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shadowknight2008-03-02 11:03 am
sl_walker) wrote in shadowknight2008-03-02 11:03 am
Entry tags:
Fic - Shaking
Title: Shaking
Rating: PG
Universe: Alternate
Timeline: March 8th, 2006
Written: March 8th, 2006
Summary: After a close call where Joel nearly meets his maker, Mike tries to calm back down again and finds he can't. A good look at the very traumatized mind of someone who lost everyone and is terrified of maybe having a family again.
The creek down in the narrow ravine would eventually meet up with the Snake River, a little to the northeast of there -- when they made it to the canyon, they could follow along the riverside, likely easily passable due to the recent lack of rain, and move into the next leg of the journey. With some clever thinking, they could even have fresh fish every night that they followed the river. And without the hunters on their trail, they could at least rest properly, and save the horses for the Bitterroot.
But none of this mattered.
Not right now.
Not while he was washing blood off of his hands.
The shock of the cold water didn't bother Mike, really; he was too focused on holding his hands steady enough to clean the blood out of his nails; let it wash away, don't think about who's blood it is, don't think about anything. Just him, and the creek and nothing else.
Nothing else.
He choked on a breath.
It took too long to get his hands clean again; they were half numb from the bitterly cold water, and still shaking, but not from cold. He was glad, though, in some distant way that he was steady when he had to be, and didn't have to ride back here carrying a body and not a person.
Once he got his hands clean, he went to trying to clean his face off. He could go back to camp with the water, warm it up on the fire, wash up comfortably. But he didn't want to go back to the camp yet.
Maybe the cold water would ease his nerves.
But his hands were still shaking.
He grabbed the sliver of soap he had left; scrubbed at his face, at his hair, wished he had enough light to shave. Somewhere in his head he registered that he'd have to get more soap in Missoula; taking a bath was a rare luxury, but one he tried to indulge in as often as he could. The water was brutally cold, but he wasn't worried about hypothermia, just getting clean -- he could go back to the fire and warm up again before he was in any real danger.
Once he finished scrubbing, he dunked his head into the creek, balancing precariously; it was an intense and focused moment of pain that almost made him lose his breath, but in that same sense, it was damn near a relief. He held his head there a little longer than necessary; the muddled sound of the creek rushing past his ears, and blackness, the cold, under the water; if it were light, he could see the sun ripple across the rocks, like he had on the edge of the Blackfoot in summer, those brief moments when there wasn't any work to do and he and Ed would go jump in the river for a swim...
Mike pulled his head out of the water, shook it hard like a dog, sent a spray of artificial rain arching out. His whole body was shaking now, some from the cold, some not. He gasped for air for a moment, trying to hold onto the clarity of the silence and bitterness of the stream, but it went away too quickly.
The moonlight was waning down past the edge of the ravine; his ambiant light was fading and he'd have to head back soon to get warm again and...
And what?
He didn't know.
He didn't waste any more time, though, just rushed through the rest of the bath, half-grateful for the distraction of icy water on open skin. He had to be careful with the leg still, but his ribs were a great deal better -- all of the bruising had faded and aside from twinges of pain and soreness he could live with, he was well on the mend in body.
When he finished cleaning up, he wrapped what little was left of the soap back up, retied his ponytail tightly at the base of his neck, and started back for the camp.
His hands had settled somewhat before, but the closer he got, the worse they shook. It bothered him; bothered him that his nerves were so taut that any little thing was enough to set them off. It wasn't like this was the first time he had ever faced a bad situation -- he may not have had to fight much in his career, opting instead to avoid trouble, but just by virtue of life he had been in bad places many times before and only a handful of times had he ever had this reaction.
He finally made it back to the slowly fading light of the campfire, standing on the edge there. Looking. Watching. Breathing.
Shaking.
Josh was half-asleep, but still came over, nosing his shoulder lightly; just a nudge. His way of saying, "I'm here."
It was a little thing, but it...
...hurt.
Mike leaned his forehead against his horse's, breathing, listening to Josh breathe. It was an ancient gesture between them; comradarie, and affection, and attachment. In a world where life was lost swiftly, Mike was more grateful than words that things had turned out well here -- that he got to keep the last remaining member of his family, the family he lost in Missoula a lifetime ago.
