably offputting enough to not want you there anyway.)
"How is Roger?" Callie says, so Pat shows her a couple of pictures on her phone, and talks a bit about geckos.
"Hey, she can talk," jokes one of the other pilots, coming in from the wharf after a patrol shift.
(Stop talking. Remove yourself.) "Heck, must have had too much caffeine," Pat says, grinning lopsidedly, pantomimes a suspicious glance at her coffee cup. "I should get some water instead," and kicks off from leaning on the dispatch desk. (Normal walking pace. What's a normal walking pace?)
In the mercifully empty kitchenette, she throws the nearly-full coffee down the sink, washes the cup, and heads out for her afternoon rounds. It's only another five minutes until the end of her break, anyway.
"So I know you're not interested in coming out for the office drinks," Callie says. "But I already said I'd go, and I'm, well...I could use some backup, if Jim spends the evening hitting on me."
(This is going to be miserable. It's going to awkward and loud and full of people and it'll be exhausting and and you won't feel safe and you'll have a 48 hour hangover just from the effort of hypervigilance.)
"Okay, sure," Pat says. "What time is it?"
(Oh shit oh no.)
"I bet if you'd come in your Coastwatch uniform, you could have picked up anyone you wanted tonight," Callie says, smiling, a couple of drinks in, when the guys are noisily wrangling over the electronic pub quiz machine.
"I'm not really good at people," Pat says, buzzed enough that the script has receded, leaving only a presently-ignorable cloud of anxiety for not following it.
"Wouldn't you like to meet someone?"
"Doesn't really matter, if you're bad enough at it." (That's glaringly too-honest, even like this. Shut up.)
"Thanks for walking me home," Callie says, unwinding her scarf and looking at Pat an unnerving amount.
"You asked," Pat says simply.
(That sounded rude, maybe.)
(It's probably safer for it to sound rude.)
"Pat," Callie says, and she's smiling while her eyes do something like she's thinking very hard, "can I—" and she puts her hands around Pat's face and presses in very close and then they're kissing before Pat can worry about whether that's what's happening or not.
Pat's pretty sure she's doing her own thinking-very-hard face when Callie pulls back a little.
"Callie, have you been flirting with me for the past—" and she mulls it for a second more— "three years?"
"Not hard enough, apparently!"
(It wouldn't have mattered what you did. Why would I ever have believed you'd flirt with me?)
"Sorry," Pat murmurs, and lets herself look back.