John J. Rambo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2024-09-26 12:42 pm
theydrewfirstblood) wrote2024-09-26 12:42 pm
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[PUMPKIN HOLLOW] a dream of life comes to me like a catfish dancing on the end of my line
"...Colonel?"
Sam is reading a book on the rooftop cafe when he hears it: the familiar, soft cadence of John Rambo's voice filled with quiet amazement. He looks up and over to see the man standing there just a few short feet away, backlit by the setting sun and something in his chest goes tight and sharp...almost painful.
"Johnny?"
"Yeah."
He draws closer as Sam marks his place and pushes back his chair to stand up, and when he can see John's face...
"How will you live?"
"Day by day."
John melts into a smile and offers Sam his hand when he reaches him. Sam slaps it aside and opens his arms, reaching out to embrace him. John goes tight, tense and vibrating like he was that night in Washington, but after a moment he returns the brief, fraternal squeeze before drawing back again. For a second, he starts to relax before drawing away again...
This isn't the man Sam left behind in Thailand, by the Vietnam border. He's so much better...and in some ways, he's so much worse. That tension that's still there, that softness to his voice that never really went away after Danforth died.
He stops himself from speculating and leans back a little to really look at him for a moment.
"Stand back a second, son, lemme look at you..."
He looks so much healthier than he did before--he's put on weight and a lot of it is muscle. When he pats John's shoulder, it's solid--man's either been getting into powerlifting or he's doing a lot of manual labor these days. In the sun, no less, from the tan he's sporting and the way he's dressed in denims and shirtsleeves. His hair's grown out quite a bit, and there's a light in his eyes that had gone out the day he told Trautman what he wanted for his service and sacrifice.
The old pain, it's all still there--the way he holds himself in careful check, like he'll do something unforgivable if he lets himself relax, the sharp focus of his attention--but Sam would never know him as the same man who said that part of him died in Vietnam. Too many of those wounds are so much smaller than they were.
"John...my God, you look good." Sam breathes with a grin.
John's cheeks color as he ducks his head with a shrug. "I'm trying, sir."
"Life here has been kind to you."
John's head lifts, and a shadow crosses his features--but that's all it is. It's not the blackness of the war or the nights he spent talking about his home life, just a cloud passing briefly across the sun.
"Not really, sir...but I'd be worried if it was. But I--I think I'm happy. Or close to it."
Between what he's heard, and what he can see right in front of him, Sam can't help but feel his chest tighten again, a familiar feeling.
You're the only one I trust.
"John, about the chopper--"
John frowns, gaze sharpening, then he smiles again and shakes his head.
"Don't."
"But I--"
"I know. I knew all along--I told Murdock I was comin' for him, and I meant it. I know you wouldn't let me down."
Sam sighs, shaking his own head. "That's not true, John--I let you down in a lot of respects. I see that more clearly than I ever did, and...I'm not sure I can be forgiven for that."
"With all due respect, sir...if I can, you can." John replies, reaching up to touch a pendant around his neck--a bead made of glass, trapping a delicate flower in a transparent bubble of pale green.
"The Mothers forgive a lot."
Sam laughs a little at that, but it's more in awe of this new version of John that seems to have a hope Sam thought he lost.
"Well then," he drawls, gesturing to the table beside them, "why don't you sit down and tell me all about it?"
John grins, settles into a chair...and he starts talking.
Sam is reading a book on the rooftop cafe when he hears it: the familiar, soft cadence of John Rambo's voice filled with quiet amazement. He looks up and over to see the man standing there just a few short feet away, backlit by the setting sun and something in his chest goes tight and sharp...almost painful.
"Johnny?"
"Yeah."
He draws closer as Sam marks his place and pushes back his chair to stand up, and when he can see John's face...
"How will you live?"
"Day by day."
John melts into a smile and offers Sam his hand when he reaches him. Sam slaps it aside and opens his arms, reaching out to embrace him. John goes tight, tense and vibrating like he was that night in Washington, but after a moment he returns the brief, fraternal squeeze before drawing back again. For a second, he starts to relax before drawing away again...
This isn't the man Sam left behind in Thailand, by the Vietnam border. He's so much better...and in some ways, he's so much worse. That tension that's still there, that softness to his voice that never really went away after Danforth died.
He stops himself from speculating and leans back a little to really look at him for a moment.
"Stand back a second, son, lemme look at you..."
He looks so much healthier than he did before--he's put on weight and a lot of it is muscle. When he pats John's shoulder, it's solid--man's either been getting into powerlifting or he's doing a lot of manual labor these days. In the sun, no less, from the tan he's sporting and the way he's dressed in denims and shirtsleeves. His hair's grown out quite a bit, and there's a light in his eyes that had gone out the day he told Trautman what he wanted for his service and sacrifice.
The old pain, it's all still there--the way he holds himself in careful check, like he'll do something unforgivable if he lets himself relax, the sharp focus of his attention--but Sam would never know him as the same man who said that part of him died in Vietnam. Too many of those wounds are so much smaller than they were.
"John...my God, you look good." Sam breathes with a grin.
John's cheeks color as he ducks his head with a shrug. "I'm trying, sir."
"Life here has been kind to you."
John's head lifts, and a shadow crosses his features--but that's all it is. It's not the blackness of the war or the nights he spent talking about his home life, just a cloud passing briefly across the sun.
"Not really, sir...but I'd be worried if it was. But I--I think I'm happy. Or close to it."
Between what he's heard, and what he can see right in front of him, Sam can't help but feel his chest tighten again, a familiar feeling.
You're the only one I trust.
"John, about the chopper--"
John frowns, gaze sharpening, then he smiles again and shakes his head.
"Don't."
"But I--"
"I know. I knew all along--I told Murdock I was comin' for him, and I meant it. I know you wouldn't let me down."
Sam sighs, shaking his own head. "That's not true, John--I let you down in a lot of respects. I see that more clearly than I ever did, and...I'm not sure I can be forgiven for that."
"With all due respect, sir...if I can, you can." John replies, reaching up to touch a pendant around his neck--a bead made of glass, trapping a delicate flower in a transparent bubble of pale green.
"The Mothers forgive a lot."
Sam laughs a little at that, but it's more in awe of this new version of John that seems to have a hope Sam thought he lost.
"Well then," he drawls, gesturing to the table beside them, "why don't you sit down and tell me all about it?"
John grins, settles into a chair...and he starts talking.