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poppyapples) wrote2012-05-27 04:31 am
poppyapples) wrote2012-05-27 04:31 am
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And they burnt up the diner where I always used to find her
A sentence caught me, and then I had to see where it went.
When he wakes in his own bed, he knows something is terribly wrong.
It's just past three in the morning, according to the glowing lights of the alarm clock he hasn't seen in months. 3 am, and if he pays close attention he can taste the lingering remains of red wine on his lips. 3 am. It's only been a few hours. He's still dressed in the clothes he wore at Rossi's.
That realization has him bolting upright, back ram-rod straight for the full three seconds he manages to remain sitting before the splitting migraine takes hold, forcing him back down against the mattress with a pained groan. Usually when he closes his eyes during these attacks there are lighting bots and jagged aurora borealis tainting his vision, but this light show is a lot less abstract. Like the ghost photographs of the 1860's they weave in and out of his vision, dragging memories along with them like the tail of a haunted kite - the blast of a coffee shop and instantly he knows what to ask for in order to get exactly what he wants. A shower of sparks reveal a library. The books are exchanged every few days, and there is no history section to find. Like a flickering lightbulb they line up, some more fragmented than others while some are so perfectly clear he can still remember the smell.
Noodle bar. Movie theater. The park. Three incarnations of the same bar, dark wood and smoldering ruins and then rebuilt, the smell of purple paint still thick in the air. An apartment that he recognizes as his, yet it's not the one he woke up in. A bedroom with scattered computer parts covering any flat surface they can find.
A smile and brown hair and the look in her eyes when she says his name.
At that memory he forces his eyes wide open, no matter how much it hurts to stare into the dull darkness of his bedroom. His room? His room back home, which is a strange thought seeing as he hasn't lived anywhere but here in years. And still he remembers it so clearly. Sector 2, not far from the library, the stairs up to his apartment and the view from the roof. The brilliant blue of the crushing depths above them, just about a mile under the surface, and then the dome stretching out in a wide circle of twinkling lights. Movie theater. Noodle bar. The Devil's Compass. The Defense Force HQ.
Marina.
It's all falling into place now, one tiny particle after the next until it feels like his memory is filled to the brim, head aching with the return of this double-life. A life that, now that he can look back at it, was more of a life than he has here. A life that stripped him of everything he cared about, leaving him bare and vulnerable and open to new experiences. New things to love - the very things that now leave him gasping for breath after shuddering breath. He doesn't need to smell his shirt to know that there is no scent of cigarettes clinging to him, but still he does and when his lungs fill with nothing but the smell of his own cologne…
He's stumbling out of bed now, legs unsteady as if he had much more than that one glass of wine and for a moment he contemplates calling Garcia. She'd know, she was there, she if anyone can tell him that he's not crazy--- but it's three in the morning and if he calls her about this, now and she doesn't remember..? Then he really will be crazy. Then the memory of her hand so firmly clasped in his will be nothing but a delusion. Then everything will be exactly what it looks like and for once he wants the mystery. He doesn't want to know.
Eventually he ends up in the kitchen, slumped on a chair with his palm pressed flat against the surface of the table. Without really noticing he pushes harder, fingers curling against the smooth wood until it feels like he'll dig his nails straight through. It was never his gift but right here and now, in the suffocating desperation of waking up at 3 am and realize nothing ever happened, he wishes for nothing more than to melt through that table like so much mist.
Hotch calls at dawn. Reid doesn't pick up, just fumbles together a text about having the flu. When JJ calls several hours later, his voice is just rough enough for her to believe him.
When he wakes in his own bed, he knows something is terribly wrong.
It's just past three in the morning, according to the glowing lights of the alarm clock he hasn't seen in months. 3 am, and if he pays close attention he can taste the lingering remains of red wine on his lips. 3 am. It's only been a few hours. He's still dressed in the clothes he wore at Rossi's.
That realization has him bolting upright, back ram-rod straight for the full three seconds he manages to remain sitting before the splitting migraine takes hold, forcing him back down against the mattress with a pained groan. Usually when he closes his eyes during these attacks there are lighting bots and jagged aurora borealis tainting his vision, but this light show is a lot less abstract. Like the ghost photographs of the 1860's they weave in and out of his vision, dragging memories along with them like the tail of a haunted kite - the blast of a coffee shop and instantly he knows what to ask for in order to get exactly what he wants. A shower of sparks reveal a library. The books are exchanged every few days, and there is no history section to find. Like a flickering lightbulb they line up, some more fragmented than others while some are so perfectly clear he can still remember the smell.
Noodle bar. Movie theater. The park. Three incarnations of the same bar, dark wood and smoldering ruins and then rebuilt, the smell of purple paint still thick in the air. An apartment that he recognizes as his, yet it's not the one he woke up in. A bedroom with scattered computer parts covering any flat surface they can find.
A smile and brown hair and the look in her eyes when she says his name.
At that memory he forces his eyes wide open, no matter how much it hurts to stare into the dull darkness of his bedroom. His room? His room back home, which is a strange thought seeing as he hasn't lived anywhere but here in years. And still he remembers it so clearly. Sector 2, not far from the library, the stairs up to his apartment and the view from the roof. The brilliant blue of the crushing depths above them, just about a mile under the surface, and then the dome stretching out in a wide circle of twinkling lights. Movie theater. Noodle bar. The Devil's Compass. The Defense Force HQ.
Marina.
It's all falling into place now, one tiny particle after the next until it feels like his memory is filled to the brim, head aching with the return of this double-life. A life that, now that he can look back at it, was more of a life than he has here. A life that stripped him of everything he cared about, leaving him bare and vulnerable and open to new experiences. New things to love - the very things that now leave him gasping for breath after shuddering breath. He doesn't need to smell his shirt to know that there is no scent of cigarettes clinging to him, but still he does and when his lungs fill with nothing but the smell of his own cologne…
He's stumbling out of bed now, legs unsteady as if he had much more than that one glass of wine and for a moment he contemplates calling Garcia. She'd know, she was there, she if anyone can tell him that he's not crazy--- but it's three in the morning and if he calls her about this, now and she doesn't remember..? Then he really will be crazy. Then the memory of her hand so firmly clasped in his will be nothing but a delusion. Then everything will be exactly what it looks like and for once he wants the mystery. He doesn't want to know.
Eventually he ends up in the kitchen, slumped on a chair with his palm pressed flat against the surface of the table. Without really noticing he pushes harder, fingers curling against the smooth wood until it feels like he'll dig his nails straight through. It was never his gift but right here and now, in the suffocating desperation of waking up at 3 am and realize nothing ever happened, he wishes for nothing more than to melt through that table like so much mist.
Hotch calls at dawn. Reid doesn't pick up, just fumbles together a text about having the flu. When JJ calls several hours later, his voice is just rough enough for her to believe him.