#idk if it’s explicitly cannon but it’s at least implied that bryan has or does struggle with ptsd

[bluemoonbabes]

Glass Wall

Debris nbc. Bryan introspection.

There are days where Bryan feels as though he’s stuck within the Uncanny Valley, something that looks human, that should be human, but isn’t quite. He knows that he’s human, but his certainty it in is subverted as he flounders through the sea of larger society. There’s something beneath the surface that’s off to others, something that skews the smiles he gets, something that makes people look his way a second to long, something that shifts the way people treat him. Something that makes people ignore him.

He feels it now especially as he sits in the corner of an Orbital office party, some buff, untouched liquid in a candy red cup, probably a shitty beer from the gas station few blocks south with the flickering sign, buzzing fan, and one ceiling panel in the back missing its corner. He grabbed the cup because he’d thought he’d drink it, but now, staring down into it as it sloshes against plastic, it’s minutely repulsive. Not overwhelmingly so, he just can’t bring himself to lift the cup to his lips.

He’s posted in a good spot, the wall a stabilizing comfort against his back as he watches over the living room and the kitchen, the front door nearest him. That’s one possible exit. There’s a hall he can see too, but not the bedrooms or bathroom that branch off of it, drawing his eyes back down that way every so often just in case. He can see part of the dining room and part of the backyard through landscape windows and the screen door that slams as Brandt and Claire parade their way through to the dinning table, a second possible exit that smacks his ears like someone bopped him, and flinches, almost, kind of, the noise jolting through his body yet he hides it well enough.

Tom is near the door with Mallory and someone he doesn’t know. Lester and several techs have taken up the couch and two plush chairs. Agent Kazemi and her husband are nitpicking the buffet as Grace and Alvin scour through it, Muntz judging them from the sidelines as he nibbles on cheese. He’s not sure who all is in the dinning room, but he can spot Brandt, Claire, and Niels among them. Several are outside, and Bryan catches Gibson, Maddox, Mackie, and Finola, which is exactly where his eyes keep circling back to, because Finola is the one person he feels most comfortable with, but she isn’t with him, and while he says he trusts his coworkers he knows that’ll never be wholly true. All he has is himself and Finola, and Finola isn’t with him, so he has to make sure she’s fine while also keeping watch over himself. He knows they’re safe but never entirely, and what if tonight is the night that something goes wrong? What if tonight someone snaps or something breaks or boundaries are overstepped, and Finola gets up hurt or missing or dead? (He’s never really feared for his own life. Not truly. Not when he spent years facing down Death every day). Because it’s so many fucking people here, crowded together in a confined space, and Bryan can only spot two exits, maybe seven if he counts windows, and confined space with big groups is where things go wrong.

Yet consciously he knows he’s safe. He knows he’s overreacting, because the self preservation part of his brain has been burned into eternal survival mode because it’s the only reason that he’s still alive today and it won’t shut off no matter what he does, not until he’s exhausted and drained and nothing but a body that sags and lags. He knows that this isn’t normal, but it’s the only normal he knows, and again he feels like the living version of the Uncanny Valley as he stands here alone, because no one else understands, no one even tries, and he’s starting to question whether or not he’s entirely human again because the side eyes and minute (he can’t tell if it’s confusion or repulsion) he gets when he does try to be open up and be honest prick his skin in all the wrong ways, all the painful ways, like what he’s what he’s saying and doing and even how he’s breathing is wrong, because they don’t even fucking try to understand, they just want him gone because god forbid a disabled person takes up any space.

He knows almost every person at this party and gets along with them fine. But only on a professional level. Only on a “hi, how are you? wonderful weather today” level. He knows that they know something is different with him on a deeper level, so while they smile and play polite, they never stick around long enough to know him. There’s this disconnect between him and the rest of humanity that Bryan can’t quite put his finger on, like there’s the glass wall between them that they’re both consciously aware of but that’s only recognizable when you really, really look at it.

It’s not that he wants to be separate. He wants to connect with others, almost desperately so. But his brain has been altered in a way that changes the rhythm of his person, because he’s been taught to socialize a certain way, taught to operate a certain way, and spent his youth learning that that’s the only way to survive because they people who failed were fucking killed. Like they’re swimming together in a current but one of his fins have been cut off, and he’s still swimming, but he has to do it in a different way in order to survive. Except that difference born out of survival freaks some people out, even disgusts some people, and no one is willing to be compassionate, no one is willing to be empathetic, no one registers that he’s disabled, all they see is that he’s ‘different’ (and ‘different’ so often morphs into something painful), so Bryan’s just here, in his own little corner, watching the world move on without him at a faster pace than he can keep up with. He’s got his fin back, but it’ll never be the same, so now he’s having to relearn to swim, and fucking hell does it suck, especially when he’s stranded in deep waters by himself.

Oh, and how angry that makes him, but that anger doesn’t take hold right now. Right now, he’s tense, his back rigid and shoulders fixed and neck stiff as it’s always been, his knees and hips eternally aching because he’s pretty damn sure that he’s got chronic pain now from hyper vigilance and tearing up his body in war, but it’s not like doctors ever gave enough of a shit for him to get diagnosed because they ‘see it in every veteran’. Right now, his ears are clogged with conversation and some song playing in the back, and while he’s certain he could listen in on someone if he focused, he doesn’t have that concentration now as every single sound, every single word, every single note is filters through his ears, mashing together in a sickening kind of static. Right now, there are bodies moving constantly around him and he’s separate from the one person he trusts, so he’s got to keep and eye on himself and Finola.

He knows he’ll be angry late though, because he’s always angry later, angry at himself, angry at his PTSD, angry at the world and life itself, when everything is quiet and his mind is given free reign. He hates those moments the most, hates inactivity and silence because the moment he isn’t moving is the same moment that he starts spiraling, sometimes slowly, sometimes very quickly, and next thing he knows he’s frozen as he washes dishes or brushes his teeth, dissociating into nothing, the vague scent of blood stained in his nostrils.

The screen door slams again and he flinches, almost, sort of, and his eyes fall immediately to Finola as she trails his way. She greets him gently with a small smile and a soft touch to his shoulder.

“You okay?” She asks.

Define okay, he wants to say, because if okay means surviving, then yeah, he’s fantastic. But if okay meanings good, then no, he’s not good and he’s not okay. So Bryan just shrugs.

“Yeah,” He says, and his voice is weak, drained by the ongoing, never ending, quietly painful commotion around him.

Finola, though, just looks at him, concerned and tender. She doesn’t need to clarify to know her answer because she can see it on his face, because she’s always been attentive that way, because she’s always been compassionate that way, because that’s part of why Bryan’s fallen in love with her.

“Ready to go?” She asks.

And he loves her all the more, nodding his head. She takes his hand and leads them out because she knows how uncomfortable he gets when someone walks behind him, their presence pressing down on his back as their footsteps trample out of sight, because she is safest where he can see her.

It’s quiet outside, and it feels like a bubble that swelled his head has popped as the door closes behind him, the sweet relief of quiet and fresh air. They head to their car, and one safely inside, Finola puts on soft songs at quiet volumes because she knows how much he hates the silence.

“Why don’t we get some shitty food and spend the rest of the night at home?” She asks.

And Bryan nods, because he’s so exhausted.