hallelujahpilot: (Mother Nature's child)
Trudy has spent two weeks surrounded by walls. One was glass, but it had a view of the rest of the brig. She kept herself occupied as best she can, but four walls. Not flying, not running, not really walking. Four walls, when she's gotten so used to being outside on the science sorties.

When she arrives at Milliways (after going to her quarters, after showering and pulling on shorts and a t-shirt and washing her hair to try and get the smell of the brig out of it) Trudy doesn't stick around inside.

She heads straight for the back door, and climbs a tree.

Not very high, but it's enough.

She's outside, she has a few, and under her bare feet, she has bark. Not silky cement, not cold metal, but living bark.

(she can breathe, now)
hallelujahpilot: (Default)
after this:

Carl's room is getting to be quite familiar, Trudy reflects as she helps him through the door. This isn't, she thinks, a bad thing.

Still, thank god for elevators. Just because she could, if needed, carry him up the stairs doesn't mean she ever wants to. Besides, there was a promise of something down in the bar, made with a kiss and all their glances, and she doesn't want that promise to be broken.

"Here we go," Trudy says, shutting the door behind them (and locking it) and watching him carefully. Despite the cheer, there is a genuine edge of worry to her gaze.
hallelujahpilot: (but there's no war here)
previously


The hotel is nice enough, but she pays attention to windows, doorways, alcoves and exists rather than any nicety of architecture. The room is a hotel room – there is something about hotels and rooms that is, it seems, ageless – and she dumps her bag on the couch before going to claim the bathroom. A decent trip plus beer at lunch and, hey, she's only human and really has to pee.

She stays longer than necessary, her head in her hands as she concentrates on the even tiles.

She's inside.

Four walls, artificial light, no need to hunt for a filter-mask because she's inside.

Inside.

(she could pretend she was home, but in all honesty, Trudy has no idea what home is anymore)

Pull yourself together, Chacon.


She gets up, flushes the toilet (thank god the buttons are easy enough to work out) washes her hands, takes off her holster and lets it clunk against the bench. She pulls her hair free from its tangled ponytail, splashes cold water on her face and runs her wet fingers through her hair. By the time her curls are damp, and more curl than frizz, she feels calm enough to open the door and walk – holster in hand – back out into the hotel room.

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hallelujahpilot: (Default)
Trudy Chacon

November 2011

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