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The moment Rusty wakes up, he knows it’s one of Those Days.
On Those Days, the sun’s too bright, bots too loud. Every touch he gives and receives feels magnified by a thousand. His voicebox sits heavy in his throat. The moving world vibrates up his legs and rattles his furnace. It’s too hot or it’s not hot enough. He’s aware of every particle of coal he’s got burning. His pipe feels wrong. It’s not. He’s checked before.
On Those Days, Rusty just wants to go home. He’s felt that way even when he was home, so he’s not sure what it actually means. Regardless it bounces around the inside of his metal head from the moment he wakes, rising up petulantly during especially trying moments, the plaintive choir of I want to go home, I just want to go home. Eventually one of Those Days, which can stretch into one of Those Weeks under the worst conditions, will finally pass on its own. He never makes it home, but he makes it out, and that’s enough.
Sadly, the rest of the world doesn’t stop on Those Days, so neither can he. Rusty’s got things to do, after all, a mine to unearth and mystery to unravel. He’s been at it for weeks without break and feels no closer to understanding what’s really going on. He can’t just stay inside and hide under the blankets (even if that’s all he wants more than anything). He does end up sitting around staring into nothing for fifteen minutes before realizing, but hopefully he can be forgiven for dallying. Like his Pa always says, “if the sun’s up, you better be too.”
Stepping out into dawn burns. Rusty squints at the molten horizon. He looks around. The saloon’s still dark and Hank’s nowhere to be found, but he spots his daughter the moment she spots him. Dot’s face lights up and despite the fact he feels on his last leg after being outside not two minutes, seeing her beam at his plain face warms his steam-heart. Unfortunately, being spotted means she’s coming over to talk. Not usually a problem, but again, one of Those Days.
“Morning!” Dot chirps as she reaches his side. “Starting to think you’d never show. Oversleep a bit, Mr. Punctual?”
She’s teasing, but it’s true: he’s out of Joe’s old shack the same time dang near every morning, Dot herself typically showing up about five minutes later. Rusty forces a smile. It hurts his face. He hopes it’s convincing, but his fake smiles have never been great. “Just a little.” Three short words shouldn’t take so much effort.
Her genuine smile falters. Guess he’s even worse at faking them than he thought. Her scrutinizing eyes rake him over and make him feel itchy. Rusty thinks her expression is one of concern. Deciphering faces takes more effort than he’s got at the moment. “Rough night?” Dot inquires, voice softened with—sympathy? Pity? Again, can’t say for sure. But it’s as good an excuse as any, served up on a silver platter.
“Something like that.” False: he’d slept the same as any other night. It’s not overt deception, but lying to Dot still tastes sour.
She doesn’t look like she believes him. He wouldn’t believe him either. “Somethin’ on your mind?”
No. Yes? It’s hard to tell. The gears in his head feel like mush, but they’re still spinning. Not that they’re cranking out any thoughts of value—only basic automation to keep him going. Say words. Go underground. Dig. Dig. Dig. Return to surface. Go to sleep. Simple things he shouldn’t have to consciously think, but somehow it helps.
“Rusty?”
He shakes his head. Focus, Rusty, she’s making an even more worried face now. “Sorry, I just—” Scrap does he not want to talk, he does not want to talk. “Didn’t sleep too well. I’m fine. I’ll see y’all later.” And before she can respond, he’s heading off to the mines. Boy is that a rotten feeling, but words are just—too much. He’ll apologize later. For now he needs to work.
Rusty slips underground to the incessant cry for home.
--
If he was on his last leg stepping outside that morning, he comes out the mine practically crawling.
Granted, mining’s better than the alternative—people—but that’s not saying much. Maybe he actually should’ve taken a day off, but he’s not one for breaks unless his body’s broken too. The high-pitched ting of his pick on stone still rings in his hearing ports. Thankfully, Rusty can now head back to his lodgings and unwind for the night. It’s not home, but it’s solitude, his healing balm.
