Liz Sherman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
walking_napalm) wrote2012-03-04 09:44 pm
walking_napalm) wrote2012-03-04 09:44 pm
(no subject)
It's a long, hard slog to the surface, Liz and Mendoza supporting a white-faced hopping Gerrish between them. Greg follows just behind, checking their progress on the GPS and periodically trying the radio. Nobody asks Liz any more questions about what the hell happened to her back there. She thinks they're too tired for it, and too hurt; there's bigger stuff to focus on. She came back in the end. That's what counts.
Mostly, they talk about little personal stuff, to try to stave off Gerrish's shock and keep him responding. Park wants to get a motorcycle but his boyfriend disapproves; Mendoza's apparently addicted to some new medical drama, and Liz and Park both complain as he starts giving them the blow-by-blow on Meredith and Derek's secret forbidden romance.
The radio finally crackles to life just as Liz is beginning to see some light that isn't from her left hand, interrupting a scintillating conversation about the most boring mission each of them has ever been on (Liz's: the time she'd staked out a barn in Iowa for six hours before realizing that the 'ghost' that a little old lady had spotted was a white cat).
"¿Hola?" asks a crackling voice, and Mendoza mutters, "Finally" on Gerrish's other side as they limp along.
Liz smiles faintly and shuts her eyes under the welcome warmth of the sun on her face when they finally emerge from the darkness and pause at the mouth of the cave.
"Roger," says Greg, coming up behind them and clicking the radio off. "Support team's got us on GPS and they're on the way. We've just got to wait by the--" He points down the rocky slope to the long line of twin wheel ruts that might be referred to as a road if Liz was squinting and feeling charitable.
Getting Gerrish down is the worst. It's hard enough for Liz to maintain her own balance, much less hold onto Gerrish -- not a small guy, whereas she's 5'3" and Mendoza isn't that much taller -- who's on one foot and whose painkillers are wearing off. Park would be better suited for this job but he's swearing his way through the shale just ahead of them, his descent made all the harder by the fact that he's only got one good arm to work with, so Liz grits her teeth and slip-slides her way down the steep hill, throwing all her weight against Gerrish every time he or Mendoza starts to overbalance.
When they finally reach the bottom, it's pretty much all she can do to carefully lower Gerrish to the ground, with Mendoza's help (for all their care, he's hissing through his teeth, clearly in pain), and then sit down hard.
"Jesus Christ," says Mendoza, and Liz silently agrees.
They wait at the side of the jeep track for an hour before the cloud of dust finally appears on the horizon.
The two Peruvian agents who'd dropped them off on the other side of the mountain pull up in the same battered, nondescript truck and step out, slamming the cab doors.
"No jodas conmigo," says Agent Rodríguez, lowering his sunglasses and taking them in. Both he and his counterpart look -- grim, at seeing them, and a little taken aback. Apparently, the four of them look as bad as Liz feels. She rises and Greg steps up to help her with Gerrish.
"Is the rock demon killed?" Agent Mozombite asks as she comes forward to slip in under Gerrish's arm, unceremoniously hip-checking Liz out of the way. Rodríguez belatedly takes a hint and takes over for Park, and the two Peruvian agents haul Gerrish over and up into the back of the truck. Liz follows them, arms folded over her vest.
"Liz smoked it," says Greg. "It's history."
Mozombite shoots her an assessing, appreciative look, and offers her a hand. Liz takes it and lets the other agent pull her up into the truck. "Thank you," Mozombite says, quiet and intent, and Liz remembers that that thing killed two agents from Lima -- half of the tiny Bureau post's staff -- last week. The dead agents were Mozombite's colleagues; probably her friends.
Liz's mouth quirks uncomfortably under the regard. She nods and moves to sit on one of the two benches running along the bed of the truck, wedging herself up against where the bed meets the cab. The bed has a shell covering it, which is probably for the best, given the sun, the dust, and the fact that there are four heavily-armed, bloody American secret agents to hide. She shuts her eyes and lets Rodríguez and Mozombite take over, settling Gerrish in and cushioning his knee as best as they can. She only opens her eyes when Rodríguez, who pulled a first aid kit out of somewhere and has been gingerly prodding at Mendoza's face and at Park's probably-broken nose while Greg swears and Mendoza sits there stoically, asks if she's hurt.
