In-Between-Time
Chapter five: Old Reliable
a/n: Okay, Crest of Healing and starchica, this one's for you. You've wondered, you've worried, you've reviewed, and now we're finally catching up with Joe. Italics quotes are as follows: Joe and Gomamon from Joe's Battle, and then from The Battle for Earth: Tai, Mimi, Joe, Izzy for the first flashback, Joe, Sora, Mimi for the second. This chapter was extremely difficult to write, because it's way too visual, and prose is limiting, but I feel pretty good about it after staring at it for several panicked hours and drinking a lot of Mountain Dew. Eh. Sorry about the length, but the next chapter really should be much longer. Enjoy!
Soundtrack: "Bleeding Heart Show" by New Pornographers, "Ways and Means" by Snow Patrol, "Jesus Was a Crossmaker" by Rachael Yamagata.
Disclaimer: I am making no money off of this fic, and Joe and his pals are not my property.
"They don't call me 'Old Reliable' for nothing."
"But they don't."
"I'm going to ignore that."
Joe Kido sat at his desk in the dark on a Saturday morning and stared at the clock. He had watched as 7:00 am became 8:00 am became 9:00 am, and now it was 9:57 and he had a migraine.
Joe raised a glass of water halfway to his lips and then forgot about it and it hung, suspended there, ready to slip from his fingers and crash onto the floor at any moment. Eventually he set it down, and then glanced again at the clock. 9:58.
There was a bag packed on his bed. He'd pulled it out of a box in the back of his closet the night before, setting aside the sweater vest neatly folded on top of it and then sitting for a long time holding the bag in his unsteady hands. It was a large white shoulder bag with a red cross emblazoned on the front, threadbare in places and mended once by Sora's loving hand in small neat stitches two birthdays ago. She had sewn four small triangles on as well, around the cross in vibrant red.
"It's my crest," he'd said, touched by the gesture, as Sora looked on with a quiet smile.
And now it was filled with first aid supplies and energy bars, a flashlight and a lighter and several books of matches in sealed plastic bags, a compass, bug spray, toilet paper and a pocket knife. And enough Benedryl to last several months. He'd unpacked and repacked twice, but he wasn't sure why he'd bothered. He wasn't going. He'd told Izzy that. God…he never wanted anyone to look at him that way again. 9:59.
He still saw the others pretty regularly. He went to see Matt whenever he played coffee shops, bringing his textbooks along and turning out pages and pages of work as he listened to Matt's heartbreaking voice. And Matt, in straight legged black pants on a tall stool, with his guitar propped carefully against one knee, always nodded to Joe warmly when he saw him come in.
Sometimes Joe sat with Sora, who leaned back in an overstuffed chair on the balcony with a porcelain mug of lemon tea warming her fingers and closed her eyes when Matt played the song he wouldn't admit he'd written for her. But usually he sat at a table by the window, because he liked to watch the people walking by outside, and the way rain ran down the glass in little rivers that came together in ways he could only occasionally predict.
When Kari came in, looking unbelievably small in comfortable sweaters and tight jeans, she always sat across from him at his little table and never said a word. Sometimes she'd buy a mug of cocoa for herself, and sometimes she'd get him one as well, but she never asked. She always just knew what he needed, and he was no longer surprised by her uncanny gift for perception. It just was, in the same way that many things just were in his strange, mismatched group of friends.
Izzy was hurting, and TK was laughter and faith, and Mimi was a vision of smooth white skin and a dance under strobe lights and something elemental underneath it all that he'd never be able to understand.
And Tai was gone.
10:00, and Joe almost reached for the phone, almost asked them to wait as he ran for the car and threw his bag in the backseat and raced across town running red lights and taking corners too sharply. Almost.
But in the end he just sat in the dark, statue still, barely breathing, wanting to tear the small red triangles off of his bag so it could just be a cross again.
10:01.
Joe unpacked his bag.
He noticed the new e-mail later than morning. The little flashing icon on his computer screen caught his attention when he ducked into his room on the way out the front door, and he clicked it absently as he tugged a black sweatshirt over his head, knocking his glasses askew. It was from Izzy, he realized with a jolt, and had been sent …well, before they left, he supposed. He skimmed the short paragraph once, turned to leave, and then changed his mind and read it again, his arms crossed over his chest.
And then he shook his head, crammed his wallet in his back pocket, and walked out the door.
It really was a beautiful day, and Joe bypassed his car and took his bike instead, weaving in between pedestrians on the sidewalk downtown. He stopped for coffee and took his time with it, sitting at a small table outside of the bakery, letting the sun warm up his leather shoes and thinking about…nothing. Thinking about nothing.
