Subject: [OTL]: Friendship challenge: After the Battle, 1/1
Date: Fri, 01 Dec 2000 20:27:56 -0800
From: JumpTB@aol.com

Title: After the Battle

Author: Omega

Rating: PG

Summary: I was re-reading some Excalibur issues and was mourning (again!)
over the way Wisdom-dearie left Kitty; this is supposed to take place about
a month after he leaves Muir Island. This is also a story in respone to Joan's
friendship challenge. This is not about love. Really. Trust me.

Archiving: Have a nut, lemme know. I don't own the characters and I'm not
getting even a whiff of profit, but the ideas and words are mine.

The Copper Horse: http://copperhorse.homestead.com/Copperhorse.html (my
website--- now open for submissions too!)

After the Battle

    Pete Wisdom lit another cigarette and drew a long, deep breath, letting
the toxic smoke fill his lungs and wondering why fags and whiskey always
ended up being his best friends. Probably your charming social skills, a
rueful voice in his head answered. Those same wonderful skills that caused
the heart-breaking - not, break wasn't a strong enough word -
heart-demolishing trauma with Kitty. But that was the past. Not worth
dwelling on. Perhaps destiny had better plans for him, like getting very,
very drunk and then sleeping it off until the day after tomorrow.
    He motioned to the bar tender, who obligingly brought him the first drink
of the night. He turned it between his hands on the pitted, worn wood of the
tiny table he was sitting at in the back of the uncrowded hideaway. To other
days, he thought, and poured it down his palate in one swift hand motion.
    "Tough day?" asked a familiar voice.
    Startled, he looked up and saw a familiar feminine figure standing next
to his table. "'Ave a seat," he grunted, albeit not harshly.
    "Thanks." She pulled out the chair and settled down onto it, her jeans,
polo, and light rain jacket blending in comfortably with the other people in
the place. She had a small, sympathetic smile on her face, which had only the
tiniest hints of eyeshadow and lipstick marring its smooth curves, and her
eyes searched out his eyes in his own pale, almost hollow face.
    "Didn't think I'd see you again," he muttered, almost sheepishly.
    "And I didn't expect to see you. But," she shrugged, "here we are."
    "We didn't part very well, did we?"
    "It doesn't matter."
    "But it matters to me." He caught the eye of the bartender and gave a
quick hand signal. A waitress carried the two whiskies over on a tray and
left them at the elbows of the two. She took a cautious sip of her drink as
he continued. "You were right. What you said when I left. I was just so
bloody . . ." He rubbed his hands over his eyes, then looked up at her
plaintively, his eyes tired and the tiniest bit wiser behind their blue than
they had been only a short time ago.
    "Confused. Angry. Disappointed. Embarrassed. You were just being you."
She smiled at him.
    He quirked up half of his mouth, seeing the stupidity of it. "It's too
late to go back and make amends though, because I've made up my mind. About
that, anyway. But what about, well, us?"
    Cocking her head slightly to one side, she studied the situation, and
then answered carefully, "Things will never be the same. You know that, I
know that. But you have to remember that loyalties run deep. All of us, back
there, are willing to be there for you. You just have to be willing to ask,
if and when you need help. Or need anything. Once a part of us, always a part
of us."
    "No, I'm not a part of you guys any longer. That's done," he said,
clipping the words with a decisive tone. Then his voice softened. "But I'm
glad to know that you're all still willing to help an effing stupid
nicotine-addicted half-drunk ex-government mass murderer." He grimaced at his
own words, but his eyes looked relieved. "Thanks," he mumbled as he picked up
his own glass of whiskey and swallowed it down.
    "You're welcome." She finished her drink as well and looked down at her
hands, feeling her face flush. It felt like it was getting a bit warm in
here, but she knew it had more to do with the emotions of each of them than
the temperature. "Well. I ought to be going. I've got a bit more shopping to
do, and then I'm going back."
    "Be sure to pick up some nice coffee so that no one has to drink dear
Moira's shit for a week or two. Give the poor buggers a break," Wisdom said,
looking up as she opened her pocketbook and started rummaging for cash to pay
for her drink. He lifted one lean, strong hand and placed it over hers.
"Don't. It's the least I can do." He gave her a smile full of, for the first
time, genuine warmth.
    There was a slight pause, and then she nodded, ducking her head and
closing her pocketbook as his hand retreated back to his side of the table,
where he began systematically shredding a napkin. Standing, she pushed in her
chair and was about to walk away but she found herself looking down at his
stubbornly black hair and felt a surge of affection for the poor git. One of
her own small, cool hands covered his now, and he met her eyes as she said,
"I'm your friend, always. Remember that." She withdrew her hand as he nodded
his deep understanding, and then walked out. Wisdom watched as Meggan, her
rain jacket rustling, disappeared out into the rainy, wet street.

Escribir es alegria.