"Nope," says Liz, folding her arms and leaning her head against the back of the cab. "Nothing serious. I'm good."
"We are driving," Mozombite warns from the cab through the open window, and the truck creaks into the start of its bumpy journey along the jeep track back to Arequipa.
Reserva Nacional de Salinas y Aguada Blanca is supposed to be stunning. Snow-capped mountains, lagoons, inactive volcanoes, flamingos... But Liz doesn't have her camera and she's more than fine with being unable to see the view. Every rut in the road (and there are a lot of them) makes the whole truck shudder and shake, her ass actually bouncing off the seat a couple times with the jarring force of the bigger potholes, but she's tired enough -- and accustomed enough to traveling like this -- to slip into sleep like it's nothing. The mission's over, and this is the way missions are supposed to end: with sleep.
She wakes up when somebody says her name. "--rman," the voice is saying, and then something quakes under her face. "Hey, Liz."
She blearily blinks awake and pushes herself upright from where she has apparently been sleeping with her cheek pressed against Greg Park's uninjured shoulder.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he says. She scrunches up her entire face disdainfully to show what she thinks of that nickname. The truck feels like it's idling. Park continues, "This is my stop."
She looks around the bed of the truck and sees that Gerrish and Rodríguez are already gone, Mendoza hopping down off the tailgate. There are car horns and shouts from all around them, the sounds of traffic.
"O...kay," she says, sleep-slurred and slow.
"Last call on whether you want to see a doctor," says Greg, a siren wailing nearby, and some of the fog lifts.
She shakes her head. "Seriously, Greg, I'm fine."
He punches her shoulder, lighter than his usual (it's companionable and a thanks, all at once, since Greg has never been one for effusive words; it hurts like hell, too, thanks to the bruises where she landed while falling into Milliways -- but, no, she's not thinking about Milliways right now; not until there's something she can do about it), then he shifts himself with a grunt -- Liz automatically helps shove him up -- and ducks over to the open tailgate, the truck springs squeaking under his weight. He climbs out, one arm tucked close to his side, Mendoza reaching out to steady him.
"See you at the plane," Park says, Mendoza waving behind him, and then Agent Rodríguez slams the tailgate shut.
Mostly, they talk about little personal stuff, to try to stave off Gerrish's shock and keep him responding. Park wants to get a motorcycle but his boyfriend disapproves; Mendoza's apparently addicted to some new medical drama, and Liz and Park both complain as he starts giving them the blow-by-blow on Meredith and Derek's secret forbidden romance.
The radio finally crackles to life just as Liz is beginning to see some light that isn't from her left hand, interrupting a scintillating conversation about the most boring mission each of them has ever been on (Liz's: the time she'd staked out a barn in Iowa for six hours before realizing that the 'ghost' that a little old lady had spotted was a white cat).
"¿Hola?" asks a crackling voice, and Mendoza mutters, "Finally" on Gerrish's other side as they limp along.
Liz smiles faintly and shuts her eyes under the welcome warmth of the sun on her face when they finally emerge from the darkness and pause at the mouth of the cave.
"Roger," says Greg, coming up behind them and clicking the radio off. "Support team's got us on GPS and they're on the way. We've just got to wait by the--" He points down the rocky slope to the long line of twin wheel ruts that might be referred to as a road if Liz was squinting and feeling charitable.
Getting Gerrish down is the worst. It's hard enough for Liz to maintain her own balance, much less hold onto Gerrish -- not a small guy, whereas she's 5'3" and Mendoza isn't that much taller -- who's on one foot and whose painkillers are wearing off. Park would be better suited for this job but he's swearing his way through the shale just ahead of them, his descent made all the harder by the fact that he's only got one good arm to work with, so Liz grits her teeth and slip-slides her way down the steep hill, throwing all her weight against Gerrish every time he or Mendoza starts to overbalance.
When they finally reach the bottom, it's pretty much all she can do to carefully lower Gerrish to the ground, with Mendoza's help (for all their care, he's hissing through his teeth, clearly in pain), and then sit down hard.
