deadboywalking | for @10_20_15_5

for @10_20_15_5_50

It was supposed to help.

They'd sold the Pinto for this -- Joyce white-knuckled and tight-lipped at the car dealership, trying to get the most money possible, because tickets from Indianapolis to Sacramento weren't cheap, even if, at 12, Will could still get a child's seat. They'd spent all this money, because Joyce had heard from a doctor who'd heard from a nurse from an orderly from another nurse that this guy in California was supposed to be the best.

But hundreds of dollars and an exhausting all-night flight later, they had nothing to show for it. The doctor had done all the same tests, EKG and blood tests, so many that Will felt shaky and dizzy afterwards. He'd asked a thousand questions and Will had talked until his throat was sore about the episodes, about the things he could see, about the place he sometimes went. And all the doctor had been able to say was, "Probably PTSD. You said he was lost in the woods for a week?"

She wasn't talking, but Will could tell his mother was starting to lose hope. She had that blank, faraway look in her eyes, she kept spacing out and didn't seem to hear Will when he spoke. Even worse, she'd missed the turn to get to the airport, so they'd missed their flight and had to rebook for another one, early in the morning.

So there they were, sitting in the Sacramento airport at three in the morning, waiting for their flight to begin boarding. Joyce had a now-stone-cold cup of coffee in front of her, untouched, and she kept nodding off where she sat. Will was on the other side of their luggage, just as exhausted, but unable to let himself sleep.

Instead he glanced down at where his long sleeves rode up, displaying the numerous bandages on his lower arms. It had taken the nurse multiple tries to find a vein for the IV, or to draw from, and Will sort of felt like one big pincushion. He absently tugged at the sleeves, looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. People liked to assume, after all.

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“Only if it goes ass over teakettle and the moose tramples its undercarriage---moose are tall, yeah, but they're not climb-a-ladder-to-the-cab tall.” Venting through a pfff is the only thing that lets Sam stop herself from laughing aloud, since she's never been stoic, and the flash of fright off Will is answered with a second of shock.

Oh.

“'Sokay.” The adept's up out of her seat with that, dropping gracelessly into a crouch (bad leg to one side, at a right angle, almost) to help collect the coins. “Sam. Nice to meet you, Will.”

Since the change-gathering has them within arm's reach of each other, she offers a hand to shake; her right, ink all up to the elbow. They're probably a sight, here on their heels, money in hand like some bizarre deal's going down.

“When I have one big tattoo, I'm putting a big tattoo over it. They've got that ink that only shows up under blacklights, and I'm going to make the most of it.”

"A supermoose, then." Will says it like this is a thing. Like everyone knows about the supermoose, that grow big and broad in Canada, up near the Arctic Circle. "Supermoose versus bear truck." He's recovering from his quick reversion into whatever that was, a relic of something he doesn't like to acknowledge. Will isn't old enough or emotionally mature enough to fully compartmentalize his reactions, and there's been too much in the last twelve-and-some years for him to react to. Even worse, he doesn't seem to realize what sorts of buttons he pushes, tiny and nervous and wide-eyed and curious. Someone's going to want to put him in their pocket and feel him on cake crumbs at this rate.

Fortunately it's a universal kid truth that having An Adult get down to an eye level is one of the most reassuring things that can be done. The world isn't made for the small, so any adjustment is heartily appreciated. Will's back to that genuine, bright grin, reaching out to shake Sam's hand, scrunching his nose up like he expects the ink to -- tickle, maybe. "Sorry for dropping, um...all these." The change is put back on the table, and Will stands and, bless him, braces his feet to help her up.

"Well, and then what?" This is a train of logic he's following all the way to the station, Sam.

