Who: Clover & Cal Where: Austin What: Cal finds out that Clover is alive, by saving her and then getting sliced up. When: Late afternoon, October 8, 2018
I dreamed I called you on the telephone to say: Be kinder to yourself but you were sick and would not answer
The waste of my love goes on this way trying to save you from yourself
I have always wondered about the left-over energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill long after the rains have stopped
or the fire you want to go to bed from but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down the red coals more extreme, more curious in their flashing and dying than you wish they were sitting long aftermidnight ~ 'For the Dead' by Adrienne Riche
Clover’s laid claim to the Austonian for more than a month now. It makes sense really. The building has the perfect set-up for the telescopes she’d hauled piece by piece and for the solar panels she had dragged back with exceptional effort and a set will that had been present in her heart stone for all her life. It had become her home, had lifted her out of the pool of darkness and up closer to the stars and the world she longed for always and forever out of her reach.
After her earlier test on the network and the subsequent failure, she’d had to go out, to get more guts to work into her assembly of wires and power, to take some of the load from the surge that had resulted in the temporary hiccup. She was a mile away from the relative safety of her building when the rogue gust of weather had kicked up enough dust to keep her grounded for the better part of an hour. It was enough time to veer her off schedule, enough time to put her in the direct path of Los Nahuales if she lingered too long. She’d made a careful observation of their comings and goings and they were set to loop back around in about forty five minutes. If she was careful she could elude their notice.
What she hadn’t counted on was the explosions, the provoking attack of the Hellhounds on the Cats. It had disrupted the carefully measured schedule and they’d come around at the exact moment she’d stepped out into the open.
Guerra had been the one to notice her red hair, nearly neon in the bright sunlight, with the decaying metal buildings behind her. It had been him she had double crossed, had stolen from and even in the midst of war, he could not stand to let this woman, this puta zorra escape him once more. He could get her and then later, when they crushed the Hellhounds, he’d have someone to celebrate on. He’d cut her to pieces. She would regret the day she tried to make a fool out of him
Their eyes locked, him in his truck, her just by the side of the road. “Encontrarme allí!” he shouted to the driver before he was launching out of his truck and running up the crumbling landscape where Clover had dropped what she’d been carrying for favor of sprinting away from the certain death that pursued her.
The truck sped forward, cutting her off as she attempted to get across the curve of road and into a maze of destruction she had made maps of in her head. If she could have gotten across then she knew she would have escaped, but the truck had clipped her and she went flying back. Guerra was on top of her before she could even lift her head. “Usted jodido con el maestro equivocado,” he spit in her face before backhanding her.
The timing wouldn’t be perfect; she wasn’t that lucky. Her lip was bleeding while she tried to scramble away like a wild animal, Guerra twisting her arm behind her back. There were blossoms of pain and more bruises scattered across her ribs by the time her piercing scream carried across the wasteland, and the man’s fists lay into her.
It’s a small city, really. Noise carries far.
It’s why people were usually careful to stay quiet, to avoid drawing attention to themselves—but Los Nahuales had no such reservation, instead indulging with the roar of their truck, the raucous laughter of the men, one of them high out of his mind on the wash and even loosing a smattering of bullets into the air, a wasteful celebration.
And that’s what did it, summoning him like some alert watchdog.
There was the angry growl of an engine (perfectly and lovingly maintained) before Davidson’s dusty savannah-coloured SUV tore around the corner. Its armoured, reinforced nose smashed into the other truck, shoving it out of the way of the road with the squeal of crumpling metal, the big cat inside jerking with the impact. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. More fool him.
Meanwhile, Cal was unclipping his belt and sliding out of the truck.
He hasn’t had a very good month. He’s a smarter man than he was a few weeks ago, too; the sound of backup was already on the way, a couple more Department of Resources agents mobilised in another vehicle.
When he saw the flare of red hair, his heart clenched, seized—almost felt like it spasmed.
