A/N: This is the result of some productive procrastination when I was supposed to be writing my RHD story. Enjoy!
It's the down times that are the hard part. Those times when there's nothing happening, just the hum of the engines with those little noises – creaks, groans, squeaks - underneath that are part of the fabric of normal. Of not-interesting. Of boring.
Not that there are a lot of these moments. Most of the time, life has two speeds – 'run' and 'run faster.' Run away from the monster, run to the next catastrophe in the making, run away from the past. The first two are pretty easy – having the ability to go anywhere, anywhen makes getting to the problem or getting away simple. At least, when he manages to get where he means to go, which isn't all that often, actually. So maybe not so easy, but still easier because it's the last one that sneaks up on him during the quiet moments, those moments when all is going well and the engines are humming smoothly. It's easier to hide when things are going wrong and it takes every bit of ingenuity, skill, and luck he possesses to pull himself out of this fresh calamity. No time to think about the past then.
But right now, hovering in the black of deep space, waiting for the next adventure to come along, it's a little harder to forget the weight of the sack, the grit of the sand, the heat of the high sun. It's a little easier to remember that number, the one he found that one night in a deep, black part of space and won't ever forget.
At least, he hopes he won't forget. If he does, well, that'll be a bad sign. He's not sure who he'd be if he forgot, but he doesn't think he'd like that person very much, the person who could outrun something like that.
It's not like running is new for him. He's been running a long time. A very long time. And it used to be okay. Back then he was running because, deep down, he wanted to run. So much to see and to do and it wasn't like he was going to have that at home. But after that day, that choice, he doesn't really want to run anymore. It's more habit and lack of anything better to do that keeps him dashing about. It's still fun – he still enjoys the thrill of new worlds and new problems and new everything – but there's something missing underneath.
He's not much for introspection, this time around. This time he'd rather be out doing than sitting around thinking overmuch. But here in the black, with the comm silent and the paper blank, with his friends elsewhere and the hum of the engines the only thing between him and silence, well, it's hard to do much other than think.
And so he thinks. And whenever he stops and thinks long enough, he knows what's missing. Running is still fun; new experiences, new sights and smells, seeing the wonder on his friend's faces when he takes them somewhere amazing. Running from disaster to disaster, being chased down hallways? That will never get old, not ever. Not so long as he is who he is.
Running away from that day, though?
As the engines hum and the darkness beyond twinkles with countless stars, he wishes that he could, just once more, run to the places and people he used to run from. To stop drifting for a while, even if his unchanging core would prompt him to return to this madcap life eventually. Of course he'd get bored if he stopped running, he knows that, but still. Still.
Just once, it'd be nice to run on home.