If I could, I'd close my eyes against the night sky.
The steady clop of horse shoes, the hum of empty air, and the occasional bird's chatter prevail over the silence. Dust is kicked up over the used road, but fades with the darkness, and the old man's pipe leaves a smoke trail as he drives his cart.
If I could feel it, I'm sure every deep breath would fill my lungs and make me cough, and the smell of vanilla tobacco would burn my nose.
Brother lies between my spread legs, sleeping with his head against my metal chest, while I lean against the back of the cart. I guess he's so used to using his own arm as pillow, that I don't bother him much. It gladdens me that he trusts me enough to sleep while we're in such an exposed place, that he sees me as someone who can protect him. Brother told me that he didn't sleep while in Armstrong's 'care', not until I had been fixed, so I know this is how he feels.
He mumbles something in his sleep, and curls his legs closer to his stomach. It must be colder than I thought.
The quarter moon shines without much resistance, and a breeze sends still green leaves to dance across the roadway. A few low clouds visibly move across the sky, and a bird twitters as it darts to a safer tree. I like to watch the scenery, it's not like I can do much else than look at it, or disturb it. Needing no sleep teaches one to merely watch things after a while, as one can't be moving all the time. Any weariness is purely mental, and sometimes it's nice to ... 'shut down'. Other times I don't feel like it, and watching without thinking is nice too.
"Mind me asking what the armor's for?" The old man's voice is rough from age and tiredness; his pipe clicks against his teeth as he speaks.
"Hobby." I respond, so used to saying it that no thought is required. "My father was a craftsman, an armor forger and blacksmith."
"That's quite the title." The old man chuckles, "What was his name?"
I never used to lie so easily. "I don't remember. I've only seen pictures, and am familiar with his work." A half truth, two thirds of the truth. I hear Brother hum, and he smiles in his sleep.
The old man falls silent, probably sensing that I don't want to talk. The timing is too late to make conversation.
A cat had hopped on the wagon with no one's notice. When I looked down at Brother for the first time in hours, it was curled into his red coat, sleeping just as contently as he. I try to remember why I like cats so much ... 'Cats are soft when their claws aren't out ...' but I can't remember what fur feels like. Maybe they feel like how Brother acts ... Hmm, that's an accurate comparison.
The kitty purrs in its half-sleep when I pet it. The sky is turning orange, the old man snores lightly but the horses seem to know the path. Brother is stretching his neck off my chest, and few more birds chirp with the morning. The road is getting rougher, trees naturally spread out from manmade groves.
"Are we there yet?" Brother yawns, and turns his side to straighten himself. The gears in his right arm work as he adjusts and twists his hips, pressing his left leg against mine.
The cat isn't happy.
"WHAT THE HELL!?"
The quiet morning is blasted away with the sound of panicked horses, and a cat-hating brother declaring war.
I would smile if I could.