Perhaps strangely, none of the locals fuck with them when they reach the Down. Craver almost wishes they would just to break up the momentum. It would give him something to do, a path he knows almost too well. Act, react, so on. On and on and on. This is why Pope always had them fighting a war, Carver realizes. Because if they stopped, what would they really have?
Not much at all.
Nothing stops them, though. No one even says a word to them, or seems to notice that Carver isn't wearing a collar. He doesn't have the energy for that bullshit right now, and so he leads Rosita into the house without a word. Vanessa's out.
He's never taken her into his room, he realizes as he moves through the house. Barely anyone's ever seen it. Even Grayson only visited occasionally, and never without asking permission first. It's a strange thought to bear now, in the aftermath. Carver just exhales and opens the door, kneeling to catch the kitten that immediately tries to bolt out into the hall.
"Hey, you," he murmurs as Dulcinea speaks indignantly. But he peers up at Rosita as he holds the kitten, clutching her to his chest as she starts to chew on his jacket. "...you can come in. If you want."
Rosita hasn't been in this house at all, and she has no idea what to make of it even when they walk up to it. She knows they moved. She doesn't know why, doesn't know... much. But he leads them in, and she stays right behind him because he hasn't told her to stop yet. She stays right behind him because this house is emptier now than it was yesterday, and she doesn't know how he's going to react to that, so she stays where she is.
She stands back while he handles the kitten, watching, failing to miss how he holds onto her. How he holds her close. She smiles when he looks up at her, and she nods, just once.
In truth, Carver doesn’t know if he wants to stay, if he wants to remain in motion. Maybe go on patrol and do something useful. Ask Rosita what chores need to be done because there are always chores that need to be done, and set himself to the task. Anything to keep himself moving, to stop thinking.
Or maybe he just wants to lie down on the floor and not exist for a while.
Hard to say, really.
“Okay,” Carver says softly, for lack of a better idea, and pushes the door open. Inside, the room is dark but oddly cozy despite it all: warm, and clean, and with clear lines of sight so that no enemy would be able to hide in this place without Carver knowing. Normally he would set tripwires and other contingencies, each more violent than the last, but the kitten gets into everything and so he’s held back. She doesn’t know any better.
Inside, there’s a bed, desk, and a closet. All dark wood, practical, picked by someone with a finer eye than Carver ever cared to have. The bed is made with a soldier’s precision, and hardly ever slept in. But the books—careful stacks of them lined up on his desk, many with handwritten notes inside, those are all Carver’s. Carefully collected, lovingly held. The books, and the weapons, are all his.
He goes to a cabinet and pulls out Dulcinea’s bowl and her newest can of cat food, clicking his tongue at her—though she’s already leaping around, mewing loudly, demanding her next meal.
“You’re loud,” he murmurs fondly, and barely gets his hand out of the way before the kitten shoved her face into the bowl. “You’d think I didn’t feed you at all.”
For all of her time here, Rosita hasn't really been invited into anyone's home that she would actually accept; the Manor, and one other friend and Jesus of course, but that's it. And this isn't for sex, so she really doesn't know what to do with herself, not really.
So she looks around them, closing the door quietly so Dulcinea doesn't run out again even if her attention is all on Carver and the food right now. Rosita lets her attention roam around the room, not knowing what she might have expected, and... honestly, unsurprised at what she finds. She's not sure if it's Grayson's touch or Vanessa's she's seeing, but it doesn't not feel like Carver. He's not out of place here.
She lingers near the books, one fingertip brushing along the leading edge of the cover on the topmost volume, and listens to him talking to Dulcinea. It feels... private in here, like maybe she's not supposed to be here, like maybe no one is, but he said she could come in so she stays and listens to the kitten eating, and takes in the silent details others might not expect from him.
He tucks the can away into a bag to dispose of later, watching the kitten, and then just sits down on the floor next to her. Pulling his knees up to this chest, watching Dulcinea as she grumbles and devours her food. Hungry little thing. She's still growing.
Here, she won't know what it feels like to starve. He'll take care of her as long as he can.
"You can sit," Carver adds quietly, glancing up at Rosita. "If you want."
She watches, wanting to ask howo g they have before they have to be out of this place, if he knows where he's going. She wants to ask him not just to come back to Creekside now but to stay there, to make a home there instead, but now isn't the time. He isn't even behind his eyes.
He invites her to sit and for a moment she glances around to decide on where, and settles at the edge of the bed. It feels a bit wrong, actually, with how neat and smooth the covers are but she can fix it again after.
