Re: The Priest's Hole: Jules & Ford
Ford's exterior was at once truthful and misleading.
The strong meals and fountain of youth provided by the island and its little pocket home of four square meals a day and shelter without quest had put a clean freshness to Ford that had not always been there. Bruises had faded, hunger had retreated, and Ford viewed the bog and the waves as his own personal haven, a haven of green and blue and quiet. His eyes were bright and his laughter quick to surface. So close to Jules, he smelled of apples and clean skin, anachronistic deodorant. He was quick to act on curiosity, and tipped back on his hips to stare at the ribbon where he could see it tickling the back of Jules collar. He turned his head sideways to blink through the dark at his throat, thinking this inspection to be ten times more subtle than it was. The accusation of cuddly made him flash a big grin.
But there was more to him, on the inside. There was a lot of stray dog, rusting tin, fake yards and ugly words. A jumble of classroom failures, a riot of pain and guilt, and a directionless anger that took the Campbell men by the throat whenever it surfaced. Most of all, there was grief. Nobody had liked Ford's mother. He hated her too, deep, deep down, where he couldn't see it, but he was the only one that cared she was gone. It made him hate more for having to feel it.
Ford nodded. Oh yes. He'd had someone in his head. He took his card back, pushing it back in his backpack with his spare shirt and spare jeans. The unzipped main section flopped open under his headphones. Ford leaned back with Jules at his side. He touched his temple too, indicating the man who used to be in his head, and then made a gun with his hand and a grim expression with his mouth. Sam had been pretty dark, as shoulder angels go.