Jan. 6th, 2006

flybywash: (pensive)
[After this.]

Each of the waves are about five minutes long, give or take the events of the month. Wash pages through them in an aching, homesick silence, broken by laughter at the slightest things: Annie singing 'Happy Birthday' for an April twenty-second twelve years past, complete with cameos from a pair of dinosaurs he'd left behind when he went to flight school; Dad's enthusiastic retelling of a corny joke he'd overheard the other day ('...and the other one says, "HOLY SHIT, A TALKING MUFFIN!"'); Mom's simple but heartfelt New Year's wishes, interrupted by the sudden appearence of a kitten swatting at the vidscreen.

All of them end with the same gently chiding plea to wave them back when he has a minute. He quickly learns to keep his finger poised on the fast-forward control for those last ten seconds.

After two and a half hours, though, Wash notices that dinnertime's creeping up on him. Reluctantly, he grabs a handful of data sticks and slots them in, downloading the rest of the waves before logging off of his extraneous account. He slides the sticks into his jumpsuit, takes his crutches, starts to head for the dining area.

He's barely taken five steps before he changes his mind and goes toward the women's dorms instead.

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flybywash

January 2007

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