(no subject)

Summer fades day by day, but Theon's gained the ability by now to trust that the warmth will return. Real warmth and sunshine, greens and blues like he'd never imagined before Darrow, like he can never quite believe might exist in the world from which he came.

There's still a few weeks before it starts to cool again, and Theon makes use of them, dragging the small fishing boat, able to fit maybe three people, not yet rigged with a motor, as close to shore as he thinks will be safe. From there he pulls out everything he can get out of of the boat, until it's a metal shell.

The sun has just started to slide down from where it hangs highest in the sky by the time Theon's ready to scrub the vessel down. As with the previous tasks, he becomes completely absorbed, pausing only to gulp the rest of the water from the bottle in the sand, to strip off his soaked t-shirt. Vaguely, he thinks he'll need to be careful not to burn, but the air feels good, even on his scars.

He has to pause to make his way back up toward the house and the long connected hoses, to spray down the boat-- it's there he sees he's got a visitor.