Demilo's wagon is crowded, tacky, and smells like sweat, incense, and stale sex. But mostly, it's crowded. He settles himself in a corner, as far away from Demilo's women and Raw and Glitch and especially D.G. But he should've known better—she comes crawling over to him before they're even through the gates of Central City.
She's shaking, though whether it's from nerves or excitement, he can't tell. She leans her head on his shoulder and takes his rough hand in hers. "Thank you."
"For not letting those runners eat us and for getting this ride in."
"Don't mention it." And he means it. There's a lump in his throat that he can't seem to swallow and getting words out around it is a challenge.
She's silent for a moment as the wagon bumps over the uneven cobblestones. Central City really has grown tarnished during his time in the suit. Do the people living here even notice it?
Beside him, D.G. fidgets. "You know, back home, I hated the local cop. He was always busting my butt about driving too fast."
He can't help but make a noise that just might be a laugh—a wheezy, rusty sounding laugh, and he presses his face into her hair. She smells like pine needles, clean and fresh