Fic: Walking Away
Title: Walking Away
Author: gatechic
Characters/Pairings: Garrett and Mason.
Rating: PG
Summary: Garrett goes for a walk after leaving the infirmary.
Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. But I do own Garrett and Mason.
Words: 1,242
A/N: This takes place between Courage and Moxie from Bad Company.
It had been four annuals, for Garrett, since seeing the mining compound. Things were different now: no Longcoats, the courtyard was empty, the horse-drawn carriages sat empty and forgotten. In the center of the courtyard was the whipping post; the manacles dangling. He pulled his eyes away from it when a cold shiver ran up his spine causing his body to jerk. In the gentle wind that blew across his skin, he heard the crack of the whip and a sting on his back. He closed his eyes and waited for the memory to fade.
Garrett walked across the dust-covered grounds towards the barrack he spent so many nights. The door creaked as he opened it. A slight smile appeared on his face. 'They never did fix the damn thing', he thought amusingly.
He stepped inside and the smell he thought he had forgotten, hit him. Amazing what a person gets used to and since he had been locked up for so long, the odor was very strong. It still hung in the air of the barracks: the stench from bodies that were overworked and not given the chance to shower, the sweat from summer nights that absorbed in to the sheets and mattresses on the beds. The cots had been traded for bunk beds about a month after he arrived. Garrett cracked a smile as he remembered the first night Mason struggled trying to put his cot together. When the bunk beds were brought in, they played poker with the winner sleeping on top because of the connotation of it. It was the first time Mason beat Garrett, and since arriving at the mining camp; the kid was happy.
However, Garrett understood the reason behind the change in furnishings: bunk beds meant more men in the barracks. More men meant more mauritaniam could be mined. More men also meant more fights. Garrett’s smile faded when he remembered the night he killed a man and spent a month in solitary.
He rubbed a hand over his face and then spotted his old bunk. Mason said it was occupied the day after he was imprisoned by a burly man from Winkie Country, whom was one of dozens brought in the following day. The man kept to himself as most men started to do after time in the camp. The survival rate wasn’t at an all time high in the camp. Men were dying nearly every day from exhaustion, injuries, or sickness.
Garrett stared at his bunk and suddenly it seemed small, too closed in as if it were a wooden suit. He climbed the steps to the top bunk. As he did, the steps creaked and moaned. “I’m not fat,” he admonished the steps for complaining. There were few windows, just enough to let some fresh air and light. They were opened as they usually were with vertical bars that kept constant guard to make sure no one left.
Garrett folded his legs once he settled on the bed. Glancing around the barracks, in his mind’s eye, he could see the men sitting on their beds; some staring off remembering happy days long gone, playing cards, some sat in groups talking. What was he doing here visiting the ghosts of his past? Was he trying to prove to himself that he wasn’t dreaming, that he was free of the suit? Was he trying to see what could have been had he not been locked away?
‘You know, the suit may have saved your life,’ the voice deep inside pointed out and then continued, ‘something may have happened to you that would have killed you, like another cave in or from being overworked.’
“It’s like when you the house five minutes later or earlier and finding out that you avoided that lion or the bear that would have crossed your path,” he said to the air, in response to his inner voice. He let out a long sigh and decided he had stayed long enough. It was time to leave this part of his life, which was easy; forgetting would be the hard part.
“This is the last place I expected to find you,” a voice behind Garrett said. Out of habit, Garrett jumped from the bed and stood in the aisle. His shoulders slumped when he saw it was Mason.
Sympathetically, Mason ignored Garrett’s auto-reflex upon hearing a voice entering the barrack. They had been taught - trained - to jump to attention whenever a Longcoat entered the barracks; apparently, four annuals in an iron suit didn’t break that training. Garrett was clearly lost in thought and didn’t realize it was him that spoke and not some Longcoat voice from the past.
Garrett gave a half-apologetic, half-embarrassed smile to Mason and then shrugged his shoulders. Mason wasn’t sure if the shrug was to his comment or to Garrett’s hasty jump to attention.
