[fic] Five Drinks Mike (Almost) Had With Danny Archer
Spoilers for Blood Diamond
Archer can taste blood when he licks his lip. Bored in the cell, waiting a mission or a bullet. Some kind of exit strategy, get out of here, get out of Africa. There's a man -- a boy, really -- in the cell beside him, blue eyes, pale skin, a mess of black hair. The boy just looks amused every time the guards shout at him. They think he's a Colombian spy. Archer couldn't care either way. It breaks up the boredom a little. He licks his lips again.
"Want some?" Mid-west accent, a touch of New York. The boy is, impossibly, holding a bottle of water. American brand. It's cold, he can see condensation dewing on the surface. The boy says "it's real" at the exact moment Archer thinks it can't possibly be.
He shakes his head anyway.
The boy cocks his head to the side a little, then smiles a little as he takes a drink, leaving the bottle afterwards where Archer can get to it if he reaches through the bars. Back on his bunk, the boy sprawls out with his hands behind his head.
"It's gonna be hot day," he says. "And a long one. 'Leastways for you. Me, they're already coming for." The boy turns his head sideways to grin at Archer. "Game of one. Ain't that fun?"
When Archer finally takes the bottle, still, impossibly, cold, he finds it's been left on a pack of cards.
---
In the hotel bar, afterwards, Archer sees the boy across the room. The boy's lips quirk, something not quite a smile. He lifts his glass in toast. Archer tilts his back. A waitress gets between them and then the boy is gone.
---
It's late. He's desperate. Solomon must be found, persuaded, coerced. He's in there now, somewhere, the squatter camp. Archer could just go in. But there's an art to this. A timing. Explosions in the distance and the sound of troops. He moves back against the wall.
"It's funny." That accent again. "Lately, you seem to be everywhere I go, Mister Archer."
Did the guards say his name in the cell. Archer doesn't think so. His gun is a comfortable weight in his pants. He turns just enough to see the boy, eyes on the approach.
"You're everywhere I go," he says.
The boy just grins. He's holding a thermos, dangling idly. "I'm Mike."
Archer doesn't care. Maybe a little: "Colombian?"
"They certainly think I'm guilty of something." That annoying head-twitch again. "But then, so do you. I'm American, after all." He cracks the thermos. Coffee smell, rich and dark. "Drink?"
He doesn't say, but the boy pours anyway. Archer has no idea where the mug came from.
"I wouldn't hang around any longer than you have to," the boy says. He's looking at the distant hills like he can see perfectly in the dark. "They'll come soon. Not as soon as they think, but sooner than you want; you can command the tide, but it rarely listens. I'd leave it all behind, if I were you."
"You're not," Archer says, despite himself, wanting to say, who the hell are you? Wanting to say, this is Africa. I know Africa. I know what I'm doing.
"There's a relief camp in Port Loki," the boy says, apropos of nothing. He pours a little from the thermos into the lid, drinks, spills the rest on the ground with a murmur, a prayer perhaps, and twists the lid back on. "Somewhere to go, on the way around."
"Around?"
"Oh, we always come back to where we begin. Some things are pretty much inevitable. ...Well. Good evening, Mister Archer. I hope you find what you need."
The boy flashes a smile and saunters into the camp; he makes no noise. The night swallows him. Archer swallows the coffee. It's bitter, and just a little sweet.
---
Pain and death and blood. And this. A quiet in the jungle. A village, a man of principles. A touch of hope. The children are singing the national anthem in the village center. He walks away. For a moment, he thinks he sees the boy again, this Mike, at the edge of the compound, talking to something, a shape in the trees. Perhaps made of trees. Both shapes look his way, dark green eyes in the black, and the other's not blue, but burnished gold and glittering like diamonds. Nothing human could look like that. Raw. Primal. Perhaps this is Africa itself, come to speak to him. He closes the distance, but finds only a plastic jug, half full of palm wine, standing in the middle of dusty, untouched ground. Spirits, like memories, only leave footprints in the mind. He lifts the jug, pours a little on the ground, and drinks.
---
They do not meet again, before the end, this boy who is no boy, whose mystery he will never know. But after the plane flies clear, as everything fades and Archer thinks of freedom and what it means, of men and women and children, there is a soft breeze in the heat and something glittering in the far distance, a diamond, a shooting star. The sky is huge here. Everything is huge, monstrous and glorious, steady and ever changing. For a moment, he feels the edge of something, of everything, a certain ecstatic joy, something approaching faith, both apart from him and of him. He feels tuned in. Connected. This is a good death.
