OoM

[hallelujahpilot]

She's drunk.

She thinks she's drunk.

No.

Stop.

She's numb and dizzy and nothing seems real and all she can taste is whiskey. Ergo, she is drunk.

She was numb. But she's reached the point of drunk where the whole 'numb' thing is starting to wear off.

Carl's room is closer, but she would have gone to his door instead of hers even if she'd had to go to the other end of Milliways.

She knocks, rests her head against the doorframe. She's wearing just shorts and a tank, and it's actually starting to be cold.

She knocks again. "Carl, you there?"

Comments

[one_man_army]

He glances up at the sound of the knock (it's late, and had been quiet in the hall since he came up here after his run) and before he can ask who it is, she's knocking again.

Carl, you there?

Trudy.

He smiles (because he'd been hoping to see her sometime soon) but before he opens the door, it fades a little. She had sounded...different.

Carl throws the bolt and pulls the door open.

(Still cautious as to who else might be in the hall, but this is Milliways, not an apartment room in Bosnia or Turkey.)

"Hey, Trudy."

Half a heartbeat.

"...what's...?"

What's wrong?

He's got a hand (arm) out to her, silently inviting her in.

[hallelujahpilot]

She stumbles forward, so it's a good thing he is in arm's reach.

(drunk. yeah, she's drunk)

Resting her head on his shoulder, she takes in a deep breath, waits until the room stops spinning.






"Gene's dead. KIA."

[one_man_army]

"Easy--"

His reflexes are fast -- they have to be when it matters like this -- and he's got his arms around her, bracing her from falling over. He can smell the alcohol on her breath as soon as she curls her body into his, her chin on his shoulder.

(For a split second when she stumbled forward, his mind pulled up a half-dozen scenarios: fresh out of a Pandoran firefight or a chopper crash, bloodied and bruised. The scent of whiskey rather than iron is a welcome relief.

And then her words

Gene's dead.

hit

KIA.

home.



Stunned, and at a momentary loss (she's not a grieving wife or mother; he's not standing on the front porch in his dress greens; he's not handing over a flag; he's not listening to Taps at Arlington) he slides his arms around her and pulls her close.

(Shuts the door.)


"...I got you."

[hallelujahpilot]

"Good. Because, um. I." Her fingers curl around his sleeve, and she straightens, looking up at the ceiling and then at him.

Her eyes over-bright.

"You know, Halloween? When I woke up crying? I...I had a dream. Of Gene. Felt...real. He said, then, that...he was dead. Tibet. Peacekeeping. And that's what they said, when they told me today. I." She blinks, mouth twisting a bit. "He didn't recommend death by mob."

[one_man_army]

He keeps his eyes on her face as she speaks, and he listens.

"...I've heard stories about...things happening on the nights around Halloween. Dreams that are...real." Carl shakes his head. "I didn't have one myself, but if you dreamed about him...I don't know what to tell you."

If it was Gene, then he got a chance to say goodbye. (He hopes.) If it was just a figment of her imagination, then...he's not sure.

Something in his stomach twists when she mentions 'death by mob'. (Part of his heart is back in Somalia, watching a Blackhawk impact the dirt streets of the Mog, watching the crowds swarm the wreckage on the surveillance.)

"So they...told you at Hell's Gate, today?"

[hallelujahpilot]

"Yeah. No details, but don't really need 'em."

Beat, and a ghost of a smile.

"Couldn't sleep, so. Came here. And I was very good, and I shared the bottle of whiskey."

[one_man_army]

"I wouldn't want you staying alone anyways."

With one arm around her, he gently guides her towards the couch. He's been sort of busy (the coffee table is littered with notebooks, a handful of pens, some papers, and an empty glass that once held a double of scotch) and there's still an indentation on the cushions from where he was curled up earlier with a blanket.

[hallelujahpilot]

"Well, that's because you're you," Trudy says practically, eyes still over-bright and fingers still firmly tangled up with his shirt.

She doesn't, it seems, have any real intention of letting him go anytime soon.

"And you're sweet."

[one_man_army]

"I think that's the first time in twenty years I've been called 'sweet'," he muses.

Her intentions are in line with his, at the moment, because he doesn't want her going anywhere. Not when she's like this.

(He's not sure he's ever seen her look this young before.)

"C'mere and sit," he says, tossing aside a book to free up the entire couch. If she'll let him, he intends to let her curl up in his lap (or even curl up on top of him, laying down, because it might make the room spin less that way) for awhile.

[hallelujahpilot]

She sits. And, yeah, she lets him pull her close, only too happy to curl against him, on him. He's warm, he's alive, and she needs him.

"Well. You are sweet."