The last inch of liquid in the bottom of his cup got cold, and he threw it away on his way back to the counter inside. He bought a hot roll and slipped it into his backpack, and then got back on his bike, pedaling steadily along the road, and then through the park. He crossed a bridge, shifted down and tackled a hill, rode briefly through a shaded area, and then almost went over his handlebars when he spotted Tai kicking a soccer ball around a field off to the right.
It took Joe a long, hysterical moment to realize that the boy wasn't Tai after all—just another big-haired teenager skillfully keeping a ball in the air with a knee here, and then his forehead, his chest. Besides, Tai would be older now. And his hair wasn't quite that shade, now that he thought about it. Still, Joe couldn't take his eyes off of the kid. He never let the ball hit the ground. How did he manage to be right where he had to be every single time? How did he manage to keep that ball in the air?
"Hey!" the kid called suddenly. "You wanna play?"
He shot Joe a friendly, white-toothed grin and caught the soccer ball in one hand.
Joe, startled, just shook his head. The kid shrugged and tossed the ball into the air, and it hung suspended for a moment against the bright backdrop of the sun before it fell and the boy started his balancing act over again on the expanse of neatly trimmed green grass. Joe pedaled quickly away.
He found the spot he'd been looking for, and settled down next to a wide blue lake, letting his bike lie on its side in the grass beside him. He pulled the roll from his backpack and tore off a small piece, tossing it to an already approaching mama duck. He broke off a few smaller pieces for her six yellow ducklings and watched as they fought for the crumbs, and when he ran out of bread he took a homework assignment out of his bag and settled in for the afternoon.
Joe stopped by the library and finished some research. He wandered through the exhibit he'd been meaning to see at the gallery downtown and then went for an early dinner at a fast food restaurant he was secretly addicted to. He ran in to the grocery store to buy a gallon of milk. He picked up his dry-cleaning.
And that was when, as the woman behind the counter handed him his perfectly pressed clothing and a receipt, smiling warmly and chatting about this and that, it all hit him like a physical blow, and he found himself reaching blindly for something to hold on to, gasping for breath, doubling over.
"Are you all right?" the woman was asking. "Sir? Should I call an ambulance?"
But Joe was already pulling himself upright, sprinting for the door, leaping on his bike and pedaling home as fast as he could—running red lights and taking corners too sharply, and wishing he'd taken the car, at least, because he was already late enough.
"That's that. We've all got to go back."
"But how? How are we supposed to get there?"
"The first time we went to the Digital World, our Digivices led us. You guys try it again."
"You're coming too, Joe. We're all in this together."
Joe dropped his bike at the front door of his apartment complex, left it with one wheel spinning, and took the stairs two at a time. He swore in frustration when his shaking hands couldn't get the key to fit the lock, and then burst into his apartment, tossing his backpack carelessly on the couch and disappeared into his bedroom.
There was the sound of the closet being thrown open and a box being dragged across the floor, and then general chaos as Joe rushed about, repacking his bag for a third time, throwing things in haphazardly, yanking on more sensible shoes, tripping over the hall carpet as he ran back into the living room to hurl the gallon of milk into the fridge and slam the door.
And then he scrambled back into his bedroom to stand, breathless, his hands flat on his computer desk, staring at the screen.
A blinding flash of light from Joe's bedroom lit up the apartment's darkest corners and was visible outside in the gathering dusk. A few people passing by on the street below glanced up, curious, and then went on their way. A nervous kid with a backwards baseball cap stole Joe's bike, but he wasn't going to need it for a long while anyways. He was already gone.
Joe,
You unbelievable bastard. I was up half the night trying to think of one logical reason why you would refuse to come back with us, but I can't think of a single thing that could stop me from going through that gate. I know it's different for you. I know you've never felt the same about what happened. But I don't believe you have it in you to ignore this, not really. So figure out what an enormous mistake you're making, and then run the program I've attached to this e-mail. It's relatively straightforward. Joe, I swear to God, if you don't come after us…
Please, Joe.
-Koushiro
Joe stood under a dark, starless sky, his white bag over one shoulder, his heart in his throat, and waited for the panic to subside. A tangled forest was at his back, and in front of him, in a hazy field, long ribbon-like grass floated up from the ground, occasionally reaching for him lazily, but mostly just weaving about like seaweed in its bed of static. Joe thought that the stuff would probably wreak havoc with his sinuses, and then laughed, but the sound was swallowed up by the wind.
"This was a very bad idea," Joe said, and almost smiled.
And with that, he tugged once on the strap of his bag, squared his shoulders, and set off in the direction of the bell he could hear ringing in the distance, hoping the others had done the same. He had a long way to go if he was going to close the gap between them. It was time he was on his way.
"And besides, I'm going to make darn sure the sun does come up!"
"Joe, I didn't know you had it in you!"
"What a man!"
a/n: Reviewing does the body good.