[Being on the run, Sam thinks, is a lot like being in the Air Force. It sounds exciting, but when it comes down to it, it's a whole lot of sitting around and doing nothing while living out of what you have squeezed into a duffel bag. The food's better, and it's arguably safer (not that Sam's keen on revisiting the Raft anytime soon), but this still isn't how he imagined a European vacation.
(And, no, he's not suggesting that they visit Disneyland Paris. Nat would probably kill them if they went somewhere with that many cameras.)
It's raining one night in Belgium, a miserable pounding rain that keeps both of them in the room and Sam flipping through the TV channels to try and find anything interesting. Half of it's in French, the other half is in German, and he just wants a sport that isn't soccer, goddamnit. He gives up and tosses the remote on the nightstand between their beds, flopping back onto the mattress with a sigh.]
Next time I'm on the run from 107 governments, I'm bringing a goddamn book with me. Or maybe a deck of cards.
[He feels out of sorts, prickly - a combination of the weather, the circumstances, the simple fact that he misses the familiar. Sam doesn't regret his choices - he'd do it all over again in a heartbeat - but he's tired of being cooped up here, of their life in hiding. The tiny room feels increasingly stifling, and he misses his jetpack. He misses his family, whose communications are surely being monitored, so he can't even tell them he's safe. He hopes they know, somehow.]
You know, we even had an Xbox in Afghanistan. [And if there's one thing that sounds incredibly stupid the moment it leaves his mouth, it's pointing out the trivial hobbies they pursued in their downtime during a modern war to a guy from World War II. So, yeah, good job there, Wilson.]
no subject
(And, no, he's not suggesting that they visit Disneyland Paris. Nat would probably kill them if they went somewhere with that many cameras.)
It's raining one night in Belgium, a miserable pounding rain that keeps both of them in the room and Sam flipping through the TV channels to try and find anything interesting. Half of it's in French, the other half is in German, and he just wants a sport that isn't soccer, goddamnit. He gives up and tosses the remote on the nightstand between their beds, flopping back onto the mattress with a sigh.]
Next time I'm on the run from 107 governments, I'm bringing a goddamn book with me. Or maybe a deck of cards.
[He feels out of sorts, prickly - a combination of the weather, the circumstances, the simple fact that he misses the familiar. Sam doesn't regret his choices - he'd do it all over again in a heartbeat - but he's tired of being cooped up here, of their life in hiding. The tiny room feels increasingly stifling, and he misses his jetpack. He misses his family, whose communications are surely being monitored, so he can't even tell them he's safe. He hopes they know, somehow.]
You know, we even had an Xbox in Afghanistan. [And if there's one thing that sounds incredibly stupid the moment it leaves his mouth, it's pointing out the trivial hobbies they pursued in their downtime during a modern war to a guy from World War II. So, yeah, good job there, Wilson.]
'Least there's no sand here.