Juicebox
Description: There are few things anyone can say after years of bloodshed and violence, but when Kimball leaves to be alone at her little lake, Doyle tags along and learns that words aren't needed to make things right once more. And who knows? Maybe he was finally doing something good in his life...
In which Kimball blames herself, Doyle has done things that he regrets, and a box of apple juice is an amazingly rare comfort for the Rebels.
A/N: After watching the new episode, I considered putting this scene in another story I'm working on, but I felt it wasn't on topic with that one, so it became it's own thing. Make way for adorable fluff and angsty leaders.
Your name is Vanessa Kimball, and you don't move as you stand before the liquid ibis, shoulders hunched as you stare at the murky green water of the lake. You remember it so well, from conversations with Felix, with the past leaders of the Rebellion, with your friends... she look away, noticing your eyes starting to get teary on you. You shake your head frantically, if only to rid your eyes of the wet substance known as liquid grief. You shouldn't be crying, you shouldn't feel so used, so fucking filthy. You trusted him, you believed every single goddamn word that mercenary bothered to tell your sorry ass. You had seen him as the light of the Rebellion, as the very thing between life and death at moments in your life.
Were the stories fake too? The stories Felix would tell you with an air of playfulness in his tone and body-language? You remember them like the back of your hand; Felix fell off a jungle gym on his home planet after making a grab for a falling coin he'd been tossing carelessly at age eight, he got his gun stuck in a tar-pit in the middle of a battle and had needed a SPARTAN to yank it out for him at age nineteen, he had- you stop yourself from getting too deep. Like you weren't already. Now that the Reds and Blues are alive... they haven't contacted you yet, you should be focusing on that, not on your emotions, on Felix, on everything that isn't keeping it together for your men.
"A little birdie told me I'd find you down here..." Doyle states as he walks down the long, winding staircase to find you at the lake. "Guess they were correct, hm?"
"Go away, General." You order, not even looking at the other being. You stay staring at the lake; has it been getting even greener lately?
"I'm not really I am one anymore, dear," Doyle admits, coming to stand beside you, also looking over the lake. "Fine little place you have here... it's very, er, homey."
It's not really that homey, when you think about it. What makes it the least bit homey is it's soldiers. Currently, the soldiers are taking the whole 'You've been played like a flute for years' thing better than you would've thought. The Feds and Rebel soldiers have all gathered in separate groups, all simply talking and even laughing together at times. They're taking things one step at a time. They'll face the other trials later, the ultimate truths of the lives lost being for nothing, of their heroes being idiots and monsters, of their entire lives being for nothing. They'll face it, they know they will, but now is not the time. It's a different time, not the brightest period they've had, but a kinder one than those before it.
"It's not really homey," You explain, speaking your mind while finally looking at Doyle, eyes taking in everything about him. "You're out of armor." You state more than ask.
"Well so are you, dear." Doyle says, smirking nonetheless, though he still seems as nervous as he had been the minute you had pointed an Assault Rifle at him hours ago.
It's true, you're both in civilian clothing. It seems foreign to the both of you, making you fidget and squirm, feeling naked without the fine weight and suffocation of the highest grade of military power armor. On your part, you wear a light blue hoodie along with blue jeans, your feet bare, despite the radioactive lake before you. You have short, pitch black hair, your skin a deep brown that Doyle might suspect means you were born off-world, meaning this was never really your's to begin with, unless you'd been brought to the planet as a small child (Which you were). Your eyes are almost painfully green, giving anyone who sees them the impression that you could be one of the telltale 'Patch Babies' of one of Earth's jacked up population booms.
Doyle looks much older, having horribly pale skin, looking almost white, even when he isn't scared or startled. He has a small mustache going for him, looking to only be beginning to grow, having been shaved many times before. He has bright green eyes, like you, Kimball, but much less vibrant, along with brown hair, a chocalate color that you find almost comical, if only due to the fact that he looks more like a father than a soldier. Though, you remind yourself, Doyle had once been a secretary some time ago. Doyle wears a white button-up, long sleeved shirt, along with finely cared for black dress-pants, his black shoes well shined upon his feet.
You both look like civilians.
"So," Doyle speaks up after a prolonged, awkward silence. "Your camp is quite... organized. Were you ever able to eat fresh fruit?"
It's an odd question, to be sure, but you answer it honestly. "I haven't eaten fresh fruit since I was little... none of us have. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Doyle lies, looking away while holding out a small box-shaped item to you. "I only thought I'd ask, nothing more."
You, Kimball, take it after a few long seconds, holding it cautiously between fingers that've been branded and used to hold a gun and fire it. Only a gun feels right there now, you think. You look it over, reading off the Earth-brand easily after a few seconds of just getting over it. It's a juicebox, an apple juicebox to be percise. You spot the tiny bendy straw wrapped up and lightly glued to the side, just begging you to rip it right off and drink in the no doubt sweet liquid inside. It's quiet for a long time. Far away, you can just barely make out the sounds of the Feds and Rebels playing what sounds like a lower-key version of Grifball, consisting only of throwing rocks at the 'Grif' and using sticks as swords. They sound like kids again.
