conversations with dead people, 2011 -- post for trudy

When he wakes, the images from his dream are still fresh enough in his mind to recall all the details. As he sits upright, he rubs at his hands to ward off the feeling of asphalt digging into his palms without even noticing, and he can taste a strange hint of copper in his mouth.

He feels Trudy shift in the bed beside him (and he wonders if she'd even been back to sleep after she had woken up earlier) but he doesn't glance over at her because he doesn't trust his vision just yet, afraid of what sort of spectre he might find.

It was only a dream. He's still in Milliways, not back home. (Wherever home is.)

"Bloody 'ell," he finally mutters under his breath, letting out a quiet sigh.

(I'm not lonely.)

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Trudy hadn't gone back to sleep, her mind still tumbling over the conversation-dream-whatever it was (hey there, sister, long time no see) she'd had earlier.

(But at least she already knew Ing was dead.)

When Carl sits up, she turns her head from where she has it on her folded arms so she can try and see him in the darkness, but she doesn't say anything. Not yet.

Then he curses, quietly. "Carl?" she asks softly, shifting and lifting her head and shoulders.

With his fingers pressed against one temple, he tilts his head in her direction and nods.

"Yeah, love?"

His voice is thick with sleep, and he rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his head. He can still hear a faint ringing in his eardrums and it's throwing him off balance.

"You okay?" She's sounds...awake. Keeping her voice quiet, but awake.

"I think so."

Carl presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, checking for any more blood. (There was never any in the first place -- or was there?)

"...ah-huh," she says, twisting and pushing herself up so she's sitting. "Want me to turn on the light?"

"No, don't need to do that."

He shakes his head lightly.

"I just had one'a the stranger dreams I've had in some time."

"That time of year here, ain't it?"

"...it is, now that you mention it."

"Last year, my brother showed up to tell me he was dead. This year was my co-pilot wanting a chat. I hate this time of year." Trudy's voice is almost cheerful.

Almost.

Sighing a little, she moves forward, drops her forehead onto his shoulder. It's a gesture of affection, less claustrophobic than a hug, depending on his mood. She can't really pinpoint his mood.

Then she pauses, lifts her head.

"...you smell of cigarettes."

He was about to say something else, until her last remark. Instead, he grows very still, and leans back ever so slightly to look her in the face, a hint of confusion on his features.

"Of cigarettes?

He lifts the fabric of his t-shirt to his nose, inhaling -- and yes, he does.

"...that's fuckin' creepy."

"Happy Halloween, babe."

"Halloween was so much better when I was six and got to dress up as a mummy."

Also, there was candy involved.

"We painted skulls on our faces."

Beat.

"Maybe if I paint my face as a skull with rose in my hair next year, and you roll yourself up in bandages, no one will want to talk to us."

"I like that idea," he agrees.

He slowly reaches out and traces the outline of a skull's eye socket around her eye.

"I bet you were cute."

"Freaking adorable."

Modesty, what modesty?

"...you know, that's what adult Halloween lacks. Candy."

"We could always get candy from the bar tonight and hide out upstairs to save ourselves from any completely embarrassing costume incidents?"

That gets a snickery laugh.

"Too late. Bar had me running around in leather pants, a bra, and an eye-patch earlier."

She's keeping the leather pants and the bra (hey, good bras are hard to find).

He turns to face her more fully, then.

"...why does she always do these things to you when I'm rarely around to appreciate them?"

Trudy smirks.

"Hey, I remember a fair bit of appreciating last year's costume."

"Yes, but that was last year."

(He's not whining, but he is.)

He leans closer to put his lips at her ear, nuzzling his chin lightly against the curve of her neck.

"Still don' think it's quite fair."

"Mmmm, I'm sure you'll get to see the leather pants at some point."

"Excellent."

That was all he wanted (for now) anyway.

"I draw a line at the eyepatch, though. I mean, that's a kink of yours, that's cool. Ain't gonna judge. Just not gonna take part, either."

"I'm not really all that fond of losing my senses during sex," he admits. "I'd like to enjoy the entire experience."

"Then we agree."

Beat, and her smile turns wry. "I hate having my vision fucked with. But, hey. The leather pants were cool."

"You're a pilot," he says. "Your vision is your...it's everything."

"Exactly." She turns her head a little, kisses his temple. "You wanna talk about...who ever you saw?"

"It was one of the kids I had with me on the op in Lebanon."

(Twenty-four fucking years old.)

"Staff Sergeant, Timothy Harris. Wasn't Delta; he was just a Ranger," (even though that's a misconception because you're never just a Ranger "he was the first one who got killed that day."

He looks down at the blanket, idly brushing away an invisible thread on his knee.

"I was...pinned down. I never told you that," he swallows, mouth suddenly a bit dry. "Some son of a bitch had me to rights from a window, was leavin' craters in the sandstone close enough to put the dust in my eyes. I had a wall, and Harris managed to get across the space to the wall, and we were both sitting there trying to figure out what the fuck we were gonna do."

