North's voice echoes, grows softer and softer, and suddenly it's pitch black, he's blind again, and North's voice returns, rising above the crackling flames.
"Maine. I'm not going anywhere. You aren't dealing with it alone. Breathe, big guy. Breathe."
From some point high above, there's a flash of purple armor. And then comes a stream of images and sensations: a tired but smiling North in a diner; a pat to the side of his helmet; the sniper's voice on the radio telling them enemy movements; the feeling that he's breaking into pieces, but North is holding his wrists, holding him together, the only stable thing he feels because fuck, fuck, how could he do any of that?!
Agent Maine.
"Maine! Anyone?"
Maine recoils from the fire. Twists away to try and find that voice.
Wash needs help.
The images and sensations come from all around this time. Two faces, years apart, smiling equally bright; a voice cold with anger ("get the fuck off him"); drunken laughter beside a table made of crates; bandaging Wash's bleeding knuckles and wishing he could do more, wanting to protect his friend, his best friend, but he knows what happens, and he knows he can't be trusted.
"It's not your fault. It's me. I'm fucked up."
Lying.
Agent Maine.
The images fade, and suddenly, all three of them are on a cliff.
It's not Sidewinder. Maine has never been to Sidewinder. This scene is nothing like reality. But in this dream, it is the cliff. The knowledge is absolute, as is the knowledge that Carolina is at the bottom.
Maine's armor and bare face are splattered with blood. His throat is torn open; he couldn't speak if he tried.
no subject
North's voice echoes, grows softer and softer, and suddenly it's pitch black, he's blind again, and North's voice returns, rising above the crackling flames.
"Maine. I'm not going anywhere. You aren't dealing with it alone. Breathe, big guy. Breathe."
From some point high above, there's a flash of purple armor. And then comes a stream of images and sensations: a tired but smiling North in a diner; a pat to the side of his helmet; the sniper's voice on the radio telling them enemy movements; the feeling that he's breaking into pieces, but North is holding his wrists, holding him together, the only stable thing he feels because fuck, fuck, how could he do any of that?!
Agent Maine.
"Maine! Anyone?"
Maine recoils from the fire. Twists away to try and find that voice.
Wash needs help.
The images and sensations come from all around this time. Two faces, years apart, smiling equally bright; a voice cold with anger ("get the fuck off him"); drunken laughter beside a table made of crates; bandaging Wash's bleeding knuckles and wishing he could do more, wanting to protect his friend, his best friend, but he knows what happens, and he knows he can't be trusted.
"It's not your fault. It's me. I'm fucked up."
Lying.
Agent Maine.
The images fade, and suddenly, all three of them are on a cliff.
It's not Sidewinder. Maine has never been to Sidewinder. This scene is nothing like reality. But in this dream, it is the cliff. The knowledge is absolute, as is the knowledge that Carolina is at the bottom.
Maine's armor and bare face are splattered with blood. His throat is torn open; he couldn't speak if he tried.
It's so cold.