"Do you want me to stay?" she asks, quietly. He can retract the permission any time, and at least here he has Dulcinea. At least here he isn't out there, at the mercy of merciless strangers.
Carver rests his chin on his knees. There are practical questions now. Logistics that need to be handled. Eventually, he’ll need to talk with Vanessa about what they’re both doing, because they will need to do something.
Maybe he’ll just take the kitten and go live in the woods for a bit.
“Yeah,” he says after a while. “I’m not good company, but.”
It feels better with someone there, someone other than the ghosts.
He's not good company, but she doesn't need him to be. She won't ask him again. If he wants her to go, he can ask her to go.
Now though, she nods. She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees for a moment, watching him.
"It's okay," she promises again. "But I'm going to go to the kitchen to find something for you to eat. I'll come straight back here."
She waits only long enough to see that it's registered, before she's pushing to her feet to do exactly what she said she was going to do. He doesn't need to make any more decisions right now.
Carver doesn’t respond, just rests his chin on his knees and watches the kitten go whole hog on her dinner and then, almost daintily, begin to clean herself off when she’s done. Her little tail giggled back and forth and she’s so unguarded it scares him sometimes, all the ways she doesn’t know how to protect herself. She’s not like the war dogs at all.
Maybe that’s the point, though.
Carver scrubs at his face and watches the kitten, feeling nothing but tired. Rosita will find the kitchen well stocked and meticulously organized, ever inch of it scrubbed clean. He’s the only person who’s ever used it. He wonders, briefly, what will happen to it once he’s kicked out.
It takes her a minute to find the kitchen at all, but she doesn't intentionally go poking around anywhere she shouldn't be. She doesn't spend much time poking around in the kitchen, either, and at first she thinks she needs to return everything to exactly as it was.
Then she looks down at the small mess she's made cutting up a peach and assembling a sandwich, and decides maybe it'd be good for him to have something to focus on, maybe something annoying. She puts away the food so it won't spoil and takes the rest with her back to the room.
She knocks but doesn't wait for an invitation, just comes back in and sits back down next to him. She glances at the kitten, too, but sets the plate on his knee.
"I know you're not hungry," she admits. "But eat it before the cat does anyway."
For the first time in a long time, food feels like an afterthought. Carver stares at the plate, reaching out to make sure it doesn’t tip over and make a wasteful mess. He needs to eat but he’s not hungry: doesn’t feel much of anything, really. He wonders if this deadened calm is better or worse than the manic energy that bursts through him sometimes.
The cat shouldn’t have people food, though. So, there’s that.
“Okay,” he agrees quietly, lifting the plate out of the way as Dulcinea trots over and immediately goes onto her hind legs to try and snag some of the bread. “I know I need to plan shit,” he adds after a moment. “But I can’t right now. Not yet.”
He isn't hungry and he may not be for a long time yet but it's still important. Still vital. She can stand in for his body knowing what it needs for a while.
She reaches to scoop up Dulcinea, to keep her out of his face for a moment.
"I know," she agrees. "But we have time. I'll do what I can when you're ready."
She just shakes her head; there's nothing to thank her for, even if she won't dismiss the impulse outright. Nothing can be taken for granted. She'd be here anyway.
Some things negate petty squabbles. If they had any, this would be one.
She settles the kitten in her lap, stroking her ears and ignoring the way she bats at her fingers in annoyance at being kept from the food.
"I want you to come with me to Creekside," she says. "Vanessa, too, if she needs a place. We'll work something out."
Oh, Carver thinks, and he doesn't answer immediately. He finishes the fruit and stares at the plate, trying to focus. To remember what it feels like to be focused.
"Okay," he says finally. Quiet, just like before. "Vanessa has her own place. She stays there sometimes. I'll talk to her."
She wants to push more, wants to focus him on the here and now, wants to solve something. Wants to fix it.
She can't fix it though. She distracts Dulcinea and watches to prompt Carver to finish the sandwich, and stays ready to move the plate out of the way when he's done.
"I know there's no quick, easy way through this," she finally says. "But whatever happens, I want you to know, I want you around. There's a place for you wherever I am, no matter what that looks like. If you need someone, need anything, even if you don't know what it is - call me. We'll figure it out."
She doesn't know if he will, can't promise to be able to help, but she can promise to make sure he's not alone for as long as she's here to answer.
She says, I want you around. She says, There's a place for you. Carver tips his head back, watching the corners. The ghosts say, Aren't you tired, brother?
Yeah. But that's hardly new, is it?
"I'll come to Creekside," he agrees quietly. It's hard to focus beyond that. To force his thoughts into words that exist outside of himself.
