This is my rifle, this is my gun
Jul. 17th, 2014 08:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notvaljean posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
attackonwalkersJean misses hot showers.
He misses a lot of things about the world that was--the Internet, getting enough to eat, being warm, washers and dryers, safety--but mostly he misses hot showers. He's pretty sure, sometimes, that he would give his right arm to be able to stand under a steady, pounding shower stream, turned up to almost scalding, and to actually get clean for once. He supposes, though, that hot showers have gone the way of the dinosaurs and worries about global warming, and there's no point in bemoaning their extinction.
He can't help the little indulgence of splashing some cool water on his face every morning, though. It's a simple routine, one that once involved cleansers, gel masks, toners, a fancy electric razor that was serious overkill for the amount of beard he can actually grow, and aftershave by Ralph Lauren, but it makes him feel connected to who he used to be. The same way the shirt he shrugs into--an oversized button down that once belonged to a much taller man, with sleeves so long he has to fold them up to his elbows--makes him feel a little better. He's lost the tie he used to wear around his head, but he still slips his long-dead iPhone into his filthy jeans pocket as he moves out onto the compound to start his day. He knows the others think he's crazy for continuing to carry the phone, months after its batteries gave their final gasp, but there's a picture of his mom buried in its electronic memory, and he can't let it go quite yet.
He walks out into the field behind the compound, his eyes narrowed against the early morning light, looking for a certain big, bulky figure. He's loathe to ask this, but it's probably time. It was sheer dumb luck that got him through Chicago unscathed--dumb luck and years of fencing lessons--but he might not get that lucky again. There aren't crowds of slow, panicking people to distract the walkers anymore; he might have a harder time slipping through if he ever got separated from the group. And he can't walk in someone else's shadow forever.
It doesn't take him long to find Reiner, and Jean slides up next to him, clearing his throat to get his attention. "Hey. Can I ask you something?"
He misses a lot of things about the world that was--the Internet, getting enough to eat, being warm, washers and dryers, safety--but mostly he misses hot showers. He's pretty sure, sometimes, that he would give his right arm to be able to stand under a steady, pounding shower stream, turned up to almost scalding, and to actually get clean for once. He supposes, though, that hot showers have gone the way of the dinosaurs and worries about global warming, and there's no point in bemoaning their extinction.
He can't help the little indulgence of splashing some cool water on his face every morning, though. It's a simple routine, one that once involved cleansers, gel masks, toners, a fancy electric razor that was serious overkill for the amount of beard he can actually grow, and aftershave by Ralph Lauren, but it makes him feel connected to who he used to be. The same way the shirt he shrugs into--an oversized button down that once belonged to a much taller man, with sleeves so long he has to fold them up to his elbows--makes him feel a little better. He's lost the tie he used to wear around his head, but he still slips his long-dead iPhone into his filthy jeans pocket as he moves out onto the compound to start his day. He knows the others think he's crazy for continuing to carry the phone, months after its batteries gave their final gasp, but there's a picture of his mom buried in its electronic memory, and he can't let it go quite yet.
He walks out into the field behind the compound, his eyes narrowed against the early morning light, looking for a certain big, bulky figure. He's loathe to ask this, but it's probably time. It was sheer dumb luck that got him through Chicago unscathed--dumb luck and years of fencing lessons--but he might not get that lucky again. There aren't crowds of slow, panicking people to distract the walkers anymore; he might have a harder time slipping through if he ever got separated from the group. And he can't walk in someone else's shadow forever.
It doesn't take him long to find Reiner, and Jean slides up next to him, clearing his throat to get his attention. "Hey. Can I ask you something?"
no subject
Date: 2014-08-14 03:55 pm (UTC)He watches Reiner for a moment, then bends over and very carefully puts the gun on the ground. Then he comes up to the big man and puts a hand on his shoulder. "It sucks, doesn't it?"
no subject
Date: 2014-08-14 10:30 pm (UTC)But even against his better judgement he drinks in the comfort. It's not really meant for him, just for the person Jean thinks he is, but it is still a human touch and some comfort. Only Bertolt has been able to give him that, but Bertolt is just one person. And Reiner has always been too much of an extrovert to depend on the affection and attention of just one person.
Reaching up, he rests a hand against Jean's head, still for a moment, before he ruffles his hair. "Don't worry about it. We all just have to keep going, right?"
no subject
Date: 2014-08-16 06:54 pm (UTC)"Yeah. Yeah, we do." He bends down and picks up the gun again, holding it a little more naturally this time. "Okay, so how do I shoot it?"