fullofmercy | Between the wasteland and the sky

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Between the wasteland and the sky

It's truly strange, wheeling the Angelina II out of the garage and under the double suns of Gunsmoke, making him squint even behind his dark glasses. Human beings aren't meant to travel that way, he's totally, one hundred percent positive of that. Motorbikes, spaceships--hell, even Thomases are preferable. He likes to see where he's going, he likes to know how he's getting there. Magic doors and multiversal travel are more than he's really comfortable with.

Yeah. But maybe just a little of the disorientation has to do with the place he's reappearing; a little wishful thinking to get him through the sinking feeling in his stomach. Hey, honey, he thinks, gloomy. I'm home.

It's early; one sun has managed to clear the horizon but the other is still only a wavering, fiery line bleeding reddish gold streaks across the infinite waves of dune after dune. A few houses, weathered clapboard, stand between him and the open desert. The morning breeze ruffling the few faded, flowered curtains already has a hint of the coming heat, a little vibrant edge to it, promises of the spike that comes once the second sun rises and burns over the planet for another day. Not a single cloud mars the unbroken smoothness of the sky.

Behind him, around him, the little town is just beginning to wake up. Vendors are opening their shop doors, mothers are coming out of their houses to hang rugs and wash on the porch rails or clothesline, men are greeting each other with silent nods on their way to whatever job they've managed to hold onto. Every one of them is gray and colorless, clothing faded with many washings and hours upon hours of harsh sunlight. Even their faces seem gray and lined. Still, they smile, they shake hands. Even here, where the sand is already beginning to creep up onto their doorsteps, people continue to believe that everything will turn out all right. They have to--how else could they get themselves up in the mornings?

He finds it insulting. He finds it inspiring. It's the most unbelievable thing he's ever seen--the ability of humans to continue daily life under the constant threat of complete extinction.

He half-turns to his right, one hand in his pocket, fingers of the other already searching in his breast pocket for his pack of smokes, teasing one battered cigarette out, and casts his glance over Michael.

"Well," he says, and sticks the unlit cigarette between his lips. "Home sweet home."

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It takes two crewman to lift Pierre and wrap him up, but he has to admit, he feels better once the man's staring eyes are covered.

I know you.

He'll have to be more careful, but the fact is, his reputation is insidious.

He's just lucky most people don't have more to go on than a vague description.

There's a snap and flare of a match as he lights a cigarette, glances at Michael, watching him for a moment and weighing the pros and cons of letting the guy patch him up. It's probably fine, he's had worse, but...

In the end, he nods, but tips his head toward the corridor. "Fine. But not here. Except..."

Going to Pierre's body, he toes aside the cloth, reaches down to take the man's gun. "For the bounty," he says, eying the crewmembers, who shake their heads quickly.

"You can have it," says the captain. "We'd all be dead if that nutjob were still alive."

Michael frowns as the acrid smoke hits his face.

"Fine, but if you bleed out between here and there, I'm not carrying you."

He probably would, if it comes to that, but he'd prefer that it doesn't.

His smile is tight, but full of the same sharp humor as always.

"If I bleed out, I'll have bigger problems on my plate."

It's been a long time since he's fully appreciated just how heavy the Punisher really is: he'd designed it himself and he's been carrying the weight for a long time, long enough for it to feel like just another part of his own body.

Now, though, the steel weighs him down, slowing his steps until he feels like he's dragging himself into the first empty room they come across.

"There should be a kit in there," he tells Michael, nodding to a metal cupboard near the head of the bunks. The cross goes does with a heavy sound, and he starts shrugging out of his jacket, wincing as the motions pull at the torn muscle.

The kit is, regrettably, the sort of thing reserved for the occasional twisted ankle or paper cut... not exactly gunshot wound material. But, there's a few things he can work with - including a pair of tweezers and some gauze.

"Sit down, I'm gonna see if I can find someone with a sewing kit and a bottle of alcohol. Unless you happen to be carrying it already."

He really, really should start a kit to take with him on these sorts of things. Little backpack, load it up... no problem.

He's eased his arm out of the unbuttoned shirt and lifted it to take a look, before turning away again and taking a long, hard drag off the cigarette.

It doesn't dull the pain, but it helps, a little.

"Not something I generally keep with me," he says, voice a little tight, though he forces a laugh. "Not learning to mend my own clothing is kind of a failure on my part."

Michael watches the wound as he pulls away the shirt - it's only a graze, but he can see unexpected fragments and assumed ammunition manufacturing might not be quite as controlled as it is at home. Cheap bullets, bad pressing... either way, he's got to get them out.

Without another word, he made his way down the corridor until he returned with a sewing kit and a bottle of clear booze that didn't have a label and the previous owner only referred to as 'hooch' - it smelled like a strong grain and the very quick nip Michael dared reminded him vaguely of the low end vodka in Russia.