She feels like maybe she's being unfair somehow, pushing for something he can't or doesn't want to give. He doesn't want to make any decisions right now, maybe can't, but that's alright. It has to be alright. To keep him as safe and whole as she can, she'll push.
She reminds herself to breathe, too, and reaches to lay her hand on his arm, just below the crook of his elbow.
"Let's just go. If you need something later, I can come back and get it."
There are rules, and he has responsibilities, and they both know there are circumstances under which a pet is an expensive liability - but it is not this circumstance. It is not now.
"I wouldn't expect you to leave her behind," she answers, twisting to look at where he pulled the cat food out of, for a pack to fill with more.
"We'll figure something out for her in the house."
Carver just breathes out, nods. He knows about making sacrifices. By the end, all their war dogs were killed by the dead or their own hands to feed the group. He doesn’t want to kill the kitten, though.
Maybe in this world, he doesn’t have to.
“There’s a go bag in the closest,” he murmurs, and picks at the sandwich. Forcing himself to eat. “‘s got everything.”
Cat food included. He’s always ready to pack up and run.
She's not surprised; she has one, too. So does Jesus.
She wonders for a moment if that's all survivors really have to offer each other, is understanding why they're always ready to run, instead of knowing the reasons to stay. To feel safe, to feel like something can last. She nods anyway, and twists to set Dulcinea on the bed while she stands to find the bag.
He's packed the one tightly, but she finds another and makes sure to pick up some of the books off the desk, too, for the second one; she glances around for pictures, and she'll take those too unless he stops her. He has time to come back here any time he wants, but in case everything changes again, in case he doesn't want to, she wants him to already have some important pieces.
She shoulders one, and holds the other out to him. "Let's go. You can finish that on the way, or I have more at the house."
There are no pictures on his desk, but there’s a small camera in a case. A slender, fine-made knife in a sheath. Carver finishes the sandwich without tasting any of it and helps Rosita tuck those away, too.
In the end, even after all this time, he doesn’t own much that matters. Certainly nothing he couldn’t leave behind if he had to run. Maybe he’d regret it, but he’s carried a lot of regrets for a long time. That hasn’t changed in this place, not really.
But the little things matter. The books. The knife that Grayson gave him. The camera that Paul gave him. A small, battered notebook.
Little things. Ghosts.
He tucks the kitten into his pocket and shoulders the pack, giving Rosita a tired nod. Okay.
She won't fit there much longer, Rosita thinks. Carver will have to find a new solution, she'll be more vulnerable, harder to protect.
She leads them out. She's never considered herself a leader but she knows how to pick her way past danger and set her feet on the path home, so she does.
The walk to Creekside is familiar by this point and she doesn't belabor it by trying to talk. She breathes in the scent of crushed leaves as they go, the sound they make underfoot, the crisp wind against her face, and she thinks this isn't how she wanted to do any of this. She's not sure it will stick this way, and for a lot of reasons - for him and her both - she wants it to stick. Nothing for it. Life never waits until you're ready, it just happens.
She shows him how to pick his way through the new traps she's laid down for the fall, the winter, and leads him down the last hill a stone's throw from the creek. The house looks like a house now, in need of refreshing but no longer structural repairs. She brings him in through the front door. There's insulation and dry wall stacked along one wall of the future living room, ready to be installed, but most of it is clear now. The lights turn on when she hits a switch.
"The room you picked is still open," she says. "Or you can pick a new one. The only two anyone's living in are mine and Magpie's, and Jesus has stuff in his."
They don’t speak as they walk. Carver shoulders the pack and breathes cool, clear air, and he thinks about how he carries Dulcinea in his pocket and how he used to carry Matthew on his back. When the weight felt like something he could always bear no matter how long they marched or how hard things got.
It changed somewhere in the middle, Carver thinks. He’s so tired, now. But he can’t ever say that so he doesn’t, he just follows alongside Rosita and marks the traps she shows him, the toll of survival and all the work it took to build this place into something worth having, worth fighting for. He was offered a room here once, but—
Yeah. He got tired that time too, didn’t he?
Carver just exhales. “I’ll take the one I picked.”
There are implications to that, things they aren’t saying and haven’t played out, but there’s no time. This is just happening, isn’t it?
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handleyourshit) wrote2032-07-23 01:51 pm
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Not much at all.
Nothing stops them, though. No one even says a word to them, or seems to notice that Carver isn't wearing a collar. He doesn't have the energy for that bullshit right now, and so he leads Rosita into the house without a word. Vanessa's out.
