Maybe he's as good as dead, with what he's become and how he's changed, but he's not actually dead. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Maine's body wears itself down to a point where he can't even function anymore, he stops to rest, trembling fingers fumbling with the latches of his helmet until he can pull it off, until his entire world whittles away into an eerie, uncomfortable silence. The helmet never stays off for long, and Maine never stays in one place.
He's at Wash's side a half hour after he falls asleep, looming over him like a bad memory, a bad dream. Wash seems to chase Maine in circles -- he's always a step or two behind him, recognizing his patterns even when he can't recognize him, fucking up his shit and plans, ruining what he can like he thinks he can fucking stop him, and if Maine could speak to him now, he'd call him a shitty friend
( ... )
It's unforgivable the way that Wash hasn't gotten used to Maine being gone. It had been a long time in the nuthouse, a lot of things had changed in his absence, and intellectually he knows that his partner is gone, no more Maine to watch his back, anything on his motion tracker should be considered a threat. Even fellow Freelancers
( ... )
The name Isaac is something strange and foreign to Maine, anymore. He recognizes it, but it doesn't feel like it fits him now, like it's something he left behind a long time ago, during another time and in another place when shit wasn't so fucking complicated. He looks down at Wash, the gold faceplate of his helmet glinting in the dim light of the bunker as he keeps the gun pressed flush to his chin.
And he's silent.
( -- ash? Wash, Dave, you fucking asshole, are you listening?
Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?
Are you sure you're okay to do this shit, man? I don't want -- )
But he's never really completely silent, with his mind running on hyperdrive, kicking up old memories and feeding them through his head like a movie reel he can't shut off.
Maine shifts his weight, leaning back on his heels into a more comfortable position. The Magnum stays where it is for a long second or two, pushing bruises into Wash's tender skin, before he's drawing his elbow to his knee and lifting the gun away from him.
Not good. So very not good. He curses his own stupidity silently, stupid, too fucking stupid to have assumed he was far behind his quarry, stupid to have assumed that the Meta--that Maine didn't have some recollection of how he operated, the places he would choose to hole up, his habits and his security routines.
He keeps as still as possible the entire time the gun is under his chin, hardly daring to breath. If he died here all of his plans would be for nothing, he'd never bring the Project down, he'd never be able to get the proof he needed--
And then Maine (no, it's Meta, you can't think of him as Maine, it's not Isaac anymore) is backing off, and Wash wastes one precious moment just breathing instead of tensing to go for his rifle.
...he should go for his rifle. He should try to tackle him, even half-armored. He should do something, instead of sitting there staring, breath rattling in and out of his lungs
( ... )
Comments 8
He's just a little different.
Maybe he's as good as dead, with what he's become and how he's changed, but he's not actually dead. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Maine's body wears itself down to a point where he can't even function anymore, he stops to rest, trembling fingers fumbling with the latches of his helmet until he can pull it off, until his entire world whittles away into an eerie, uncomfortable silence. The helmet never stays off for long, and Maine never stays in one place.
He's at Wash's side a half hour after he falls asleep, looming over him like a bad memory, a bad dream. Wash seems to chase Maine in circles -- he's always a step or two behind him, recognizing his patterns even when he can't recognize him, fucking up his shit and plans, ruining what he can like he thinks he can fucking stop him, and if Maine could speak to him now, he'd call him a shitty friend ( ... )
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And he's silent.
( -- ash? Wash, Dave, you fucking asshole, are you listening?
Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?
Are you sure you're okay to do this shit, man? I don't want -- )
But he's never really completely silent, with his mind running on hyperdrive, kicking up old memories and feeding them through his head like a movie reel he can't shut off.
Maine shifts his weight, leaning back on his heels into a more comfortable position. The Magnum stays where it is for a long second or two, pushing bruises into Wash's tender skin, before he's drawing his elbow to his knee and lifting the gun away from him.
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He keeps as still as possible the entire time the gun is under his chin, hardly daring to breath. If he died here all of his plans would be for nothing, he'd never bring the Project down, he'd never be able to get the proof he needed--
And then Maine (no, it's Meta, you can't think of him as Maine, it's not Isaac anymore) is backing off, and Wash wastes one precious moment just breathing instead of tensing to go for his rifle.
...he should go for his rifle. He should try to tackle him, even half-armored. He should do something, instead of sitting there staring, breath rattling in and out of his lungs ( ... )
Reply
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