Keeping one eye on Wolfwood and the other on his own hands, he set up a shot glass and poured out a shot before adding the tweezers and threaded needle; "This is going to hurt."

On a second thought, he took off his belt and handed it over; "You're gonna want something to bite down on."

He eyes the bottle with wistful wariness. "That isn't for me?"

It's not that he hasn't been patched up before; he has. In his line of work, it's an absolute necessity.

That doesn't mean he likes it.

The belt is handy, too, though he'd hate to admit it. His teeth grind down deep into the leather as Michael works, eyes squeezed shut as he does his best not to flinch or pull away.

A graze might not be as bad as some injuries, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like a bitch.

"I need you as coherent as possible while I work - in case something goes wrong." Not that it ever has before, of course, but things happen. "I don't know that I'd purposefully drink something the owner calls 'hooch' that doesn't even have a label."

He works slowly, removing the small fragments as gingerly as possible in between swipes of the alcohol soaked gauze to keep the wound clean and wick away the blood.

"You're lucky," he mutters as he sets aside the bloody tweezers and fishes the needle out of the shot glass; "Pierre was a terrible shot."

"Welcome to Gunsmoke."

He laughs, a ragged sound, the cigarette shaking in his fingers.

"That's why he had so many henchmen," he offers, by way of explanating. "I guess he didn't have the bullet with my name on it."

Someone does, he knows, but not a two-bit pirate like Pierre.

"Not today," Michael sighs and rinses his hands with more of the alcohol before wiping the wound again. "Alright, bite down now - I don't know if you've ever been sewn up before but it hurts like a bitch."

He wishes he had fishing line to work with, but good strong thread would do for just a few stitches. "Once the wound heals closed you'll need to have these removed - I can do it if you want me to."

Taking a deep breath, once his belt is once more secured between the other man's teeth, he makes quick work of the stitches - small, tight surgeon's crosses that'd hold up to even fore fighting and the weight of the cross he insisted on carrying. When he finished, he tied off the thread in a small knot and then rinsed his hands again.

"I'm gonna wrap it, and then when we get back to Milliways I want you to get some gauze from the bar - two rolls of five-by should do it." He rips off three squares and then presses them hard against the stitching; "First you lay down a pad." He then wraps the rolled gauze several times around his arm; "Then you wrap. Change it daily, keep it clean - I'm sure you know the drill by now."

As much as he'd like the throw out an uncaring quip, he's got to concentrate just so he doesn't end up yelling through the pain, biting into the belt as he forces his arm to lay still, and he's breathless with sweat beading on his forehead by the time Michael is done.

Thankfully, the guy was mercifully fast.

"Thanks," he says, when he can speak past the buzzing of pain arcing up from his shoulder. "I've had to take care of a bullet wound once or twice, but I have to say, it's much easier with a handy guy like you around to patch me up."

Wasn't that how Michael had introduced himself, anyway?

He feels dizzy, and his skin is pale and clammy, but the stitches and gauze are a distinct improvement, and after a second, he tries moving his arm, wincing, then nodding in approval.

"Good as new."

Michael almost blushes at the compliment, hiding it behind a shady half-smile as he pours out a shot for the preacher. "You get good at it after a while. Better than fixing my own."

Clearing his mess, he found himself once more fighting to focus on anything other than the man he'd killed and the girl he'd held hostage.

"It's a tight stitch, so you shouldn't have a problem with the cross or using a weapon or anything. It might hurt, but you won't tear it open."

He rotates his shoulder, slowly. It hurts, but the pain is dulling down a little.

It'll be manageable.

"Good thinking," he says, patting the Punisher like someone else might pet a favorite, loyal, dog. "And good news, too, considering we've got another field trip to Miss Park's world."

It's not a place he'd like to be slowed down, that's for damn sure.

A knock comes on the metal of the door, and a freckled face peeks in, wide eyes blinking uncertainly.

"Uh...sir? The captain wanted me to tell you we're nearly to your stop."

Gotta have you in one piece for that adventure - who knows what we'll run into next time.

Michael's still washing the blood from his hands when the door opens; "Thank you." The words seem to dismiss the man who seems almost in a hurry to get away from them - not that it would suprise him if he was.

"So, what's the plan?" He turns to Wolfwood, both of them reeking of strong booze and blood.

He'd be pretty hard-pressed to think of anything worse than the crab-mutants -- not that he's not sure Ellen's world won't try its damndest to come up with something.

Getting up takes a little effort, but he manages it, grasps the Punisher in his left hand.

"It isn't far. We'll have a little walk, but when the food and everything is unloaded, we can take the Angelina II back to town, if no door opens there. Come on."

It takes a little time for the steamer to come to a full halt, but Wolfwood and Michael aren't the only ones disembarking. A few families leave with them, heading towards a small collection of buildings just visible under the light of the moons now high in the starry sky.

The air takes on a certain degree of clarity out here, far from the cities, and as the steamer chugs away, the desert returns to the crystallized silence of earlier.

