Trudy Chacon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hallelujahpilot) wrote2010-03-12 01:19 pm
hallelujahpilot) wrote2010-03-12 01:19 pm
(no subject)
Dr Frieda Watson is working late in the GeoLab, which makes the New Zealand geologist easy to find. This suits Trudy just fine. She wheels herself over on a chair, and Frieda blinks, visibly dragging her mind away from her beloved rocks and crystals to this here and this now. Then she catches sight of Trudy’s face.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
Trudy doesn’t answer straight away, just rubs her thumb along the edge of the armrest. Her expression is oddly tight, mouth pressed shut and jaw clenched. Finally, she says, “Walker’s gone.”
“Oh, Trudy.”
“They were…talkin’ about takin’ her off the life-support anyway, not getting any better, an’ all that. But she…she’s dead. Died anyway. I don’t…” Trudy stops, pressing her thumb along the metal edge of the armrest. “I can’t…I mean, I knew, I knew she was going to die, soon as I saw her after the crash, but…y’kinda…”
“Keeping hoping,” Frieda finishes for her.
“Yeah. Uh, that.”
“C’mere,” Frieda says softly, getting out of her chair only to sit on Trudy’s lap, knees either side of the pilot’s hips. Trudy wraps her arms around the other woman, shutting her eyes and pressing her face against Frieda’s shoulder. Frieda curls her arms around Trudy, and ducks her head to kiss the top of Trudy’s hair. Trudy doesn’t cry, exactly, even though Walker’s dead, Jameson’s dead, everyone except for her and Wainfleet and Ruiz are dead. Ingrid Schmidt is dead, and the pair had known each other so well they could predict each other’s movements. But Trudy doesn’t cry, exactly, just presses her face against her lover’s chest, and clings to her, and tries to keep her breathing steady as the damn tears run down her face.
Frieda doesn’t tell her it’s okay, because it’s not. She doesn’t say anything much except for soft, nonsense things in that lovely, ridiculous accent of hers. Eventually, once Trudy’s breathing has evened out again, Frieda asks, “You want to stay with me tonight?”
And Trudy says, “Please.”
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
Trudy doesn’t answer straight away, just rubs her thumb along the edge of the armrest. Her expression is oddly tight, mouth pressed shut and jaw clenched. Finally, she says, “Walker’s gone.”
“Oh, Trudy.”
“They were…talkin’ about takin’ her off the life-support anyway, not getting any better, an’ all that. But she…she’s dead. Died anyway. I don’t…” Trudy stops, pressing her thumb along the metal edge of the armrest. “I can’t…I mean, I knew, I knew she was going to die, soon as I saw her after the crash, but…y’kinda…”
“Keeping hoping,” Frieda finishes for her.
“Yeah. Uh, that.”
“C’mere,” Frieda says softly, getting out of her chair only to sit on Trudy’s lap, knees either side of the pilot’s hips. Trudy wraps her arms around the other woman, shutting her eyes and pressing her face against Frieda’s shoulder. Frieda curls her arms around Trudy, and ducks her head to kiss the top of Trudy’s hair. Trudy doesn’t cry, exactly, even though Walker’s dead, Jameson’s dead, everyone except for her and Wainfleet and Ruiz are dead. Ingrid Schmidt is dead, and the pair had known each other so well they could predict each other’s movements. But Trudy doesn’t cry, exactly, just presses her face against her lover’s chest, and clings to her, and tries to keep her breathing steady as the damn tears run down her face.
Frieda doesn’t tell her it’s okay, because it’s not. She doesn’t say anything much except for soft, nonsense things in that lovely, ridiculous accent of hers. Eventually, once Trudy’s breathing has evened out again, Frieda asks, “You want to stay with me tonight?”
And Trudy says, “Please.”