“Oh, well, in that case my money's on supermoose. All Beartruck can do to Supermoose is try to ram it, or try to crisp it with a flame that's meant to be purely decorative. Supermoose---” now, apparently, a proper noun “---would have had worse butting heads with others of its kind. Like, okay, if a regular moose can do a number on a car and its driver comparable to another car? Supermoose can definitely give as good as it gets from a monster truck. Plus, the bear driving it is probably not buckled up, and its natural weapons won't do it any good while it's driving... or trapped inside the truck because the doors are too dented for it to open. A winnah izzz Supermoose!” Sam lowered her voice for her announcer imitation, unwilling to wake Will's mom. The lady looked like she needed the rest, and there were few things more frustrating than managing to sleep somewhere uncomfortable on account of being exhausted, and waking still tired... but not quite tired enough to get to sleep again.

Careful not to pull too much, Sam accepted the hand up, charmed anew by the human aspen helping her. (Could this kid have come from some woods? It seemed strangely plausible; maybe the woman he was with had left a basket of bread and cheese and baubles somewhere past a tree with leaves like hands and a pit which smelled of lilac.) She stepped back and settled onto her seat, smiling a little catlike smile.

“You read Ray Bradbury?”

There's a very sage nod, and it's safe to assume that Will's ever-present spiral-bound notebook is going to get some intricate doodles of Beartruck and Supermoose locked in a grim battle. "That's what I thought. Besides, bears can't drive," Will adds, hopping back onto his seat (and he needs to hop, get a little bit of air to even settle on the seat, bitty thing). "Probably run into a tree before the moose even got there." Oh, because now they're operating by the laws of logic.

The question makes him wrinkle his nose again, which seems to be his reflexive reaction to confusing things. "I'm twelve." That seems to be enough of an answer -- though there's logic behind it, because most of the Important Books come in high school, not middle school. But, after a moment, hesitantly (because boys don't do things like stay inside and read, that's for sissies and girls): "He...wrote the book about burning stuff, right? Are you going to...catch on fire once you have one big tattoo?" Now he just looks alarmed.

Although she'd been looking back towards the coffee machine (and seriously considering a second cup) Sam turned back to Will at his so-serious assertion, one eyebrow up. “Are you sure? Didn't they have bears on pedal bikes in old-school circuses? If something's got the dexterity to handle handlebars and pedals, it can probably handle a steering wheel, manage gas and breaking.” As ridiculous as the premise might've been, it deserved a thin veneer of plausibility---if nothing else, for the fun of it.

'So?' would've been out of her mouth in the moment before Will spoke again, but she saw the curiousity spreading again in his aura, saw it overtake his uncertainty, and brightened a bit as he continued. “Yeah, that's right, and nah, nah; I don't even sunburn easy, despite being fairly fair. He wrote a bunch of short stories, too, you know. I inhaled them at your age. Some are kinda macabre... but others are pretty optimistic. Anyway, read enough Bradbury and you'll have an answer. Til then, don't worry. I'm not gonna burn---unless someone shoves me into an MRI. Which is unlikely.”

"Well, yeah, but those were trained bears," Will reasons, folding his hands in his lap, now that he's arranged the coins on the table to his liking. "They had practice. If you just put a bear in a truck, it's not gonna know what to do. It's gonna just...chew on the wheel or something." Soon they're going to be discussing the finer points of higher education for bears.

This seems suspiciously like homework of some kind, and Will's eyes narrow for a moment in skepticism. But he does like short stories too, and he likes reading and Sam doesn't seem like she's trying to trick him into reading something dumb. "Which ones are the gross ones?" He knows what macabre means, look at him.

Then, sitting up a little straighter, a bit of that fear creeping back into his expression: "MRI's don't make you burn. Right?" That's the next step, now that EKG has failed most of the doctors. The idea of being inside a big metal tube, taking pictures of his brain is already terrifying.

“Yeah, but how is Beartruck even going to be a thing unless the bear part of Beartruck has at least got a learner's?” Unable to believe she managed to ask that question with even a partial poker face intact, Sam fought hard to maintain her composure. “Someone would've had to go 'hey, could we teach a bear to drive?' and since you know what people are like, you know the bear in question would be getting coached in parallel parking before someone said 'we could, but should we?'”

