(no subject)
Jack -- Captain Jack, always -- had stopped by for no real reason at all except for every reason in the world, he just didn’t say any of them, and Francine and Tish flung open the door gladly to pull him in, bright and cheerful and offering a cuppa, to which Jack laughed and accepted and had always thought that was an strange bit of british. Cuppa what.
Francine brought out cookies and they flopped around comfortably on couches, chatting with Jack regaling them about the newest drama at Torchwood, which yes, really was better than the ‘telly,’ between bites of chocolate chip cookies.
Martha came home just in time for “--and that’s when she asked, ‘well which one is mine?’” and accompanying laughter, sliding in the front door and giving them all a quick smile as she threw her school things on a chair and came over to join them. They passed around cups and the cookies and she got settled, smiling and trying to catch up in the conversation, happy but bewildered, not really understanding, in the end, how they’d all managed to become friends of all things in that place, or how they could put it behind them like they did to talk and laugh and eat cookies fresh from the packaging. Or why she couldn’t join along.
He wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t dead, and that, really, was all that was keeping full fledged panic away at the moment. That and hunger, dull and persistent and actually very unfair, since he’d yet to see so much as a bird flitting around the treetops. And really, if he was dead and had to go hungry anyway, well. It was doubly unfair.
But either way he very obviously wasn’t home, and wherever he was, with its diirt and laaeks and tiny, baby trees who he was beginning to think were empty and soulless, which would make sense if he was dead so even if Indra had said they were alive Fynn still wasn’t sure enough to put forth an opinion of his own.
But the afterlife was supposed to have more guidance, his ancestors and rdels from long ago emerging out of living wood and showing him where to go, not this endless walking walking walking across this flat, dull, hard diirt.
And not these people, the half-barbaric girl whose people made ‘bylddinn-ges’ out of what they could tear out of the ground and the boy whose hair and clothes caught in everything and tore it unthinking. People who were very obviously not from the People, and even if he could convince himself that Gellbura and Indra were animal spirits the rest really didn’t make any kind of sense at all, but that led to more rising panic that he had to breathe very carefully to quell, watching quietly as they talked and talked but didn’t really listen to each other at all.
His stomach rumbled again and Fynn decided that his feet hurt too much for him to dead.