And then he wasn’t saying anything at all, not even greeting her, just striding over and digging his bare hands into the leather of the raider’s jacket, ripping him off her, sending him sprawling. That part wasn’t smart; when Cal came too close, Guerra snarled (more jaguar-like than ever) and a knife lashed out, swiping at the man’s legs, trying to cut his Achilles’ tendon.
But some switch had been flipped in Cal’s head, some outlet finally venting all the steam that had built up and built up and built up over the past two months. He disregarded the pain, the blood, instead stomping on the other man’s hand until Guerra’s grip weakened, the knife clattering to the ground. (Bones cracked.) He started swinging, bare knuckles against bare skin, and wasn’t about to stop.
Yet it might have ended badly, if not for the reinforcements. The sound of the approaching vehicle was what set that fight-or-flight instinct alight in the jaguars, and luckily for Cal, Guerra chose the latter rather than go digging for his gun—clutching his wounded hand, the man had rolled back to his feet and was scurrying back to the wrecked truck, barking in Spanish to the dazed driver.
“La próxima vez, puta, cuando tu Capitol perro no está aquí,” Guerra snarled through the broken window (the glass had been long-since lost, weeks ago). The truck was whining, a pitiful noise that Cal’s distant mechanic’s senses pinpointed as a problem with the axle, but then it was pulling away.
Leaving him standing in the street in a haze, and the redhead lying there, and the sound of the DoR truck approaching.
It was a pitiful glance that Cal got from Clover. Embarrassed, she swiped the blood from her lip, leaving a sash of drying crimson across her arm. She was devastated that he’d put himself at risk… for her… and then she noticed the slice in his pants and the red stain blooming from where he’d been cut up and she reacted silently, clamoring on her knees and then stepping up and standing nearer to him.
The hesitation couldn’t be helped. Angry men scared her. Ferocity was something she’d been burned by. He shifted slightly, enough to turn and give her a helpless look.
Her heart was racing - a come down of the adrenaline surge surely but also the arrival of him. She was completely sober and it was hard, the reality that Calvin Davidson was standing in front of her.
She wished she was floating, filled with Wash, able to contend with this reunion in a way that didn’t make her want to panic.
It should have been called Dirty instead of Wash because it played that way, was that way. It had smudged her, gotten down deep, rooted itself inside all of the cracks in her facade. It’s become ancient and always. The desire for it is always present, just there, standing behind her. She can feel it looming.
Go away. Go Away. Go Away She fought it in her mind.
It was easier to focus on his wound, on his injury. She took a small step closer to him - just a few inches. The trucks were coming but she had to tune them out or she’d bolt. Clover looked as if she could any moment. Her body was coiled, her flight response wound up tight, eyes large in her head, battered face oozing color. “You’re hurt. You need… Can I?... Would you....” All unfinished thoughts. She looked behind her at the approaching vehicle. It visibly disturbed her. His gaze following hers, Cal stepped forward—shielding her slightly from view—and gave the driver a nonchalant half-wave, a splay of the fist, the instinctive military gesture that meant freeze.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as the great machine rolled to a stop.
“Hey!” said Phillips. “What happened?” he called out of the vehicle, his arm leaning out the window. He was already looking behind the pair, scanning the distance where the other car had sped off, keeping a wary eye open for remaining raiders.
“Big cats,” Cal said wearily. Now that the anger had shuddered through him—hot, volcanic, explosive—he simply felt empty and drained. Even finding Clover alive felt like too much, a relief that threatened to spill over and there simply wasn’t room enough to process all of it, so he became dry and businesslike instead. Phillips was in front of him. Phillips was driving the car. That, he could deal with.
“Only two of ‘em, though, so the sound of your wheels drove them off. Thanks, man. One got me a little with a knife but I’ll be fine.” Cal could feel the blood hot and sticky against the fabric of his military-grade trousers. His head tilted back, indicating Clover behind him. “She’s a civilian. We’ve got it covered here, so if you head back to the Capitol and tell Sanada and Sharpe what happened, I’ll take this one back to her shelter.”