Will's skeptical look met the same smile Sam wore before, and she shrugged. “'Mars Is Heaven,' 'The Jar,' 'The Skeleton,' and a couple of others I can't remember the titles of off the top of my head. 'Uncle Einar' is a good one, and 'There Was an Old Woman,' and 'The Haunting of the New.' Granted, those aren't the stories you'll find the answer in, but they're worth reading anyway. Oh, and 'The Man Upstairs!' That one's kind of gross and really, really good.” Just recalling it made her want to reread it.

Sam held both hands up in a wordless 'whoa, no,' stood and stretched. “MRI's don't make you burn. They only might if you have a tattoo, especially if the ink is red... or black. See, those colours can have iron in them, and that'll react like a fork in a microwave. Not that dramatic, since the iron particles are so small, but... it wouldn't be fun for me. Probably only a portion of my tattoos have the ink with iron, but I wouldn't know which, and I'm not keen to learn like that. Though, it's not all bad.” She shouldered her bag again, a little amused.

“Some tattoo inks use the same industrial-strength pigments used in automotive paint, which I think is kinda cool.”

"Just a passing bear. Like, it saw the truck and got inside. Maybe there was food inside." Will gives her a very patient look, shifting to cross his legs and fold his hands in his lap, the picture of rational innocence. "Who's dumb enough to think that they should get inside a small space with a bear? Bears eat people."

Then he reaches out, like he's going to grab his backpack and pull out the notebook to start writing all this down -- the stories and the stuff about iron particles inside tattoo ink because it's gross and it's cool and he's fascinated. And then Sam stands and something closes down in his expression. "Do you have to go?"

“Bear-whisperer, maybe?” A bodybag, definitely. To be fair, the chaos mages (she'd heard of) were playing with loaded dice, but there wasn't a one who hadn't had allies, enemies, and innocent bystanders scream you fuckin' idiot, you're gonna get yourself killed on multiple occasions. “But even if it's a 'just a passing bear,' there's no guarantee it isn't a were-bear. Just a passing bear could be any variety. 'Were' is one.”

Sam shook her head. “Not exactly, not yet, but I'm waiting on my ride, so I'm gonna go along the window to see if I can spot him. If he isn't here, I'm gonna grab another coffee and come back. Heck, if he is here, I'll at least stop by and say bye because you've made waiting a lot less boring. I'm just carrying my crap off because... well, y'know.” She spread her hands.

“Not much worth stealing, and even if there were I'd trust you to watch it, but there's that whole airport thing. Ditch it, and there'll probably be 'would the owner of these horrible hobo pants please come to the security counter...' across the intercom.”

"...were-bears." Judging by how Will's eyebrows arch up to hide under those shaggy bangs of his, he's never even considered this as a possibility before. Give him a moment to go through all the other possibilities of were out there. Were-jaguars? Were-penguins? Were-werewolves?

It's silly, because stranger danger and everything, but Will's tense shoulders relax a little at the knowledge that Sam isn't actively trying to get away from him. He worries. He worries about strangers and family members and friends alike. Sometimes he just gets sick of worrying. But he nods placidly, sitting back in his seat, the picture of patience.

"Okay." Then, after a pause, shyly earnest: "I don't think your pants are horrible."

“Taught as a man, to drive... as a bear. Might have potential?” Sam had to grin at the way Will's eyebrows went up until they were out of sight, taking a few moments to adjust the strap of her bag and hear whatever it was the boy had to say. His assurance prompted a soft chuff, and once again, she shook her head. “I'm glad, cause these are one of my pretty good pairs. The horrible hobo pants, they're one of the first things security would find if they looked through my luggage. Two hard yanks away from their new career as cut-offs, they're ratty as anything but I like 'em too much to toss. But, anyway? I'll be back.”

Rounding the chairs to walk along the windows, Sam passed by Will; feeling it wasn't too terrible an idea (and trusting her intuition) she reached out just enough to give his shoulder a gentle pat in passing. It was one of the rare instances in which her walking pace proved an asset, since it meant she could reach a little more leisurely, not spook the kid with a sudden movement.

"Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense." It doesn't, not even remotely, except under these new sets of rules that they've managed to outline. Will settles back in his seat, reaching out now to grab his backpack and pull out his notebook and pencils, already wanting to doodle the werebears in trucks fighting against the supermoose. Supermooses. Whatever. "Mmmkay," he says, flicking open the pages, well on his way to utter distraction.

And then she touches his shoulder. He doesn't flinch or even tense up, which means a+ on the intuition, Sam. Instead he looks up at her with a strange mixture of confusion and wonder, and perhaps the slightest bit of longing. Will's young enough to want affection, to crave it the way only children who were denied such contact (except from one or two sources) can. The look shifts, melts into a quick, brilliant smile before he ducks his head and focuses back on his paper.

It took a while for Sam to return; though chatting with Will had done wonders for her morale (what with the absolute worst part of waiting in an airport being being bored) she was still tired, moving slower than she otherwise would. She hoped her second coffee would help with that; the cup was still hot in her hand when she settled onto her seat, separated from Will by one empty chair. After a moment, she tipped her bag over the arms and onto that unoccupied seat, leaning over to try and eye the boy's book.

“Whatcha drawing? Couldn't spot my friend, so it looks like I'll be waiting a while yet... and bugging you, unless you mind.”

In the time she's gone, Will makes a trip to the vending machine (because she got that part right, he's hungry and he needs sugar), adjusts the coat draped over his sleeping mother's shoulders so she doesn't get cold, settles back into his seat and is deeply involved in drawing the individual hairs on the Beartruck Bear's shoulders and back. He's definitely a child artist, but there's an attention to detail that most other children Will's age don't possess -- he's taken the time to outline every one of the treads on the car's wheels, the clods of dirt being kicked up, the aforementioned hairs. All his drawings are like that, intricate and detailed and focused.

He jumps a little at Sam's return, blinking a couple times as he's brought out of his artsy reverie. Automatically, he hides the book. "Um, nothing. It's nothing. Hi."

“Hi to you, too.” The adept shifted to lean away, her free hand held up. “Sorry I interrupted you; sorry I got snoopy. May I see what you're drawing, even if it's 'nothing'? I promise I won't say anything mean.”

She settled again, both hands wrapped around her coffee. “If you want to work in peace, I'll let you be and read or something.”

Honestly, even the fact that she's asking permission is enough to have Will relaxing a little, though he keeps the notebook angled towards his chest for a moment. Words are all well and good, but he's only willingly shown two whole adults (his mother and Mr. Clarke) his drawings.

Still, she hasn't made fun of him yet...

So Will carefully lowers the notebook, offering it with the tips of his ears red with preemptive embarrassment. "It's not very good."

“You're kidding, right?” As Will angled the book so that she could see it, Sam set her coffee aside and pushed herself over to peer at his art, both hands on the nearer armrest so that she could lift herself to see a bit better (without actually standing). She wasn't sure what she'd expected, exactly, but Beartruck had been illustrated with great care and an attentive eye. “That's great! Look; I especially appreciate how monster that monster truck is and this bear being so visibly mad with horse-power. Look at that bristle. But can you answer one question for me?”

Sam settled back, tilting her head as if the question she wanted to ask was a serious one.

“We're gonna take it that this is a werebear, right? If for no other reason, giving the bear pants pockets for a place to put its keys?”

"...really?" Will doesn't really need to ask it, not with the utter sincerity in Sam's voice. He asks anyways, sitting a little straighter in his seat, holding his head a little bit higher. He'd hardly realized he'd been slumping. Her question makes him laugh a little, quickly erasing a couple lines, drawing a couple more, a few creases in fabric, a pocket, then a tiny key handing out of it. "Like that?"

“Yeah, really.” Sam straightened too, nodding once, emphatically. “I wouldn't yank your chain, kiddo.”

As Will worked at altering his illustration, Sam opened her bag and began pawing through the contents at one end. She paused when Will spoke up, looking over and---barely!---keeping a bark of laughter back. “Yes! Just like that.” She stood to better see the things in her bag, and soon found a paperback with a folded paper saving her spot. She pulled out and opened the bookmark (which was a blank sheet of airport stationary,) before offering it to the boy, both hopeful and amused.

