They achieve a victory that only barely feels like a victory. The satisfaction of it pales when set against what it cost them to achieve it. John was never intending to lose another limb, but he feels as if the youth's death was both his own and a replication of having his ruined leg sawed from his body. The sensation lasts even when the flowers are laid aside, and the group of them disperses through the ship.
John had known the boy too well and not at all. When he sits awake, it's in consideration of the pain left in his wake rather than because John was particularly attached to his presence. He had grown accustomed to the ache of his leg. Would he be obliged to resign himself to this same pain on top of the intrusion of other minds pressing in against his own? He sees no way of escape, apart from winning a seemingly impossible war.
In all honesty, John isn't sure how the rest of his brood isn't sitting up mulling over this predicament with him. But as that thought comes and goes, the ship deliver Flint to him. John eyes the cups, settling into the electric buzz of Flint's presence.
"Well, my apologies," John answers, voice flat as he uncrosses his arms and shifts to better face Flint. "My head is too crowded to sleep, at the moment."
But it isn't truly his brood's fault to blame. John's stewing in his own thoughts without any help from borrowed nightmares.
He's slow to take a seat there on the step beside him (his knee aches - or he expects it to; it used to be harder to get up and down than it is now). "You don't say." He stretches his legs out before them, takes up the bottle and pops the latch on its closure. Pours a measure into each glass, bottle clicking against their rims.
These steps lead down into a long empty room, mottled light casting strange shadows. It should be like existing nowhere - this place like slipping between a seam in the world - but it doesn't feel as empty as it looks just like the liquor in the glass doesn't smell right but tastes familiar. The man next to him shouldn't be knit into him either, but that's true too.
"Where's the rest of your company?" Brood too strange a word. Either way they're not here. Not suffering a sleepless night where anyone can see (feel) it.
(Maybe it's an accidental mirror of John's own thoughts. Maybe it's something else.)
"Licking their wounds," John answers, forced lightness in his tone. "One lucky bastard is sleeping."
Even now, so far removed from their lives and anything familiar, John still feels the same prickle of jealousy at the way Flint can stretch out his legs in front of him. Even waking in his pod hadn't given John back what he'd lost. And now, in some kind of darkly humorous twist, he feels as if he's lost yet another limb when his foolish, youthful broodmate got himself killed.
"I thought you would be sleeping too," John adds as he takes the cup. "Most of your people are."
On Nassau, aboard the Walrus, John had slowly acclimated to being aware of Flint. He'd thought at the time that surely he'd hit some sort of maximum. But now, sitting beside Flint on these steps, he can feel every ache in Flint's body. It's an oddly welcome distraction.
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John had known the boy too well and not at all. When he sits awake, it's in consideration of the pain left in his wake rather than because John was particularly attached to his presence. He had grown accustomed to the ache of his leg. Would he be obliged to resign himself to this same pain on top of the intrusion of other minds pressing in against his own? He sees no way of escape, apart from winning a seemingly impossible war.
In all honesty, John isn't sure how the rest of his brood isn't sitting up mulling over this predicament with him. But as that thought comes and goes, the ship deliver Flint to him. John eyes the cups, settling into the electric buzz of Flint's presence.
"Well, my apologies," John answers, voice flat as he uncrosses his arms and shifts to better face Flint. "My head is too crowded to sleep, at the moment."
But it isn't truly his brood's fault to blame. John's stewing in his own thoughts without any help from borrowed nightmares.
no subject
These steps lead down into a long empty room, mottled light casting strange shadows. It should be like existing nowhere - this place like slipping between a seam in the world - but it doesn't feel as empty as it looks just like the liquor in the glass doesn't smell right but tastes familiar. The man next to him shouldn't be knit into him either, but that's true too.
"Where's the rest of your company?" Brood too strange a word. Either way they're not here. Not suffering a sleepless night where anyone can see (feel) it.
(Maybe it's an accidental mirror of John's own thoughts. Maybe it's something else.)
no subject
Even now, so far removed from their lives and anything familiar, John still feels the same prickle of jealousy at the way Flint can stretch out his legs in front of him. Even waking in his pod hadn't given John back what he'd lost. And now, in some kind of darkly humorous twist, he feels as if he's lost yet another limb when his foolish, youthful broodmate got himself killed.
"I thought you would be sleeping too," John adds as he takes the cup. "Most of your people are."
On Nassau, aboard the Walrus, John had slowly acclimated to being aware of Flint. He'd thought at the time that surely he'd hit some sort of maximum. But now, sitting beside Flint on these steps, he can feel every ache in Flint's body. It's an oddly welcome distraction.