He's never taken her into his room, he realizes as he moves through the house. Barely anyone's ever seen it. Even Grayson only visited occasionally, and never without asking permission first. It's a strange thought to bear now, in the aftermath. Carver just exhales and opens the door, kneeling to catch the kitten that immediately tries to bolt out into the hall.
"Hey, you," he murmurs as Dulcinea speaks indignantly. But he peers up at Rosita as he holds the kitten, clutching her to his chest as she starts to chew on his jacket. "...you can come in. If you want."
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She stands back while he handles the kitten, watching, failing to miss how he holds onto her. How he holds her close. She smiles when he looks up at her, and she nods, just once.
"We can stay for a while."
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Or maybe he just wants to lie down on the floor and not exist for a while.
Hard to say, really.
“Okay,” Carver says softly, for lack of a better idea, and pushes the door open. Inside, the room is dark but oddly cozy despite it all: warm, and clean, and with clear lines of sight so that no enemy would be able to hide in this place without Carver knowing. Normally he would set tripwires and other contingencies, each more violent than the last, but the kitten gets into everything and so he’s held back. She doesn’t know any better.
Inside, there’s a bed, desk, and a closet. All dark wood, practical, picked by someone with a finer eye than Carver ever cared to have. The bed is made with a soldier’s precision, and hardly ever slept in. But the books—careful stacks of them lined up on his desk, many with handwritten notes inside, those are all Carver’s. Carefully collected, lovingly held. The books, and the weapons, are all his.
He goes to a cabinet and pulls out Dulcinea’s bowl and her newest can of cat food, clicking his tongue at her—though she’s already leaping around, mewing loudly, demanding her next meal.
“You’re loud,” he murmurs fondly, and barely gets his hand out of the way before the kitten shoved her face into the bowl. “You’d think I didn’t feed you at all.”
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So she looks around them, closing the door quietly so Dulcinea doesn't run out again even if her attention is all on Carver and the food right now. Rosita lets her attention roam around the room, not knowing what she might have expected, and... honestly, unsurprised at what she finds. She's not sure if it's Grayson's touch or Vanessa's she's seeing, but it doesn't not feel like Carver. He's not out of place here.
She lingers near the books, one fingertip brushing along the leading edge of the cover on the topmost volume, and listens to him talking to Dulcinea. It feels... private in here, like maybe she's not supposed to be here, like maybe no one is, but he said she could come in so she stays and listens to the kitten eating, and takes in the silent details others might not expect from him.
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Here, she won't know what it feels like to starve. He'll take care of her as long as he can.
"You can sit," Carver adds quietly, glancing up at Rosita. "If you want."
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He invites her to sit and for a moment she glances around to decide on where, and settles at the edge of the bed. It feels a bit wrong, actually, with how neat and smooth the covers are but she can fix it again after.
"Do you want me to stay?" she asks, quietly. He can retract the permission any time, and at least here he has Dulcinea. At least here he isn't out there, at the mercy of merciless strangers.
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Maybe he’ll just take the kitten and go live in the woods for a bit.
“Yeah,” he says after a while. “I’m not good company, but.”
It feels better with someone there, someone other than the ghosts.
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Now though, she nods. She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees for a moment, watching him.
"It's okay," she promises again. "But I'm going to go to the kitchen to find something for you to eat. I'll come straight back here."
She waits only long enough to see that it's registered, before she's pushing to her feet to do exactly what she said she was going to do. He doesn't need to make any more decisions right now.
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Maybe that’s the point, though.
Carver scrubs at his face and watches the kitten, feeling nothing but tired. Rosita will find the kitchen well stocked and meticulously organized, ever inch of it scrubbed clean. He’s the only person who’s ever used it. He wonders, briefly, what will happen to it once he’s kicked out.
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Then she looks down at the small mess she's made cutting up a peach and assembling a sandwich, and decides maybe it'd be good for him to have something to focus on, maybe something annoying. She puts away the food so it won't spoil and takes the rest with her back to the room.
She knocks but doesn't wait for an invitation, just comes back in and sits back down next to him. She glances at the kitten, too, but sets the plate on his knee.
"I know you're not hungry," she admits. "But eat it before the cat does anyway."
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The cat shouldn’t have people food, though. So, there’s that.
“Okay,” he agrees quietly, lifting the plate out of the way as Dulcinea trots over and immediately goes onto her hind legs to try and snag some of the bread. “I know I need to plan shit,” he adds after a moment. “But I can’t right now. Not yet.”
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She reaches to scoop up Dulcinea, to keep her out of his face for a moment.
