Maybe he's as good as dead, with what he's become and how he's changed, but he's not actually dead. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Maine's body wears itself down to a point where he can't even function anymore, he stops to rest, trembling fingers fumbling with the latches of his helmet until he can pull it off, until his entire world whittles away into an eerie, uncomfortable silence. The helmet never stays off for long, and Maine never stays in one place.
He's at Wash's side a half hour after he falls asleep, looming over him like a bad memory, a bad dream. Wash seems to chase Maine in circles -- he's always a step or two behind him, recognizing his patterns even when he can't recognize him, fucking up his shit and plans, ruining what he can like he thinks he can fucking stop him, and if Maine could speak to him now, he'd call him a shitty friend.
( please don't haunt me anymore )
Maine blinks. He kneels there, inches away from Wash, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. He slides one hand up, back to his Magnum, working the hard steel free of its holster until he can fit the barrel of the gun neatly under Wash's chin.
no subject
He's just a little different.
Maybe he's as good as dead, with what he's become and how he's changed, but he's not actually dead. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Maine's body wears itself down to a point where he can't even function anymore, he stops to rest, trembling fingers fumbling with the latches of his helmet until he can pull it off, until his entire world whittles away into an eerie, uncomfortable silence. The helmet never stays off for long, and Maine never stays in one place.
He's at Wash's side a half hour after he falls asleep, looming over him like a bad memory, a bad dream. Wash seems to chase Maine in circles -- he's always a step or two behind him, recognizing his patterns even when he can't recognize him, fucking up his shit and plans, ruining what he can like he thinks he can fucking stop him, and if Maine could speak to him now, he'd call him a shitty friend.
( please don't haunt me anymore )
Maine blinks. He kneels there, inches away from Wash, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. He slides one hand up, back to his Magnum, working the hard steel free of its holster until he can fit the barrel of the gun neatly under Wash's chin.