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Apr. 20th, 2010 11:40 amBehind his sunglasses, he squints.
Somehow, he always manages to forget just how big the godforsaken desert really is; the emptiness of it, the way the light glares down from the two suns and reflects to make it look even bigger. Even the sky is devoid of any cloud to mar its brassy blueness, and it makes him wonder, like it always does, how a place like this comes to exist. Is it really forgotten by the Almighty, or is it just the sort of blank stage the human race needs in order to sort out all of its problems before it can be lead on to Eden?
Somewhere back at the Outpost, on an asteroid floating near a planet he'd never heard of orbiting a sun he'd never knew existed, a clock is ticking down. Two days ought to be more than enough time--as long as the Angelina II starts.
She's waiting for him right where he left her, like a faithful pet, the metal of her frame caked with dust but still showing a few game gleams. Not that how she looks is ever the problem. He wheedles with her, and threatens, and cajoles, and finally the bike, nursed back to life with some water in the radiator and some gas in the engine, coughs, turns. The packages he ties at the back of the seat--it's another four hours to the orphanage but they should be fine for the run, as long as he doesn't hit too many bumps along the way.
Or run into his employers. What was that about bumps?
But even Legato won't find him unless he's looking, and he isn't important enough to look for unless he's with Vash, so he should be comfortable under the radar...still, he'll keep his trip short. No need to put the poor kids through any more than they've had to deal with already.
Sometimes he thinks he really is the worst person to run an orphanage.
_______________________________
It's when the kids come running into the yard, all pink faces and sun-bleached golden hair and smiles, that he reconsiders. They swarm around the Angelina II, clamoring, while he laughs in delight.
"Did you bring us presents?"
"Where have you been?"
"Have you been rescuing people?"
One little girl stands apart, and he gently disengages himself from the yelling throng to go over and crouch in front of her, hands dangling between his knees. She sucks her thumb solemnly, and looks him over with round, gray eyes.
"You look terrible," she says, finally, and he laughs, grabbing her, and tosses her into the air where she shrieks with laughter.
"That's because I've been missing you, Sissy, my love," he says, and she clings to his neck.
It's here--that indefinable something, that mystery--here, when he sits on the steps and watches the kids play in the dusk, here when he brings out the pot of soup for dinner, here that is the closest thing in this world or any other that he has to a home. Home, which is nearly as impossible to define as love.
When he's here, he gives thanks over and over again.
_______________________________
After he puts Sissy to bed, clutching her new teddy bear, he goes outside, where the giant arc of the desert has cooled like molten glass, into something full of beautiful clarity. Each star burns like lit cigarette, every detail of the dunes and scrub plants are lit in relief by the moons. Sister Francis, who helps with cooking and cleaning and minding the children, is knitting something, rocking herself quietly in a chair by the door. Everything is peaceful, secure.
Only Knives would dare threaten the innocence that resides here.
He sits, smoking, until each moon has risen, and then unfolds his long legs to stand, hands in his pockets. Behind him, Sister Francis stirs.
"The children will be so disappointed to see you've gone," she says, but her voice remains quiet, soothing. She doesn't know what he disappears to do, only that when he returns, it's always with money, and food, and a few toys for the children. She doesn't begrudge or ask questions. It's why he keeps her here.
"I'll be back soon," he says, and flicks the stub of his cigarette into the sand. "For the next few months. After that, I'm afraid you won't see much of me around, Sister. I hate to break your heart."
He can practically feel her smiling in the darkness. A good woman--much like Milly. "I'll soldier on somehow," she says, with a laugh just at the edge of her words. He hears a creak, and then a gentle hand is laid on his shoulder. "Thank you, Father. You do so much good here."
When he doesn't respond, she goes back into the orphanage, and closes the door, turning out the light.
"Right," he says, finally, to no one.
It's another hour before he starts the Angelina II and heads back into the desert.
Somehow, he always manages to forget just how big the godforsaken desert really is; the emptiness of it, the way the light glares down from the two suns and reflects to make it look even bigger. Even the sky is devoid of any cloud to mar its brassy blueness, and it makes him wonder, like it always does, how a place like this comes to exist. Is it really forgotten by the Almighty, or is it just the sort of blank stage the human race needs in order to sort out all of its problems before it can be lead on to Eden?
Somewhere back at the Outpost, on an asteroid floating near a planet he'd never heard of orbiting a sun he'd never knew existed, a clock is ticking down. Two days ought to be more than enough time--as long as the Angelina II starts.
She's waiting for him right where he left her, like a faithful pet, the metal of her frame caked with dust but still showing a few game gleams. Not that how she looks is ever the problem. He wheedles with her, and threatens, and cajoles, and finally the bike, nursed back to life with some water in the radiator and some gas in the engine, coughs, turns. The packages he ties at the back of the seat--it's another four hours to the orphanage but they should be fine for the run, as long as he doesn't hit too many bumps along the way.
Or run into his employers. What was that about bumps?
But even Legato won't find him unless he's looking, and he isn't important enough to look for unless he's with Vash, so he should be comfortable under the radar...still, he'll keep his trip short. No need to put the poor kids through any more than they've had to deal with already.
Sometimes he thinks he really is the worst person to run an orphanage.
_______________________________
It's when the kids come running into the yard, all pink faces and sun-bleached golden hair and smiles, that he reconsiders. They swarm around the Angelina II, clamoring, while he laughs in delight.
"Did you bring us presents?"
"Where have you been?"
"Have you been rescuing people?"
One little girl stands apart, and he gently disengages himself from the yelling throng to go over and crouch in front of her, hands dangling between his knees. She sucks her thumb solemnly, and looks him over with round, gray eyes.
"You look terrible," she says, finally, and he laughs, grabbing her, and tosses her into the air where she shrieks with laughter.
"That's because I've been missing you, Sissy, my love," he says, and she clings to his neck.
It's here--that indefinable something, that mystery--here, when he sits on the steps and watches the kids play in the dusk, here when he brings out the pot of soup for dinner, here that is the closest thing in this world or any other that he has to a home. Home, which is nearly as impossible to define as love.
When he's here, he gives thanks over and over again.
_______________________________
After he puts Sissy to bed, clutching her new teddy bear, he goes outside, where the giant arc of the desert has cooled like molten glass, into something full of beautiful clarity. Each star burns like lit cigarette, every detail of the dunes and scrub plants are lit in relief by the moons. Sister Francis, who helps with cooking and cleaning and minding the children, is knitting something, rocking herself quietly in a chair by the door. Everything is peaceful, secure.
Only Knives would dare threaten the innocence that resides here.
He sits, smoking, until each moon has risen, and then unfolds his long legs to stand, hands in his pockets. Behind him, Sister Francis stirs.
"The children will be so disappointed to see you've gone," she says, but her voice remains quiet, soothing. She doesn't know what he disappears to do, only that when he returns, it's always with money, and food, and a few toys for the children. She doesn't begrudge or ask questions. It's why he keeps her here.
"I'll be back soon," he says, and flicks the stub of his cigarette into the sand. "For the next few months. After that, I'm afraid you won't see much of me around, Sister. I hate to break your heart."
He can practically feel her smiling in the darkness. A good woman--much like Milly. "I'll soldier on somehow," she says, with a laugh just at the edge of her words. He hears a creak, and then a gentle hand is laid on his shoulder. "Thank you, Father. You do so much good here."
When he doesn't respond, she goes back into the orphanage, and closes the door, turning out the light.
"Right," he says, finally, to no one.
It's another hour before he starts the Angelina II and heads back into the desert.
