It's been three days of hell: three days of being attacked every time he turns around; three days of finding teammates alive only to be teleported away from them and left worrying about whether they'd make it out in one piece; three days of knowing he's being watched and hunted and the odds are against him; three days of little rest and constant injury. His paranoia and insomnia were getting better on Legion World; after the past three days, they're worse than they've been in a very long time. He's going to have a lot of work to do to get back to where he'd been before this whole mess had started, but he can't do it now. Once Wash stops to think - if he even pauses for reflection - the weight of it all is going to come crashing down on him all at once, and he'll eventually have to drag himself out the other side. It's going to be a very ugly breakdown, and he is not having it in public. He refuses to even come close.
So he's given the grief counselors a wide berth, waved off the ministrations of the first aid station ("It's healed. They've all healed. I'm fine," being the very definition of two truths and a lie), and is currently making his way around the area, searching for familiar faces and making sure everyone's intact. It's easy enough to see that he's not okay - he's still twitchy and way too keyed up to be anywhere close to 'okay' - but he's not about to talk about that right now. He'd rather make sure everyone else is okay and deal with his imminent breakdown later, or possibly not at all.
no subject
It's been three days of hell: three days of being attacked every time he turns around; three days of finding teammates alive only to be teleported away from them and left worrying about whether they'd make it out in one piece; three days of knowing he's being watched and hunted and the odds are against him; three days of little rest and constant injury. His paranoia and insomnia were getting better on Legion World; after the past three days, they're worse than they've been in a very long time. He's going to have a lot of work to do to get back to where he'd been before this whole mess had started, but he can't do it now. Once Wash stops to think - if he even pauses for reflection - the weight of it all is going to come crashing down on him all at once, and he'll eventually have to drag himself out the other side. It's going to be a very ugly breakdown, and he is not having it in public. He refuses to even come close.
So he's given the grief counselors a wide berth, waved off the ministrations of the first aid station ("It's healed. They've all healed. I'm fine," being the very definition of two truths and a lie), and is currently making his way around the area, searching for familiar faces and making sure everyone's intact. It's easy enough to see that he's not okay - he's still twitchy and way too keyed up to be anywhere close to 'okay' - but he's not about to talk about that right now. He'd rather make sure everyone else is okay and deal with his imminent breakdown later, or possibly not at all.