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Current Location: US 34, Western Iowa

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It starts the usual way: A flash, a bang, a person standing, disoriented, near a long stretch of deserted road.

But this man falls to his knees-

(thousands of voices; screaming, crying in his head; anger and despair and everything in between, and he can’t fight, can’t ignore, can’t resist them; stop, stop, Goddess why won’t it STOP)

-and clutches his head, letting loose an agonized shout of surprise.

Then it's over, and it's like it never was.

Jamie lowers his hands, noticing in a detached manner that short strands of blond hair come away in his fingers, and sits back on his haunches, blinking. The last thing he remembers is laughing at a joke -- a bad one, with three tavern wenches and a statue -- and climbing a ladder to get at the apples high in an Olau tree. His shirt still smells like the orchard: sun and fruit and green, growing things. Had he fallen? Is this a fevered hallucination brought on by his broken body and healing magic gone wrong? Grace never could get the hang of it. She’s probably given him an extra thumb.

No. All’s right with that.

Digging his fingers into the earth beside the road, he watches it sift back to the ground. It's chunky and rough, but not dry. Even so, it's clearly not the smooth, dark soil of Olau. Jamie sniffs his hand, frowns and pulls himself to his feet. The road crests a hill to the west. Maybe there's something on the other side to explain what's happened; maybe not. Nothing to do, he supposes, but to start walking.

He'll get back to the pain (voices) in his head later. When the mood strikes.

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Damn right it's a top five kiss! Eleanor's had plenty of practice herself. It's only a shame that it has to end before she can properly assert her experience into it.

Above flushed cheeks, her forehead buckles unhappily when Jamie withdraws. She treats his gaze to a brief narrow-eyed glare, then switches her focus onto the tray-bearing woman. To say that Eleanor's a bit ruffled would be a gross understatement.

Emily blinks owlishly at the couple, uncertain of which instruction to follow. The girl looks ready to kill, whereas the boy looks kind and welcoming.

"Erm... it's good to see you're both feeling better," she says, trying to cover her embarrassed floundering with perkiness. "I can just leave the food and go if you like?"

The delicious aromas of home-cooked corn chowder, pork chops, mashed potatoes and more reach Eleanor and Jamie, complimenting the appetizing look of the spread. Eleanor had snacked while Jamie was being tended to, but she's not going to say no to a decent meal.

"That works," she replies, in a sharper tone than Emily deserves.

"Emily," the woman offers Jamie, as she decides it's safe to come further into the room. The tray is carefully set on a small bedside table, and she backs away, wiping both hands on her simple apron. "You were unconscious when we made introductions."

Jamie has recovered enough to laugh. "So I was. Pleased to meet you, Emily. And thank you for your kind hospitality."

He straightens, reluctantly letting go of Eleanor, and only looks down long enough to make sure everything important is properly covered. "But as grateful as I am, I have to ask: How did you manage it?"

Wide, innocent eyes blink at him. "The hospitality?"

Patiently, Jamie shakes his head again. "Our rescue."

She smiles. "We've been here a very long time. Other people stumble upon us now and then. We do what we can. Now, eat up, and I'm certain my brother will want to talk with you."

The smile is unnervingly bright.

"Ethan's your brother?" Eleanor asks, her nose wrinkled in mild confusion.

She's calming down now. The promise of good food can work wonders on frustration. She's already starting to ready herself for the soup, by propping her pillows up more vertically and shifting into a more uprightly seated position.

"Huh. I thought you were husband and wife. Or a couple at least."

Emily titters. "Oh no, dear. Ethan's my big brother. Sorry we didn't make that clear."

"Well, there ya go," Eleanor follows up, a little boggled that she'd made such a glaringly bad analysis of their relationship. "I'm guessing Dan isn't your son either then."

"Nope." More gentle laughter from Emily. "He's our young bubba."

Eleanor shakes her head helplessly. "Wow. That's wild."

Bubba?

Jamie watches the exchange with interest. And a pork chop.

"I'd like to ask him about the trees," he puts in.

"It's to be expected," Emily answers, fussing over a speck of lint on some clothes she's setting out for them, a mix of their own and some borrowed pieces. "Here. The rest will be ready shortly."

Eyebrows raised, Jamie sends Eleanor a sidelong look.

Edited 2008-09-29 04:14 (UTC)

Eleanor catches Jamie's glance. She looks a little dubious herself all of a sudden.

"The rest?" she queries.

"Er... thanks. Don't worry about extra clothes for me though. I've got plenty of luggage stored on my bike."

She supposes that Jamie could use some though. And the addition of a few contemporary garments to his wardrobe certainly wouldn't be a bad thing.

Edited 2008-09-29 04:27 (UTC)

"Ah," Emily says, "that's right. Your bike."

Another smile, a nod, and she leaves them to eat and dress.

Jamie chews thoughtfully. His linen shirt is there, along with another made of different cloth, but the pants are thick and dark blue, much heavier than what he'd been wearing before. Curious, he overcomes his hesitation -- he's not nearly as concerned with his loin cloth, now -- and throws the covers back, licking his thumb as he stands.

