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[OPEN] graverobber, you can't take me home
Apr. 2nd, 2017 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3ofswordsWHO: Kira
WHERE: Between house 40 and Ren’s grave just south of it
WHEN: April 2, after Casey starts ransacking Ren’s house
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Grief, memories of Ren’s death and body
STATUS: Open
He’d been in the house while it was still smoldering from the lightning damage. The month of damp had only set the skeleton of it groaning, a thing that played the wind each night so that he would wake and go to the window, watch the trees lash out at its beams in the light of the moon. It hadn’t occurred to Kira to go back inside, that anything beyond his and Jean’s initial rush to grab what they could carry was necessary.
Today feels the opposite of necessary.
The roof has started to sag into the structure, warping the symbol he’d copied one afternoon from their own roof, going over his notes--the crack, the fireflies, the remnants of the wendigo too old to be a threat. With the sunlight beaming down, there's the faintest impression of it, as if the materials have been thinned by the fire. He’d been staring at that when Casey takes the axe to a wall, startling him with a splinter of noise.
When Casey mentioned scavenging from the house, Kira hadn’t realized he meant to tear it apart.
He understands it’s just another building, to most. He understands it’s a practical source of materials, and nowhere that anyone is likely to take shelter. The charred beams should be broken down into firewood or smaller blocks and boards. There's plumbing and the makings of electrical work. There's a furnace to rip the parts out of. He understands Ren would likelier approve of Casey’s tearing the house apart than Kira’s fleeing it, banging back out the door with Aurora clumsily on his heels.
Fuck Ren, for that. Fuck Casey.
It’s only that understanding that drives him away, flight over fight. He pauses once at the tree caddy-corner to the back of the house, one hand out and leaning to catch his breath, a panic he can’t place the start of stealing it from his lungs. When Aurora runs into the back of his legs, the lurch of it turns his stomach, and he realizes--the valley of roots and earth he’s standing in is the one where he dragged Ren’s body, adding streaks of dirt to the violently purple bruises of the lightning strike.
They had to put it back in the house, after. Once the fires burned themselves out, once they were sure the walls stood enough to keep animals out. And then Jyn, and then the grave, and then—
He wipes a hand over his face, finding the dog sitting on his feet when he looks down. She shouldn’t annoy him, doesn’t annoy him, but he doesn’t spare her the movement of his feet when he pushes off from the tree and stumbles past. She barks at him once, but he hears the leaf litter crunching under her paws as she follows.
Kicked dogs, he thinks, and he wonders what that makes him, heading for Ren’s grave and venting the nervous energy by scratching his hands up through his hair, testing the bruise on his jaw, resisting the stupid impulse to slap it and see if it shakes the nausea out. It’ll just hurt, and nobody needs anyone hurting themselves out here. There’s plenty else to fuck with them outside their own lack of coping mechanisms.
Maybe the grave is one, some part of him calming when he sees it. Every stone intact, the star still neatly carved in the base of the tree.
Finding a seat on the gentle slope of stones and moss that covers the grave, he lets Aurora overstep her own growing legs, swaying up into his lap and snuffling at his hip before planting her ass back on his feet. “What the fuck do you want,” he huffs, not for the first time. She isn’t something he thinks of as his, and he wasn’t the kid who hated growing up without a dog.
When she tilts her head, he pulls his hands from his pockets, away from the knife he’d nearly lost, and rubs up the soft short fur of her ears. “Go bite that asshole on the calf for me, I’m trying to be pissed off at the world.”
[Feel free to find him anywhere between exiting Ren’s old house and at his grave, a very young black shepherd at his heels.]
WHERE: Between house 40 and Ren’s grave just south of it
WHEN: April 2, after Casey starts ransacking Ren’s house
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Grief, memories of Ren’s death and body
STATUS: Open
He’d been in the house while it was still smoldering from the lightning damage. The month of damp had only set the skeleton of it groaning, a thing that played the wind each night so that he would wake and go to the window, watch the trees lash out at its beams in the light of the moon. It hadn’t occurred to Kira to go back inside, that anything beyond his and Jean’s initial rush to grab what they could carry was necessary.
Today feels the opposite of necessary.
The roof has started to sag into the structure, warping the symbol he’d copied one afternoon from their own roof, going over his notes--the crack, the fireflies, the remnants of the wendigo too old to be a threat. With the sunlight beaming down, there's the faintest impression of it, as if the materials have been thinned by the fire. He’d been staring at that when Casey takes the axe to a wall, startling him with a splinter of noise.
When Casey mentioned scavenging from the house, Kira hadn’t realized he meant to tear it apart.
He understands it’s just another building, to most. He understands it’s a practical source of materials, and nowhere that anyone is likely to take shelter. The charred beams should be broken down into firewood or smaller blocks and boards. There's plumbing and the makings of electrical work. There's a furnace to rip the parts out of. He understands Ren would likelier approve of Casey’s tearing the house apart than Kira’s fleeing it, banging back out the door with Aurora clumsily on his heels.
Fuck Ren, for that. Fuck Casey.
It’s only that understanding that drives him away, flight over fight. He pauses once at the tree caddy-corner to the back of the house, one hand out and leaning to catch his breath, a panic he can’t place the start of stealing it from his lungs. When Aurora runs into the back of his legs, the lurch of it turns his stomach, and he realizes--the valley of roots and earth he’s standing in is the one where he dragged Ren’s body, adding streaks of dirt to the violently purple bruises of the lightning strike.
They had to put it back in the house, after. Once the fires burned themselves out, once they were sure the walls stood enough to keep animals out. And then Jyn, and then the grave, and then—
He wipes a hand over his face, finding the dog sitting on his feet when he looks down. She shouldn’t annoy him, doesn’t annoy him, but he doesn’t spare her the movement of his feet when he pushes off from the tree and stumbles past. She barks at him once, but he hears the leaf litter crunching under her paws as she follows.
Kicked dogs, he thinks, and he wonders what that makes him, heading for Ren’s grave and venting the nervous energy by scratching his hands up through his hair, testing the bruise on his jaw, resisting the stupid impulse to slap it and see if it shakes the nausea out. It’ll just hurt, and nobody needs anyone hurting themselves out here. There’s plenty else to fuck with them outside their own lack of coping mechanisms.
Maybe the grave is one, some part of him calming when he sees it. Every stone intact, the star still neatly carved in the base of the tree.
Finding a seat on the gentle slope of stones and moss that covers the grave, he lets Aurora overstep her own growing legs, swaying up into his lap and snuffling at his hip before planting her ass back on his feet. “What the fuck do you want,” he huffs, not for the first time. She isn’t something he thinks of as his, and he wasn’t the kid who hated growing up without a dog.
When she tilts her head, he pulls his hands from his pockets, away from the knife he’d nearly lost, and rubs up the soft short fur of her ears. “Go bite that asshole on the calf for me, I’m trying to be pissed off at the world.”
[Feel free to find him anywhere between exiting Ren’s old house and at his grave, a very young black shepherd at his heels.]
