kincaid_icon.gif nora2_icon.gif

Scene Title Homesickness
Synopsis The wee mornings of the hour bring confessions of worry and loneliness.
Date March 9, 2011

Pollepel Island and Kincaid's Apartment

"…so then just as she's about to stab him, he looks at her and she can tell he's back, right, his soul's back, and he looks at her with these puppy-dog eyes and she has to make the decision to kill him anyway because she has to for the good of all mankind or whatever, and oh my god, it's so sad, 'Caid! Why do people want to watch shit like that when the world sucks so horribly anyway?"

Nora's voice on the radio is chattering away, apparently not minding that for however long she's been talking (long enough to give a summary of two seasons of Buffy, appraently) he hasn't been there to answer.

"But I guess it was from the '90s, so it was before 2006 and everything that came after. Were the '90s so great that people had to come down from the glitz and glamour with stories of demons and werewolves and such? Like, Dracula was written in the Victorian era, wasn't it? Maybe it's a whole thing."

The teenager is standing out on the ramparts of Bannerman, staring at the crystalline stars in the black sky; the wind whips her hair as she stands as still and silent as a statue; anyone who comes out on the roof tonight would never know the monologue she's spewing through Kincaid's speakers, fifty miles to the south.

When the microphone clicks on finally, it's hard to tell how much of the monologue the older man heard, and how much he didn't. Kincaid isn't about to tell the teenager that he'd been in the shower til a few moments ago, and only caught the end there. Enough to gather that she's talking about the show neither of them had heard of before, but having missed the entire summary.

Radio Technopathy doesn't let her see that his hair is damp, and he's wearing little more than a towel. Perhaps good for what modesty he's held on to, that.

"I hope this isn't how you're planning to spend your birthday, watching television shows. Though you always have been exceptionally difficult to get presents for. Salvaged radio parts aside, maybe this year I can send you a DVD, or your own portable DVD player."

There's a giggle that he will know is genuine and audible to the world around her, not just him, before her inner voice comes back through the speaker's. "So do you at least have a goldfish there or something that I've been entertaining in your absence?" she asks, a smirk curving her lips as she peers up at the stars in the sky. "I'm bored and keeping myself company," she adds in explanation.

"As for my birthday…" there's another snorting scoff that is no doubt accompanied by an eye roll on her end. "It's not like it's real, you know, as far as what it means, and it's not like 18 means anything anyway. I can't very well vote, and there's not a lot else that it's good for." She's quiet for a moment. "Thanks for remembering, though. I don't think anyone else will."

You will no longer be prompted for poses.

"I wish— though I'm afraid any pet I'd have owned would have died in the month I was trapped in the Dome with no one to feed it," Kincaid says with a returned snicker, looking down at himself and wondering if, somehow, she knows the state of undress he's in this late— or early— in the wee hours of the morn.

"I know it's not real, but it's real enough," he offers in quieter tones, leaning back in his chair and scratching at still damp hair on the top of his head, stopping to look at the healing damage on his wrist.

"Hannah probably would have, if she weren't sick," he adds on. "Benji might too. Don't put it past them. I've always been a little weird about birthdays," he admits, tone softening even more, before he sits up. "So how are things in the castle?"

She shrugs, not that he can see it. "I don't know if they know my birthday or not, honestly. It's not important. Age is just an arbitrary fact that doesn't mean anything, anyway, and the only reason to celebrate it is that it's a fucking surprise I lived another year," she says a bit cynically.

Either she's in a bad mood or the Buffy emo vibe is getting to her.

There's another heavy sigh, which lets him know she's not even trying to edit. "Junie would have remembered," she says, quietly, and after a pause, she adds, "Can you believe I think I'm homesick?"

If he'd been trying to get himself in a good mood for the younger woman's sake, Kincaid's just glad she can't see the serious and sad expression that crosses his face. "Yeah, I get that— Honestly I'm starting to wish I hadn't left home in the first place."

There's a scraping sound as he reaches over to drag out a thing drawer in the desk, right under the microphone. He doesn't even have to move his hand around to find what he's looking for, placing his fingers on it, as if touching it gives him a piece of what they'd left behind.

