oom: outside Milliways

The air is cool outside but it's not cold, he's dealt with worse on cold desert nights and at least here it isn't dry as all hell. The full moon isn't for some time, either, so Doc knows he won't have to worry about the wolves. Demon bunnies, however...well that's what his gun is for. Not that he thinks he'll need it, but it never hurts to be sure.

After the sun has set, he grabs a few things from his pack and wraps a blanket around his shoulders, then heads out the back door of the bar towards the inlet. He finds a spot near the far end and drops everything in a pile, then goes about dragging some wood and palm fronds towards the sand to pile into a small heap. No bonfire tonight.

(He doesn't want to be bothered.)

The flames are easy enough to start. He settles on the blanket and pours a bit of water into a tin pot, then unwraps a worn piece of cloth to reveal thin slices of cactus, dried, kept safe here rather than on the harsh trail of New Mexico. He uses his knife to stir them into the water and then sets the whole thing over the flames and waits.

And waits.

(And thinks.)

She's sitting in an apartment in New York City, their son screaming for her until she comforts him and he settles down. Maybe they've moved. Maybe her parents moved in with her, they'd have to, there's no way she could make it on her own with their son to take care of. It's cold in New York this time of year. Maybe there's a blanket on the window sill to keep out the cold, another under the door to keep out the draft from the hall.

Hopefully they're not sick.

Hopefully there is food on the table. Rich scents and bright colors. A practical feast, all with names he could never hope to pronounce and tastes so strange but so good he couldn't help but eat what was put in front of him. She always took care of him. Just like he always took care of her.

Except now.

Except for the fact that he's sitting in a practical safe haven, a bar at the end of the universe, where one can find honest work, meet friends one can trust in, find lovers in the most unlikely of places (or shapes for that matter, but he hasn't seen the shapeshifter in months and he wonders if perhaps something has happened to him, or if he decided for the better to leave him) and ways.

Perhaps Yen has moved on too.

His mind drifts back to the heating water and Doc dips a finger into the mixture to test it, hot but not overly so, he removes the pot from the flames and reaches back behind him for a cup, also tin, and dips it into the water. He supposes it's tea, now.

A cautious sip --

(Wouldn't do to burn his mouth and tongue.)

He wouldn't fault her, honestly. It was hard being married to a white man, and maybe she found someone of her own race, made it easier to blend in with the other immigrants in the city. Maybe it was better that way.

-- and then another.

(It hits him soon enough.)