It was a white lie. Such a small thing in comparison to the whoppers he’d been dealing out lately—but again, he didn’t have the fucking energy to think of that right now.
They’d been more careful with him ever since his ghoul bite and quarantine; Cal hated it. But he didn’t let his expression betray any of it, simply nodding instead. Another flutter of the hand, motioning for Phillips to keep on rolling. “I’ve got it covered,” he repeated.
“Got it.” Phillips looked past Cal, at the redhead. “Hope you’re alright, ma’am. Give us a call if you hear from them again, or if you see any of the wanted raider officers around town.” It had the sound of rote, a script that they’d been taught to repeat. Then the brake was released and the truck went rolling off down the street, back towards the Capitol.
Cal could feel his panicked heartbeat levelling out, as the adrenaline ebbed away. He took a deep breath and turned, finally able to look at Clover head-on and give her a hesitant smile. “You’re,” he started, but then ran to a halt. He’d never been very good at expressing himself to begin with, and the past few weeks and their rollercoaster of emotions had drained him dry. “I mean. It is fine, the injury ain’t bad, but I would appreciate the help.”
More things he could focus on more easily: there was blood, so you stop the bleeding. That was a problem they could start with but not here. She was perfectly capable of cleaning his leg, bandaging up and now that she had a mission, something that made sense, something she could contend with without getting her teeth knocked out she was on it.
There was relief in getting down to business, curing his knife cut instead of of anything else just as wounding. “Let’s go to your truck, get out of the road.” She scanned the area. The commotion would attract any stragglers and her hands were empty. She’d have no other recourse to run or use her bare fists to fight anything that might gain on them. “I’m at the Austonian,” she revealed, looking at his damaged truck, assessing the amount of destruction.
Cal’s eyes widened at the revelation. “I’m a fucking idiot,” he said, a gruff little self-admonishment. “I should’ve known.” but that went over Clover’s head. How could she know that he was tormented with thoughts of her whereabout, that he’s cared so much? She isn’t sure that level of heart can really exist for anyone, especially for her. But for now that was all the indication of the distress he’d been in, and he instead turned to smooth his hand over the crumpled metal of the truck; the armour had held, but he would still need to repair his baby later.
Then they were loading up in the SUV (with a wince of pain from his leg) and driving towards the Austonian. He kept shooting glances at the bruised woman beside him in the passenger’s seat, as if to confirm that she really was there, that she was alive, that she was here. But Cal’s hands remained firm and steady on the steering wheel, and he forced himself to keep an eye on the road.
Clover looked out the window, knew that the silence seemed awkward but she was flustered. Her hands were in her lap, wringing as she tried to think of something to say, something interesting, something distracting. She had so much she could talk about too. She hadn’t said a word out loud in days before today. Conversation should be easier with practice but she was rusty.
When they pulled up at the hotel, he was meticulous about locking his car. The Austonian looked different in daytime: much less ominous and frightening, more gleaming metal and glass. He instinctively moved towards the same service entrance they’d used before.
“Are there no zombies in there at all?” he said, surprised. The fact that Clover had been here this whole time, alive, and even looking better than the last time he’d seen her, kept hitting him over and over in astonishment. (Was she fully sober, or just between highs? That was the question needling and picking away at his brain, but there was no way to ask it, not just yet, not when he was still trying to enjoy the fact that she just plain wasn’t dead. If it came to it, that was good enough.)
“I have a system,” she answered. “The building is clear. I’ve gone over it.” It was all vague, she was unsure he’d want to hear all about how she had systematically gone from floor to floor, room to room and had driven any lurking infected out by bait and sound. The important thing was that she has made this building hers. Clover had claimed it. She had keys even and she unlocked the door and let him in - being just as meticulous as he was about locking the door behind them. Then she came up beside him. There she paused, reluctant to make contact, hesitant to touch but they had stairs to climb and he needed support. Cal shot her an inquiring look.
