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Memories Best Left Behind
Aug. 1st, 2014 08:36 pmIt's been five days since he was captured, and it feels like a lifetime of moving fast and then standing still always has. He doesn't feel any different, doesn't feel like a fugitive... doesn't feel a lot of things. The pain though, that makes it all a little more real to him.
Murdock's trying, he knows, and he plays along with everything with no doubt in his mind that it's all true... but there's nothing even tickling around his brain to confirm much of any of the big things. The plates. Prison. Countless missions on the run. Love. But he's always been good at playing along, putting on a face that everything is going to be fine and it all feels totally normal.
Physically, he's getting around. The smaller wounds have gone to annoying scabs, and the bigger ones are mostly left to cling to his t-shirt and occasionally open up when he pushes himself to hard. The worst is his ribs, but still he forces himself to get up and try to do what he can around the shack while they wait for the Colonel's plan to fall into place. He wants a week... a week of just waiting in the middle of nowhere. A week where it's all he can do to try and feel normal.
It's led him to now, in the middle of the night, watching Murdock sleep under then sheen of unfiltered moonlight through the dusty window and wondering just where things changed between them. What must have happened in prison to make the things he remembers pushing back come bubbling back up like a geyser. There's always been something - hell, as long as he's known the guy they've had something totally different than anything else in his life. It makes sense. He just doesn't know how.
"I miss this..." he whispers, reaching out to his sleeping partner and gently rubbing his fingers over the hairy belly exposed in his tossing to get comfortable - letting his fingers dance close to the waistband of his boxers; "I think. Damn it, I should. I would."
Murdock's trying, he knows, and he plays along with everything with no doubt in his mind that it's all true... but there's nothing even tickling around his brain to confirm much of any of the big things. The plates. Prison. Countless missions on the run. Love. But he's always been good at playing along, putting on a face that everything is going to be fine and it all feels totally normal.
Physically, he's getting around. The smaller wounds have gone to annoying scabs, and the bigger ones are mostly left to cling to his t-shirt and occasionally open up when he pushes himself to hard. The worst is his ribs, but still he forces himself to get up and try to do what he can around the shack while they wait for the Colonel's plan to fall into place. He wants a week... a week of just waiting in the middle of nowhere. A week where it's all he can do to try and feel normal.
It's led him to now, in the middle of the night, watching Murdock sleep under then sheen of unfiltered moonlight through the dusty window and wondering just where things changed between them. What must have happened in prison to make the things he remembers pushing back come bubbling back up like a geyser. There's always been something - hell, as long as he's known the guy they've had something totally different than anything else in his life. It makes sense. He just doesn't know how.
"I miss this..." he whispers, reaching out to his sleeping partner and gently rubbing his fingers over the hairy belly exposed in his tossing to get comfortable - letting his fingers dance close to the waistband of his boxers; "I think. Damn it, I should. I would."
