France

[alittlesweptup]

The intention behind taking a train had been a good one. Theoretically, it could have been less cramped than a plane - certainly less so than the tiny puddle jumper they'd taken back from Syria when his leg had been in a massive cast and he'd been choking down enough pain killers to knock out an elephant. A shame then that the reality of travel by train isn't nearly so roomy as the idea of it; not even an hour out of London and Charlie can feel his leg starting to cramp up in the narrow space between his seat and the row in front of them.

His bag is in the overhead storage. He has spent the last twenty minutes mentally going through the steps to get to his duffel, or more specifically in the end pocket where he packed a bottle of prescription percocet. It goes like this: he will get his cane under him, grab hold of the seat in front of him and lever himself to his feet (apologizing profusely to the elderly woman sitting in front of him), then brace himself off both the cane and a hand hold on the edge of the overhead-- It's a slowly tipping scale between the pain in his leg and the effort it would take to get his medication, one that right now doesn't seem worth the effort. Not yet.

And sure he could lean over, touch Chloe's arm and ask her to just pull down the bag for him. It would take her half a minute to haul the damn thing down. But that isn't how he wants to start this trip, so to hell with it.

Comments

[totallytrustworthy]

She pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth (there's not much left at this point, just the heavier stock that sits at the bottom) and her stare sharpens a bit, mouth thinning out at the edges.

"I'm not giving you the rest of it."

[alittlesweptup]

He balks, bristling a little at the accusation. "What? I don't want your soup. I was just asking how it tasted."

Jesus, you'd think she took him for some kind of two-bit scavenger. What's left of her beer, however-- Charlie unfolds his arms and reaches across the table for the glass.