Agent Washington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unrecovered) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
legionworld2016-11-08 09:27 am
unrecovered) wrote in legionworld2016-11-08 09:27 am
Entry tags:
Recovery [Open]
Who| Wash, whoever wants to join him
What| Wash is still recovering from Murder World. Come bother him.
Where| Various places
When| Several days after the end of Murder World.
Warnings/Notes| He's kind of Not Okay, so approach at your own risk.
As it turns out, Wash is having a pretty terrible week. Being stuck in a murder arena for a few days on end will definitely do that to you. Seeing a dearly departed friend back from the dead with zero warning or preparation doesn't help either.
Chief had intercepted York and given Wash a chance to get the hell out of Dodge, and he'd taken it, all but sprinting through the threshold gate back to Legion World. He doesn't stop for anyone until he's outside his door, locking it behind him once he stumbles in. Only then does he check his omnicom - still disabled, dammit - and then decide that if anyone wants to come looking for him, they damn well know where to find him.
He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and then takes another. Breathe. Slow down. It's over. Legion World is secure, for the most part, and he'd Reaper-proofed his room as best he could. It's fine. He's safe-
His brain stutters over the last phrase, and his breathing gets erratic until he forcibly smoothes it out again. No. It's over. He doesn't need to panic - he just needs to calm down and work through this.
He needs to clean up. He needs to get out of the clothes that Arcade had forced on him and into something that belongs to him. He needs to sleep.
He doesn't usually like the sonic showers - seriously, they're just weird - but right now he's grateful for them, namely that they're a lot faster than water showers. He abandons his clothes in a heap on the floor and is in and out of the shower fairly quickly. He digs through his closet to find pajamas - and it had taken him a decent amount of time and effort to try to convince the Anthramites on the ship to make him a plain t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, and even then they'd gone overboard and gotten too complicated and he'd resorted to shopping for one and ordering it for delivery. He finally finds them and pulls them on, tying the drawstring with some difficulty, as his hands have started to shake. Dammit.
He stares down at his bed for a moment, trying to will himself to get in it and rest. He knows he's exhausted. He knows he needs sleep. He's also fighting the urge to look over his shoulder, to turn all of the lights on as high as they'll go and check every square inch of his room to make sure it's secure. It's illogical, and detrimental, and a waste of energy, and he's having a hell of a time shaking the urge to do it anyway. Turns out paranoia is dead useful when it's keeping you alive; the rest of the time, it's a bitch.
After nearly a solid minute of steeling himself and muttering reassurances that he's fine and the room is secure and everything is fine, he finally forces himself to lie down on the bed-
And gets right back up again, shaking worse than ever. Nope. He can't do it. Even in the safety of his own room, it's still too open, too exposed. But there's a few feet of space under it...
This is stupid, he realizes. It's ridiculous. It's probably not healthy. And it's the only way he's ever going to get any sleep with his paranoia keyed up as high as it is.
He yanks the blanket and pillow off the bed, drops to the floor, and scoots into the space under his bed, wrapping himself in his blanket once he gets settled in there. He's sleeping under his bed. It's patently ridiculous, but the extra surface just above his head makes him feel better. It's a small space. He can watch it easily, and it's more difficult to get into than the room itself is. He's hidden. He's safe, or at least as safe as he's ever going to get.
And that's the issue, isn't it? He's spent days on his guard for a spying mission, and days after that in survival mode in Arcade's death arena. This is the first time he's felt safe in a while, and it's what he's been looking for.
It still takes him a long time - too long - to slow his breathing and stop shaking. Finally, his eyes close, and for the first time in days, he sleeps - deeply, dreamlessly, and uninterrupted. It's a rarity in Wash's life.
He wakes up groggy and sore from having slept on the floor for...for...huh. He wiggles out from under the bed, or at least enough to see a clock. According to the date and time readings, he's been asleep under there for about sixteen hours. Evidently he'd needed the rest.
An hour or so later, he can be found in a myriad of places: in the mess hall trying to figure out just how many types of fresh fruit it has and what would taste best; in the training room, pounding away at the punching bag; on the nature deck, in that same wooded area, sitting by the rocky shore of a lake, staring out across the water and thinking. He still looks a little tired, but at least he's not visibly twitchy anymore. He must be feeling better, right?
What| Wash is still recovering from Murder World. Come bother him.
Where| Various places
When| Several days after the end of Murder World.
Warnings/Notes| He's kind of Not Okay, so approach at your own risk.
As it turns out, Wash is having a pretty terrible week. Being stuck in a murder arena for a few days on end will definitely do that to you. Seeing a dearly departed friend back from the dead with zero warning or preparation doesn't help either.
Chief had intercepted York and given Wash a chance to get the hell out of Dodge, and he'd taken it, all but sprinting through the threshold gate back to Legion World. He doesn't stop for anyone until he's outside his door, locking it behind him once he stumbles in. Only then does he check his omnicom - still disabled, dammit - and then decide that if anyone wants to come looking for him, they damn well know where to find him.
