Wash stares at him for a good beat, finally considering that maybe, just maybe, he is actually here. That Wash is actually awake. He quite literally pinches himself on the cheek, purposefully picking a place where he was sporting a bruise.
Yep, that hurt! That definitely hurt! And you don't hurt in dreams.
At least when they were his dreams and not the regurgitated suffering of Epsilon. But this is very mundane and new and those had always referenced specific bits of suffering. This feels weird but if it was a dream, it was probably his own.
Except that hurt, so...so maybe it's not a dream.
But it could be a hallucination, so he pokes North, too, several times on the arm. Hard. Once on the cheek because if it was someone else he was imagining as North, they'd probably protest over being poked in the face and break the illusion.
The expression on his face changes because even in his current state of deep fatigue and general ongoing state of coldhearted, ruthless weariness, this is a friend who he thought was dead and gone. Should be dead and gone. This was one recovery beacon among many, an armored body in a yet another pool of blood.
"It's really you? You're here, right now."
He has the undefinable expression of someone who thought their capacity to really feel was close to broken, being force to feel something deep, something sad and hopeful and joyful all at once. It's a strain, making him feel this.
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Yep, that hurt! That definitely hurt! And you don't hurt in dreams.
At least when they were his dreams and not the regurgitated suffering of Epsilon. But this is very mundane and new and those had always referenced specific bits of suffering. This feels weird but if it was a dream, it was probably his own.
Except that hurt, so...so maybe it's not a dream.
But it could be a hallucination, so he pokes North, too, several times on the arm. Hard. Once on the cheek because if it was someone else he was imagining as North, they'd probably protest over being poked in the face and break the illusion.
The expression on his face changes because even in his current state of deep fatigue and general ongoing state of coldhearted, ruthless weariness, this is a friend who he thought was dead and gone. Should be dead and gone. This was one recovery beacon among many, an armored body in a yet another pool of blood.
"It's really you? You're here, right now."
He has the undefinable expression of someone who thought their capacity to really feel was close to broken, being force to feel something deep, something sad and hopeful and joyful all at once. It's a strain, making him feel this.