She hadn’t always been like this - remote, distant and torn from humankind. She used to be effective, capable and more than all of those things? Resolute. “I’m going to help you,” she told him, finally taking his arm and putting it around her shoulder. It might have seemed preposterous that she would attempt this. She may have been sober but she was still slight, a tiny thing who didn’t seem as if she could hold her breath… never mind help a grown man up flights of stairs. She was stronger than she looked but most of it was force of will more than physical ability.
“Is this… Is this okay?” she asked as they began to ascend to her HQ, the place she had made her shangri-la in the middle of madness. He nodded, leaning his weight against her slightly. He wasn’t completely incapacitated—the superintendent would have torn him a new one if he’d managed to get himself majorly injured on what was meant to be a routine sweep—but the Austonian was the tallest building in Austin, and the long climb up those steps took a toll on his still-unbandaged injury.
When they reached the ‘lawn’ on the tenth floor, it was a surprise. Cal had been there before and seen the pool platform, but then it had been abandoned, uncared for… unused. There was a set-up inside that they passed (a bed, food, water) - just in case but most of where she spent her time was outside on the deck. There were telescopes now, tables with various projects (he might recognize some jars that she’d used some of for her citywide messages). There were solar panels, wires leading to a homemade computer she had assembled from parts she’d found. There were notes, charts - an outlet for getting the inner workings of her mind out.
He almost lingered at the bio-luminescent jars (a-ha! went the little internal voice), but she led him past all of that and to a deck chair, cushioned now and comfortable, “Lay down, Cal, please?” Everything was a question. “I’ll bandage your leg.”
“You’re too kind,” Cal said, a joke, but in truth he was too captivated by the setup she’d managed to string together. This was more like it—a home more befitting an astrophysicist, mad science cobbled together from scraps and shreds. But Cal eased himself onto the chair, rolling up his trouser leg to get at the torn flesh. Something flickered in his eyes when he had to pull the matted material away from the wound, unsticking it painfully.
“Don’t...touch it. I’ll take care of you.” She looked back at him. Her voice has started out stern but right in the middle she’d lost her nerve and it settled into something soft
Disinfecting and sewing it up was gonna sting like a bitch, and he wondered (perhaps a little uncharitably) if her hands would shake or if they’d be as steady as Karen’s.
Still, if she’d been clear-headed enough to build herself an actual computer…
“This place is amazing,” he said, while Clover busied herself with the first-aid material. “Unrecognisable from what it was before.”
A smile lit her face but he wouldn’t be able to see, her back was turned toward him as she got the tools she would use from the first aid kit she’d found in an abandoned EMT truck. She washed her hands and tools and when she was ready she brought the sterile (as much as she could get them in such austere conditions) over.
She knelt at his side, by his ankle and began to dress the wound. She applied pressure above it to stop any bleeding and then began to irrigate. He barely flinched, weathering the treatment well, steeled by all his years of experience in the military and the Department. That might be the worst part- to get into it and clean it but it was necessary. She needed to assess it. Suturing a wound was something she would only do if completely necessary but she wouldn’t know until she got through the blood and could see how deep the knife had cut. As she did, to distract him, she began to tell him a story.
“When I was a girl, I used to think I was a werewolf,” she started the story as she rinsed out the wound, blood and dust dripping off. “It made sense then. I was always drawn to the sky, to the cosmos and here was a myth that involved the moon and was completely and utterly feminine really, if you consider it. It explained so much about me. All the things I couldn’t ask my grandparents. Or so I thought.” She briefly looked up at him, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. Cal’s expression echoed hers, his hand knotted against the side of the chair, his only sign of pain in the cleaning of the cut; it looked like they were clean slashes, at least, and would heal well.
“Werewolf but not the big bad wolf, surely,” Cal said. If anything, he was the huntsman, foolish and foolhardy and trying ever so hard for bravery. (More liable to be swallowed up whole.) “Did you run around in the forest?”
