[Outpost 48-A. Reassignment. The Blues and Reds parting ways, maybe for good. In the wake of Tex's explosion, also possibly for good, Church doesn't even question the move. The base is old, reeks of abandonment. There's a fucking hole in the wall for god's sake. And he's the only one there.
The peace and quiet had been nice. At first.
Robots don't eat, and they technically don't need to sleep, either, so those are two activities to waste time off the list. There's a good deal of patrolling, at first, reveling in not having Caboose cling to him and interrupt every other word, in not having Tucker making dumbass jokes or whining about every damn thing. It's a good, fresh start. The change of scenery seems to do well by him. And he even halfway takes his job seriously.
At first.
The days to weeks to months pass with not a single other soul in sight, physical or spirit, with nothing to fucking do. He finds, as he sets up some rocks to shoot (and miss) for the 187th time (he's kept count), that he misses explaining stuff in picture books to Caboose, and he misses goading Tucker into giving him stupid piggyback rides. He misses company. He misses other people, even if other people are hell, even if other people suck, he'd take a shouting match over the definition of irony over the vast god forsaken nothingness that his life has become. The ache in his chest over Tex has dulled--still ever-present, but dulled into the background radiation of his existence. No one's coming. Not even more teammates. They always meant for him to be alone. To, what, to slowly lose his fucking mind? To get touch-starved to fucking death? Talking to himself only goes so far, and he marks off a year, with still nothing, a whole year of nothing and more, and is it possible to die from literally absolutely nothing? Because he's pretty sure if he plays one more game of solitaire in his head, he's going to just rip his own non-existent visor of a face off.
Church awakens in the middle of the night, still several hours from the morning call, staring at the dark ceiling for a few blank moments before he reorients himself.
He is, in fact, not alone here.
Wordlessly, Church rises from bed, sheet tucked around his shoulders, and crosses the room to Ardyn's bed. His roomie might not be in the best mood, and maybe his skin is corpse-like in temperature, but he's a living being that he can touch and feel just a little less alone with. He cuddles up in the bed while draped over as much of Ardyn as he can be, and he's not going to hear any god damn argument about it.
Eventually, eventually he feels it's safe enough to speak, that when he says something, there will be a reply and not just an echo in his head.]
All that time...how long were you alone in the dark? [Because fourteen months is just a fraction of a percentage of what Ardyn's been through; it's no wonder he is like he is with the darkness inside him screaming and scrabbling for purchase, digging deeper and deeper.]
[In the morning proper, after his usual morning workout routine, Church makes his way to the garden, actually bothering to visit the memorials properly instead of mostly passing them by. It's the pigeons that really get to him, though. He can't tell any of them the fuck apart, but some of the dead had gotten attached. Or the birds had gotten attached to the now-dead. He'll sing the lyrics along, quietly, though.
In the third floor rest area, he's poking through games again, only this time he's actively pulling a couple out to take with him. Not to use today, maybe, but definitely later. In the kitchen, there seems to be a small fire. There's smoke, anyway, but it's nothing huge, and in fact seems controlled. If, uh, if you want some toast, don't use the toaster, because he's using it right now. Mostly to burn Rhys' underwear with Jack's ugly fucking mug on it. And by evening, fuck it, he's relaxing in the hot tub, and you're welcome to join him.]
no subject
The peace and quiet had been nice. At first.
Robots don't eat, and they technically don't need to sleep, either, so those are two activities to waste time off the list. There's a good deal of patrolling, at first, reveling in not having Caboose cling to him and interrupt every other word, in not having Tucker making dumbass jokes or whining about every damn thing. It's a good, fresh start. The change of scenery seems to do well by him. And he even halfway takes his job seriously.
At first.
The days to weeks to months pass with not a single other soul in sight, physical or spirit, with nothing to fucking do. He finds, as he sets up some rocks to shoot (and miss) for the 187th time (he's kept count), that he misses explaining stuff in picture books to Caboose, and he misses goading Tucker into giving him stupid piggyback rides. He misses company. He misses other people, even if other people are hell, even if other people suck, he'd take a shouting match over the definition of irony over the vast god forsaken nothingness that his life has become. The ache in his chest over Tex has dulled--still ever-present, but dulled into the background radiation of his existence. No one's coming. Not even more teammates. They always meant for him to be alone. To, what, to slowly lose his fucking mind? To get touch-starved to fucking death? Talking to himself only goes so far, and he marks off a year, with still nothing, a whole year of nothing and more, and is it possible to die from literally absolutely nothing? Because he's pretty sure if he plays one more game of solitaire in his head, he's going to just rip his own non-existent visor of a face off.
Church awakens in the middle of the night, still several hours from the morning call, staring at the dark ceiling for a few blank moments before he reorients himself.
He is, in fact, not alone here.
Wordlessly, Church rises from bed, sheet tucked around his shoulders, and crosses the room to Ardyn's bed. His roomie might not be in the best mood, and maybe his skin is corpse-like in temperature, but he's a living being that he can touch and feel just a little less alone with. He cuddles up in the bed while draped over as much of Ardyn as he can be, and he's not going to hear any god damn argument about it.
Eventually, eventually he feels it's safe enough to speak, that when he says something, there will be a reply and not just an echo in his head.]
All that time...how long were you alone in the dark? [Because fourteen months is just a fraction of a percentage of what Ardyn's been through; it's no wonder he is like he is with the darkness inside him screaming and scrabbling for purchase, digging deeper and deeper.]
[In the morning proper, after his usual morning workout routine, Church makes his way to the garden, actually bothering to visit the memorials properly instead of mostly passing them by. It's the pigeons that really get to him, though. He can't tell any of them the fuck apart, but some of the dead had gotten attached. Or the birds had gotten attached to the now-dead. He'll sing the lyrics along, quietly, though.
In the third floor rest area, he's poking through games again, only this time he's actively pulling a couple out to take with him. Not to use today, maybe, but definitely later. In the kitchen, there seems to be a small fire. There's smoke, anyway, but it's nothing huge, and in fact seems controlled. If, uh, if you want some toast, don't use the toaster, because he's using it right now. Mostly to burn Rhys' underwear with Jack's ugly fucking mug on it. And by evening, fuck it, he's relaxing in the hot tub, and you're welcome to join him.]