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[post-apocalypse] homecoming
Coyote had reassured him, somewhat, that things would work out.
Raven had grinned at him, and somehow, that was also reassuring.
When it's time to go, he refrains from asking too many questions about the particulars. He knows that it is going to involve some form of flight, and some sort of transformation - if he thinks about it too long, he has a feeling he might try to find his own way home through the Alaskan woods.
Home.
+++
It's dark.
It's dark, and it's cold.
It reminds him of watching John's body hit the dirt; the way the ice-cold feeling of loss and desperation numbed his arms and his legs. There was nothing they could do but run. It reminds him of long nights spent under the desert's open sky; unprotected from the elements, nothing but the stars and moon to keep him and the boys company. There was nowhere safe to go. Nowhere to call home.
And then, the world around them shifts and tilts like a carnival ride gone-wrong.
(The last thing he remembers, in that odd, unnatural darkness, is the sharp sound of a laugh that echos for what seems like ages.)
+++
The first thing he realizes when he wakes up is that the air is different - not the bitter cold of winter that chills him to the bone.
It's warm, and humid.
(It's familiar.)
Doc opens his eyes, having to shield them against the midday sun that is filtering through the branches of the cypress tree he's found himself sitting beneath. His shirt is stuck to his chest, already soaked near through with sweat.
Raven is gone.
He can hear wind moving through the branches overhead, and it brings with it the sound of something else. Something also familiar, though it can't be, because he's not...
(He's hearing thousands of cicadas. And he knows this patch of cypress trees, because they sit beside the creek he used to fish in as a boy. The same creek that he's sitting next to now, moving slow and easy towards the lake.)
...he is.
Home.
(Tallapoosa County, Alabama. Twenty and some odd miles northeast of Dadeville, Alabama.)
Home.
"He didn't have t'take it so literal," is all he manages to mutter before he sinks down against the roots of the cypress. It's too hot to even think about moving, and with the constant drone of the cicadas ringing in his ears, it's damned near impossible to keep his eyes from sliding shut.
(Completely impossible, actually.)
A nap won't do him any harm.
Raven had grinned at him, and somehow, that was also reassuring.
When it's time to go, he refrains from asking too many questions about the particulars. He knows that it is going to involve some form of flight, and some sort of transformation - if he thinks about it too long, he has a feeling he might try to find his own way home through the Alaskan woods.
Home.
+++
It's dark.
It's dark, and it's cold.
It reminds him of watching John's body hit the dirt; the way the ice-cold feeling of loss and desperation numbed his arms and his legs. There was nothing they could do but run. It reminds him of long nights spent under the desert's open sky; unprotected from the elements, nothing but the stars and moon to keep him and the boys company. There was nowhere safe to go. Nowhere to call home.
And then, the world around them shifts and tilts like a carnival ride gone-wrong.
(The last thing he remembers, in that odd, unnatural darkness, is the sharp sound of a laugh that echos for what seems like ages.)
+++
The first thing he realizes when he wakes up is that the air is different - not the bitter cold of winter that chills him to the bone.
It's warm, and humid.
(It's familiar.)
Doc opens his eyes, having to shield them against the midday sun that is filtering through the branches of the cypress tree he's found himself sitting beneath. His shirt is stuck to his chest, already soaked near through with sweat.
Raven is gone.
He can hear wind moving through the branches overhead, and it brings with it the sound of something else. Something also familiar, though it can't be, because he's not...
(He's hearing thousands of cicadas. And he knows this patch of cypress trees, because they sit beside the creek he used to fish in as a boy. The same creek that he's sitting next to now, moving slow and easy towards the lake.)
...he is.
Home.
(Tallapoosa County, Alabama. Twenty and some odd miles northeast of Dadeville, Alabama.)
Home.
"He didn't have t'take it so literal," is all he manages to mutter before he sinks down against the roots of the cypress. It's too hot to even think about moving, and with the constant drone of the cicadas ringing in his ears, it's damned near impossible to keep his eyes from sliding shut.
(Completely impossible, actually.)
A nap won't do him any harm.