returnjourneynet | text

At a glance she can tell this isn't a room she'll likely get much use of. Even during periods of a more active interest in sport or fitness, something about a public gym does nothing for her. But it's all new and wildly different and she's certain if she skips rooms she'll be inviting something to bite her in the ass later. And it feels good to be moving.

The pool is a pleasant surprise, just when she's been worrying there won't be a single amenity she cares for. The sleeve of eels, glow diminished in a lit room, draws her attention next and longest.

Lastly, she allows herself to skip the sponge — it's puzzling, but she isn't convinced close inspection will enlighten her — and instead continue toward the end of the department that seems in active use. She can't make out a word of whatever is playing, but it sounds bubbly. Promising.

She glances down at her comm as she moves, tapping out a brief reply, and looks up and directly at William, of all people. Or what she thinks is William — he's not dressed at all like she's accustomed to, and more importantly he can't possibly be here.

Travis is paid no mind, impressive as his work is.

Her brow furrows, and when she speaks it's cautious. A test.

"...Hey?"

It's not that he thought he'd never see her again.

...but it is, a little. This is the hard part, the part that's his to do. He'd never pictured Misty on his fucking sun-dappled porch, had imagined her with Emily only in moments of weakness. They'd grown up together once, their houses a stone's throw away; been bats and prisoners, dwelled in the desert and been pulled together by magic. He'd puked in her toilet and held her hand.

It was enough. It was more than enough. But he looks up sharply at the sound of—what can't be her voice. His arms drop and he steps forward, nearly knocking into Travis' head. Then time seems to quicken: he shoves past the bench, weaves between the scattering of weight machines. “Hey!” he finally thinks to call. It rings out, desperate, as if the next words should be don't go.

When he reaches her he gives an incredulous laugh, breaks into a smile. He pulls her into a too-tight hug, oblivious to the dampness of his shirt, how he reeks of sweat and exertion.

Somehow she expects a frown, some indication of displeasure that either he's still finding himself on prison ships, or that she does. Doubt that she's there, perhaps. She wouldn't blame him. Instead he moves straight to the harder part, the part that asks more bravery than she's sure she would have, and actually advances.

The laugh and smile are warmer than she can brace for on such short notice, the magnitude of his being present at all still only just beginning to sink in before he's hugging her, and she's doing her best to grip him just as tightly while she blinks back tears.

He is impressively damp, and it's fine. She's incredibly content to press her head to his shoulder and laugh, herself.

"Jesus," she murmurs, to herself as much as him. "This is— are you okay? It's so good to see you—"

He gives another squeeze, swaying ever so slightly from foot to foot. He's warmer than usual, his limbs loose—for a moment he imagines it's all down to this, that the hug's exhausted his strength. “I'm good,” he says in the vicinity of her ear. The words seem to drift. “Yeah.”

When he lets go he trails a hand along her shoulder, down her arm. “You look the same.” His voice is more tentative—infinitely—than his touch. His smile widens and breaks, his face looking stricken without it. “What're you doing here?”

No obvious distress, nothing caustic. She trusts he wouldn't sugarcoat it if he'd been kidnapped, if things back home had gone to shit, and so she takes that at face value, shoulders sinking with relief. He's good.

You don't, she means to tease in return to his observation, but something in her stomach drops out in tandem with his smile. Her own remains, though suddenly sheepish, pinched.

"It's— I disappeared, I guess, and it was fine for a minute but I was trying to get back. I went home, uh—" It's nothing but real events she has to relay, but the absurdity of it is far from lost on her. A broken record. Her gaze darts over his shoulder and to the side, needing a break from his eyes and instead spotting (and abruptly remembering) Travis. They dart back. Her voice lowers.

"It's not good, back there. I don't know what's going on, but it's all gone." Ash. Wouldn't you know it.

Withholding the personal element feels unfair, and waiting until they're alone feels somehow like it would stretch the impossibility of his being here at all. If she waits, she can too easily imagine not seeing him again.

So she mouths: I died. No body.

Travis has been standing by the bench for what feels like an eternity. The only thing that keeps him to huffing and pacing instead of becoming a real nuisance is that William is touching another human being, and that feels like such a break from reality that he can't not watch.

But when Misty meets his eyes, no matter how fleeting, he can't keep his mouth shut.

"Hey!" he calls, waving an arm. "We finishing your reps or should I go cool down while you chat?"

Nobody. No body. William half-turns, the news on his face—all of a sudden drawn, his gaze blundering over Travis. Posture like a suit hanging in the closet. The music now a buzzing in his ears. “Yeah,” he calls after a moment's pause. It's solemn, disconnected. It doesn't answer the question.