"Why?" You ask, looking up at Doyle. He's a head taller than you, you note somewhere in your brain and recognize as an afterthought.
"Well," Doyle begins, trying to relax more, failing miserably. He ceases trying to look young and folds his arms behind his back again. "I thought that I may as well, after all, we're not exactly enemies anymore, are we?"
"No," You speak with a certain portion of youth in your voice, one you haven't heard in years. You're only twenty four, you think. "I suppose we aren't."
You take the box and carefully, with the ease and practice of a trained doctor, remove the plastic straw from it's imprisonment on the box carton. You easily get it out of the wrapping, holding it between your teeth as you straighten the juicebox. The straw tastes like nothing. You pull it out from between your teeth, idly aware of Doyle's eyes on your ever moving hands and fingers. You poke the pointed part of the bendy straw into the little foil covered hole on the top, hearing a light 'pop' as it breaks under the tension. You fold the straw, bending it before bringing the straw's tip to her lips. You drink. You spit. You sputter comically, flaying your tongue out and gasping, making Doyle jump out. A bit of juice got on him, you note.
"What in the blazes- are you quite alright!?" Doyle asks in the confusion, watching you continue to spit and scowl like an agitated tomcat.
You honest to God giggle, smiling wider than you have in a very, very long time up at Doyle, still hunched over, making Doyle look even taller than before. "The juice..." You manage, wheezing before recovering. "The juice... it went bad..."
Doyle doesn't believe you for a second, scowling at you all hunched over. He must've raised kids, you think, he must've dealt with kids who'd claim their veggies went bad. He takes the juicebox when you offer it to him, and you can just feel the obvious hesitation he pours out as he looks it over cautiously. Rubbing off the part you'd put into your mouth, Doyle takes a sip, joining you in hunching over and spitting milliseconds after. You laugh even more now, the look on his once serious face too ridiculous to resist the need. He grumbles under his breath, continuing to spit and fuss over the foul tasting juice. He groans when he spots you laughing, rolling his eyes.
"This is not funny, Mrs. Kimball," Doyle states matter-of-factly, glaring at you, looking more and more like a father or uncle as the minutes pass. "I do not see why you continue to laugh."
"You're right..." You manage, coughing, trying to sound serious. "It's not funny... it's hysterical!" And there you go, back to your giggle fit.
"How you've managed to rule over a Rebellion, I will never know, Vanessa Kimball," Doyle admits, rolling his eyes again as he straightens. "You're acting like a child."
"Well, I'm only twenty four." You tell him, straightening up as well, breathing hard as you come down hard from your little laughter-high. "I hardly count as an adult."
"Wait, what?" Doyle really looks at you, takes in your smile, records your earlier laugh-track, just kinda takes it all in. You're still young, Kimball. "They said... Locus told me you were older..." He explains, suddenly looking way too guilty.
You stop smiling, and you just sorta stare at Doyle, realizing all at once that he's heard just as many if not more lies than you. "You know... Felix told me you were an ex-mercenary once."
Doyle looks down at you. and he smirks, and it feels so damn right, you can't resist joining him in feeling a little more joy. "Did he now?" Doyle inquires, suddenly looking all too proud. "I must say, that sure makes me feel a tad better."
"Yeah," You agree, looking at the lake. It looks clearer, you think. "So, what kinda tales did Locus tell about me, hm?"
"Oh, he told me all sorta of lies, I'm sure," Doyle states, scratching his chin in thought. "But you know, the soldiers back home... they used to call you 'The Green Eyed Bastard'."
You snort, shaking your head. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard all day." You tell him, crossing your arms.
Doyle shrugs, looking over the lake as well. In the distance, the Rebels and Feds are laughing about something stupid. "Sounds like the soldiers are enjoying themselves..." He comments.
"Yeah," You say, smiling wider now as you look at him, as you look at your own reflection. "They're taking this all so well..."
"We should join them up there," Doyle suggests, holding his hand out to you. "Maybe find some more... less expired, juiceboxes."
You stare at his hand, then at Doyle's smiling face. He's forty six, a voice in your head says, one you don't know if you can trust anymore. You know that nothing is over, that there is a whole new war on the rise, that you might die young after all. Felix lied to you, he told lie after lie, he killed your own men without a second thought, he-
You take Doyle's hand.
"Let's go then." You suggest, letting your slim fingers intertwine with Doyle's, ignoring the look of regret and fear on his face as you both walk up the long, winding staircase.
This isn't the end, you know. This will not be the last time you'll be depressed, the last time you think about Felix, the last time your trust will be taken advantage of. At the very least, though, you're not the only one recovering this time.
A/N: Very short, but I adored writing this so much! Please R&R!
~CabooseHeart.