Josh stayed there, likely falling back to sleep where he stood, forehead to forehead with Mike; Mike stayed there, trying to steady himself enough to stand on his own for awhile. He was cold, and shaken, but he stayed there anyway.
How much time passed was unknown. But finally he pulled away, leaving his horse to stand asleep, and made his way back to the fire. Trying to sort out his thoughts. Trying to keep his nerves steady. Trying to... to...
What?
He looked over the sleeping people, face blank, mind spinning. Shayna and Rick, sleeping in the same bedroll, holding onto one another tightly. Nance and Crow were curled up together; Servo had opted to sleep next to Joel tonight, and not with his other 'siblings'.
For the moment, he was distant outside of this; felt detached, lost. Felt again the urge to go away from this, away from these people, just away -- before it overtakes him too much to break free, before he's hopeless to let go of them. Before they leave him behind.
Before they die on him.
He closed his eyes tight... there was some part of him on the floor of Evie's stall, some part of him in the radio room at Williams Lake, where Doc Petersen was relaying that his father was gone; some part of him digging in the ice-covered Montana earth.
Some part of him kneeling next to Joel.
The same plaintive thought -- "Not you, too." -- and the same knife twisting just below his breastbone.
Too close.
Too close.
Too late.
He didn't know what to do, so he just breathed and willed himself to be still; be calm, be steady, be okay, it'll be okay. Everyone was still alive; no one died.
For now, that would have to be good enough.
That was an ancient thought too, but not his own -- like an echo of a thought from somewhere else. He knew it was another of those echoes he'd been getting for a month now, but unlike Rick and the others, he didn't want to try to understand. He just wanted them to stop. And wanted them not to stop, too.
He warmed himself up by the fire for awhile, not acknowledging the passing of time. He needed sleep, and badly. Needed rest. Needed the rampant track of thought to pause for awhile and let him be. If he slept, he wouldn't shake.
It wasn't long before dawn when he finally did fall asleep, some other distant echo driving him to keep close to Joel. He had tried to debate it, and failed -- another imperative, an irrefutable order. Not too close, not wanting to disturb Joel or Tom if he got restless, but within a foot and a half. He didn't know why.
It didn't matter why.
Not right now.
Rating: PG
Universe: Alternate
Timeline: March 8th, 2006
Written: March 8th, 2006
Summary: After a close call where Joel nearly meets his maker, Mike tries to calm back down again and finds he can't. A good look at the very traumatized mind of someone who lost everyone and is terrified of maybe having a family again.
The creek down in the narrow ravine would eventually meet up with the Snake River, a little to the northeast of there -- when they made it to the canyon, they could follow along the riverside, likely easily passable due to the recent lack of rain, and move into the next leg of the journey. With some clever thinking, they could even have fresh fish every night that they followed the river. And without the hunters on their trail, they could at least rest properly, and save the horses for the Bitterroot.
But none of this mattered.
Not right now.
Not while he was washing blood off of his hands.
The shock of the cold water didn't bother Mike, really; he was too focused on holding his hands steady enough to clean the blood out of his nails; let it wash away, don't think about who's blood it is, don't think about anything. Just him, and the creek and nothing else.
Nothing else.
He choked on a breath.
It took too long to get his hands clean again; they were half numb from the bitterly cold water, and still shaking, but not from cold. He was glad, though, in some distant way that he was steady when he had to be, and didn't have to ride back here carrying a body and not a person.
Once he got his hands clean, he went to trying to clean his face off. He could go back to camp with the water, warm it up on the fire, wash up comfortably. But he didn't want to go back to the camp yet.
Maybe the cold water would ease his nerves.
But his hands were still shaking.
He grabbed the sliver of soap he had left; scrubbed at his face, at his hair, wished he had enough light to shave. Somewhere in his head he registered that he'd have to get more soap in Missoula; taking a bath was a rare luxury, but one he tried to indulge in as often as he could. The water was brutally cold, but he wasn't worried about hypothermia, just getting clean -- he could go back to the fire and warm up again before he was in any real danger.