“I guess you’re leaving?” Mason said, not moving from his spot. Garrett glanced around as if Mason were talking to someone else.
Garrett nodded, giving Mason his full attention. “I have to, my family is out there - somewhere - and I need to find them.”
“Well, as your doctor, I don’t think you’re ready. You need time,” Mason was saying until Garrett straightened and squared his shoulders, his usual sign that showed he wasn’t going to back down, which also meant for the one opposing to stop before they got a mouth full of ‘Fist-a-la-Cain’. Mason fell silent and pulled his lower lip in to bite it - gently.
“I know, I know,” Garrett said to him, “but I can’t just sit here, knowing that they could be out there. I need to know, Mason, I need to know,” he glanced away, thinking about Adora when tears formed in his eyes again.
Mason nodded. If he had a family, he would want to find them as soon as possible, especially after eight annuals of separation and not knowing if they were alive or not. He stepped aside, letting Garrett pass him, when the older man suddenly stopped. Garrett turned a sideways glance to Mason, put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and nodded. Garrett gave his shoulder a couple of pats before he walked away. Mason watched him and smiled; even thinner and being stuck in an upright position for four annuals, Garrett’s awkward gait was the same.
Eight annuals ago, they met, in the harshest conditions imaginable, then four annuals later, the man he thought of as his father was imprisoned in an iron suit. Mason had stayed up many nights after that, staring through the window up at the stars, wondering how Garrett was doing, what it was like, and if he was even still alive. Brent had reassured him many times that Garrett was a fighter, but Mason could tell that even he worried and thought about Garrett as much as he did. Death was seen as better than being imprisoned in one of those upright-coffins being kept you alive and watching life, through a window, move on without you. A cold-shudder went up Mason’s spine just trying to imagine what that was like.
Garrett, Brent, and Mason had formed a friendship that grew out of the necessity for survival. Mason wanted to go with Garrett since he had no family to return to, but he had patients to take of, he wouldn’t feel right abandoning those that needed him. One day, he knew, he would see Garrett again.
Author: gatechic
Characters/Pairings: Garrett and Mason.
Rating: PG
Summary: Garrett goes for a walk after leaving the infirmary.
Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. But I do own Garrett and Mason.
Words: 1,242
A/N: This takes place between Courage and Moxie from Bad Company.
It had been four annuals, for Garrett, since seeing the mining compound. Things were different now: no Longcoats, the courtyard was empty, the horse-drawn carriages sat empty and forgotten. In the center of the courtyard was the whipping post; the manacles dangling. He pulled his eyes away from it when a cold shiver ran up his spine causing his body to jerk. In the gentle wind that blew across his skin, he heard the crack of the whip and a sting on his back. He closed his eyes and waited for the memory to fade.
Garrett walked across the dust-covered grounds towards the barrack he spent so many nights. The door creaked as he opened it. A slight smile appeared on his face. 'They never did fix the damn thing', he thought amusingly.
He stepped inside and the smell he thought he had forgotten, hit him. Amazing what a person gets used to and since he had been locked up for so long, the odor was very strong. It still hung in the air of the barracks: the stench from bodies that were overworked and not given the chance to shower, the sweat from summer nights that absorbed in to the sheets and mattresses on the beds. The cots had been traded for bunk beds about a month after he arrived. Garrett cracked a smile as he remembered the first night Mason struggled trying to put his cot together. When the bunk beds were brought in, they played poker with the winner sleeping on top because of the connotation of it. It was the first time Mason beat Garrett, and since arriving at the mining camp; the kid was happy.
However, Garrett understood the reason behind the change in furnishings: bunk beds meant more men in the barracks. More men meant more mauritaniam could be mined. More men also meant more fights. Garrett’s smile faded when he remembered the night he killed a man and spent a month in solitary.
He rubbed a hand over his face and then spotted his old bunk. Mason said it was occupied the day after he was imprisoned by a burly man from Winkie Country, whom was one of dozens brought in the following day. The man kept to himself as most men started to do after time in the camp. The survival rate wasn’t at an all time high in the camp. Men were dying nearly every day from exhaustion, injuries, or sickness.