He breaks it by pushing the motorcycle forward.

"This way."

The desert at night isn't a new thing for him, but watching their shadows from the strange moons is enough to make it easy to dip into his own thoughts as he follows silently beside his companion.

An open door sounds like really good plan right now, a few hours to get ready before heading into the fray with Ellen's job and maybe deal with what's going on in his head.

Maybe. Doubtful, but maybe.

The air is as cold as it is clear; with no clouds to keep the daytime heat trapped in the atmosphere, it soon dissipates and leaves the desert bare.

You really can't beat this view of the stars, though.

Michael isn't prone to idle chatter, and neither is Wolfwood, so they walk in companionable silence, the tires of the Angelina II sounding softly in the dark, cool air. Vash would undoubtedly be relaying some obnoxious story, telling a string of terrible jokes, or singing off-key loudly enough to get them eaten by whatever horrible creatures live out in the desert to prowl the night-darkened sands.

It's a good thing Vash isn't here.

Finally, as they climb a dune, a few warm yellow lights come into view, twinkling like friendly lamps in the distance, and Wolfwood smiles, feeling the sweat and grim on his face crack with the expression.

"There it is. Not far now."

The crunch of tires on sand isn't loud, but it's enough to draw the attention of the people inside, and they've no sooner walked up to the porch than the door's opened and children pour out: about fifteen, between the ages of about five and twelve. They're followed by a kindly-looking woman dressed in solemn gray and black, who stands in the doorway and beams as a pigtailed little girl launches herself at Wolfwood, making him grunt as her arms circle his neck and drag him down.

"Father! We didn't expect you for another month," the woman says, and smiles at Michael, stepping forward. "And you brought a guest! Welcome, please, come in. It's a cold night."

Michael can't help but smile at the sight, sure he's got a weak spot for kids but just seeing the unexpected affection directed at the same guy he'd just been sewing up not long before brings a smile to his face that he didn't see coming.

"Wow, uh... hey everyone..." he laughs under his breath, keeping a close eye on Wolfwood until his attention is directed elsewhere.

One of the children, a solemn-eyed dark haired girl, goes up to Michael and tugs on his shirt. "Did you bring us presents?" she asks, and Wolfwood laughs, leans the cross against the house wall.

"Maybe," he allows, and she grins, gap-toothed, and pulls Michael by the hand towards the building as the woman steps down to greet Wolfwood. "I brought some supplie," he tells her, directing the older children to the boxes on the bike. "Keep an eye on the meat: it's fresh, and I don't know how quickly it might go bad." Nodding to Michael, he reaches over to tug the girl free, smiling.

"Sister Francis, this is a friend of mine, Michael. He helped bring the supplies."

Still grinning, Michael hardly knows how to respond to the children, though he does offer the girl a gently squeeze of the hand as she leads him.

"Is there, uh, anything else I can do while we're here?" He raises an eyebrow toward the woman; "Ma'am?"

She turns her eyes on Michael, smiling as her hands clasp in front of her breastbone. "Oh, no! You must have come from such a long way -- and with all these supplies! Please, come in, rest a little while. The children love having company, and maybe we can have a late dinner with some of your fresh supplies."

He's eaten stranger foods on his planet, besides... for all he knows it'd be a horrible insult to refuse and he'd rather not hurt nice people. Besides, he is getting kind of hungry and the promise of a bar-yogurt when he gets back seems ages away.

"Uh, sure... sure..." his eyes dart for Wolfwood - wide and the slightest bit cautious. "It wasn't any trouble at all, ma'am."

Wolfwood claps him on the shoulder, grinning, wincing a little as the movement tugs at his stitches.

"That would be great."

Inside, the cross is relegated to a corner, and Wolfwood finds himself, after excusing himself a moment to get cleaned up, surrounded by the children, all babbling happily at them. One little boy sits on his lap, and the older boys and girls are asked, one at a time, how things have been.

There's a chair there for Michael, too, and that little dark-haired girl who seems to have taken such a shine to him.

Anxiety getting the better of him, Michael forces himself to sit down and after a moment of getting his bearings, he looks over to the quiet girl and murmurs; "This is pretty crazy, huh? You must be kind of like a big sister."

He's got radar for the quiet, responsible ones. It's one of the things that makes him feel even worse about how he treated the girl on the train.

The little girl looks around, blushes when she sees Wolfwood smiling at her.

"Something like that," he answers for her, when she seems too shy to say it herself. "Melanie's been here for almost six months. She's a big help."

That's too much for her, and she hides her pleased pink face behind a chair as Sister Francis bustles out, carrying a huge pot that steams deliciously.

"It's nothing much," she says, apologetically, ladling out the stew onto bowls of rice, "but it's hot. Will you be staying over, Father?"

Wolfwood shakes his head. "Not tonight. We both have business to take care of."

Between the wasteland and the sky

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