He had. Games of tag in the flourishing rural greenery of Harlan, which as he aged turned to drinking beers scavenged from older siblings, which turned to slipping his hand up a girl’s shirt as they kissed against a tree. With that thought came the realisation that he had no idea where Clover East had grown up, if her childhood had been rural or urban or suburban or what.
She gave a slight shake of her head. “Not really.” Then bit her bottom lip. His wound would need to be sutured. It was clean enough that it should be easy and she didn’t make a big deal about it, just opened the pack and took out the curved needle with the scissors and glanced up at him, a small nod to make sure he was ready. He watched her movement with a small internal sigh (even more goddamn stitches), but nodded back in acknowledgment.
“I grew up in Worcester, Massachusetts. It’s called the heart of the state. Just a small mill city. The first pressurized space suit was designed there.” She pushed the needle through one side of the wound and into the other. There was no shaking in her hands, he noted. She’s made for this type of pressure. There’s a calmness about her as she works, focused on him and making him well. She can be incredibly proficient when she has a purpose - something she cares about… The conversation was just to distract him.
The first knot was tied.
“Worcester was where the first mass production of Valentines were made. Where… the first oral contraception was manufactured. The typewriter, the yellow smiley face, the monkey wrench. All Worcester.” She glanced up at him with a smile, checking his color to make sure he’s doing okay. The man was staring off fixedly at her shoulder, but otherwise seemed to be bearing it well. She blew on his wound sweetly. Like that might ease the burning.
“I didn’t get to the forest really, not until I was older. You and that accent, though? I am sure you’ve seen plenty of camouflage… and not just in the armed forces.”
He barked a laugh, shifting slightly (not quite uncomfortable—just aware of how very close she was). Cal was wearing a quirk of a grin now. “Yes, ma’am. Grew up in Texas, then Kentucky; it was all elk hunting and fishing, teeming with nature and greenery. Can’t say I know of any especial achievements in Harlan apart from coal mining, but.”
Worcester, Massachusetts. He filed that little bit of information away. “You would’ve been fun with a Boston accent,” he said, wry.
“Wicked fun.” She agreed but she’d never had too much of Massachusetts accent anyway. At least she didn’t think so. Living where she has, the work she’s done - most of it had faded. It’s definitely not as sharp as Boston or Rhode Island words are but the only thing sharp about Clover Eulah is her mind. Her words don’t have any of the character that his voice has. His voice is a song. A long ride through the country “You’ll have to put up with my perfect diction. All my r’s just for you.”
His grin broadened. “Somehow, I think I’ll survive.”
The second and third stitches were made. They were not by any means perfect. She’d only ever practiced on a banana skin, in training, when she was learning trauma scenarios. Cal didn’t need to know that, not when she was pressing a needle through his skin. Him knowing she’d never did this before would probably heighten any anxiety he was having.
“I always liked the country,” she told him, making another imperfect but functional knot. “There wasn’t so much light pollution. I like sleeping under the stars.”
“Me too,” Cal said. He’d had so many nights lying out under the stars with picnic blankets and tents, sleeping under that bright night sky.
He gave Clover another considering look. She was definitely sober. It became more and more apparent as the conversation went on, and that sparked another idea.
He filed that one away for later, too.
“How long have you been living up here?” he asked instead, finally blurting out the thought that had been on his mind. “I—” He didn’t want to admit it, but it came out anyway: “I was worried. When I couldn’t reach you.”
The question hit her all at once, it made her steady hand falter and she needed to pause, take a breath, get her mind from back then to right now. Her face fell so suddenly it was hard to catch it, to turn it back to neutral but after an inner struggle she managed it somehow - peaceful and serene.