Garrett stared at his bunk and suddenly it seemed small, too closed in as if it were a wooden suit. He climbed the steps to the top bunk. As he did, the steps creaked and moaned. “I’m not fat,” he admonished the steps for complaining. There were few windows, just enough to let some fresh air and light. They were opened as they usually were with vertical bars that kept constant guard to make sure no one left.
Garrett folded his legs once he settled on the bed. Glancing around the barracks, in his mind’s eye, he could see the men sitting on their beds; some staring off remembering happy days long gone, playing cards, some sat in groups talking. What was he doing here visiting the ghosts of his past? Was he trying to prove to himself that he wasn’t dreaming, that he was free of the suit? Was he trying to see what could have been had he not been locked away?
‘You know, the suit may have saved your life,’ the voice deep inside pointed out and then continued, ‘something may have happened to you that would have killed you, like another cave in or from being overworked.’
“It’s like when you the house five minutes later or earlier and finding out that you avoided that lion or the bear that would have crossed your path,” he said to the air, in response to his inner voice. He let out a long sigh and decided he had stayed long enough. It was time to leave this part of his life, which was easy; forgetting would be the hard part.
“This is the last place I expected to find you,” a voice behind Garrett said. Out of habit, Garrett jumped from the bed and stood in the aisle. His shoulders slumped when he saw it was Mason.
Sympathetically, Mason ignored Garrett’s auto-reflex upon hearing a voice entering the barrack. They had been taught - trained - to jump to attention whenever a Longcoat entered the barracks; apparently, four annuals in an iron suit didn’t break that training. Garrett was clearly lost in thought and didn’t realize it was him that spoke and not some Longcoat voice from the past.
Garrett gave a half-apologetic, half-embarrassed smile to Mason and then shrugged his shoulders. Mason wasn’t sure if the shrug was to his comment or to Garrett’s hasty jump to attention.
“I guess you’re leaving?” Mason said, not moving from his spot. Garrett glanced around as if Mason were talking to someone else.
Garrett nodded, giving Mason his full attention. “I have to, my family is out there - somewhere - and I need to find them.”
“Well, as your doctor, I don’t think you’re ready. You need time,” Mason was saying until Garrett straightened and squared his shoulders, his usual sign that showed he wasn’t going to back down, which also meant for the one opposing to stop before they got a mouth full of ‘Fist-a-la-Cain’. Mason fell silent and pulled his lower lip in to bite it - gently.
“I know, I know,” Garrett said to him, “but I can’t just sit here, knowing that they could be out there. I need to know, Mason, I need to know,” he glanced away, thinking about Adora when tears formed in his eyes again.
Mason nodded. If he had a family, he would want to find them as soon as possible, especially after eight annuals of separation and not knowing if they were alive or not. He stepped aside, letting Garrett pass him, when the older man suddenly stopped. Garrett turned a sideways glance to Mason, put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and nodded. Garrett gave his shoulder a couple of pats before he walked away. Mason watched him and smiled; even thinner and being stuck in an upright position for four annuals, Garrett’s awkward gait was the same.
Eight annuals ago, they met, in the harshest conditions imaginable, then four annuals later, the man he thought of as his father was imprisoned in an iron suit. Mason had stayed up many nights after that, staring through the window up at the stars, wondering how Garrett was doing, what it was like, and if he was even still alive. Brent had reassured him many times that Garrett was a fighter, but Mason could tell that even he worried and thought about Garrett as much as he did. Death was seen as better than being imprisoned in one of those upright-coffins being kept you alive and watching life, through a window, move on without you. A cold-shudder went up Mason’s spine just trying to imagine what that was like.
Garrett, Brent, and Mason had formed a friendship that grew out of the necessity for survival. Mason wanted to go with Garrett since he had no family to return to, but he had patients to take of, he wouldn’t feel right abandoning those that needed him. One day, he knew, he would see Garrett again.