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theatrical_muse] 278 - What are you wearing?
Apr. 15th, 2009 01:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigalwatcher278 - What are you wearing?
Armour.
I'm no knight, and it certainly doesn't shine, but it serves the same purpose, as far as I am concerned.
I donned my first leather coat years ago, right after leaving Sunnydale following my parting of ways with the Watchers' Council. That jacket was purchased at the same time as my first motorbike, and in the beginning, it was meant for the same use as any other cyclist's leathers: protection from the road. Durable and tear-resistant, a good leather jacket is often all that stands between a rider and a terrible case of "road rash", a euphemism for the abrasions and lacerations from a fall.
That's not to say I didn't feel the rush that every first-time rider experiences donning it. Leather jackets, long associated with the rough and untamed element of society, with the rebels and outlaws, simply wearing one seems to impart a certain feeling of power and rebelliousness to the person inside.
Those leathers-- especially the unfortunate trousers-- were put away and forgotten once I came to Los Angeles and joined Angel's agency. I suppose I no longer needed to feel the rebel, not when I had friends and family, of a kind I had never known before, not even with my actual family.
And then again, it was time to part ways. This time though, the acrimony was a terrible thing. The more attached to and fond of a place one is, the more difficult the separation, especially when it is neither amicable nor intentional on both sides. Out on my own, divested of those closest to me, I found the next one in a thrift shop while I was waiting to speak to an informant who worked at the store.
It was battered and worn. It looked as though it had seen many days of rough use, but it still felt as strong and tough as ever, if not moreso now that it had been tested and weathered. It looked as though it had been treated well in some places and poorly in others, but no matter how I tugged at the sleeves, the threads that bound it held firm.
I slipped it on and I felt better almost immediately. It wasn't the reckless and disregarding kind of strength of the black leather. No, this jacket would take the punishment and never fail me. It would give me just enough protection to let me take care of myself. Alone, I could don my armour and fight the fight.
I bought it on the spot, and later that night, it took a splatter of caustic blood that would have burned a scar down my shoulder.
Armour.
(443)
Armour.
I'm no knight, and it certainly doesn't shine, but it serves the same purpose, as far as I am concerned.
I donned my first leather coat years ago, right after leaving Sunnydale following my parting of ways with the Watchers' Council. That jacket was purchased at the same time as my first motorbike, and in the beginning, it was meant for the same use as any other cyclist's leathers: protection from the road. Durable and tear-resistant, a good leather jacket is often all that stands between a rider and a terrible case of "road rash", a euphemism for the abrasions and lacerations from a fall.
That's not to say I didn't feel the rush that every first-time rider experiences donning it. Leather jackets, long associated with the rough and untamed element of society, with the rebels and outlaws, simply wearing one seems to impart a certain feeling of power and rebelliousness to the person inside.
Those leathers-- especially the unfortunate trousers-- were put away and forgotten once I came to Los Angeles and joined Angel's agency. I suppose I no longer needed to feel the rebel, not when I had friends and family, of a kind I had never known before, not even with my actual family.
And then again, it was time to part ways. This time though, the acrimony was a terrible thing. The more attached to and fond of a place one is, the more difficult the separation, especially when it is neither amicable nor intentional on both sides. Out on my own, divested of those closest to me, I found the next one in a thrift shop while I was waiting to speak to an informant who worked at the store.
It was battered and worn. It looked as though it had seen many days of rough use, but it still felt as strong and tough as ever, if not moreso now that it had been tested and weathered. It looked as though it had been treated well in some places and poorly in others, but no matter how I tugged at the sleeves, the threads that bound it held firm.
I slipped it on and I felt better almost immediately. It wasn't the reckless and disregarding kind of strength of the black leather. No, this jacket would take the punishment and never fail me. It would give me just enough protection to let me take care of myself. Alone, I could don my armour and fight the fight.
I bought it on the spot, and later that night, it took a splatter of caustic blood that would have burned a scar down my shoulder.
Armour.
(443)