She settles on the bed more comfortably, crossing her legs and pulling the sheets back over. She doesn't say anything, just...listens.

She might, though, reach out and run her thumb over his knee in a comforting caress.

Even though he doesn't acknowledge the gesture, he appreciates it quite a bit.

"We'd gotten a route planned out and he was going to move back to the squad that was still holed up behind us, grab them and then we would take the building where the target was cornered. He moved before I finished a cover sweep. The second sniper got him in the leg. He probably would have bled out before we got him back to base, but they put a bullet through his helmet. Clean through."

He stopped moving, then.

"Once we had fire down, two of his guys got him and we made it to the building. Then we got hit with the grenades and I went into the wall. It all went t'shit then. I couldn't even hear the orders on the comm but they called us out. We waited 'til the call to prayer to medevac out. He was the first one down out of the fourteen."

Carl glances up at the doorway.

"He's buried at Arlington. That's where I was in the dream. Just sitting there, talking to him." A hard swallow to keep his voice level. "I know a lot of guys who're there. So're my parents, 'cause of them both bein' in the service. But it was just me and him, sitting there, having a normal conversation on the grass."

"And he chain-smokes, yeah?"

It's not really a question.

"I...got my co-pilot. In the hangar at Hell's Gate. Only, it, uh, only had all the choppers that've gone down. She was fixing our old one. Samson Three-One. Wouldn't, uh. Call it a normal conversation, though."

"Yeah, he does," he says, before he settles in to listen to her tell him about her dream. He'd had a feeling earlier that something wasn't right, but they had both brushed it aside in the effort to get some more sleep.

"What was different about it," he asks.

"I screamed at her a bit." She laughs. "Hadn't realised how fucking angry I was at her. Dying on me. As if she had a choice in the matter.

We, uh. We were on our normal run, in a convoy. We got attacked by a pair of the leonopteryx. They're the big, dragon-y aliens. Bigger than my Samson, much bigger wingspan. One of them...dropped, grabbed our rotor-tail, swung us through the air. Me'n'Ing, we...mostly got control back.

Then we slammed into a tree. That killed her, I got a compound fracture of my right leg, had to spend the night in the forest. Ing was the first one to die, but she wasn't the last.

You know the stupid thing? Happened on my thirtieth birthday. I'd forgotten. But Ing? She remembered."

Edited 2011-10-31 00:17 (UTC)

Carl doesn't laugh outright, but he does breath out what might be an unamused chuckle, if you tilt your head and look at it the right (dark, morbid humor) sort of way.

"Happy fuckin' birthday," he mutters.

His hand covers her hand, both resting on his knee.

"You're allowed t'be pissed at them for dying, even if it's not their fault or their choice."

"Yeah, I know." She manages a smile. "And hey, no one died on my thirty-first. Not like it's a habit."

"Here's to hoping no more of your birthdays are spent planning funerals, okay?"

It's a weak joke, but he's only half joking -- he really doesn't want to see any more of her friends die, even though he knows they will before the tour is through -- as he presses his lips against her forehead, then her cheekbone, and then her jaw.

"I think that's a fair wish."

Trudy turns her head, catches his mouth and kisses him soundly. It's not desire so much as love, seeking comfort.

"Yeah. Wish upon a freaking falling star." Then she shakes her head a little, kisses him again before moving to snuggle close to him.

"Think you're gonna get back to sleep?"

Edited 2011-10-31 09:15 (UTC)

"I may not actually sleep but I'm willing to give it another chance. It's still too early t'get up and go for a run."

If this place does strange things to your dreams around Halloween, he'd hate to find out what weirdness ends up lurking in the woods this time of year.

Carl shifts in bed so he's lying down, curling close to her before he pulls the blankets back over their bodies

"Besides. If we don't get back to sleep, it's not like I mind just havin' you in my arms for the next couple'a hours, Marine."

She laughs softly, leaning back against his chest and lacing her fingers with his.

"Sensible of you. I had these ideas of...I don't even know. Candles and candy. But that'd involve leaving the room for supplies, and...fuck that."

She brings up their entwined hands and kisses his palm.

"I'll run with you tomorrow?"

Company. Competition. Some line between, or involving, the two.

Edited 2011-10-31 11:56 (UTC)

"Deal."

He settles their hands against his chest, using his free one to brush her hair back out of her eyes before it settles resting against her collarbone.

"Loser buys the candy and we entertain those 'ideas' of yours tomorrow night?"

(He might be smirking, just a little, in the dark.)

"You're on, Benton."

But for now, sleep.

Or at least, silence in the dark, when all they can hear is the other - living - person.

After talking with the dead, sometimes all you need to do is hear someone's heartbeat.

Edited 2011-10-31 12:10 (UTC)

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conversations with dead people, 2011 -- post for trudy

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