[one_man_army]

"I care for you quite a bit," he agrees, and even in the circumstances of her being here, he can't help but smile as she curls her body against his. "I'm actually rather pleased you think so."

He reaches for her hand with one of his, intertwining their fingers.

[hallelujahpilot]

"Yeah?"

[one_man_army]

"Mmhmm."

You mean a hell of a lot to me, Marine.

[hallelujahpilot]

"Formal way of puttin' it. Careful."

[one_man_army]

"What do you mean, formal?"

He's got to take it one step at a time with her like this.

[hallelujahpilot]

"You know. All your books, with the Regency fellows. All stiff back and formal. Careful. Not. I think I love you."

[one_man_army]

"Ah."

He brushes his thumb over her knuckles.

"You want to know something interestin', Trudy?"

[hallelujahpilot]

"Sure."

[one_man_army]

"M'pretty damn sure I've fallen for you, too."

[hallelujahpilot]

"Good. Be awkward otherwise.








I think Gene would have liked you."

[one_man_army]

Carl's pretty sure he could come up with a joke about how Delta boys will always stick up for each other, but now is definitely not the time.

Killed in action.

"You think so?"

[hallelujahpilot]

"I...yeah. I think so. We weren't that close when I left, but. Yeah." She takes a deep breath, shifts even closer. "We...we know we probably weren't gonna...you know. See each other. Or turn up. To. Funerals. I knew that when I left." Another deep breath, this one shakier. "I don't even know what the hell I'm feelin'."

[one_man_army]

"With a 20 year gap, and both of you enlisted...you'd almost have to prepare for that before you left."

He's sure she did, but that's not the point. He sobers slightly; shakes his head.

"You don't have to know. And y'probably won't for awhile." He knows that she knows that, too, but it doesn't hurt to say it.

[hallelujahpilot]

"I know. I just got nothin' to do. When Momma was killed, I mean, I had to organize everythin'. But now. It's just, okay, thanks. Thanks for lettin' me know.

Now what do I do."

[one_man_army]

"Is there...anyone back home you need to get in contact with? I don't know how often you touch base back to Earth." He's almost a little apologetic in tone, because he feels like this is something he should know.

(Even if they've never talked about it, just like they've never talked about a lot of other things like this.)

[hallelujahpilot]

"No. I get....letter, I guess you might call it, 'bout once a year. And I'll reply when I get it." She frowns and then pushes herself up - slowly, carefully, hand on his shoulder to balance herself.

"I'll be...I'll be okay. But, um." There is a flicker of a smile. "I'm probably gonna sound selfish, but I'm...I'm glad you're out."

[one_man_army]

Carl shakes his head.

"It's not selfish."

She cares about him. She doesn't want him to end up a rank and file on a manila folder in some dark office. She wants to see him come home at the end of the day.

"It's human."

[hallelujahpilot]

"Well," she says ruefully, "I am that. Don't think androids get drunk."

[one_man_army]

"Don't know about that," he admits. "This is the end of the universe. Who knows what else is possible."

He shifts on the couch and stretches out his legs, allowing her to curl up on him like a cat would curl up on a sunny window-ledge, once he's laid back. He doesn't mind her weight on him (not like it's much, anyways) and this way she can feel every heartbeat in his chest and every breath in his lungs.

He's quiet for a minute or two until he finds more words.

"Is there...anything that I can do? Do you need anything?"

[hallelujahpilot]

For a moment, she's silent, too, doing nothing but soaking him in, listening to him, memorising exactly how he smells and what the weight of his arms around her is like.

"Just...talk to me? I can't. I'm. I'm having a little trouble with silence right now."

[one_man_army]

"I get that," he nods.

(He had plenty of trouble with silence on the flight home from Germany, sitting in that cargo plane with fourteen flag-draped caskets strapped to their pallets.

And sitting in his kitchen three days later, watching the clock on the coffeemaker slowly click over the minutes from two, three, and four am.

He gets it.)

"Have I ever told you about...let's see." He thinks for a moment, trying to think of something to distract her from her thoughts -- and trying to stay away from family and Delta, for obvious reasons. "The first time I flew a chopper?"

This is a fun story.

[hallelujahpilot]

That, at least, gets a smile.

"Nope."

[one_man_army]

Carl smiles, just a little.

"Y'see, the flight instructor that I'd been workin' with for the last few months in the sims thought it would be hilarious, on my first run up in the cockpit, to throw me a hydraulic pressure alarm..."

(He knows she'll know how much 'fun' that kind of flight can be.)



He keeps talking until she drops off from exhaustion -- and even then, he doesn't move, just pulls the blanket up over her legs and allows his eyes to close.

"I got you."