"You packing towels in there, ma'am?" The sound of her voice is enough to bring him back to the present: no use longing for things he can't have. He's been there and done that and has no intention of having to live that way again. Water drips from his own personal forest of hair; he shakes it out like a misplaced shaggy dog before stealing over to the dry spot under the tree. For the moment, his t-shirt suffices as enough of a towel: they've traveled for weeks now both wet and dry, hot and cold, tired and awake, grumpy and complacent. He'll dry off eventually.
"Next time I'm going to tell Tom to loan me a cloak that has a whole damn hotel room inside. That's the way to travel." Laughing, he burrows into his pack for a dry shirt: it's his Venusian vanilla one, looking a little worse for the wear. Of course, it hasn't seen an iron in weeks and weeks but it's fine; it works. It covers him up just enough; for the moment he leaves it unbuttoned.
The fresh air, rife with ozone, feels good against his skin. When this is all over -- when they're back home together -- they can laugh over it. He's careful not to put that into words, though. When he and Beth first met, she'd close right up at the suggestion of anything happening in the future, so he learned not to talk about those things. Not to talk about hopes and desires and things that might happen. They're a hell of a pair: the blatant pessimist who always sees the glass half empty, and the damn opportunist who only sees that there's water.
When he's done pawing off his hair, he rolls up that used t-shirt and stuffs it in his pack. His hand meets a knife stuck safely in its hilt, and then a box of ammo, and another. If the others in this little party knew he was there, he could blaze a hell of a trail for them, being invisible and shit. Beth wouldn't stand for it and he knows it, but still.
Oh well.
Whatever happens happens. When he reaches over to caress Junior's little hand on the brim of her hat, he smiles softly. She's such a trooper. With a mom like Beth, she couldn't have turned out any differently. His eyes move from his daughter to the woman he loves; the breeze flutters against the open panels of his shirt.
"Think I ought to wear the tie?" If she says yes, she... might just have to help him with it.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-05-17 06:38 pm (UTC)"Next time I'm going to tell Tom to loan me a cloak that has a whole damn hotel room inside. That's the way to travel." Laughing, he burrows into his pack for a dry shirt: it's his Venusian vanilla one, looking a little worse for the wear. Of course, it hasn't seen an iron in weeks and weeks but it's fine; it works. It covers him up just enough; for the moment he leaves it unbuttoned.
The fresh air, rife with ozone, feels good against his skin. When this is all over -- when they're back home together -- they can laugh over it. He's careful not to put that into words, though. When he and Beth first met, she'd close right up at the suggestion of anything happening in the future, so he learned not to talk about those things. Not to talk about hopes and desires and things that might happen. They're a hell of a pair: the blatant pessimist who always sees the glass half empty, and the damn opportunist who only sees that there's water.
When he's done pawing off his hair, he rolls up that used t-shirt and stuffs it in his pack. His hand meets a knife stuck safely in its hilt, and then a box of ammo, and another. If the others in this little party knew he was there, he could blaze a hell of a trail for them, being invisible and shit. Beth wouldn't stand for it and he knows it, but still.
Oh well.
Whatever happens happens. When he reaches over to caress Junior's little hand on the brim of her hat, he smiles softly. She's such a trooper. With a mom like Beth, she couldn't have turned out any differently. His eyes move from his daughter to the woman he loves; the breeze flutters against the open panels of his shirt.
"Think I ought to wear the tie?" If she says yes, she... might just have to help him with it.
That'd be a hell of a shame.