Ragnar is a (raider) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-09-29 08:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | aragorn |
Who: Jack
What: Outro of Aragorn
Where: Jack's home
When: Around weird weather times.
Warnings/Rating: Jack cussing.
All of his life was linear, a clear cause and effect, changes made only to correct course. Jack liked his life that way, felt it was comfortable, like the mug that he always took his coffee out of. He knew how it felt in his hands, had a slight indentation between his middle finger and ring finger from where he gripped the handle of it, every time. And since the night at the hotel, that consistent had been sought ever more keenly, a shield to the spectre of his mother's memory.
It worked, it didn't work, it was a work in progress. He took Toby's advice and began writing in a journal, another one (not the one that he shared with Aragorn) about his day, about how he felt, a daily record that revealed his mental state. It was as he'd told Toby: he was generally happy, occasionally worried about his patients within a professional capacity, but his life was good. It was calm, predictable, the course plotted and the seas placid.
Until the storm came. At first, it was the whisper-hush of storm in the desert, animals going quiet as they sought out refuge from what was coming. He packed up his chairs that he'd had dinner with Veronica on, cleaned out the fire pit and put away what he could to protect it from the building wind and sting of sand. Spot laid in the doorway, paws hanging over the edge as he watched Jack move to secure the site, greeted him with a long pink tongue to his fingers when he came back inside.
It earned a note in his journal, written in the chicken scratch of doctor's and his own jagged handwriting. Everything else remained normal. The storm built outside, and after Jack took Spot out for a brief walk, he rinsed his eyes out with saline to clear the sand from them, earning himself another lick of a happy puppy.
They'd be fine here.
Until they weren't.
Until the wind churned up too fast, whirls of sand sprites moving over the dust ridden floor. There was no time for journaling then, only time enough to pack for a few days, toiletries and food enough for Spot. As soon as the wind died down, a few stolen moments of almost-calm, Jack had his dog in his arms and ran him out to the car.
It was too late now for the truck he'd considered getting so he could pull the house around. Too late now to do anything but drive back to the city, back to his office. There was enough there to live for a few days and if this storm lasted longer than that-- if it lasted longer than that, he wasn't the only one likely to be in trouble.
Spot curled up on the passenger seat, forepaws draped over the center console so his head rested in Jack's lap for the ride into town that took nearly three times as long as it normally did.
Days later, when they made the return trip home, Spot was in the same place, Jack's hand scratching his head idly. The ride back was easier, no sand constantly pelting his windows, no wind that threatened to drive him off the road and into the lonely expanse of tumbleweed and cacti. Getting to sleep in his own bed tonight would be fantastic, only -- his foot let off the gas. An upturned trailer, no where near where his was supposed to be, silver dusted with glittering silica. It wasn't his, surely. Only a glance through the windows confirmed that it was his, books that had been on his table now littered across the floor, a single scorpion poised on the inside of his window.
"Fuck," he said softly, both hands scrubbing through his hair. Fuck indeed. What else had sought refuge inside his home once he'd left it? Cursing softly, he reached for his cell phone and started making calls. In the back of his mind, there was no more grumble about how much longer he would be kept away from the door and the other man's home.