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Jan. 8th, 2006 02:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flybywashTrust the black. Above all else, pilots say, you trust the black. Space makes no apologies, no excuses -- it may not keep you safe, but it'll never pretend otherwise.
Wash took it to heart after the atmo instability on Tellus killed his family; the instability that he'd thought had killed his family, anyway. Because now he's sitting here in the Reading Room of Southdown Abbey with the last of the waves, Mom and Dad and Annie wishing him a happy New Year and a speedy recovery from that scrape Uncle Andy said he'd gotten himself into a few months ago, and resting a hand above the keys that'll initiate a new wave to Dunbar, Muir, Allenmore Quadrant.
He sits there for a long time, and when he types, it's one slow command at a time. Five minutes wasted.
Another five vanish as he watches the blinking cursor after the last command, until the calm female voice prompts him to execute it within the next ten seconds if he wishes to connect. While his mind keeps hesitating, his fingers seize the moment and hit the final key to execute.
PLEASE WAIT. WAVE CONNECTING.
Hóuzi de pìgu. Wash runs both hands through his hair, teeth chattering involuntarily as he shivers. There's an option to disconnect just beneath the text -- he should take it, he thinks, a bit wildly. He should take it and try again when he's ready, when it stops taking him a few seconds of thought for "family" to match up with "alive," not now when he....
It's taking forever to connect on these gorram slow Southdown antiques. Maybe it's not connecting at all.
Maybe Crowley was wrong.
Maybe --
Ding. Static.
And a balding, clear-eyed man with his mouth half-obscured by a disproportionally large moustache blinks at him.
"Nĭ hăo," says Keane Washburne.
All of Wash's muscles clench all at once, a sudden pain that starts at his shoulders and goes straight down his bad leg. Frantically, he swallows once, twice, three times, and starts to say out of politeness, Hi, may I speak to Keane or Phoebe Washburne, please?
Starts to. Instead, what comes out is a burst of that breathy, uncomprehending laughter that's been purusing him ever since his talk with Crowley, and he covers his mouth and looks down and tries to think around the steady pulse of Dad, Dad in tandem with the even stronger alive.
"Can I help you?" Keane is asking; when Wash looks back up at the suddenly blurry screen, his father's still blinking in polite bemusement.
"I, um. Yeah. Yeah, you...." Wash smiles, catching his lower lip between his teeth, and laughs again. It's roughened by tears, hard to do around the knot in his throat. "Hi, Dad."
Keane's eyes fly wide. Wash's smile shifts to a broad grin, marred only by a touch of uncertainty.
"Shénshèng de gāowán," his father breathes, and then, "PHOEBE!" he shouts, far more power behind it than one might expect from a man pushing seventy. He disappears from view. "PHOEBE, GET IN HERE!"
Some swift, offscreen exchanges in a mishmash of Chinese and English later, after Wash has steadied himself -- still laughing somewhat and beaming at nothing but hearing their voices, hearing them, alive, oh God really alive -- Keane returns alone. He fixes a stern, level look on Wash, crossing his arms.
"So," he says. "You finally saw fit to wave us back."
"Yeah. Um." The grin quails a little under the look, but only just. "There's a long and not very hilarious story behind that. I -- "
"What's it been, ten years? Fifteen?" Underneath the scowling gruffness, there's a spark of good humor Keane can't entirely manage to mask. "Every month we send you a wave. Every month we get nothin'. You coulda helped us out a little bit, huh? All we got is word from your Uncle Andy to go on, 'oh, sure, Hoban's doing fine, got himself a wife, got himself into a scrape last month,' but how's that mean anything, huh? Hell, I don't even recognize ya -- what happened to your moustache? Proud upstanding tradition! Where'd it go?!"
He sounds, and looks, so horrified that it sets Wash laughing again. When he recovers, he brushes the pad of his thumb over his upper lip and tells him, "Zoe didn't like it. It's been gone for years. Sorry to disappoint."
Keane's own moustache twitches, belying the displeased look for good. "Āiyā. One letdown after another." He throws his hands in the air and continues over his shoulder, "That's all my son's gonna give us? Phoebe, all our son's giving us is one letdown after another, the lazy lug finally goes and waves us and his gorram moustache's gone!"
And...oh. Phoebe Washburne's at the edge of the screen now, slowly leaning into view over Keane's shoulder. Her mouth forms a small circle of surprise when she sees Wash.
"Oh my Lord," she whispers, as her grey eyes well up. "Hoban?"
Just hearing her say his name (that heinous, obnoxious name he's hated for decades) is enough to send Wash's throat slamming closed again. "Hi, Mom," he whispers in kind. "Long time no see."
"'Long time no see,' he says." Keane again, as he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'd say -- !"
