For Clara, because I know how much she misses home when she can't be there. Written for the Starvation monthly challenge. This prompt was 'home'.
"There's not much left of this one," Kaleb says as he gently fingers some bones.
"I can see that," Grace chokes out. It doesn't smell, but her nose tricks her into thinking it does. It's a body, a human, and it makes her sick. She fears that her already turning breakfast will jump to her throat soon.
"Hand me my tool pack, will you?" he says, kneeling beside the long dead resident of the long dead, eternally mysterious society.
"Sure." Grace takes the sturdy backpack off of her shoulders, setting it near her feet. She unzips the pack slowly, letting the sound of the zipper coming undone play through her head. Once open, the old fabric in the lip of the bag sags. It isn't hard to find Kaleb's slightly smaller tool pack. He keeps it right on top. She takes the smooth plastic casing into her hands. Handling it carefully, though briefly, she brings it to him. "Here." His rough hands brush against hers, and her heart flutters slightly.
"Thanks," he whispers distractedly. His thick rimmed glasses perch too low on his nose, as he squats over the bones. His hands run through his curly brown hair once before he pulls on his protective gloves. Assorted brushes and magnifying tools find their way into his gloved fingers.
Grace doesn't take her eyes off of Kaleb's current project. Her stomach heaves when he holds up a lower jaw to examine it. She chokes down the bile in her throat, hoping her breakfast will stay firmly put. She needs the nutrients. Mostly, she hates the feeling of vomit in her mouth. "I'm just going to be over there," she says. She gestures to a small clump of thin quaking aspens, though she knows Kaleb will not look up from his work to see her.
"Mmmm," he grunts, letting her know he has heard her quiet words.
Grace watches Kaleb move about for hours. The sun is well past the peak of midday by now. She plays nervously with her limp blonde locks. Her fingers weave themselves through it, braiding and unbraiding the strands that are in a dire need of a wash. She chews thoughtlessly on nuts she can only identify as edible. Her stomach is much calmer now, but the smell of rot lingers in her nostrils. She keeps having to remind herself that the clearing here smells of wet grass, and not of death.
When Kaleb finally looks her way, she lets her hair fall lifelessly around her suntanned face. He walks toward her, his gloves flopping around in his front pants' pocket.
He takes her small hands in his own warm ones. Taking one look at her face, he sighs. "Why do you always come with me, Grace?" he asks, voice calm and flowing.
"Kaleb," she says with a demure smile.
"No. I'm serious," he says sternly, his deep brown eyes meeting her speckled green ones. "You don't have to come traipsing across the country with me when you could be at home. You don't have to sleep on the hard ground, or eat foreign berries, or—"
"It's not about that Kaleb," she says, breaking away from him and walking away, down the path.
"No?" he asks, following her. "Then what about the dead bodies? The bones? I know you don't like them. Why do you come with me if you know we're only going to find death?"
"I—" she stutters.
"You what, Grace?" he says, taking her hand into his again. "I love having you with me, you know that. But I don't understand it. You can stay home. Have a warm bed. Be with your mother."
"My home is with you," she insists.
Kaleb only raises his eyebrow questioningly.
"I know that sounds so cheesy, but it's true," she tells him. "Being with you, it's better that in that house you say is my home. Your arms make me feel safe. Your eyes let me know I am. Your lips…" she says vaguely.
He smiles slightly at that, but continues. "What about the bodies, Grace? You can't explain those away with your love for me. You always cry when you see them. Why do you put up with it?"
"Because someone has to," she says simply.
"You don't. Plenty of other anthropologists or archeologists would love to come out here with me," he says.
"No, that's not what I meant," she says shaking her head. It moves her hair around her face slightly. "Someone has to cry for these people, Kaleb. They're not just bodies. They're people. They lived once. Breathed once. Had a home and a family that they loved."
"Whoa," breathes Kaleb. Grace looks up to see the source of his wonder. Standing before them is a house. It's large, and white, and clean. But most surprisingly, it is here unburned. "I wonder why this is left here like this…" he muses.
"It was important," she decides quickly.
"I can tell. Hold this," he says handing Grace his gloves that had somehow found their way into his hands. "I want to…" she doesn't take the gloves and he looks up at her, confused. "Grace?"
"I wonder who lived here," she says sadly.
"Grace," he says, almost as if he is scolding her.
"What?" she asks innocently.
"We need to work," he tells her.
"I know," she says. Despite her words, she does not move.
"Well," Kaleb says as an invitation.
"I'm sorry," she whispers taking a few steps back. "I can't."
"Grace, don't do this to me again."
"Kaleb, I can't. This is someone's home," she says, her voice cracking.
"Whoever they, they're long dead," he reasons.
"So?" she demands. "They still lived here. Lived, cried, laughed, Kaleb. Really lived. Not just existed."
There is silence for a long minute. Then slowly, almost in a dream-like sluggishness, Kaleb approaches Grace. He kisses her. It's chaste and brief, but it sends her heart into frenzy. "You're wrong," he says quietly, touching his forehead to hers.
"What?" she asks, confused by the inconsistency of his actions and words.
"I'm not your home," he explains. "This is. Everywhere. Earth. People need people like you to care about them."
She smiles. He understands. He's Mr. Science and always will be, but he knows they need her just as much as he needs them. "So do you."
"I know," he whispers before kissing her again. "I know."