He turns back to Misty, reaches for her hand then pulls her close again. A hand at her wrist, an arm around her. What was the first thing she'd felt, coming back? What was the last?

“I'm sorry,” he says, almost angry. Scraping the bottom of his voice. He pinches his eyes shut, leans in. Sorry he wasn't there—that he'd had no idea, that his life had gone on undisturbed. Sorry it couldn't have been him instead. “There was an inmate, he's gone. He didn't believe in good and evil. And I wished you were here. I could point to you, say, 'There. That's a good person.'”

He's crying. He wipes at his face, looks around as if seeing the room for the first time. “You—wanna go stick our feet in the pool?”

Her composure holds through the renewed contact, watery eyes aside. Through the apology, even. It's the final point that breaks her, wished you were here and good person drawing a laugh and a sob from her simultaneously. It's all over already; she's passed and has already begun the process of righting it, but it's difficult to not consider how fresh the wound is.

Not having forgotten that there's an observer, she chooses to double down on the laughter. Hastily wiping her eyes, she nods.

"Yeah. Definitely, please, thank you. Sorry if I'm interrupting—" A vague nod of her head, indicating the bench behind him. There's an intimate lack of real worry, a trust that she isn't. "Pool's great."

"Seriously?" Travis calls again when William turns away. "I'm not gonna be offended if you tell me to fuck off if this comes first! Seems kinda emotional."

He stops clinging to her, though there's that hindbrain fear she'll vanish—blip out of sight. Fully faces Travis this time, cracks a crooked smile. What remains of the tears isn't so out of place amid all the sweat. “I'll introduce you later,” he says. His voice has leveled out but the tone's all over the place: laughing relief laden with something heavy. He swallows. “Thanks.”

He does sound grateful.

He steers them toward the pool, its clear, unbroken surface. Toes off his shoes. His socks are predictably sweaty, and he hesitates a moment, standing there on the pool deck. “Have you seen the little bots? There's one...” His hand zigzags above the water, describing the path of the aquatic cleaning bot he'd glimpsed crawling along the bottom of the pool one morning. More streamlined than the others, trailing bubbles.

He sits down on the deck without ceremony, peels off a sock and tosses it away. The second he flings in her direction.

"A couple, yeah." But limited to hallways and the mess hall; she follows the movement of his hand and focuses briefly on the pool beyond it, thinking of Portland at the end of the world and imagining this particular bot being shaped like a fish, or an eel.

The flung sock jerks her back to reality. It's with a grin she raises one foot at a time, each boot tugged off in one practiced, fluid motion. Socks are bundled and dropped back into their respective shoe. His is plucked up delicately between two fingers, and as she sits beside him she sends it back his way.

The water is grounding, and she contents herself a moment longer just paddling.

"How's everything been, back home?" She won't name Emily unless he does first, but it's what she's most anxious to hear about. A child wouldn't turn him out, she assumes, but—

Well, it'll be better to hear.

"And here, I guess, but it doesn't sound like anyone's been around long."

He scoots toward the pool's edge, plunking his feet in. The water's warmer than he'd like, more sedate—nothing like the cold shock of a creek. He leans down, splashes his face before turning to watch her over his shoulder. Still not taking her presence for granted. Still wanting to reach for her.

“She's good.” He hooks the cuff of the sock over his thumb, smiles as he tries to slingshot it and fails miserably. “She's got all my breach notes.” Except San Francisco, thrust at Norton the night Larry disappeared. Keep them safe, he'd told her. Maybe they'd gone into a homework folder, maybe tucked between the pages of a book. Maybe some other hiding spot, unknown even to him.

He sits back, arms braced behind him. Kicking half-heartedly at the water, his face upturned. “She didn't see the divorce coming. How could she?” His voice slips and his head jerks toward Misty. He stares a moment, gaze lost. “I hated that conversation. Telling her...”

That he couldn't love Juliet the right way. The least of his lies, but it had hurt just the same.

The focus doesn't escape her notice, but she feels plenty assured it's no cause for alarm. She's staring at him all the same, still processing that he's there. It should be impossible between his disposition and the likelihood of being picked up by a second ship; she should ask what he's here for, she's dimly aware and suddenly ravenously curious, but it can wait.

Unpleasant as the subject veers, it's good to hear him speak. She hopes her expression isn't too awkward a mix of sympathetic and grateful. Raising an arm, she rests a hand briefly on his shoulder. No squeeze, no movement, just the fleeting weight of the appendage to assure him he doesn't need to put the details to words.

"I can't imagine she's anything but strong."

text | un: MDay

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