Nicholas D. Wolfwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fullofmercy) wrote2012-06-04 12:16 pm
fullofmercy) wrote2012-06-04 12:16 pm
Entry tags:
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."
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
After a day like today and their trip through the Wasteland, he'd have to say he trusts Michael -- about as much as anyone could trust a guy they barely know and just met -- but this, watching over the kids, it isn't about trusting or not trusting.
It's something else entirely, something he'd lacked as a child, and maybe he still would have ended up on this path if he'd had it, but...he doesn't think so.
The sister, tidying the room, looks up, walks over to him with soft steps, her hands full of toys. They're faded, sad-looking things: the cast-offs of richer children, broken and repaired many times.
"It's good to see you," she says, when she stands in front of him. He looks closely at her, but her smile appears to be genuine. "It's a miracle that you manage to keep this place running."
He shakes his head, watches the smoke rise from his burning cigarette.
"No such thing as man-made miracles, Sister."
no subject
"Come on, time to head out Preacher. I think I owe you a carton of smokes and a drink before bed."
He offers the Sister a thin, but honest smile and nod; "Thank you, Sister, for what you're doing here. Takes the best kind of person there is to watch over the children."
no subject
"I'm sold."
Not just yet, though; he drops to a knee and holds out his arms for Melanie, who runs over to give him a determined hug, arms soft and awkward and tight for a moment around his neck until he detaches her and stands back up. The stitches feel tight in his shoulder, but they hold, even when he swings the cross onto his back, lifting his free hand in farewell.
"Until next time, then," he says, and leads Michael to the back.
The thought of how confused they'll all be to see the Angelina II there in the morning makes him chuckle.
Another mystery to solve. Add it to the list.