His blood touches the ground and Africa drinks.
Archer can taste blood when he licks his lip. Bored in the cell, waiting a mission or a bullet. Some kind of exit strategy, get out of here, get out of Africa. There's a man -- a boy, really -- in the cell beside him, blue eyes, pale skin, a mess of black hair. The boy just looks amused every time the guards shout at him. They think he's a Colombian spy. Archer couldn't care either way. It breaks up the boredom a little. He licks his lips again.
"Want some?" Mid-west accent, a touch of New York. The boy is, impossibly, holding a bottle of water. American brand. It's cold, he can see condensation dewing on the surface. The boy says "it's real" at the exact moment Archer thinks it can't possibly be.
He shakes his head anyway.
The boy cocks his head to the side a little, then smiles a little as he takes a drink, leaving the bottle afterwards where Archer can get to it if he reaches through the bars. Back on his bunk, the boy sprawls out with his hands behind his head.
"It's gonna be hot day," he says. "And a long one. 'Leastways for you. Me, they're already coming for." The boy turns his head sideways to grin at Archer. "Game of one. Ain't that fun?"
When Archer finally takes the bottle, still, impossibly, cold, he finds it's been left on a pack of cards.
---
In the hotel bar, afterwards, Archer sees the boy across the room. The boy's lips quirk, something not quite a smile. He lifts his glass in toast. Archer tilts his back. A waitress gets between them and then the boy is gone.
---
It's late. He's desperate. Solomon must be found, persuaded, coerced. He's in there now, somewhere, the squatter camp. Archer could just go in. But there's an art to this. A timing. Explosions in the distance and the sound of troops. He moves back against the wall.
"It's funny." That accent again. "Lately, you seem to be everywhere I go, Mister Archer."
Did the guards say his name in the cell. Archer doesn't think so. His gun is a comfortable weight in his pants. He turns just enough to see the boy, eyes on the approach.
"You're everywhere I go," he says.
The boy just grins. He's holding a thermos, dangling idly. "I'm Mike."
Archer doesn't care. Maybe a little: "Colombian?"
"They certainly think I'm guilty of something." That annoying head-twitch again. "But then, so do you. I'm American, after all." He cracks the thermos. Coffee smell, rich and dark. "Drink?"
He doesn't say, but the boy pours anyway. Archer has no idea where the mug came from.
"I wouldn't hang around any longer than you have to," the boy says. He's looking at the distant hills like he can see perfectly in the dark. "They'll come soon. Not as soon as they think, but sooner than you want; you can command the tide, but it rarely listens. I'd leave it all behind, if I were you."
"You're not," Archer says, despite himself, wanting to say, who the hell are you? Wanting to say, this is Africa. I know Africa. I know what I'm doing.
"There's a relief camp in Port Loki," the boy says, apropos of nothing. He pours a little from the thermos into the lid, drinks, spills the rest on the ground with a murmur, a prayer perhaps, and twists the lid back on. "Somewhere to go, on the way around."
"Around?"
"Oh, we always come back to where we begin. Some things are pretty much inevitable. ...Well. Good evening, Mister Archer. I hope you find what you need."
The boy flashes a smile and saunters into the camp; he makes no noise. The night swallows him. Archer swallows the coffee. It's bitter, and just a little sweet.
---
Pain and death and blood. And this. A quiet in the jungle. A village, a man of principles. A touch of hope. The children are singing the national anthem in the village center. He walks away. For a moment, he thinks he sees the boy again, this Mike, at the edge of the compound, talking to something, a shape in the trees. Perhaps made of trees. Both shapes look his way, dark green eyes in the black, and the other's not blue, but burnished gold and glittering like diamonds. Nothing human could look like that. Raw. Primal. Perhaps this is Africa itself, come to speak to him. He closes the distance, but finds only a plastic jug, half full of palm wine, standing in the middle of dusty, untouched ground. Spirits, like memories, only leave footprints in the mind. He lifts the jug, pours a little on the ground, and drinks.
---
They do not meet again, before the end, this boy who is no boy, whose mystery he will never know. But after the plane flies clear, as everything fades and Archer thinks of freedom and what it means, of men and women and children, there is a soft breeze in the heat and something glittering in the far distance, a diamond, a shooting star. The sky is huge here. Everything is huge, monstrous and glorious, steady and ever changing. For a moment, he feels the edge of something, of everything, a certain ecstatic joy, something approaching faith, both apart from him and of him. He feels tuned in. Connected. This is a good death.
His blood touches the ground and Africa drinks.