“Not long after I-” she stumbled through the right thing to say. The needle was stalled. She had something else she needed to push through instead of his skin. She was afraid of marring him, marring this conversation. She was out of practice with people. Clover wanted to retreat but she forced herself to go on. “I texted you.” A deep breath and she continued sewing him up. Obviously she was alive. Obviously she had made it through whatever situation she had been in. “I lost my phone on my way out and I….”
It was so much easier to deflect with questions of her own. “Why were you locked up?”
Cal noted the gentle evasion, but decided not to press the issue; he’d be one to talk, considering his own aversion to subjects that bothered him. He cleared his throat. The sharp jabs of pain from his leg as Clover worked were almost reassuring; they kept him anchored, knotted into his skin. “Quarantine,” he said. “Not for a zombie bite, though. It was…” A ghoul, he’d almost said, but he hated using that word around her. “A woman from the tunnels. Emilie, if you know her. I knew I was probably fine but it ain’t worth takin’ a risk, not in this day and age, so I got myself locked up for a few.”
“Emilie bit you?” She looked horrified but not surprised. Emilie had more issues than just her wash use. Clover wouldn’t say anything about her friend from the tunnels. Her expression said more than words could. Her mouth straightened and she turned back to his wound. Only a few more stitches would be needed. She was impressed by his bravery or at least that he’d hardly winced since she started.
“I was worried. I wanted to… I thought about…” She felt silly then, face bowed and averted so he couldn’t see the full blush that came from the uncertainty and caution of her words. “I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.”
Not without putting herself in danger.
What she’d wanted to say was that she was relieved he was alive. What came out was “I’m glad you came along today. Not happy you got sliced up.” She blew on his wound again when the last knot was tied. Antibiotic went on after and then she tore into the pack of gauze she would bandage him up with. Before she did she assesses her work, made sure it was efficient. It was ugly.
“Hey, but you’re doing a good job,” he remarked. “Then again—you’re an astronaut, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Her people had been the best of the best and prepared for anything, from all he knew about them.
Everyone always said that, “You’re an astronaut.” as if it made her superhuman. All she wanted was to get away from Earth, see something new, get away from the struggle and disappointment that was people.
The question of communication was one he could hone in on and focus on. Work the problem. “We could come up with a message dead drop location, for if you lose your phone again? Like… well, like the supply boxes I used to leave. And like those things.” He jerked his head, nodding towards the jars. “If they’re the same as the ones left around Austin recently. I found one.”
If she wasn’t shocked that Emilie had bit him, she was surprised now that he would, anyone would, go to such lengths to remain in contact with her. For three whole seconds she stared at him- disbelieving. Then she started to think again. “My freenet connection isn’t fully reliable.” It was easier to get down to business than it was to ask why he’d want to continue to know her. “It would be helpful if we had something so I wouldn’t be completely cut off from you.”
That he had found one of her jars charmed her and she smiled, hand trying to conceal the glee she found spreading through her that Cal Davidson had been one of the few that had. Did he think it was silly? The smile she wore meant she didn’t care. “I thought it might be a nice change for someone to find something that wasn’t ugly.”
“Well, it worked. It was beautiful.” He could have gone on—a glowing blue beacon in the darkness, it had drawn him like a lighthouse and made him force Sanada to stop the truck—but Cal wasn’t exactly a poet, so he found himself falling silent instead.
Her brow furrowed as she taped the bandage and moved away from him, too overwhelmed by his continued proximity and unused to being close to anyone anymore. She traveled over to her supply of water and took a bottle from the stockpile.
When she came back over to him she offered it. “You should drink something, please.”
“Now you’re the one looking after me,” he pointed out with a smile, taking the bottle and twisting it open for a careful sip. “You’ve come far.” Cal had rolled the leg of his trousers back down, tucking away the sight of the blood and fresh gauze. He tested his weight against the floor, still wincing slightly, but it was much better—he should be able to walk on it now, enough to get back to the Capitol. He’d be able to rest up over the weekend too. Go drinking tomorrow until the pain faded away.
