Work Text:
She’s been in cities before, but nothing remotely like Rhodes Island. A great island made up out of the form of a tower gleaming cool under the artificial lights, the outside a monolith of glass and steel, roaming the groaning world. There’s very little here even like other roaming cities, the dorms and labs, factories and processing centers are made out of cookie-cutter building blocks, bald steel and plastic ready to the touch and pushed up against each other. With very few windows.
It all seems a tad...lifeless.
Recreation rooms though, have a little more to offer. Soil is a rarity, but that doesn’t stop Rhodes Island from turning the dust from the wastes into little sandy patches bordered by, or perhaps surrounding some thirsty, hardy weed. Something that can survive the harsh artificial light and a general lack of water and care.
They’re cute, these little things. Young, and struggling, and beautiful. Under some care, they cease to struggle. Much like the younger operators, much like so many of her new family, a little care goes a long way.
“Grow strong,” Meteor whispers to her little desert plant, taking care not to wash away the sand that shelters its roots with reckless watering. The air is dry to the bone, with that odd scent that comes from being deep within the tower. Metal, maybe. Clean, but odd.
“You’re here,” Meteorite calls, from the door. This isn’t the first time they’ve met this way, with dust coating Meteor’s fingers and half a ration of water carefully soaking into the dirt, with Meteorite swaddled in a jacket against the artificial cold and her hair pulled away from her neck.
“And so are you!”
That earns her a smile. A little one, that Meteor gladly returns.
“How’s he doing?”
“Well enough, considering our last mission took us away for two weeks.” Meteor touches a wilting leaf, and sighs quietly. “Though if we had been a week longer, I would need more than just water.”
“It can’t be helped.”
She’s so serious, sometimes.
Meteor flicks sand at Meteorite’s shoes until Meteorite takes the hint and joins her on the ground. Their post-mission cooldown. This empty, rarely used recreation room with its one plant and each other. “Is everyone else settled?”
“As much as they can be,” Meteorite reports. “I think Kroos will have nightmares.” She says it in a way that suggests that she will have nightmares as well. “Hibiscus took the wounded to the infirmaries, for anyone who needed more intimate care.”
Encounters with Reunion were always hard, long looks into a dark reflection. And, for some of her cohort, a bloody one. It’s one thing to feather an enemy from afar, and it is an entirely different beast to shell an enemy to pieces and see the aftermath. That blood might not actually be on Meteorite’s hands, but it’s clear enough that she sees it anyway.
For the bloodier battles, at least. As a mercenary, she’s seen horrible things and done horrible things. Meteor reaches up to brush the back of her hand across Meteorite’s cheek. Who leans into the touch with a stuttering breath. She’ll probably never understand what ghosts haunt those eyes, but it’s good that she can see them.
It’s good that Meteorite lets her see them, it’s a trust.
“You’re sitting so far away,” Meteor pouts, “will you not come closer?” Her ears flick, catching the kick-over of the air unit in the far corner of the room and the subtle groaning of the whole tower. They’re on the move again, and if you listen you can almost hear the wheels turning. Meteorite inches closer, a small victory.
Flexing her hands, a miserable little frown on her face, Meteorite curls towards Meteor slightly. “This close,” Meteorite promises, “but...not further.” Meteor nods, and reaches out with an open hand, fingers curled up. Meteorite refuses it and scrubs her hands against her jacket. “Not yet.”
“I’ll wait,” is an easy promise. “Should I beg another plant of Amiya? To chase along the border?” Meteor sketches out the idea, some green little one to send out runners. And a barrel of soil , and a mister for weeks spent away for too long. “I’ll never grow my forest in these walls, but I should think we deserve a little more than-”
“Stop,” and she stops.
Too much. No words then. No words, like two trees in the night, growing together. Two lives in the evening, growing together. No words, just...just this. No further touching, no more words...both will come later.
She can wait.