There's something there, something in the light cutting through the hell that is his memory-sodden mind, and Wash struggles towards it, fighting off memory after memory - all the pain and sorrow and fury and madness that doesn't belong to him, and then, as he gets closer, all the pain and sorrow and madness and fury that does.
He falters and starts to sink as the memories bear down on him, actions he'd committed and consequences he'd brought on himself, and he can't deny any of them - every friend he'd hurt; every person he'd lost; every mistake and shortcoming and fuckup were all his - he'd shot South - he'd lost Delta - he'd betrayed people who'd helped him - he'd made so goddamn many mistakes - he'd hurt so many of his friends - he'd shot Connie - he'd shot Pidge-
And Connie and Pidge were going to be fucking furious with him if he didn't come back from this.
It's that golden-edged thought that spurs him back on again towards the light, shoving memories away and struggling towards it until he recognizes that voice, until he can hear exactly what that voice is saying-
It's Freelancer in the field, he thinks, just this side of delirious from exhaustion and overload, as he finally manages to stagger into that golden warmth-
And his back arches and he gasps for breath, back in his body instead of locked in his mind. The shimmering mist rises off of him as he finally breathes again; it hovers for a moment, then dissipates completely.
He should feel relieved - after all, he's just survived being dragged through his own personal hell. Again. He really should have a punch card at this rate. Instead, he's just dizzy from oxygen deprivation, and he's not doing a damn thing until he can manage to catch his breath. "Fuck," he manages between gradually slowing gasps, "that."
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He falters and starts to sink as the memories bear down on him, actions he'd committed and consequences he'd brought on himself, and he can't deny any of them - every friend he'd hurt; every person he'd lost; every mistake and shortcoming and fuckup were all his - he'd shot South - he'd lost Delta - he'd betrayed people who'd helped him - he'd made so goddamn many mistakes - he'd hurt so many of his friends - he'd shot Connie - he'd shot Pidge-
And Connie and Pidge were going to be fucking furious with him if he didn't come back from this.
It's that golden-edged thought that spurs him back on again towards the light, shoving memories away and struggling towards it until he recognizes that voice, until he can hear exactly what that voice is saying-
It's Freelancer in the field, he thinks, just this side of delirious from exhaustion and overload, as he finally manages to stagger into that golden warmth-
And his back arches and he gasps for breath, back in his body instead of locked in his mind. The shimmering mist rises off of him as he finally breathes again; it hovers for a moment, then dissipates completely.
He should feel relieved - after all, he's just survived being dragged through his own personal hell. Again. He really should have a punch card at this rate. Instead, he's just dizzy from oxygen deprivation, and he's not doing a damn thing until he can manage to catch his breath. "Fuck," he manages between gradually slowing gasps, "that."