hallelujahpilot | carl y la guerra de las galaxias

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carl benton,
oom

carl y la guerra de las galaxias

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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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By the time she's out of the bathroom, he's put their bags on the bed, the fruit on the desk, and pulled off his jacket -- revealing the form of the gun tucked away at the small of his back beneath his t-shirt.

He glances up at her as she steps out of the bathroom, reaching for a bottle of water.

"Want some ice?"

Carl's trying to gauge how she's feeling and from the looks of it, there's a bit of shell shock happening. Which is to be expected.

"Um, yes please."

Two glasses, both with ice, and then the water bottle gets split between them. He doesn't ask what he wants to ask (just yet) and he doesn't say what he wants to say (he's not sure he will) as he pours the water.

He turns around and leans against the counter -- wincing as the handgun presses into his hip -- then shifts to get comfortable, offering one over without a word.

(Giving her a moment to continue recovering her composure. Even though he knows it'll break down eventually.)

She puts her gun and holster on the bed, next to her pack, and walks over to take a glass with a murmured, "Thanks."

(she wishes he'd say something, anything so she could stop trying to make sense of the confused mess in her head).

"I-"

He hesitates in passing her the glass, placing it back onto the counter before putting his hand on her shoulder.

"Trudy. Just...talk to me?"

She opens her mouth and shuts it, and opens it again, and finally she says

I'm fine.

It's just not what I'm used to.

I'm fine, I can function, I can-

"We don't even have Arlington anymore. They built over it."

It feels like the oxygen gets sucked out of the room with explosive force, the way his lungs seize in his chest when the words leave her mouth.

'They built over it.'

He can't breathe, can't speak, can't even think.

(All that runs through his head is a volley of gunshots, echoing against the silence.)

"They..."

His grip on her shoulder tightens just a fraction as he pulls her closer (both to support her, and because he needs the support) into a hug. He clears his throat.

"They built over it."

"Sev-seventy years ago," Trudy says, her arms going around him gratefully. She rests her forehead against his shoulder; it's easier to speak, if she isn't looking at his face. "It's...it's still Arlington, I guess, but it's buildings housing urns. They dug everyone up and cremated 'em, needed the fucking space."

There is a shake to her voice, grief and a slow burning rage.

"All of Earth's like-like that. We just...ate everything up. Cannibalised our dead. Yosemite is an goddamn condo development. An upscale one," she adds, nearly spitting out the words. "And it's...I can't...we had everything we just drove through, and it's g-gone."

He's glad she's burying her face in his shoulder -- it makes it easier for him to conceal the emotions that are warring in his eyes. His focus locks on a spot on the far wall, breathing even and slow.

(Inside, he's livid, but the tension boils only in his veins and not in his muscles. He's perfectly still.)

"Ran out of time."

He means the Earth. It ran out of time to win the war against humanity.

(And the humans tore the Earth apart.)

Carl swallows down the grief that threatens to steal his voice, but there's a barely-there crack when he speaks next that he can't quite conceal from her.

"I'm sorry."

In contrast, Trudy's shoulders are shaking. Whatever battle she was waging not to break down and cry is lost as soon as he says I'm sorry.

She goes to say 'not your fault', but she can't. It's not that she's crying too much, because she's not, it's because it would be - in a way - a lie. His generation, and the next one, are the ones who had the chance to change things, read the warnings and stop.

They didn't.

And Trudy's not entirely sure she'll ever be able to forgive them.

They didn't see the signs -- no, they did, but chose to ignore them in favor of power and wealth and oil -- and they did nothing to stop the cascading tidal wave.

It's their fault.

(It's your fault.)

Fourteen men and twenty-one civilians.

It's your fault.

Carl drops his chin to her shoulder as he moves to stroke his hand over her spine, his shaking fingers masked by the way her body quivers with tears and grief.

(He's not sure he'll ever be able to forgive himself.)

The sobs slow under the gentle, steady movement of his hand, and also due to practice - if she didn't know how to stop crying over Earth, she would have eaten a bullet long before (running away to) leaving for Pandora. Finally, she hiccups, turns her head to the side.

"Well," she says, voice far huskier than normal, "now that I've completely spoiled the mood..."

"You haven't," he promises. "It's just...truth hurts, sometimes."

His fingers card lightly over her hair, brushing it back as he presses his lips against her cheek (salt and skin and sweat) and inhales.

"'Sides. It takes effort not to laugh at Star Wars," he adds.

That gets a laugh, far weaker than her normal ones.

"Ain't that the truth."

He pulls back slightly, to catch her eyes.

"Especially Luke's epic wailing."

This is not a laugh, but a giggle.

"I think I took it seriously once. I was about seven."

"I'd imagine it was rather disturbing for a seven year old...I saw them as a kid, too."

A beat.

"When they first opened at the theatres."

"Seriously?"

"Every one of them. Mum took me."

"Yes, but."

That means he was born in the twentieth century.

She was born in the twenty-second.

"Wow."

"I'm old, aren't I."

There's a hint of a wry smirk on his face (and a hint of nerves behind his eyes) at the statement.

"Only in the same sense that technically I don't exist."

"Okay."

He's not going to think about that, because that makes his head hurt. Instead, he tips his head towards the bed.

"Get comfortable and I'll try to figure out how to make this DVD player work?"

"Pressing buttons normally help," she informs him, cheerfully. Of course, getting comfortable on the bed inolves leaving his embrace.

That takes a moment.

And a kiss.

"Thank you."

"Always."

He means that. He really does.

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