(no subject)
Gale pulls a trunk out of storage. Swinging open the lid, he's met face-to-face with his old Junkyard uniform -- the black, fitted pieces and the grey armor. He stares like one might at an ancient relic before he acts on an impulse.
In a few moments, he's tugged it all on. The pieces, once so perfectly tailored to every unchanging measurement of his body, are now a little off. No, more than a little. The chest piece has a good inch or so extra. The black underclothes are loose and wrinkle where there was once more volume. He's not wasted away per se, but lost enough muscle mass to make a difference. He frowns disapprovingly at the figure he cuts in the mirror, tugging experimentally at this piece and that. His upper body has suffered the most.
He sighs, and notices how his posture deflates. Scowling, he straightens his spine, dipping his pelvis in, his chest up.
This isn't vanity so much as concern. And disappointment. He sits on the edge of the bed, unfastens each of the pieces again and tosses them into a pile until naught is left but the black underclothes.
Just the act of donning the garments brings him back to a former time. Not the just the Junkyard (which all blurred together until the very last) but the distinct moments of his time in the Nexus. Meeting all those people he now counts as friends, finding new causes to fight for, and places to rest.
Eventually he replaces his normal clothes and commits himself to rummaging through his closet. And by extension, her closet. He runs his hand down the sleeve-lengths of her suit coats and button-up shirts. He brings a cuff to his nose experimentally. It's already taken on that scent that inert clothes usually do. When the familiar soap smell turns to any soap smell.
He brought home a handful of dry cleaner bags and systematically tugs plastic over her garments, and ties off the bottom. This reminds him of how furniture in vacant homes will frequently be covered in sheets, acknowledging that no one will be around to use it -- not now, not soon.
Once the task is complete, he slides the door closed without a second glance at the bagged suits. He knows better than to look at it too long or that strangled tightness in his throat will come back.
He folds his own clothes and stacks them in the emptied trunk. He buries his old assault rifle and his new handgun inside as well. Habit. Books, notes, her's, his. A jar of favorite tea. He fastens the catches, lugs the whole thing into the living room and pauses to put pen to paper.
If you find this, I have taken up temporary residence with Ramon and Hippolyta at the castle in Spain.
All my love,
Gale
He opens the living room window a crack and sandwiches the folded note inside. He writes a second note informing the Embryon and any other callers of the same change of living arrangements and tacks it to the front door.
The strategist gives the apartment another slow, turning glance and sighs before activating the PINpoint coordinates for the castle in rural Spain.