Popping out a pneumatic tube, Rusty glances around. Dot’s not outside; his guilt deepens when his first reaction is relief. It’s not her, she’s great. But he needs to apologize to her for earlier, and cash in his finds, and usually she likes to chat when they’re together, and... It’s too much today. First thing in the morning he’ll deal with it all. Just need to return to Joe’s old shack—
“Hey, cowbot!”
Rusty jumps. Turning, he catches Lola waving from the saloon patio, a broom in hand. He offers his own meek wave back. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen that face ‘a yours!” she exclaims. “Come on round and tell me all about what you’ve been up to in them mines, you hear?”
Scrap. He wouldn’t mind indulging the older bot... any other time. Thankfully—or un-thankfully really—he’s spared having to think up a response when another resident interrupts.
“Leave ‘im be, Lola!” calls Cranky McCrank, hobbling towards them. “No time for chatting, just got a new shipment of parts in for the lad.”
“Oh, Hank,” she tsks, “not everything’s about business all the time! Poor Rusty’s been mining all day, heck, he’s been mining since he stepped foot in this town! He just wants to unwind with some friendly conversation, isn’t that right?”
Cranky scoffs. “Ahh, he’s a miner now! A real bot’s bot, no need to coddle him. ‘sides, business time is any time, don’t ye think, Rusty?”
The actual meaning of their words is on a two-second delay in his head and he doesn’t immediately realize they’re both staring at him awaiting an answer. Rusty’s jaw is left hanging open as his gears spin and spin and spin. Their eyes are itchy, too. He’s so close to rest and respite, even if that’s no closer to home. Hasn’t he given them enough words? Since when have bots wanted his words anyhow?
“I-I-I,” Rusty sputters. His mouth does not feel his own, feels disconnected from his body. Or maybe he’s the one who’s disconnected? Retreating from the world like a nervous turtle. There’s no words left to give, nothing left within him. “You—I was—” Can’t they see how much effort this is taking? Don’t they know he’s trying?
Then a third bot enters the scene, as if this isn’t farcical enough. Dorothy steps out of her house, looks around, and smiles as she spots him. However, it doesn’t look as bright as the one from the morning; maybe she’s still upset by his abrupt behaviour. He needs to apologize. He was going to tomorrow, but he’ll have to now. Yet there’s nothing left within him.
“Hey! Sorry for the wait.” Dot joins their little group; Rusty can see his respite slipping further and further away. “Just had to finish something up. Looks like you found a lot today!”
They’re all staring at him. His satchel feels like the only thing anchoring him to the earth. Six eyes burrow under his metal. His body’s too heavy. Three bots waiting for words he does not have. Home, he wants to go home.
“Rusty?”
Dot steps closer to touch his shoulder, and it’s the last straw.
An odd sound in his hearing ports. Rusty nearly trips jerking back, his hands coming up to conceal his face. He palms his eyelids, tries to ground himself in the soothing pressure, but what’s that strange sound—is that his voice box groaning and whimpering and verbalizing the only way he has left? The vibrations in his throat feel nice, it’s nice to pour out all his anguish in these bizarre vocalizations, it feels right.
His knees hit the sand. His body bends forward and back, forward and back, his finger joints cannot press deep enough into his head. His voice box buzzes, fuzzy and warm. Rusty knows he must look like an absolute lunatic, half-collapsed on the ground rocking away, humming some disjointed melody, all in response to a few basic questions. Shame burns through him, but he can’t get himself to stop. He wants to go home.
Voices nearby he cannot decipher. They rise to a fever pitch and draw out another pathetic whine, after which they blessedly die down. Contact on the left shoulder; he cringes away. No no no, leave him alone. The gentlest pressure on his wrist, a light tug, and it’s gone. “Rusty?” Whisper of his name, not so painful. “It’s okay. Hey, could you look at me a sec? Just for a second.”
Such tenderness. When’s the last time anyone’s talked to him like this? Reluctantly, Rusty pulls one hand back and opens an eye. Dot’s visage fills his sight. Too close. She’s smiling when she should be annoyed or embarrassed by his display. “There ya go,” she intones, sounding encouraged. “Just me. No one else. Can I take you inside? You can lie down if you want.”