The urge to stretch is ignored. That might look contrived.

Eleanor hopes that Emily isn't going to rifle through her pannier bags in order to bring her something fresh to wear. There's private stuff in there. Like a weighty stash of marijuana she was going to sell to Lincoln frat boys before she got transplanted here. Um...

Banishing the worry, she reaches over Jamie's vacated mattress space to the nightstand and helps herself to a bowl of the chowder. And a spoon. Jamie could stand to learn a thing or two about civilized eating habits from her.

"Jeans," she informs him, noticing his pants-centric intrigue. "They're very hard wearing. Pretty popular here on Earth."

For various reasons, some selfish and some unselfish, she's glad to see him able to stand without too much visible pain. She keeps her eyes on his semi-naked form as she makes a start on the soup, unabashedly content to drink in both things at once. Sure, she's seen his body before, but it's different now. There's a distinct lack of other people's hands all over it.

And he's conscious.

That he is. In fact, Jamie's not sure that he's ever been this alert, which strikes him as amusing given his earlier performance.

He picks up the jeans, measuring their length against his legs. And indeed, the legs in question aren't that much different than the other Jamie's, save for the thin, white scar on his left thigh.

"We should talk to her brother," he suggests, pulling on the jeans with only a small wince. "Did you notice how she managed to avoid answering me directly?"

Tucking the loin cloth into place proves as awkward as Eleanor might imagine, but he doesn't seem to mind. Buttoning the fly, he flashes a quick smile and returns to the tray with a vengeance, as neither of them can be assured of their next meal; might as well take advantage of it now. Thus, pieces of bread overflowing his palm, he gingerly reaches for his own bowl and roots around for a spoon. He's not totally uncivilized. Chowder is, after all, regrettably difficult to eat with your hands.

Eleanor nods distractedly in response to his comments. The soup might as well be ditch water for all that she's tasting it. She's far more focused on his actions than anything else at the moment. And who can blame her?

Once the jeans are in place, her verdict is that they look exceptionally good on him. However, the only broadcasted sentiment is one of disappointment.

"I was enjoying that view," she mourns, and playfully elbow nudges his arm as he's raising his first spoonful.

"Why'd you have to cover it up?"

Eleanor clearly has no intention of getting dressed, even if they are going to talk to Ethan at some point.

The elbow nudge splashes some of the chowder back into the bowl. Smiling tolerantly, he shakes his head and lifts the spoon again, savoring the mouthful before answering,

"Ah, but now you'll remain partially curious and want to see it again."

Why do Earth women hate direct answers?

"Arrogant bastard," Eleanor snorts.

It's amused and fond; impossible to take the wrong way.

"The way our luck's been going today, your head'll explode before I get another chance. All I'll be left with is a pair of bloody jeans. Hardly a fitting legacy."

"I'd rather avoid that outcome," he says teasingly. With just a thin layer of chowder at the bottom of his bowl, he grins and flips his spoon on the tray. Next he works on the bread. "My mother would never forgive me."

Still chewing, he puts the black t-shirt in his lap. He's not sure about it yet.

"You should get dressed, or we won't have a straight answer out of her brother, either."

Eleanor gives him a proper frown now.

"I'm comfy," she protests. "And it's late. We can talk to him tomorrow. I just want to fool around and then get some sleep."

She snakes an arm around his waist and edges her fingertips into the top of his jeans.

"C'mon, AJ. We've been through a lot today. We could use a break before we do a Q and A."

The temptation to give in is strong. It would be so easy to slip his hands under her brief top, or brief bottoms, and let their predicament disappear in a pleasurable haze. But easy isn't as attractive as it should be; not here, not with Eleanor. And he wants answers. The fact that he also wants her is what makes walking away so difficult.

Jamie allows himself a small touch and a light kiss before detatching her arm from his waist.

"I could speak with him alone," he offers, smile somewhat sly, "if you're too tired."

Eleanor offers him a distinctly flat look in return.

"I'll be fine," she monotones, and deposits her soup bowl on the nightstand at her side of the bed. Loudly. She then stretches across to where the clothes are lying, and begrudgingly retrieves her pair of jeans.

It's a deliberate move, in that it causes a lot of extra stomach, thigh and buttock flesh to be revealed. Jamie's just going to have to live with that imagery for the next little while.

"You're gonna make this up to me later, jerk."

Watching her performance, Jamie smirks.

"Oh, yes." His eyes have yet to lift to her face. "I'll be making it up to both of us."

Later, he reminds himself. The t-shirt is pulled over his head in self-preservation, and he's out the door before he makes the mistake of looking at her again.

He has no idea what's happened to his priorities.

"I'll believe it when it happens," she grouses.

It's probably a good thing that he doesn't see what follows, since Eleanor decides to change her night shirt for the fresh peasant top that Emily left. And she's not wearing a bra.

"Hey! Wait up!" she calls after him. "Girl with a hole in her leg here."

She doesn't need any help really, but the guilt trip is very necessary. With a wince and some muttered profanities, she eases herself off the bed and starts to limp after him (http://community.livejournal.com/shatterverse/181137.html?thread=13732497#t13732497).

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