#gotta be honest no idea what im bouta write

[agent-kentauris]

d137

this is still back in SA. still in fixing my own stuff mode. would be much easier to not make mistakes the first time, i think. if only

In my dreams there was the sound of gunshots. Which almost woke me up, because there are no gunshots in my dreams. Then I realized I was awake, or that I’d woken myself up, and there were no gunshots at all. I was staring up at the grey fabric of a car…ceiling? And just the faint rumbly hum of an engine. And then someone was patting my head, and I was falling, and sitting next to an old creek that used to run in the woods behind my house when I was a kid.

“Wake up, Mikey. We’re here.”

Everything hurt. Should’ve listened to Mom about…vegetables, or something. Milk? A yacht sailed by on the river.

“No, I got him. Take care of the laptop.”

The water curled up on the captain’s shoulders and she pointed it at the cloudy sky.

“Yeah, of course try to stall Westridge.”

And then someone was shaking me lightly.

“Come on, Thorton,” he said, and I looked up at Sean Darcy. The river was gone. I tried to look around for it, but my neck was sore and besides I couldn’t remember what I had been looking for anyway.

“Good morning,” he said, patiently.

“You have really pretty eyes,” I said, too tired to bother with not saying it, or thinking it. Blue grey like stormy river with rain, but if you had to put it in a crayon, maybe?

“You have a concussion,” he said, very pretty eyes widening a little even if he sounded a bit stern. He looped my arm around his neck. “Ya’ gonna help me, or not?”

“With?”

Then I was out of the car again, leaning on him.

“With walkin’, whatdya think?”

“Oh,” I said. “No.”

I could feel my leg. In a distant kind of way. In a if I stepped on it I would definitely feel it kind of way. Didn’t really want to feel it.

He looked like he wanted to roll his eyes or something. Jaw tight, eyebrows twitching. The hand securing my arm tightening, along with his smile.

“I don’t really want to help, no,” I clarified helpfully.

“You don’t wanna help.”

“You’re doing fine,” I said, with enough stumbling over letters and blinking that it occurred to me, I might have something hurt with my head. Concussion, probably.

He deposited me on the ground, and suddenly, I was sitting in the gravel of the driveway. He unlooped my arm, the loss of skin contact and the evening cool making my arm feel coldish.