Inside. Lie down. That’s all he’s wanted all day. Rusty gives a jerky nod. Dot’s smile widens. “Okay. Let’s stand up now.” She reaches under his arms, pushes up, then removes her hands. He follows her subtle instruction on shaky legs. He doesn’t want to move. “All right. I’m just gonna hold your forearm, okay? Just for a second. Follow me.”
Her hand feels wrong wrong wrong on his metal, but if it gets him inside, he’ll bear it. Putting one foot in front of the other is a monumental task, like he’s walking through mud. Rusty’s got both eyes covered again, so he’s relying entirely on Dot to guide the way.
I want to go home, I just want to go home—
They stop briefly and there’s another voice. He can’t help a whimper. She said it was just them. Soon they resume moving. He knows they’re inside when the breeze cuts out.
Dot leads him onward. She releases him. “Gonna touch your shoulders now,” she says. “You’re right over the bed.” Light pressure pushing down on him and Rusty all but collapses into the sheets, stopped at the last moment by Dot catching his arm. “Whoa! Easy, easy...”
Gentle as ever, she eases him down on to his side, where he immediately curls into a ball. A blanket falls over him, soft and warm and good. Rusty tugs it over his head. The room darkens as he hears Dot go around blowing out oil lamps. Confusing, because he doesn’t recall leaving any on when he left that morning. Doesn’t matter. Blissful darkness and quiet. The humming dies down, even as he continues to rock and press at his eyes. A lullaby of motion and pressure.
“I’m gonna shut the door now,” Dot announces, light as air. “If you need anything, don’t be afraid to call. You relax now.”
The door closes, sealing the vacuum of his solitude. At last, peace. Rusty feels an immense weight lift from his shoulders. Wonderfully silent, wonderfully dark. Tension melts into sudden exhaustion. It’s okay for him to sleep now, right? That’s part of relaxing, after all. He shudders out an exhale. The sensation of floating returns; he lets himself drift away.
I just want to go home.
--
“—okay?”
“Think he’s just been... too hard... rest and he should be...”
The room’s even darker when Rusty wakes, so he’s not sure he’s awake at all. He moves without thought, slips out of the sheets to slump against the wall face-first with a dull thud. It’s cool on his cheek; he tests his fingers on the surface, feels the push back. A good, solid foundation. It won’t give out on him. He likes this wall.
Light trickles into the room as the door opens. He turns his head to look back. Dot. Behind her, an unfamiliar layout. Is he in her house? Why bring him here? “Rusty?”
He turns back, forehead to wall. Cool. Door closes. Steps approaching, halting by his side. “You mind if I sit with you a minute?” Dot murmurs.
Well, it is her house, and he’s not reacting as poorly to another bot’s presence now, so why not. Shuffling over, Rusty gives her room beside him. She takes it. “You think I could see your face?” she chuckles.
Sure. He flips around to rest back on the wall. This is, admittedly, more comfortable, and he can still feeling the comforting pressure against his metal. “Thank you,” Dot says. He doesn’t respond. They have a nice ceiling in their house.
Rusty winds his arms around himself and holds tight. He wants more pressure, to feel like he’s being crushed between two boulders. His two arms are sticks by comparison, but they’ll have to do. He wants more. He wants to go home. He should’ve known that desire wouldn’t stay away for long.
“You cold?” Dot asks. Not really. But Rusty can’t respond anymore. A pause and then she gets up. Heading to the heap of blankets on the floor, she grabs the thickest one and returns to his side. Exquisite softness drapes across his frame, envelops him like a cocoon. Dot wraps him up and without even thinking, Rusty slumps against her, trying to hide his face in her shoulder plate. Is this a breach of social etiquette?
Dot pauses again, hands lingering above his shoulders, so he assumes it is. He’ll have to pry himself away, despite how heavy he feels. But then she pulls him into a proper embrace, squeezing him in her arms. Warmth blooms in his furnace and spreads out across his body. She’s... hugging him?
