[for Sookie]
He's got it figured that he's been here a week, though he hasn't gone so far as to tally the days in a fucking bible. A week in fucking dreamland, six days hovering around Eugene, wondering how he ever managed to walk away; two days without cigarettes; five days of rain.
Five days of trying to sleep through the sound of it on the roof, five days of standing in the open door feeling all the wet blow back at him; five days trying to pretend he doesn't feel fucking queasy, feel like he's been drinking grease until his insides were coated with it, slick and dirty and impossible to clean out. He's been out in this shit for what feels like hours, and if the torrential rain can't make him feel clean he's never fucking going to. His legs are splattered with mud and there's no part of him that isn't soaked through, and it is a long walk to the compound but it's the only place he knows how to get to. This isn't the time to deviate from the path, no matter who might be showing up in the fucking trees today.
Fuck, he needs a cigarette. He needs to get out of this shit and get dry, but then he needs a cigarette. He'd thought, maybe, he could prove to himself that it isn't as shitty as he thought, that forcing his body to march through the rain would prove how fucking harmless it is, how he has no right to get all worked up over the weather, of all things--but he thought wrong. It's just as bad as he remembers, just as impossible to see, just as cold and uncomfortable and when he pulls the compound doors open, the blast of vented air smells like exhaust and dry ice and he chokes on it, stumbles into the wide hall and shakes himself like a dog just to hide the shudder going through him because the only thing worse than being soaked out in the rain is being soaked through in dried out air dripping all over the floor. "Fuck," he coughs, blowing away the water that keeps dripping down from his hair, drops off his nose and lips and jaw. Next time he goes crazy and lands on a magic island during monsoon season, he's going to make sure he's got a fucking poncho.
Five days of trying to sleep through the sound of it on the roof, five days of standing in the open door feeling all the wet blow back at him; five days trying to pretend he doesn't feel fucking queasy, feel like he's been drinking grease until his insides were coated with it, slick and dirty and impossible to clean out. He's been out in this shit for what feels like hours, and if the torrential rain can't make him feel clean he's never fucking going to. His legs are splattered with mud and there's no part of him that isn't soaked through, and it is a long walk to the compound but it's the only place he knows how to get to. This isn't the time to deviate from the path, no matter who might be showing up in the fucking trees today.
Fuck, he needs a cigarette. He needs to get out of this shit and get dry, but then he needs a cigarette. He'd thought, maybe, he could prove to himself that it isn't as shitty as he thought, that forcing his body to march through the rain would prove how fucking harmless it is, how he has no right to get all worked up over the weather, of all things--but he thought wrong. It's just as bad as he remembers, just as impossible to see, just as cold and uncomfortable and when he pulls the compound doors open, the blast of vented air smells like exhaust and dry ice and he chokes on it, stumbles into the wide hall and shakes himself like a dog just to hide the shudder going through him because the only thing worse than being soaked out in the rain is being soaked through in dried out air dripping all over the floor. "Fuck," he coughs, blowing away the water that keeps dripping down from his hair, drops off his nose and lips and jaw. Next time he goes crazy and lands on a magic island during monsoon season, he's going to make sure he's got a fucking poncho.