He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and then takes another. Breathe. Slow down. It's over. Legion World is secure, for the most part, and he'd Reaper-proofed his room as best he could. It's fine. He's safe-
His brain stutters over the last phrase, and his breathing gets erratic until he forcibly smoothes it out again. No. It's over. He doesn't need to panic - he just needs to calm down and work through this.
He needs to clean up. He needs to get out of the clothes that Arcade had forced on him and into something that belongs to him. He needs to sleep.
He doesn't usually like the sonic showers - seriously, they're just weird - but right now he's grateful for them, namely that they're a lot faster than water showers. He abandons his clothes in a heap on the floor and is in and out of the shower fairly quickly. He digs through his closet to find pajamas - and it had taken him a decent amount of time and effort to try to convince the Anthramites on the ship to make him a plain t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, and even then they'd gone overboard and gotten too complicated and he'd resorted to shopping for one and ordering it for delivery. He finally finds them and pulls them on, tying the drawstring with some difficulty, as his hands have started to shake. Dammit.
He stares down at his bed for a moment, trying to will himself to get in it and rest. He knows he's exhausted. He knows he needs sleep. He's also fighting the urge to look over his shoulder, to turn all of the lights on as high as they'll go and check every square inch of his room to make sure it's secure. It's illogical, and detrimental, and a waste of energy, and he's having a hell of a time shaking the urge to do it anyway. Turns out paranoia is dead useful when it's keeping you alive; the rest of the time, it's a bitch.
After nearly a solid minute of steeling himself and muttering reassurances that he's fine and the room is secure and everything is fine, he finally forces himself to lie down on the bed-
And gets right back up again, shaking worse than ever. Nope. He can't do it. Even in the safety of his own room, it's still too open, too exposed. But there's a few feet of space under it...
This is stupid, he realizes. It's ridiculous. It's probably not healthy. And it's the only way he's ever going to get any sleep with his paranoia keyed up as high as it is.
He yanks the blanket and pillow off the bed, drops to the floor, and scoots into the space under his bed, wrapping himself in his blanket once he gets settled in there. He's sleeping under his bed. It's patently ridiculous, but the extra surface just above his head makes him feel better. It's a small space. He can watch it easily, and it's more difficult to get into than the room itself is. He's hidden. He's safe, or at least as safe as he's ever going to get.
And that's the issue, isn't it? He's spent days on his guard for a spying mission, and days after that in survival mode in Arcade's death arena. This is the first time he's felt safe in a while, and it's what he's been looking for.
It still takes him a long time - too long - to slow his breathing and stop shaking. Finally, his eyes close, and for the first time in days, he sleeps - deeply, dreamlessly, and uninterrupted. It's a rarity in Wash's life.
He wakes up groggy and sore from having slept on the floor for...for...huh. He wiggles out from under the bed, or at least enough to see a clock. According to the date and time readings, he's been asleep under there for about sixteen hours. Evidently he'd needed the rest.
An hour or so later, he can be found in a myriad of places: in the mess hall trying to figure out just how many types of fresh fruit it has and what would taste best; in the training room, pounding away at the punching bag; on the nature deck, in that same wooded area, sitting by the rocky shore of a lake, staring out across the water and thinking. He still looks a little tired, but at least he's not visibly twitchy anymore. He must be feeling better, right?
no subject
Monitor duty isn't a surprise - latrine duty isn't really a thing when the toilets are all sonic, so monitor duty has become the boring, least-liked job. What is surprising is York getting double for pushing Wash in the first place. He'd thought he'd be on his own for that one. He's used to being on his own when it comes to setting and enforcing his boundaries; having backup is...new, to say the least. Different. Turns out support feels pretty damn good, vindictiveness aside.
The good feeling dies when mandatory therapy comes up. His jaw tightens slightly at the pronouncement. No. Hell no. The last thing he needs in his life is someone with his psych profile laid open on their desk, asking in a smooth voice whether he feels profound feelings of resentment-
But the Counselor isn't here - he's in jail, or dead, or in a fucking hole somewhere. Wash doesn't know and doesn't want to find out. Here, it's Doctor Ryk'rr, and hell, she might even have his best interests in mind if - except it's when now, goddammit - he goes to talk to her.
For a time and a place so blatantly and ridiculously removed from his own, sometimes Wash has a hell of a time remembering that things are different here.
He breathes slowly and nods. He'll deal with this later, when he's not in a room with his CO and his living, breathing past. "Yes, ma'am."
no subject
Like.
Mandatory sessions with a therapist. Even if it's just the one. Delta loses all objectivity in short order for so many reasons and every edge he had in the 'not reacting, not emoting, not anything' department drops out immediately- green flaring bright in the back of his good eye as five kinds of panic slam into him in under a second and York suddenly has to do damage control in his own skull. Fun times. Fun-fucking- times. He grimaces and unlaces his hands, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tries, and fails, to silently give D the order to retire. D's not having it, D's not having any of it-
"Yeah, um-" Shit. The clipped cadence is gone so that's a bonus, he's got his mouth going on his own. A+, self. "That's all fair and reasonable but the Dr. Ryk'rr thing is, uh- it's less a stigma and more, um."