But he didn’t seem to mind quite so much anymore. His mountain of problems hadn’t gone away, but at least one of them had—one very particular demon of concern and worry that had been weighing down his shoulders.
She wondered what that meant - ‘You’ve come far’. The statement troubled her. It sat sticky. It was the type of something someone said when they were surprised it could happen.
“For the dead drop, would the fountain at UofT work? Littlefield? That’s the jar I got.”
“Yes.” Is the easy answer. In her mind she’s thinking of the route there, making notes in the margins, already planning on how this would be accomplished. For Clover to survive, she needed to keep a few steps ahead.
Then she wondered, “I don’t have a phone but I have the freenet here.” A glance over to her computer she’d connected. There’s a mess of wires that she hasn’t smoothed over and labeled yet. In fact, she’d dropped some of the supplies she needed to keep her connection stable. Now she’s unsure if she should go out for a few days, not when Guerra is out there with the rest of his men. He’ll be embarrassed and therefore three times more dangerous. “Or I will have ,once I can figure out the coupling.” A twitch of her nose as she considered, but working on that problem now would be rude. ..or something.
“You know where I am now.” She looked down at her hands, at the gloves she hadn’t snapped off. This is corrected as she moved across to the bag of trash and peeled them off.
“But if I stop by and you’re not…” Cal’s mind had already drawn itself to the worst possible conclusion: coming here and finding the doors shut, locked, the windows dark, Clover missing and with no hint of where she’d gone.
She was right, though. He set those concerns aside. “Well, at least I know where I can call on you, now. That’s more than before.” Closing the water bottle again, he set it aside on the table (he’d only taken a few sips, leaving most of it for her) and rose to his feet, glancing over to where Clover stood by the trash.
“Then we’ll have a few avenues to go down now. If you want to. If you think you might want to get in touch with me...” Had she said it out loud? She didn’t even know.
“Why else would I start spouting crap about message drops? Of course I do. I sent you so many messages.” There was a beat, and then he coughed, cleared his throat. (Had he said that out loud?) “Hey. So I need to get going or Phillips will probably report me as missing, but—” His hand was at her elbow now, a slight drift, a request for permission. Were she one of his usual friends, he’d have already pulled her into a hug, but Clover was skittish, wary about touch; he was waiting to see if she would let him.
“Of course. You probably have walls of people that will worry. I don’t want to keep you.” She answered him. Clover saw the hand hovering and subconsciously was afraid of what it implied.
The announcement of his departure seemed abrupt and the disappointment could not be concealed on her face. Services were rendered. Of course he was of the same ilk that had tossed her out with the kind of trash she threw her gloves in. Why wouldn’t he want to skedaddle? Go back to the bright golden dome with people he didn’t have to pity or wonder if they were going to lapse into the deep dreamworld that wash absorbed her into. It was so much easier there. He’d been carved up because of her. He’d experienced pain because of her. Though she couldn’t fathom it was anything other than the physical kind.
Clover had independence in a way that he didn’t though, and her disassociation from society showed in this moment. Sober as she was, she was terribly disconnected, unable to take cues or understand. The Prax has skewed her ability to see past paranoia or to see the ability for someone to want her as anything other than a means to an end, something to be used, a cure for their guilt, a template for conscious, a way to get their own fix and move on without consequences.
She already missed him and in some ways mourned for him.
Discomfort had slipped into the room between them, and he sensed it, picked up on it like a fine-tuned radar. Where Clover struggled with reading people, Cal hoped he was slightly better. So instead of that crushing hug that he instinctively wanted (you’re alive, you’re alive), he settled for an awkward pat on the shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re alright, Clover.”
Was he so good at it? “Same.” She glanced at his hand on her, a twitch because of it, then looked at him and nodded. “Stay safe, Davidson.” and she meant it. She did, as deep as she could but it was better for him, better if she just kept it level, kept it someplace that was flatlined.
Dead.
Because to go and feel something bigger now would be stupid.