![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
It's chilly and gray as the plane touches down, and for the first time he feels the stress pushed back before a wave of deja vu. It's been a long time now since he was here--since either of them was here--but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like another one of those strange moments where time and space fold in on themselves, and memory and the present mesh into a single thing in a way that's hard to navigate.
As he's worked through his fractured memories with Sam, he's come to wonder if his cyclical reliving of the blast--and the awful couple of days leading up to it--are a feature and not a bug. If this is what time has always done, and it's only recently that he's really noticed.
The plane creeps forward across the tarmac toward the gate, and though the seatbelt sign is still lit he can hear people stirring around them, starting to gather what belongings they can reach. He has a book on his lap--a paperback he'd grabbed in the airport, some kind of Western except not quite--but it's not open and he hasn't read a word of it. He's spent most of the flight staring out the window at nothing at all, and trying to keep his breathing steady. He's not sure why a plane should be so much worse than anything else, except that it's a small space with a lot of strangers, and things just seem to set him off in general now.
Your mind is just taking much longer to heal than your body did, Sam had said the session before they had left. Minds do that. You'll probably keep finding new things that are hard for you. Don't sweat it too much. Just make notes of them and we'll work on how to make it better.
But seriously. Fuck planes.
And now they're just sitting on the tarmac, nowhere near a gate. Mike sighs and leans back in the seat, giving Neil a glance. "Seriously, are people gonna be okay if I just shut myself in a fucking closet for a few hours?"
As he's worked through his fractured memories with Sam, he's come to wonder if his cyclical reliving of the blast--and the awful couple of days leading up to it--are a feature and not a bug. If this is what time has always done, and it's only recently that he's really noticed.
The plane creeps forward across the tarmac toward the gate, and though the seatbelt sign is still lit he can hear people stirring around them, starting to gather what belongings they can reach. He has a book on his lap--a paperback he'd grabbed in the airport, some kind of Western except not quite--but it's not open and he hasn't read a word of it. He's spent most of the flight staring out the window at nothing at all, and trying to keep his breathing steady. He's not sure why a plane should be so much worse than anything else, except that it's a small space with a lot of strangers, and things just seem to set him off in general now.
Your mind is just taking much longer to heal than your body did, Sam had said the session before they had left. Minds do that. You'll probably keep finding new things that are hard for you. Don't sweat it too much. Just make notes of them and we'll work on how to make it better.
But seriously. Fuck planes.
And now they're just sitting on the tarmac, nowhere near a gate. Mike sighs and leans back in the seat, giving Neil a glance. "Seriously, are people gonna be okay if I just shut myself in a fucking closet for a few hours?"