hallelujahpilot: (outside (and still wary))
It's getting warmer outside by the lake, but it's still cool enough for the urban, southern born-and-bred Trudy to justify wearing a jacket. A leather one, dark red and oddly subtle. Of course, just to prove to herself that she's still a Marine, and thus up to any hardships, she's wearing shorts instead of jeans.

Always her combat boots, though. Nearly always. Even when Carl took her off to his world, she mostly wore her combat boots. Something of home in an Earth that wasn't hers. Scotland was there, too. Like here. Unlike here, Carl was there. He isn't here at the moment.

Because she drank the last of his coffee to make sure he walked out his door. He needed to go, she knows that. And she knows that he isn't going to war, at least not exactly. Aid agency, ask for help.

And where, genius, do they most need someone like Carl? War, famine, refugee camps, could get himself killed and-

"Shut up," Trudy snarls to herself, kicking at the ground angrily. Only it's not ground, not exactly - flower bed. Seeing that, she takes a deep breath and then lets it out, trying to exhale her nerves along with used air. She's been off-balance since he left-

No, since before that. Since the night before, when they'd agreed to talk things over in three years, assuming both were accounted for. She'd never even lived with anyone before, not outside family and barracks, and he promised her-

Well, she could say no. Or yes. Or things might work out, or not. But either way, any way, that's still no excuse to kick someone's garden.

Sighing, she crouches down and starts to fix the dark soil as best she can, gathering it up from the grass and smoothing it over.


hallelujahpilot: (Default)
Trudy Chacon

November 2011

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