"I know," she agrees. "But we have time. I'll do what I can when you're ready."
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Finally, he takes a slice of peach and eats mechanically, without tasting it.
“Thank you,” he says, very softly.
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Some things negate petty squabbles. If they had any, this would be one.
She settles the kitten in her lap, stroking her ears and ignoring the way she bats at her fingers in annoyance at being kept from the food.
"I want you to come with me to Creekside," she says. "Vanessa, too, if she needs a place. We'll work something out."
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"Okay," he says finally. Quiet, just like before. "Vanessa has her own place. She stays there sometimes. I'll talk to her."
Figure something out.
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She can't fix it though. She distracts Dulcinea and watches to prompt Carver to finish the sandwich, and stays ready to move the plate out of the way when he's done.
"I know there's no quick, easy way through this," she finally says. "But whatever happens, I want you to know, I want you around. There's a place for you wherever I am, no matter what that looks like. If you need someone, need anything, even if you don't know what it is - call me. We'll figure it out."
She doesn't know if he will, can't promise to be able to help, but she can promise to make sure he's not alone for as long as she's here to answer.
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Yeah. But that's hardly new, is it?
"I'll come to Creekside," he agrees quietly. It's hard to focus beyond that. To force his thoughts into words that exist outside of himself.
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She reminds herself to breathe, too, and reaches to lay her hand on his arm, just below the crook of his elbow.
"Let's just go. If you need something later, I can come back and get it."
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Yeah.
He shifts, watching Rosita for a moment. Then he just nods. It's easier not to think. To just go with what she says.
"You care if I bring the kitten?" he asks quietly. There are rules, but he's responsible for her.
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"I wouldn't expect you to leave her behind," she answers, twisting to look at where he pulled the cat food out of, for a pack to fill with more.
"We'll figure something out for her in the house."
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Maybe in this world, he doesn’t have to.
“There’s a go bag in the closest,” he murmurs, and picks at the sandwich. Forcing himself to eat. “‘s got everything.”
Cat food included. He’s always ready to pack up and run.
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She wonders for a moment if that's all survivors really have to offer each other, is understanding why they're always ready to run, instead of knowing the reasons to stay. To feel safe, to feel like something can last. She nods anyway, and twists to set Dulcinea on the bed while she stands to find the bag.
He's packed the one tightly, but she finds another and makes sure to pick up some of the books off the desk, too, for the second one; she glances around for pictures, and she'll take those too unless he stops her. He has time to come back here any time he wants, but in case everything changes again, in case he doesn't want to, she wants him to already have some important pieces.
She shoulders one, and holds the other out to him. "Let's go. You can finish that on the way, or I have more at the house."
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In the end, even after all this time, he doesn’t own much that matters. Certainly nothing he couldn’t leave behind if he had to run. Maybe he’d regret it, but he’s carried a lot of regrets for a long time. That hasn’t changed in this place, not really.
But the little things matter. The books. The knife that Grayson gave him. The camera that Paul gave him. A small, battered notebook.
Little things. Ghosts.
He tucks the kitten into his pocket and shoulders the pack, giving Rosita a tired nod. Okay.
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She leads them out. She's never considered herself a leader but she knows how to pick her way past danger and set her feet on the path home, so she does.
The walk to Creekside is familiar by this point and she doesn't belabor it by trying to talk. She breathes in the scent of crushed leaves as they go, the sound they make underfoot, the crisp wind against her face, and she thinks this isn't how she wanted to do any of this. She's not sure it will stick this way, and for a lot of reasons - for him and her both - she wants it to stick. Nothing for it. Life never waits until you're ready, it just happens.
She shows him how to pick his way through the new traps she's laid down for the fall, the winter, and leads him down the last hill a stone's throw from the creek. The house looks like a house now, in need of refreshing but no longer structural repairs. She brings him in through the front door. There's insulation and dry wall stacked along one wall of the future living room, ready to be installed, but most of it is clear now. The lights turn on when she hits a switch.
"The room you picked is still open," she says. "Or you can pick a new one. The only two anyone's living in are mine and Magpie's, and Jesus has stuff in his."
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It changed somewhere in the middle, Carver thinks. He’s so tired, now. But he can’t ever say that so he doesn’t, he just follows alongside Rosita and marks the traps she shows him, the toll of survival and all the work it took to build this place into something worth having, worth fighting for. He was offered a room here once, but—
Yeah. He got tired that time too, didn’t he?
Carver just exhales. “I’ll take the one I picked.”
There are implications to that, things they aren’t saying and haven’t played out, but there’s no time. This is just happening, isn’t it?
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