"Hush, you." Gently, Phoebe swats her husband on the back of the head before draping her arms around his shoulders, smile bright and watery. "Hoban, where have you been? We've been worried sick about you! All those years without a wave -- we even thought you'd gotten yourself killed in the war for a little while before your uncle set us straight, it's been so long. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mom, I'm shiny. Really. Except the, uh...that part with the getting killed ain't too far from what happened, way back." A little rueful, Wash resettles himself on the chair. "The weird thing about the Alliance telling you they're gonna take care of your old account when it's accidentally marked KIA and you get issued another number? You sort of expect them to do it."
"You mean you didn't -- ?" She stops, and presses her lips together for a moment in a gesture strongly reminiscent of her son. "Not a single one?"
Wash shakes his head. "Not a single one," he confirms, and takes in a breath that shakes at the edges. The next words tumble out, nearly on top of one another for their speed: "I'm sorry, both of you, they stopped coming right around the same time as the evacuation, I-I thought you didn't -- I thought you were dead, Uncle Andy didn't say a word to me until a few days ago, I'm so sorry...."
Keane looks as if he's been struck across the face.
"Oh, baby." Phoebe makes an abortive gesture toward the vidscreen, as if to touch him; Wash looks away and breathes out, just as unsteady. "Shh. Méi guānxi. We're just glad you're okay. It's so nice to see you again...." Wonderingly, "You're all grown up."
"Even if you did shave off your moustache," Keane adds, but his eyes are shining. Phoebe swats him again.
Wash snickers, despite himself. "I told you," he says, "I'm powerless to resist the wily ways of women." And a pause, as he chews his lip. "I talked to the captain of the ship I'm on right now. He said he's gonna keep an eye out for work on Athens and wouldn't mind us making a detour out to Muir. Think I could stop by?"
Keane's laugh, when it comes, trembles a little, too. "What kind've a question is that?" he asks. "No, Hoban, we don't ever wanna -- of course you can stop by. Annie'd love to see you, too. She'll show you around those stables she's running."
"Shì a, I heard about that! How's that coming?"
"Uh-uh-uh." Keane waggles a finger at him. "You first. We haven't heard a peep outta ya in this long, the least you can do is tell us what you've been up to. Face to face." He quirks a grin as he makes himself comfortable. "Start with this wife we've been hearing so much about."
It's a topic that he could stay on for hours to begin with. With his parents, it lasts even longer, shifting and swooping to tiny moments and stories, some of which even have nothing to do with his wife and soon-to-be daughter. It doesn't quite matter what he's saying, anyway; what matters is who's speaking, and whom he's speaking to.
Dinner is long over by the time Wash leaves the Reading Room. The last traces of sunset stain the sky. He stands there until the it settles to an inky black, then, with an enormous grin, returns to the visitor's rooms under a sweep of starlight.
Wash took it to heart after the atmo instability on Tellus killed his family; the instability that he'd thought had killed his family, anyway. Because now he's sitting here in the Reading Room of Southdown Abbey with the last of the waves, Mom and Dad and Annie wishing him a happy New Year and a speedy recovery from that scrape Uncle Andy said he'd gotten himself into a few months ago, and resting a hand above the keys that'll initiate a new wave to Dunbar, Muir, Allenmore Quadrant.
He sits there for a long time, and when he types, it's one slow command at a time. Five minutes wasted.
Another five vanish as he watches the blinking cursor after the last command, until the calm female voice prompts him to execute it within the next ten seconds if he wishes to connect. While his mind keeps hesitating, his fingers seize the moment and hit the final key to execute.
PLEASE WAIT. WAVE CONNECTING.
Hóuzi de pìgu. Wash runs both hands through his hair, teeth chattering involuntarily as he shivers. There's an option to disconnect just beneath the text -- he should take it, he thinks, a bit wildly. He should take it and try again when he's ready, when it stops taking him a few seconds of thought for "family" to match up with "alive," not now when he....
It's taking forever to connect on these gorram slow Southdown antiques. Maybe it's not connecting at all.
Maybe Crowley was wrong.
Maybe --
Ding. Static.
And a balding, clear-eyed man with his mouth half-obscured by a disproportionally large moustache blinks at him.
"Nĭ hăo," says Keane Washburne.
All of Wash's muscles clench all at once, a sudden pain that starts at his shoulders and goes straight down his bad leg. Frantically, he swallows once, twice, three times, and starts to say out of politeness, Hi, may I speak to Keane or Phoebe Washburne, please?
Starts to. Instead, what comes out is a burst of that breathy, uncomprehending laughter that's been purusing him ever since his talk with Crowley, and he covers his mouth and looks down and tries to think around the steady pulse of Dad, Dad in tandem with the even stronger alive.
"Can I help you?" Keane is asking; when Wash looks back up at the suddenly blurry screen, his father's still blinking in polite bemusement.
"I, um. Yeah. Yeah, you...." Wash smiles, catching his lower lip between his teeth, and laughs again. It's roughened by tears, hard to do around the knot in his throat. "Hi, Dad."
Keane's eyes fly wide. Wash's smile shifts to a broad grin, marred only by a touch of uncertainty.