"It may not have been the easiest life to live, but… it was home. Our home." Jaw tightens for a moment, and eyes lighten to allow some of the pain through. Physical pain is always easier to deal with than emotional. His nerve control doesn't let him stop that pain…

"I miss them. Course I would have missed some of you guys, too, if I had stayed." Some. But not all.

Nora winces and brings a hand to her forehead. "Fuck, Kincaid, I'm sorry. I'm being self-centered. Of course you understand." She closes her eyes as she curses herself inwardly for her lack of thought. "It's kinda amazing that even when I'm speaking with my mind, I still manage to speak without thinking first. It's some sort of fucking paradox that I don't get." She tries to make light of the somber moment with self-deprecation.

"For the record," she adds, eyes narrowing as she turns to watch an owl glide through the air, heart beating a bit faster until it's once more out of sight, "I'm glad you came."

There's another heavy sigh. "I think sometimes we've already screwed stuff up so badly. People are sick — people who aren't supposed to be. What if we're making things worse?"

"There's stuff for all of us, back home," Kincaid offers, seeming to be trying to console her for the folly she thinks she has commited. "Really, it's okay. I spend enough time feeling sorry for myself about it all on my own." The drawer is pushed shut again, hiding the object that he occassionally carries around in his pocket.

A constant reminder of what he's beating himself up about. Literally where his nerve damage is concerned.

"You're right, though. Things aren't going very well, and we may have made unfortunate decisions that…" he trails off, chewing lightly on his lip. "I think we should try to have a meeting— to regroup."

Nora shivers when the wind reminds her why most people don't stand outside in 30 degree weather in the middle of the night. "Yeah, but I'm a teenager and I'm supposed to leave home and not care about anything, right?" she says a little less cynically and a little more playfully.

It lasts a very short moment as she nods unseen to his words, and she turns to sit, back against the faux-stone wall behind her. "I didn't think it'd be Hannah who got sick. I thought it'd be me," she whispers. "Everything's so messed up." It sounds juvenile and whiny in her ears, and she shakes her head.

"Buffy's life is looking fucking simple in comparison," she adds suddenly, false bravado taking the place of the petulant tone of a moment past.

"I didn't have time to watch that, but I did surf the wikipedia file on it— and yeah, I can see the comparison," Kincaid says with a small laugh. "Her life seemed to be pretty crazy— which makes the show ahead of it's time. If it came out after 2006, people might have thought they were just playing off the times, but since it came out before…"

Ahead of their time.

"I'm glad your not sick, though. Hannah's strong, and I think if any of us could pull through it, it's her. Don't bury her yet. And don't get sick, either— cause then I'll have to find the island and sit by your bedside, and I'm not exactly invited."

"Ingrid showed up the other day, speaking of uninvited. She wants to help but if they found out who she works for — " Nora shrugs, and then her voice hardens a bit, the emotion seeping through. "I'm not burying Hannah, trust me. I'm not going to give up on her. I would visit her, if I could — Calvin got me a vaccine before I went back, so I should be safe, but… Abby had the vaccine too, I think, and she still got sick."

She closes her eyes. The infirmary workers wouldn't let her in even if she asked — she knows this — but she could possibly sneak in. She hasn't tried. She pushes that aside, shame warming her cheeks. "She is strong enough. Stronger than me. But I still wish it wasn't her. Not that I'd wish it on anyone."

There's another sigh and she begins to stand. "If I come back south, can I stay with you, maybe?"

"Of course you can stay with me— I don't have an extra bedroom, but you know me, I barely sleep four hours a night most the time, and you can be up on the radio while I am," Kincaid says with a laugh, tapping the microphone as if he's trying to tap her on the tip of the nose.

"My place is always open to you." Just like his radio was only ever unplugged a handful of times— and only when he was having his affair with an older, married woman, who acted like she was a teenager.

"You should probably get some sleep, though. It's late."

"Yeah," she agrees. It is late. The mist is coming in and, her hair and cheeks damp with the chilly moisture. "Thanks for listening, Caid."

There is a shush of static and then the radio plays her exit music for the night: Queen's Radio Ga Ga:

I'd sit alone and watch your light,

My only friend through teenage nights,

And everything I had to know,

I heard it on my radio.

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