“There we go,” Dot mumbles, setting her chin on top of his hat. “I’ve got you.”
He needs to say something. Rusty should say something. But all he manages is a rough hum. She strokes his back in circles, keeps her arms tight around him. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t wanna. Don’t force yourself.”
What a refreshing concept, not talking when he doesn’t feel like it. Bots expect you to talk, it’s how anything gets done. But Dot’s giving him permission not to, even if she has to sit here in awkward silence? He doesn’t get it, he really doesn’t. Rusty just... doesn’t understand. At least he’s home.
He’s...?
No. He’s not home. This is Dot’s house, Dot’s and Hank McCrank’s house. It’s not his, it’s not for him. Even Joe’s shack’s not truly for him. He’s still the outsider some months later. He’s only here for his uncle’s dying request to dig the mines. His life here is one big transaction, temporary. He does not belong with these people. So why, for the first time today, has the incessant cry for home finally settled in his head?
“And don’t worry about the others,” Dot adds. She tugs the blanket higher to cover his head; he lets out a quiet murmur in appreciation. An extra squeeze, grounding and unyielding. “They were just a little concerned. Told ‘em you were feeling kinda sick today. I promise they won’t make a big fuss about this.”
Rusty blinks. She... made an excuse for him? Tried to minimize his embarrassment? On top of everything she’s already doing, she did that for him as well? He’s terribly confused. His strange behaviour isn’t supposed to be defended or catered to or excused. He’s an adult; he should be able go about his days without having nervous breakdowns. Maybe Dot just doesn’t have the life experience to know you shouldn’t reward fits with dark quiet rooms and blankets and hugs and...
But it’s nice. It’s nice to be gently spoken to rather than admonished, reassured than rejected. Her lack of expectation for him to speak is even nicer. And the pressure of her embrace, far stronger than anything his own arms can provide, is the nicest thing of all. Generally Rusty’s not fond of hugs, but this feels different. Dot is different, to a wonderfully baffling degree.
She draws him in closer. She’s so giving; he hardly deserves it. “Maybe we should have a signal or code or something,” Dot mutters. “In case you’re feeling like... this again. I’m gonna assume you weren’t doing too well this morning.”
Short noise of discomfort Rusty doesn’t intend. Somehow she can interpret even that. “I’m not mad or anything. I was just concerned.”
Why? Why for him? Why all this effort and compassion and understanding just for him?
“But we can discuss this later. You take all the time you need to relax. You can even stay the night if you need.”
Why does this little town he hardly knows and hardly knows him feel so much like home?
The gentlest knock at the door, a creak, a whispering voice Dot returns with her own. She pulls back slightly to look him in the face. “You need anything?” she intones. “Water? Coal?”
Rusty blinks, wide-eyed and dazed. Who’s at the door, who’s intruded this safe haven? Eventually, he shakes his head.
“He’s fine, Daddy. Thanks.”
Clicked shut. Oh. Hank. He’s not an intruder—Rusty’s more the intruder.
Dot draws him back closer. That’s better. “Sorry about that,” she chuckles. “Daddy’s just worried. Trying to help in his own way.”
Worried for him? Offering accommodations to help him feel better? Why?
“If you change your mind, just, ah, let’s see... Tap my left hand for water and my right hand for coal.”
Why? Why? Why? Why?
“Or maybe instead—... ah, sorry. I’m probably talking too—Rusty, are you crying?”
The steam fogging his sight, the condensation forming rivulets down his face, suggests he is.
If Dot squeezes him any harder, Rusty might break. But please don’t let him go. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she hushes, wiping his cheek with her thumb. “You’re okay.”
Even if he’s not, with sudden clarity he knows he will be. The tears, then, are just as mystifying for him. Perhaps when words return, he’ll know for sure; or perhaps it’s an indescribable enormity of the heart he can never truly understand. He’s fine with either. The story still happens with or without a writer to pen explanations. He’s spent most of his life confused, but not knowing’s never felt so comforting before. He thinks he can stay here after all. If they’ll let him?
“I’ve got you,” Dot assures.
Rusty thinks they just might.