"Shénshèng de gāowán," his father breathes, and then, "PHOEBE!" he shouts, far more power behind it than one might expect from a man pushing seventy. He disappears from view. "PHOEBE, GET IN HERE!"
Some swift, offscreen exchanges in a mishmash of Chinese and English later, after Wash has steadied himself -- still laughing somewhat and beaming at nothing but hearing their voices, hearing them, alive, oh God really alive -- Keane returns alone. He fixes a stern, level look on Wash, crossing his arms.
"So," he says. "You finally saw fit to wave us back."
"Yeah. Um." The grin quails a little under the look, but only just. "There's a long and not very hilarious story behind that. I -- "
"What's it been, ten years? Fifteen?" Underneath the scowling gruffness, there's a spark of good humor Keane can't entirely manage to mask. "Every month we send you a wave. Every month we get nothin'. You coulda helped us out a little bit, huh? All we got is word from your Uncle Andy to go on, 'oh, sure, Hoban's doing fine, got himself a wife, got himself into a scrape last month,' but how's that mean anything, huh? Hell, I don't even recognize ya -- what happened to your moustache? Proud upstanding tradition! Where'd it go?!"
He sounds, and looks, so horrified that it sets Wash laughing again. When he recovers, he brushes the pad of his thumb over his upper lip and tells him, "Zoe didn't like it. It's been gone for years. Sorry to disappoint."
Keane's own moustache twitches, belying the displeased look for good. "Āiyā. One letdown after another." He throws his hands in the air and continues over his shoulder, "That's all my son's gonna give us? Phoebe, all our son's giving us is one letdown after another, the lazy lug finally goes and waves us and his gorram moustache's gone!"
And...oh. Phoebe Washburne's at the edge of the screen now, slowly leaning into view over Keane's shoulder. Her mouth forms a small circle of surprise when she sees Wash.
"Oh my Lord," she whispers, as her grey eyes well up. "Hoban?"
Just hearing her say his name (that heinous, obnoxious name he's hated for decades) is enough to send Wash's throat slamming closed again. "Hi, Mom," he whispers in kind. "Long time no see."
"'Long time no see,' he says." Keane again, as he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'd say -- !"
"Hush, you." Gently, Phoebe swats her husband on the back of the head before draping her arms around his shoulders, smile bright and watery. "Hoban, where have you been? We've been worried sick about you! All those years without a wave -- we even thought you'd gotten yourself killed in the war for a little while before your uncle set us straight, it's been so long. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mom, I'm shiny. Really. Except the, uh...that part with the getting killed ain't too far from what happened, way back." A little rueful, Wash resettles himself on the chair. "The weird thing about the Alliance telling you they're gonna take care of your old account when it's accidentally marked KIA and you get issued another number? You sort of expect them to do it."
"You mean you didn't -- ?" She stops, and presses her lips together for a moment in a gesture strongly reminiscent of her son. "Not a single one?"
Wash shakes his head. "Not a single one," he confirms, and takes in a breath that shakes at the edges. The next words tumble out, nearly on top of one another for their speed: "I'm sorry, both of you, they stopped coming right around the same time as the evacuation, I-I thought you didn't -- I thought you were dead, Uncle Andy didn't say a word to me until a few days ago, I'm so sorry...."
Keane looks as if he's been struck across the face.
"Oh, baby." Phoebe makes an abortive gesture toward the vidscreen, as if to touch him; Wash looks away and breathes out, just as unsteady. "Shh. Méi guānxi. We're just glad you're okay. It's so nice to see you again...." Wonderingly, "You're all grown up."
"Even if you did shave off your moustache," Keane adds, but his eyes are shining. Phoebe swats him again.
Wash snickers, despite himself. "I told you," he says, "I'm powerless to resist the wily ways of women." And a pause, as he chews his lip. "I talked to the captain of the ship I'm on right now. He said he's gonna keep an eye out for work on Athens and wouldn't mind us making a detour out to Muir. Think I could stop by?"
Keane's laugh, when it comes, trembles a little, too. "What kind've a question is that?" he asks. "No, Hoban, we don't ever wanna -- of course you can stop by. Annie'd love to see you, too. She'll show you around those stables she's running."
"Shì a, I heard about that! How's that coming?"
"Uh-uh-uh." Keane waggles a finger at him. "You first. We haven't heard a peep outta ya in this long, the least you can do is tell us what you've been up to. Face to face." He quirks a grin as he makes himself comfortable. "Start with this wife we've been hearing so much about."
It's a topic that he could stay on for hours to begin with. With his parents, it lasts even longer, shifting and swooping to tiny moments and stories, some of which even have nothing to do with his wife and soon-to-be daughter. It doesn't quite matter what he's saying, anyway; what matters is who's speaking, and whom he's speaking to.
Dinner is long over by the time Wash leaves the Reading Room. The last traces of sunset stain the sky. He stands there until the it settles to an inky black, then, with an enormous grin, returns to the visitor's rooms under a sweep of starlight.