He could drag Wash down with him on this. Toss the lasso around his ankle and pull and it'd be the easiest fucking thing in the world.
But that really wouldn't convince Kid Q he had a handle on his anger now, would it? "Delta and I kind of have a history with a mental health professional that fucked us over five ways to Sunday. Could I take an extra week of monitor duty and mandatory meditation or something, maybe?"
no subject
Wash stops bothering with pretense and fully turns to look at York. Yeah, that's definitely Delta freaking out in there and York trying to calm him down. The Counselor just fucked up everyone he touched, didn't he.
Part of Wash - the ugly, rotten part that did most of the talking in the cafeteria and even now won't shut up, no matter how hard he tries to scrub it away - wants to let York flounder. The rest of him - the grand majority that is realizing more and more that revenge just isn't worth the damage it does to his soul - knows that that's cruel. Delta doesn't deserve this; to a certain extent, neither does York.
"The Counselor's gone," he says, calm and steady. "He's either gone to ground or gone six feet under - either way, he hasn't shown his face in years, and he's in a different dimension right now." That's about as much logic as he can muster now, when the thought of therapy turned his stomach not moments before.
He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and turns back to face Kid Quantum. Much as he doesn't want to give it, this is going to require some explanation. "York and I were in the same military project," he starts, doing his best to bury his hesitation. Finding words is like pulling teeth, but he keeps going. "The project's director had an agenda that didn't match the project's goals, and the Counselor - the project's mental health professional; the only one any of us saw for years - aligned himself with the Director. Neither of them had our best interests at heart. We trusted them, and they damn near destroyed all of us." It's the absolute bare bones of the story, the very least Kid Quantum needs to know in order to understand, and Wash is determined not to tell her anything else. The rest goes too deep, and he's said enough already.
no subject
She leans forward, folding her arms on her desk. "Delta," she says gently, "I promise you, you're safe from that here. I would never allow anyone to abuse a member of my team like that, and that includes you. If I didn't trust that Dr. Ryk'rr had our best interests at heart, she wouldn't be here. I can tell Dr. Ryk'rr that you've been abused by mental health professionals in the past so she can help with that, and if you're not comfortable with her, we can find someone trustworthy who you do feel capable of talking to who can help you." She glances at Wash and back at York too. "That goes for both of you, too. I swear on my brother's memory."
no subject
Soothing gestures for a code and logic oriented AI. Like meditative breathing but- well. No lungs required.
York himself takes a slow breath, in through the nose for three, out for four- old sniping trick he gave North shit about and, christ, North's dead. South's dead. They're all dead- Delta gets himself together enough to beat back the sudden wave of black grief though their mutual hold on their respective composure is slim at best. Even D can't keep a slight film of damp from coming over York's eyes before he can scrub at them. "He- uh."
Vague waving over his left shoulder where D would appear, normally. "Says thanks."
A beat passes before his eye flicks to Wash. "To both of you."
no subject
Huh. There's still a lot that Wash doesn't know, and while he wouldn't be surprised if the information is available - Kid Q is native to this dimension and pretty much a celebrity - he's not sure he wants to go digging for it. She's not trying to dig; he should show her the same courtesy.
He looks back to York instead, watches him struggle to get a hold on himself. He'd been through this, or something like it; this is what it looks from the outside, he realizes, feeling his stomach twist into knots for the second time in as many minutes. This was him a few years ago, plus a good amount of screaming.
But York recovers enough to speak, and the feeling passes. He meets York's gaze and nods - there's so much more to say here, but not in front of someone who wasn't there. Much as Wash respects Kid Q, she's not a part of the conversation he and York need to have.
So it can wait.
He looks back at Kid Q - she's waiting for a response to her offer. "Okay."
no subject
"You're welcome, Delta." She sobers and looks from York to Wash and back again. "I'll let you schedule your own sessions, but I expect to hear from Dr. Ryk'rr within the next two days that you've done so, or have approached her about finding someone else."
She runs a hand over her hair, looking, for a moment, tired. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you what's at stake here. We can't afford infighting. If you can't figure out a way to co-exist on the same team, we'll have to talk more. But if there's nothing else you need from me now, you're free to go."
no subject
Preferably before anyone else wants to talk to or at him about.
Anything.
He's up, snapping a salute partly out of habit and entirely out of respect, and out the door asap. He can work around Wash fine, yeah. Doesn't mean he wants to talk to him anytime soon.
no subject
He stands when York does, but doesn't salute - Legion World isn't really that kind of place, from what Wash has learned during his time here. He then follows York out the door, waiting for it to close before speaking up. "York, wait." York may not want to talk, but Wash still has something to say.
no subject
It might be. Fuck if he knows.
no subject
And if he does that, he'll be doing exactly what York did to him a few days ago - chasing him down despite the fact that York wants nothing to do with him right now. Wash has been a hypocrite before, flagrantly and without shame, but this...he can't afford to be one now. Not for this.
So he stops, and breathes, and lets York walk away.