Once he finished scrubbing, he dunked his head into the creek, balancing precariously; it was an intense and focused moment of pain that almost made him lose his breath, but in that same sense, it was damn near a relief. He held his head there a little longer than necessary; the muddled sound of the creek rushing past his ears, and blackness, the cold, under the water; if it were light, he could see the sun ripple across the rocks, like he had on the edge of the Blackfoot in summer, those brief moments when there wasn't any work to do and he and Ed would go jump in the river for a swim...
Mike pulled his head out of the water, shook it hard like a dog, sent a spray of artificial rain arching out. His whole body was shaking now, some from the cold, some not. He gasped for air for a moment, trying to hold onto the clarity of the silence and bitterness of the stream, but it went away too quickly.
The moonlight was waning down past the edge of the ravine; his ambiant light was fading and he'd have to head back soon to get warm again and...
And what?
He didn't know.
He didn't waste any more time, though, just rushed through the rest of the bath, half-grateful for the distraction of icy water on open skin. He had to be careful with the leg still, but his ribs were a great deal better -- all of the bruising had faded and aside from twinges of pain and soreness he could live with, he was well on the mend in body.
When he finished cleaning up, he wrapped what little was left of the soap back up, retied his ponytail tightly at the base of his neck, and started back for the camp.
His hands had settled somewhat before, but the closer he got, the worse they shook. It bothered him; bothered him that his nerves were so taut that any little thing was enough to set them off. It wasn't like this was the first time he had ever faced a bad situation -- he may not have had to fight much in his career, opting instead to avoid trouble, but just by virtue of life he had been in bad places many times before and only a handful of times had he ever had this reaction.
He finally made it back to the slowly fading light of the campfire, standing on the edge there. Looking. Watching. Breathing.
Shaking.
Josh was half-asleep, but still came over, nosing his shoulder lightly; just a nudge. His way of saying, "I'm here."
It was a little thing, but it...
...hurt.
Mike leaned his forehead against his horse's, breathing, listening to Josh breathe. It was an ancient gesture between them; comradarie, and affection, and attachment. In a world where life was lost swiftly, Mike was more grateful than words that things had turned out well here -- that he got to keep the last remaining member of his family, the family he lost in Missoula a lifetime ago.
Josh stayed there, likely falling back to sleep where he stood, forehead to forehead with Mike; Mike stayed there, trying to steady himself enough to stand on his own for awhile. He was cold, and shaken, but he stayed there anyway.
How much time passed was unknown. But finally he pulled away, leaving his horse to stand asleep, and made his way back to the fire. Trying to sort out his thoughts. Trying to keep his nerves steady. Trying to... to...
What?
He looked over the sleeping people, face blank, mind spinning. Shayna and Rick, sleeping in the same bedroll, holding onto one another tightly. Nance and Crow were curled up together; Servo had opted to sleep next to Joel tonight, and not with his other 'siblings'.
For the moment, he was distant outside of this; felt detached, lost. Felt again the urge to go away from this, away from these people, just away -- before it overtakes him too much to break free, before he's hopeless to let go of them. Before they leave him behind.
Before they die on him.
He closed his eyes tight... there was some part of him on the floor of Evie's stall, some part of him in the radio room at Williams Lake, where Doc Petersen was relaying that his father was gone; some part of him digging in the ice-covered Montana earth.
Some part of him kneeling next to Joel.
The same plaintive thought -- "Not you, too." -- and the same knife twisting just below his breastbone.
Too close.
Too close.
Too late.
He didn't know what to do, so he just breathed and willed himself to be still; be calm, be steady, be okay, it'll be okay. Everyone was still alive; no one died.
For now, that would have to be good enough.
That was an ancient thought too, but not his own -- like an echo of a thought from somewhere else. He knew it was another of those echoes he'd been getting for a month now, but unlike Rick and the others, he didn't want to try to understand. He just wanted them to stop. And wanted them not to stop, too.
He warmed himself up by the fire for awhile, not acknowledging the passing of time. He needed sleep, and badly. Needed rest. Needed the rampant track of thought to pause for awhile and let him be. If he slept, he wouldn't shake.
It wasn't long before dawn when he finally did fall asleep, some other distant echo driving him to keep close to Joel. He had tried to debate it, and failed -- another imperative, an irrefutable order. Not too close, not wanting to disturb Joel or Tom if he got restless, but within a foot and a half. He didn't know why.
It didn't matter why.
Not right now.