“Don't suppose I could have one original Will What's-yer-face Beartruck for my bookmark? Please.”

"Byers," Will says, very shyly, ducking back and hiding behind that fluffy fringe of hair. But he's beaming, bless his little heart, and the fact that he's trying so hard to hide that is some new kind of heartbreaking. He slowly reaches out and takes the paper, only hesitating a moment before putting the pencil lead to it.

The bear he doodles is tiny and rounded, more like a cub than a bear, fluffy and toothy. It's pretty darn adorable. "Um. Is that okay?"

“Patchowski,” Sam answered, pleasantly. Fair was fair, even if she often took an 'all's fair' approach to a great many things. She couldn't help but soften and smile at the reaction to her request, even as she tried (with some success) to resist the temptation to watch Will at work. She'd glance at his doodling now and then, but mostly let her eyes wander across the window her back had been to before. At 'um,' she took paper back to examine the art, and shot Will one of her sunniest smiles. “Better than okay.”

She folded the paper carefully so that the bear wouldn't be blurred before she could find a piece of packing tape or somesuch to preserve it, and then tucked it back into her book. “Lucky for me that you work as quick as you do; my ride's here, and he might've been waiting a bit already.” She shoved her book back into her bag and zipped it, then slid the strap onto her shoulder. She considered the coffee she'd started and braced before drinking the remaining three-quartes-cup in a breath.

“I should go. It was nice to meet you, though.” Once more, she offered her hand to shake; it seemed the thing to do. “Good luck, safe travels, and all that jazz.”

Edited 2017-12-21 16:06 (UTC)

"Nice to meet you," Will says promptly, politely. He watches her tuck the bookmark drawing away, shoulders squaring with a quiet, pleased pride. The disappointment that wells up when she sees something outside the window is acute, as much as it had been moments before, but Will nods slowly, clearly resigned.

"Okay. You too." The handshake he gives is very serious, more suitable for someone about five times his age.

Sam wouldn't've believed it if somebody---anybody---had told her that by the time Breakdown arrived, she'd want to loiter a little longer... but Will's obvious dismay made it tempting. Poor kid! She might've stayed a few more minutes, but didn't want to keep her ride waiting, or wait much longer to see the key he'd brought for her to trade for... well, whatever it was she was going to get in exchange.

“G'night, Will.” The skin-witch walked away with that, though she slowed to turn around and wave once. It wasn't a dramatic exit, but it wasn't as if there was no sign she'd been by; she'd forgotten to toss her first coffee cup, and a strip of glossy paper had fallen to the floor beside the chair her bag had been on.

Will almost doesn't notice the paper. He's ready to settle back into his seat and go back to doodling -- he has a couple excellent ideas for snow castles and potato-nosed snowmen -- while waiting for his mother to wake up. It's just by chance that he looks over and sees the coffee cup, then his eyes are instantly drawn to the paper. By the time he scrambles to his feet, Sam's nearly at the door, and Will's tripping over his feet to scoop up the glossy paper and hurry across the length of the waiting area.

"Hey, Sam, wai--" And this time he really trips, over his untied shoelace, landing heavily on his knees and skidding a few inches on the rough airport carpet. The threadbare knee of his jeans tears like tissue paper and the breath leaves him with an audible oof!, and his palms and knees are stinging, rug-burned and maybe it's the late hour, but Will's startled enough that his eyes flood teary before he can stop himself.

And that's humiliating, so he stays on his hands and knees, staring at the carpet and willing the tears away, even though he's pretty sure his knee is bleeding.

After twelve hours in transit, two hours of waiting, and a regrettable goodbye, Sam was in a world of her own, mind only on hassling her ~~ancient~~ old friend. If she were more awake, more alert, Will's words might have registered; as it was, he'd called out quietly (as his mother still slept) and Sam hadn't really heard him. She'd swept out the door to the extent she could sweep, striding down the sidewalk and offering a fond “My guy,” as she approached.

“Glad you could make it.”

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i'm sorry this is so short