![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"I don't know what church you went to, but this was par for the course at mine," he says, grinning. He looks like a man who's never seen a church on the inside.
"Arthur Morgan, any warden of mine would rightfully burst into flames crossing the threshold."
She puts out a hand for that bottle.
She puts out a hand for that bottle.
He hands it to her, then leans an elbow on the bar as she continues to peruse.
"I know you ain't too fond of the whole structure of this, but I got the feeling you don't mind me too much. Do you?"
"I know you ain't too fond of the whole structure of this, but I got the feeling you don't mind me too much. Do you?"
Her smile flickers. She knows she gets attached quick, but she lets go just as fast; admitting out loud to being fond of anyone makes loss more difficult. That’s grim, though, and she’d rather not be. She plays it off, voice light:
“You’re fine. I figured we’d be friendly the first time we met.”
“You’re fine. I figured we’d be friendly the first time we met.”
He grins and tips his head a little. "Well, here's to bein' fine. And let me just say that I am glad about it. Coulda worked with someone I didn't like, but glad it ain't the case."
"The Admiral has some real shit ideas, but he had a good one here," she agrees. If she has to change her ways, if any of this has to happen, she's glad it's with someone she can at least share a drink with. "Not sure what'll come of it, but I'm sure we'll have a good time."
Some of the doors he kicks in for the hell of it. Not this one. Plain battered wood, it gives him a twinge—recognition, nostalgia. That little tweak the park gives to circumstance. He turns the handle and enters, leaving the door ajar: see who might turn up.
No one's home. William lights the lamp in the corner, begins assembling his impression of the absent warden by its soft light. He brushes off the hat, turns it over in his hands. Inspects the spurs. Listens to his own boots knock against the floor. When he uncovers the map and pictures, he spreads them out on the bed—leans over it, one knee planted in the mattress, the lamp raised over his head.
No one's home. William lights the lamp in the corner, begins assembling his impression of the absent warden by its soft light. He brushes off the hat, turns it over in his hands. Inspects the spurs. Listens to his own boots knock against the floor. When he uncovers the map and pictures, he spreads them out on the bed—leans over it, one knee planted in the mattress, the lamp raised over his head.
It's dark in the room, and the lamp is backlighting William in such a way that Arthur doesn't immediately recognize him.
He comes back from the meeting with Tess with one of his pistols restored to him. So when he finds someone unfamiliar going through his fucking belongings, he draws the weapon, and William will hear a familiar click of the safety being taken off.
He comes back from the meeting with Tess with one of his pistols restored to him. So when he finds someone unfamiliar going through his fucking belongings, he draws the weapon, and William will hear a familiar click of the safety being taken off.
There in the lamplight William eases into an unseen smile. Something in him quickening with the click of the gun. “Already got my hands up.” One of them. He looks over his shoulder—a frank stare, as though waiting for the stranger to resolve. As though he has an image already in mind.
He shifts his leg off the bed.
Turning back to the map: “Where is this?” The curiosity clear, pure as a bell.
He shifts his leg off the bed.
Turning back to the map: “Where is this?” The curiosity clear, pure as a bell.
He lets out a low, annoyed growl at the sight of that face, and puts his pistol away again. Too bad.
"America," he grunts. "Now get the hell out of my cabin."
"America," he grunts. "Now get the hell out of my cabin."
I was told you might need some help in custodial?
[He hates the fiddly little buttons for text, but he's polite enough (ha) to reply in kind.]
That would be mighty appreciated, mister. Lot of little messes to clean up.
That would be mighty appreciated, mister. Lot of little messes to clean up.
Tell me where to go and let me know if there's a priority to anything.
You mind coming up to level seven? Custodial closet? I can get you sorted.
[ There's a knock on the custodial closet door not five minutes later. ]
"It's open," he calls out.
It's more than a little cramped in there. Some things got shuffled around between custodial and maintenance somewhere in the switch, and Arthur is a big man. He looks like he couldn't turn around without bumping into something.
"Hey, uh-- shit, goddamn, they didn't design this for human beings."
It's more than a little cramped in there. Some things got shuffled around between custodial and maintenance somewhere in the switch, and Arthur is a big man. He looks like he couldn't turn around without bumping into something.
"Hey, uh-- shit, goddamn, they didn't design this for human beings."
Hey, do you wanna go camping?
Woodlands, made a point not to pick one I'd know by sight. Rolling fields, lake, mountains, I imagine you'd like it. Not survival practice, nothing crazy. Just camping.
...Reckon I might enjoy that. Admiral was kind enough to leave me my tent. Some other supplies.
Yeah? Good-! We can bring basics, food, improvise the rest much as we can. Waiting on two answers, but we'll probably leave after lunch? Give us time to get ready and a little sunlight.
Who else is comin'?
[Not that he isn't used to a ragtag bunch of fiends.]
[Not that he isn't used to a ragtag bunch of fiends.]
If I get yesses all around, you and me, Wade, and Randel. Don't know if you've talked with either much, but they're great company.
The door will open, or open a little wider, and Kepler sticks his head in.
"Well. Not for anyone with shoulders like yours. Or mine. Probably best I... stay right here."
A pause before he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a little napkin-wrapped bundle.
"Cookie?"
Look. Blood sugar is a concern for the overworked.
"Well. Not for anyone with shoulders like yours. Or mine. Probably best I... stay right here."
A pause before he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a little napkin-wrapped bundle.
"Cookie?"
Look. Blood sugar is a concern for the overworked.
One-handed and unhurried, he places the photographs on top of the map. Gaze lingering on each in turn. He then folds the map around them, mindful of the weathered paper, running his thumb along the creases.
“We know each other?” It's conversational.
“We know each other?” It's conversational.
Page 4 of 48