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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"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."

Michael smiles at the girl and nods before regarding the stew... Thankful that it smells good if nothing else. Part of the wonder of stew is that once you've had enough strange variations that tasted good despite your own ideas of what is and is not edible, you learn not to ask questions. People cook what they have.

"Thank you for the gracious meal, it's very welcome."

It never takes long for food here to disappear: the kids aren't starving, but they're growing and hungry and the stew evaporates in less time than he'd ever have thought possible. After that, he's pressed into service by the kids, and it's nice, it's good, it's homey in a way he will never truly understand -- but it's getting late and though Michael's been quiet, he seems edgy.

Understandable. He'd like to get back, himself, if only to find some painkillers for his shoulder, so he excuses himself and goes to the back porch, lighting a cigarette as he does.

It's while he's waving out his match and opening the door that he realizes he's looking into Milliways -- seems like the bar's following him around now, just as faithful as any dog could be.

"Nice to see you," he tells the place, before closing the door and wandering back inside, hands in his pockets, to find Michael.

"I seem to have found our way back."

He feels edgy as he watches the children play, remembering the small bodies on stretchers as he and William hightailed it for the Charger before the cops could show up. Civilians, people just leading their lives and doing what they do... it seems like the simplest, easiest thing in the world.

Wolfwood's words draw his attention back from where he realizes he's been staring blankly at the shy girl as she played with a rag doll in a quiet space of her own.

"Time to go?" He asks quietly.

He hates to break into the guy's thoughts, but having the door is a revelation, and one they could both use after the day they've had.

"We don't have to, right away."

He hasn't missed the way Michael's watched the children; has seen that thoughtful, nearly blank expression before, has felt it creep across his own features.

Unhappy childhoods seem to be all over, these days. "But it's there. Which is a relief."

The kids don't have it half bad, really, he reasons that at least they have each other - and the matron seems nice enough. People making sure there's enough food to eat and a safe place to sleep. Part of him half wonders if the kids growing up in the Wasteland have the same kind of protection.

"We should head back;" he stands up with a low groan, stretching out his back. "Get a little rest before we head back into the fray - maybe get you some antibiotics." He chuckles slightly and slips a hand into his pocket, thumbing out a section of bills into his palm before adding; "I'd like to talk to the girl alone for a minute, though - if I may?"

He knows Wolfwood trusts him, and thinks that the girl might - her matron, always questionable. He certainly knows what it looks like when a man of his age and questionable intention wants to talk to a young girl alone.

The kids here tug at his heartstrings, every one of them. They're what he fights for, what he's working towards, what he's protecting, and he's here so rarely that they barely even know who he is.

They do know, though, and they even feel some kind of affection for him, the priest who brings them food and toys and stays a little while before riding off again into the desert.

If he could stay here, just here, he thinks he could be happy.

Michael's request isn't so odd: perhaps he's found something here, as well. It's not for Wolfwood to question, so he nods, breathes in smoke and breathes it out again.

"Go ahead."

He nods and gestures for the girl to follow him just outside to door and onto the steps where the night's gone just chilly enough that she probably shouldn't be out even if it feels good to him after so long under the blistering suns - but it won't take long.

"It's okay," he murmurs to her, finding a chair to sit in and let himself be on lower level than she is so that he has to look up to her. It's an age old trick for a spy to buy trust, force them to physical look down upon you. "You don't have to say anything, I know what it's like to not want to talk to people - and I'm just some guy, right?"

He chuckles under his breath and withdraws the clutch of folded bills from him pocket; "I want you to do me a favor, Melanie, after we leave I want you to put this in Sister Francis' pocket, okay? Don't tell her it's there or that I gave it to you. It's just some money to help out a little bit and make sure everyone has what they need."

After a short pause, he halves the bills again - easily a third of the thousand he'd brought through with him if not half - and holds it out to her. "And if you know about something someone needs, I mean really needs - medicine, clothes, anything - I want you to tell the Father that Michael told you he'll take care of it and he should find me. Okay?"

It's a tall order, and not exactly one he wants to share with Wolfwood - he wouldn't understand why it's something Michael needs to do. Why he feels the deep seated need to protect this clutch of children in the middle of nowhere in a universe he's barely seen.

Between the wasteland and the sky

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