Wisdom, Pete Wisdom. (bloody_wisdom) wrote in x_2012, @ 2011-01-09 12:39:00 |
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Current mood: | melancholy |
Entry tags: | wisdom |
So long, and thanks for all the fish
Who: Pete Wisdom (Narrative)
When: Sunday, 3:20PM
Where: Pete's mostly empty room, Haven
What: Leaving on an airplane
Warnings: Sadness, and more sadness
Seven hours, forty minutes flight (with British Airways, of course), one hour cushion for any bloody shenanigans with customs and Homeland Security clowns, even for first class passengers, an hour to an hour and fifty minutes drive from the Haven to JFK, depending on traffic. That was roughly ten and a half hours of travel time. His car was scheduled to pick him up around three thirty in the afternoon, allowing ample time to catch his six fifty-five flight, even in traffic. It was as close as he dared cut it, because he wasn't going to find any other flights tonight, and if he didn't leave today... Well, it didn't bear considering. He was leaving today. It needed doing.
With the five hour time difference, he would be reaching Heath Row sometime after six in the morning. Cutting it close, too close to meet his eight o'clock appointment perhaps, but it was done, and he wouldn't cheat himself of every last minute he could hang on to the Haven and all that could have been. He had asked those few who knew the time and place not to make a fuss. He didn't want any farewell committees or any of that poppycock, he'd said. But perhaps he did not want to find out just how much he no longer was the old, heart of stone hardened spy he once had been.
The time had come for Pete Wisdom to leave the Haven. He had said goodbye to everybody who was important to him, down to visiting Shroud's grave to say his final farewell and reassure her that he'd bought Buster a proper crate for transport and that he was not going to leave the fleabag behind, thank you very much. He had done his best to do right by his former operatives, making sure they would be taken care of in his absence. He felt it was the least he could do.
In two short days he had managed to pack, settle most of his affairs and, strangely enough, break a few hearts. He truly had not been prepared for the kind of reactions his farewell had caused. He had gone back to visit Ororo, the stunning storm goddess, and had not left this time until he at least said his piece. He could only hope she would come to believe him. Pete loved her, because to know her was to love her. It was a love that was free, without longing and without darkness. He would never forget her, and he did honestly hope they could remain friends, but only time would tell. While he was with her, he asked her to keep an eye out for Kurt Wagner, in whom he saw great potential but who was entirely too naïve for this world sometimes, seeing things too rigidly in black and white.
Pete had even had the opportunity to say goodbye to his drinking buddy, Rictor, who had literally popped into the infirmary with his loyal muscle bound companion quite by surprise on Thursday, almost giving half the Haven a heart attack when the intruder alert alarms started blaring.
He had left letters of recommendation with Charles Xavier for some of his people, making official what the elder telepath already knew in most cases. Xavier promised he would arrange for Ruth to be seen after, and that he would keep his doors open in case Bryan decided to come back. He had made sure somebody would be in charge of making sure that squirrely technopath, Shy, got his nutrient drips when needed, but also that he got his chocolate on the side. He also made sure Wild Child wouldn't feel like he was leaving him out in the cold, and between him and Xavier charged the Wolverine with being the blond feral's contact while Kyle was working undercover with the Brotherhood. Plausible deniability, and all that.
And then there was Jamie, who had somehow managed to worm his way into Wisdom's infamously unfeeling, shriveled up, cynical heart. After their heated exchange, Pete had consistently failed to keep his vow to leave Madrox be. He could not stay away, nor did he want to. Their last few days together were torture, and they were bliss. They were also very short, since most of the time went to preparations for Pete's travel. But every night, without fail, Pete would knock on Jamie's door, or call him over, or drag him into the shower when even that was too much to ask. They hardly spoke, not in words, since there was little to say after goodbye; but their bodies still had worlds to say to one another. Their last night together, some real words were spoken, and all the masks fell off, and Pete boarded that plane with an ache in his heart and an ocean of unspoken promises he didn't know if he could keep. The same silence with which he had left Jamie's bed earlier today followed him, clinging to Pete like a shroud.