milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The Spokane Indian Reservation is outside the town of Wellpinit, Washington. That's the eastern part of the state. Its residents don't leave often.

Not even the weird ones.

So that's why when the front door opens and a man -- fairly average-looking, hair long and unbound -- walks in, he blinks. Mostly because there's never been a bar in Thomas Builds-the-Fire's bathroom before, but also because this place is not the Spokane reservation. It is, in fact, white. Very white.

Weird he may be, but Thomas Builds-the-Fire knows better than anybody that weird and stupid don't mean the same thing. Not all the time, anyway.

For the moment he's just standing, and looking, and listening. Because this? This is weird.

Maybe he walked into a story.

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"Sure." Thomas picks up the cane.

The shirt doesn't bother him. Victor bought himself a closet full of polyester disco clothes back in the day when everybody was wearing that kind of thing. Back then Victor was flush. He has't been flush since, so he's stuck wearing disco clothes. An Indian anachronism.

He hands the cane over. "Here you go." Beat. "You need any help with that stuff?"

"Xiexie ni. Yeah, maybe a little, just the -- " He tucks the cane under his arm for a moment and steadies the tower of edibles. "Think you could get the salad?"

"You got it." Thomas takes the bowl. "That's a pretty nice stick you got."

"Thanks." He grins. "Yeah, my cap'n gave it to me a few months back as one of those good-to-see-you-now-get-well-now gifts. I think I've still got a couple weeks before everyone gets sick of me showing it off."

Wash succeeds in wrestling everything onto a nearby table and exhales a sigh of relief, wiping a little bit of spilled coffee off on his jumpsuit.

"So! New, never met, none of the above?"

Thomas listens to this. It's a story. Why shouldn't he?

-- until the last part.

"Huh?"

"Are you new here, not-new but we've just never met before, or none of the above?" he clarifies.

"Oh." Beat. "New here." A little apologetically, he says, "I'm not used to finding white people in my bathroom." Beat. "Or any people. Except me. But I know where I am, most of the time."

"And why stop the trend just because of wacky portals appearing out of nowhere?"

He clears his throat and spreads an arm, indicating the bar.

"This is Milliways, Bar at the End of the 'Verse. Welcome. And don't worry, nobody's used to having any people show up in their bathroom, bridge, bedroom, or other personal space starting with the letter 'b' first time they show up."

Thomas considers this very carefully.

And smiles a little, and says, "What about their dining room?"

"Dining room I have yet to try," Wash says solemnly. "I think the power of starting with a different letter may prevent me."

And then he grins again and offers a hand. "I'm Wash. You want any of this rescued food?"

Thomas shakes. "I'm Thomas Builds-the-Fire -- and sure." Carefully, he selects an apple slice. "Thanks."

And eyes it, head tilted a little.

"It ain't poison, I promise. And certified grenade-free," he adds, cheerfully.

Thomas blinks at it.

Looks up at Wash.

"...that's good," he says.

"It's something I heard from my wife once." Wry. "People would plant grenades inside apples during the war and give 'em to the enemy. But she tells it better than I do and doesn't flinch at the gory bits."

Not that he's ever asked her to share that story again after that one time. Ever.

Thomas looks closer at the apple.

Looks back at Wash.

"That ain't very nice," he says, thoughtfully, and takes a bite of the apple.

"One of the eight thousand and twenty-six reasons why I got out when I could."

He snags his own slice of apple and takes a seat.

"So when and where are you from, Thomas?"

"1995. Just outside Wellpinit, Washington. On the Spokane reservation."

Pause.

"People asking when other people are from is kind of strange."

"But important. There's importance there. It's confusion now for less confusion later." He bites into the apple slice and takes a few moments to chew. "For instance," swallow, "if you asked me and I said, 'I'm from the middle of nowhere, 2519,' you would't do the bug-eyed look when I started talking about space flight."

Beat. He reconsiders, wiggling the half-eaten slice between his fingers.

"Or...you would, but it'll be a small bug-eyed look."

Thomas isn't doing the bug-eyed look. Sorry, Wash.

"You mean like astronauts and stuff?"

Thomas, you see, is used to strange stories. Telling them and hearing them. And there's magic, and things that don't fit, and worlds being created and destroyed.

And also being possessed by Crazy Horse, sometimes, in the middle of trials put on by the BIA in order to get him kicked off the reservation.

But that may or may not have been a dream. Thomas isn't quite sure.

"Shi a," he confirms. "Except...I think astronauts were more of a select few, proud, and maybe marginally crazy, right?"

Secretly, he's a little disappointed at the lack of bug-eyed look. Bug-eyed looks over the utterly mundane are fun!

Thomas shrugs. "I dunno. You ever hear of an Indian astronaut?"

Thomas flew, once.

"That's just the thing, there aren't any astronauts." He spreads his hands. "Select few proud and crazy is now the everybody proud and crazy. So there's probably a lot."

Thomas closes his eyes and tells this story:

"Once an Indian boy jumped off the roof of the tribal school and flapped his arms like a crazy eagle. And the thing was, he flew. Just for a second, he flew. He hovered above all the other Indian boys who were too smart or too scared to jump. 'He's flying,' they yelled on the ground. And they couldn't believe it, because whoever heard of an Indian who could fly? But he did. Right up until he lost altitude and crashed, and broke his arm in two places. Another boy started a song. The others picked it up, made it a tribal song. 'He broke his wing, he broke his wing, he broke his wing.' They ran around and flapped their arms. And they hated him from then on, because he did what they did in their dreams."

Thomas opens his eyes and smiles.

"That was me." Pause. "I like the future."

Oh, he's good.

A slow grin spreads across Wash's face as he listens.

"We got the easy way out with the flying," he agrees. "I never tried that. Closest I ever came, well, before I went to flight school, was almost stowing away on a transport by accident." He picks up another apple slice. "I'd go down to the docks and be annoying at all the pilots, right? And one time, one of them finally let me on board to take a look around. All of a sudden her captain's giving the order to start the takeoff sequence and I'm still three floors away from the hatch. Ain't moved that fast in my life."