Finding his pistol, he also found again how light she was when he carried her out of Gomorrah, her arms unwilling to let him go. None of the strippers dancing in the lounge even noticed him, their cares and bodies a thousand miles from the hopeless dreams that had brought them to the Strip. The blood on his suit dried by the time they reached the foyer until it was unnoticeable, and nobody batted an eye.
And he kept walking, until they were in the warm confines of the Lucky 38 and she was hunched up with her arms around her knees on one of the love seats in the lounge, realizing what a mess everything was all over again. He had brought her some tea flavored with agave syrup, and also strong black coffee for himself and they sat on the couch and listened to the radio for a while as she composed herself.
Then, she’d scooted closer to him in the dirty dimness, and their sides had touched like nervous youths at their first pre-war prom. She laughed then and called him something crass but playful, and her hands had squeezed one of his much larger ones. When he had reached down to pull her close, she had let him, and his sigh of pleasure at her touch had been far more real than any time he had ever touched a lover.
That feeling, in the end, was what he had really wanted all of his life from this dried up husk of their world. Lovers, as he had told her, made poor confidants. But he could always confide in her and she never loved anybody in such a way, only lent herself to the winds and asked them to clothe and shelter her, as if this was the only romance she would ever care to know.
He remembered her whispered ‘thank you’, and the warmth of her tears on his lapel. And when the morning sun rose, he half expected her to be gone, only to find her nestled innocently against him as if nothing had happened to frighten her there. Her dress had been rumpled, and his suit had been a mess, but it felt so perfect in the first rays of warmth through the grimy windows that he had merely remained, watching her breathe until her eyes had opened and she had smiled.
Their trek for the fate of the bear and the bull continued, and he no longer questioned these feelings. Together, they were like nothing, were nothing, the Mojave had ever seen.
And in truth, it no longer mattered. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero, he reasoned. There was little meaning in the how and the why, the distance or the mission. He simply wished it would never end.
Fin
Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero- Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.
(Authoranon says: Well, I tried to think of something original for her to be saved from (as opposed to the overused 'rape' theme I seem to pull out of my hat wayyy too often), hope if wasn't too outlandish for you. I remember the first time my LW saw a centaur...the result wasn't good for anybody involved, so I hope the sentiment is understandable. Captcha says 'remnant save'...my God captcha, you are too good at this!)
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timeasmymeasure
Doors Unlocked and Open (1e/1)
Date: 2012-10-20 12:19 am (UTC)And he kept walking, until they were in the warm confines of the Lucky 38 and she was hunched up with her arms around her knees on one of the love seats in the lounge, realizing what a mess everything was all over again. He had brought her some tea flavored with agave syrup, and also strong black coffee for himself and they sat on the couch and listened to the radio for a while as she composed herself.
Then, she’d scooted closer to him in the dirty dimness, and their sides had touched like nervous youths at their first pre-war prom. She laughed then and called him something crass but playful, and her hands had squeezed one of his much larger ones. When he had reached down to pull her close, she had let him, and his sigh of pleasure at her touch had been far more real than any time he had ever touched a lover.
That feeling, in the end, was what he had really wanted all of his life from this dried up husk of their world. Lovers, as he had told her, made poor confidants. But he could always confide in her and she never loved anybody in such a way, only lent herself to the winds and asked them to clothe and shelter her, as if this was the only romance she would ever care to know.
He remembered her whispered ‘thank you’, and the warmth of her tears on his lapel. And when the morning sun rose, he half expected her to be gone, only to find her nestled innocently against him as if nothing had happened to frighten her there. Her dress had been rumpled, and his suit had been a mess, but it felt so perfect in the first rays of warmth through the grimy windows that he had merely remained, watching her breathe until her eyes had opened and she had smiled.
Their trek for the fate of the bear and the bull continued, and he no longer questioned these feelings. Together, they were like nothing, were nothing, the Mojave had ever seen.
And in truth, it no longer mattered. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero, he reasoned. There was little meaning in the how and the why, the distance or the mission. He simply wished it would never end.
Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero- Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.
(Authoranon says: Well, I tried to think of something original for her to be saved from (as opposed to the overused 'rape' theme I seem to pull out of my hat wayyy too often), hope if wasn't too outlandish for you. I remember the first time my LW saw a centaur...the result wasn't good for anybody involved, so I hope the sentiment is understandable. Captcha says 'remnant save'...my God captcha, you are too good at this!)