(no subject)
It happens in a few seconds. One, she's trying to pull a stuck film reel out, two, half the books on the shelf come with it, three, she manages to save some of them, four, she's standing there with an arm across half a bookshelf as a pile of comics drop to the floor.
Terry sighs, and shoves the books back onto the shelf securely before crouching down to gather up the comics. All she's wanted is a movie to pass the time, and she gets to play maid. More and more, she's finding herself restless and bored; being with Brad and training with Cable and spending time with everyone is fine, but there's a part of Terry that still yearns to be back in New York. At the very least she needs her power back, to be able to do something other than walk a million bloody miles a day because she's got nothing better to do.
The first of the comics she slips into the beginnings of a pile catches her eye. Terry's never been a comic book sort of person, but the colors are bright, there's a couple prancing about on a beach and she gives it a quick read.
Two words in, and she wishes she hadn't.
On some level, Terry's always known. It's hard not to wonder, at the very least, if your life is out there as someone's entertainment when you know someone from Star Trek, or have heard Han Solo used to be around, or your friends are well aware they're fictional. But it's an entirely different beast when the tiny, glossy slip of a book she's holding is telling a story about her father and the mother she never knew. She's seen pictures of Maeve, she knows she didn't have red hair and she doesn't look like this, but it's still a shock.
Before she realizes what she's doing, Terry drops the comic and reaches for another, and the page it just happened to drop open on turns her stomach. Some things she tries to hide from, even in her nightmares, and she hasn't expected Victoria to haunt her in the middle of a perfectly good day. She doesn't need to see the blood, or the pain in her face, or the giant letters that echo gunshots she can remember perfectly fine on her own.
She gives the next one enough of a glance to realize what it is, then just about tosses it away. The one thing only one person other than Tom knows about, and here it is, drawn out in awful art. One of the lowest points of her life, and it's there for anyone to see.
Terry's life hasn't been easy. She doesn't pretend it has, and she doesn't put it on display or ask for sympathy, largely because it's easier to set things aside, treat them as the past and move on. It makes it easier to forget just how awful things had been. Like her depression and near relapse. Or Scott giving her the news about her father. How much she'd loved James and hadn't realized it.
The one thing, above all, she'd wanted to forget most: nearly being beaten to death, then held hostage by a mad man. On her knees with a comic open in her lap, Terry stares without really seeing the pages showcasing her at her lowest, her most degraded and terrified.
All these personal, most private of things, the worst moments of her life, and anyone walking by could read her like an open book.
Literally.
Terry sighs, and shoves the books back onto the shelf securely before crouching down to gather up the comics. All she's wanted is a movie to pass the time, and she gets to play maid. More and more, she's finding herself restless and bored; being with Brad and training with Cable and spending time with everyone is fine, but there's a part of Terry that still yearns to be back in New York. At the very least she needs her power back, to be able to do something other than walk a million bloody miles a day because she's got nothing better to do.
The first of the comics she slips into the beginnings of a pile catches her eye. Terry's never been a comic book sort of person, but the colors are bright, there's a couple prancing about on a beach and she gives it a quick read.
Two words in, and she wishes she hadn't.
On some level, Terry's always known. It's hard not to wonder, at the very least, if your life is out there as someone's entertainment when you know someone from Star Trek, or have heard Han Solo used to be around, or your friends are well aware they're fictional. But it's an entirely different beast when the tiny, glossy slip of a book she's holding is telling a story about her father and the mother she never knew. She's seen pictures of Maeve, she knows she didn't have red hair and she doesn't look like this, but it's still a shock.
Before she realizes what she's doing, Terry drops the comic and reaches for another, and the page it just happened to drop open on turns her stomach. Some things she tries to hide from, even in her nightmares, and she hasn't expected Victoria to haunt her in the middle of a perfectly good day. She doesn't need to see the blood, or the pain in her face, or the giant letters that echo gunshots she can remember perfectly fine on her own.
She gives the next one enough of a glance to realize what it is, then just about tosses it away. The one thing only one person other than Tom knows about, and here it is, drawn out in awful art. One of the lowest points of her life, and it's there for anyone to see.
Terry's life hasn't been easy. She doesn't pretend it has, and she doesn't put it on display or ask for sympathy, largely because it's easier to set things aside, treat them as the past and move on. It makes it easier to forget just how awful things had been. Like her depression and near relapse. Or Scott giving her the news about her father. How much she'd loved James and hadn't realized it.
The one thing, above all, she'd wanted to forget most: nearly being beaten to death, then held hostage by a mad man. On her knees with a comic open in her lap, Terry stares without really seeing the pages showcasing her at her lowest, her most degraded and terrified.
All these personal, most private of things, the worst moments of her life, and anyone walking by could read her like an open book.
Literally.