He's home by the end of day seven and he sleeps on the couch, because he's not entirely ready to face either of the beds alone.
In the early hours of day eight he's woken from a nightmare in a cold sweat and the dark eyes of Loki staring down at him and promising him he'll never be whole again. The rest of day eight he spends like days one through three--a drunken mess of a man, passed out on the bed he and Nat had shared while she'd been there.
Day nine came too early, and he's back to pulling himself together, the new bottle discarded in a nearby trashcan even though it's still half full. He starts exercising again, climbing down the sheer face of one of the cliffs without a lead line and he knows it's probably stupid and idiotic, but he needs to prove it to himself. He reaches the bottom and is a mess of quivering muscles and burning pain, and so he makes a nest for himself along the rock-wall and sleeps. It's near full on night when he wakes, finding that birds have roosted around him and he apologizes to them as he disrupts their sleeping as he starts climbing back up, his voice rusty and strange sounding from disuse.
He makes it to the top and into the cottage and the clock tells him it's one am on day ten. He sleeps again, in the bed in the guest room, and wakes up just after dawn. His bow is pulled out of his luggage and fits snugly in his hand as he climbs back to the roof, taking shots at trees and leaves and stumps until he remembers what it's like for the bow to be nothing more than an extension of his hand, the draw, aim, release as steady as his heart beat and his shots that had been off when he'd started clustered now at the dead center of everything he sighted.
Day eleven and twelve are spent with more of the same and he's learning, with each thump of his arrow into something new, each steady step, how to be in his own body again, how to trust the thoughts and memories and how to separate the grime and slick oil of Loki's magic from the truth and untouched memories. There's still a finger print there, a dark black mark of what was, but he's building around it, trapping it down in the recesses of his mind under memories that he prefers, things before and after Loki's influence that he knows are real and true. Most of them, he's not surprised to note are of Tasha.
Day thirteen dawns and he goes down to the village with the sole purpose of seeking out human company. He finds his way into the pub, orders a pint and makes some new friends with the locals and a couple backpacking across Europe. He gives them his fake name, exchanges his fake email and promises them he'll stop by again before he and the misses head home. It's only after that he realizes he was wearing the wedding band the entire time--has been, since Tasha left him--and even now that he knows it he doesn't take it off, simply--rubs his finger over it every now and again and misses her more than he has at any point in his life.
The second week ends with him actually managing to do some things around the cottage--the laundry he's been ignoring, putting away some of the disaster he'd created during his lower moments, and actually succeeds in making an honest meal that he eats while watching the television that he later falls asleep to.
His last thought is a desperate wonder if Nat is ever going to return.
And that is how she might find him, the next morning, sprawled on the couch looking mostly himself except for the short scruff that's grown up with two weeks without shaving, and the clothing he'd been using to do the cleaning. He wakes when the door opens, reaches for his bow and the recognizes the tread and it feels, for a moment, like every last bit of tension he was holding in him drains out, and he can't help but climb to his feet and meet her, tugging her into a hug that might be crushing.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-06-06 12:01 pm (UTC)He's home by the end of day seven and he sleeps on the couch, because he's not entirely ready to face either of the beds alone.
In the early hours of day eight he's woken from a nightmare in a cold sweat and the dark eyes of Loki staring down at him and promising him he'll never be whole again. The rest of day eight he spends like days one through three--a drunken mess of a man, passed out on the bed he and Nat had shared while she'd been there.
Day nine came too early, and he's back to pulling himself together, the new bottle discarded in a nearby trashcan even though it's still half full. He starts exercising again, climbing down the sheer face of one of the cliffs without a lead line and he knows it's probably stupid and idiotic, but he needs to prove it to himself. He reaches the bottom and is a mess of quivering muscles and burning pain, and so he makes a nest for himself along the rock-wall and sleeps. It's near full on night when he wakes, finding that birds have roosted around him and he apologizes to them as he disrupts their sleeping as he starts climbing back up, his voice rusty and strange sounding from disuse.
He makes it to the top and into the cottage and the clock tells him it's one am on day ten. He sleeps again, in the bed in the guest room, and wakes up just after dawn. His bow is pulled out of his luggage and fits snugly in his hand as he climbs back to the roof, taking shots at trees and leaves and stumps until he remembers what it's like for the bow to be nothing more than an extension of his hand, the draw, aim, release as steady as his heart beat and his shots that had been off when he'd started clustered now at the dead center of everything he sighted.
Day eleven and twelve are spent with more of the same and he's learning, with each thump of his arrow into something new, each steady step, how to be in his own body again, how to trust the thoughts and memories and how to separate the grime and slick oil of Loki's magic from the truth and untouched memories. There's still a finger print there, a dark black mark of what was, but he's building around it, trapping it down in the recesses of his mind under memories that he prefers, things before and after Loki's influence that he knows are real and true. Most of them, he's not surprised to note are of Tasha.
Day thirteen dawns and he goes down to the village with the sole purpose of seeking out human company. He finds his way into the pub, orders a pint and makes some new friends with the locals and a couple backpacking across Europe. He gives them his fake name, exchanges his fake email and promises them he'll stop by again before he and the misses head home. It's only after that he realizes he was wearing the wedding band the entire time--has been, since Tasha left him--and even now that he knows it he doesn't take it off, simply--rubs his finger over it every now and again and misses her more than he has at any point in his life.
The second week ends with him actually managing to do some things around the cottage--the laundry he's been ignoring, putting away some of the disaster he'd created during his lower moments, and actually succeeds in making an honest meal that he eats while watching the television that he later falls asleep to.
His last thought is a desperate wonder if Nat is ever going to return.
And that is how she might find him, the next morning, sprawled on the couch looking mostly himself except for the short scruff that's grown up with two weeks without shaving, and the clothing he'd been using to do the cleaning. He wakes when the door opens, reaches for his bow and the recognizes the tread and it feels, for a moment, like every last bit of tension he was holding in him drains out, and he can't help but climb to his feet and meet her, tugging her into a hug that might be crushing.
"Christ, Nat, it's good to see you--"