"Jesus Christ," says Mendoza, and Liz silently agrees.
They wait at the side of the jeep track for an hour before the cloud of dust finally appears on the horizon.
The two Peruvian agents who'd dropped them off on the other side of the mountain pull up in the same battered, nondescript truck and step out, slamming the cab doors.
"No jodas conmigo," says Agent Rodríguez, lowering his sunglasses and taking them in. Both he and his counterpart look -- grim, at seeing them, and a little taken aback. Apparently, the four of them look as bad as Liz feels. She rises and Greg steps up to help her with Gerrish.
"Is the rock demon killed?" Agent Mozombite asks as she comes forward to slip in under Gerrish's arm, unceremoniously hip-checking Liz out of the way. Rodríguez belatedly takes a hint and takes over for Park, and the two Peruvian agents haul Gerrish over and up into the back of the truck. Liz follows them, arms folded over her vest.
"Liz smoked it," says Greg. "It's history."
Mozombite shoots her an assessing, appreciative look, and offers her a hand. Liz takes it and lets the other agent pull her up into the truck. "Thank you," Mozombite says, quiet and intent, and Liz remembers that that thing killed two agents from Lima -- half of the tiny Bureau post's staff -- last week. The dead agents were Mozombite's colleagues; probably her friends.
Liz's mouth quirks uncomfortably under the regard. She nods and moves to sit on one of the two benches running along the bed of the truck, wedging herself up against where the bed meets the cab. The bed has a shell covering it, which is probably for the best, given the sun, the dust, and the fact that there are four heavily-armed, bloody American secret agents to hide. She shuts her eyes and lets Rodríguez and Mozombite take over, settling Gerrish in and cushioning his knee as best as they can. She only opens her eyes when Rodríguez, who pulled a first aid kit out of somewhere and has been gingerly prodding at Mendoza's face and at Park's probably-broken nose while Greg swears and Mendoza sits there stoically, asks if she's hurt.
"Nope," says Liz, folding her arms and leaning her head against the back of the cab. "Nothing serious. I'm good."
"We are driving," Mozombite warns from the cab through the open window, and the truck creaks into the start of its bumpy journey along the jeep track back to Arequipa.
Reserva Nacional de Salinas y Aguada Blanca is supposed to be stunning. Snow-capped mountains, lagoons, inactive volcanoes, flamingos... But Liz doesn't have her camera and she's more than fine with being unable to see the view. Every rut in the road (and there are a lot of them) makes the whole truck shudder and shake, her ass actually bouncing off the seat a couple times with the jarring force of the bigger potholes, but she's tired enough -- and accustomed enough to traveling like this -- to slip into sleep like it's nothing. The mission's over, and this is the way missions are supposed to end: with sleep.
She wakes up when somebody says her name. "--rman," the voice is saying, and then something quakes under her face. "Hey, Liz."
She blearily blinks awake and pushes herself upright from where she has apparently been sleeping with her cheek pressed against Greg Park's uninjured shoulder.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he says. She scrunches up her entire face disdainfully to show what she thinks of that nickname. The truck feels like it's idling. Park continues, "This is my stop."
She looks around the bed of the truck and sees that Gerrish and Rodríguez are already gone, Mendoza hopping down off the tailgate. There are car horns and shouts from all around them, the sounds of traffic.
"O...kay," she says, sleep-slurred and slow.
"Last call on whether you want to see a doctor," says Greg, a siren wailing nearby, and some of the fog lifts.
She shakes her head. "Seriously, Greg, I'm fine."
He punches her shoulder, lighter than his usual (it's companionable and a thanks, all at once, since Greg has never been one for effusive words; it hurts like hell, too, thanks to the bruises where she landed while falling into Milliways -- but, no, she's not thinking about Milliways right now; not until there's something she can do about it), then he shifts himself with a grunt -- Liz automatically helps shove him up -- and ducks over to the open tailgate, the truck springs squeaking under his weight. He climbs out, one arm tucked close to his side, Mendoza reaching out to steady him.
"See you at the plane," Park says, Mendoza waving behind him, and then Agent Rodríguez slams the tailgate shut.