[It should be shameful being this ready, this needy, even if - had Dick given in to the draw of his memories rather than the thread of caution telling him that things might not match up in this more tangible existence - he'd have been ready to walk into this room and offer himself over without much more than a remember me? This city, and this month in this city in particular has him frayed and reckless. At night he'll walk into fights most people wouldn't walk out of, and by day?
Well, he's here. Chasing the same kind of freedom from thought that he finds mid fight when its brutal enough. That moment where instinct kicks in. That high where the pain bursts through and whites out the world.
Memories merge as the present moment loses its clarity and he's in a shitty hotel room instead, face pressed down until he can taste the polish of Wash's boots before being dragged back up by the throat and thrown against the nearest surface - bed or table or wall. He remembers resenting it, resenting him and circling back to him like a dog anyway. Craving it in spite of himself. He remembers peeling wallpaper and his mouth full of sour tasting blankets. And he thinks hazily he might be trying to tell Wash about it, struggling for air and for words - thoughts - anything.
He's not really aware of the tear that slides down his cheek as Wash examines him, except for the slight sting.
And finally he's pushing – hands gripping Wash's shoulders, though not with all the strength he could use to fight him off if he had to, just pushing back as a desperate sound gets caught against the hand round his throat and he's coming, hard and messy into his palm.]
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Well, he's here. Chasing the same kind of freedom from thought that he finds mid fight when its brutal enough. That moment where instinct kicks in. That high where the pain bursts through and whites out the world.
Memories merge as the present moment loses its clarity and he's in a shitty hotel room instead, face pressed down until he can taste the polish of Wash's boots before being dragged back up by the throat and thrown against the nearest surface - bed or table or wall. He remembers resenting it, resenting him and circling back to him like a dog anyway. Craving it in spite of himself. He remembers peeling wallpaper and his mouth full of sour tasting blankets. And he thinks hazily he might be trying to tell Wash about it, struggling for air and for words - thoughts - anything.
He's not really aware of the tear that slides down his cheek as Wash examines him, except for the slight sting.
And finally he's pushing – hands gripping Wash's shoulders, though not with all the strength he could use to fight him off if he had to, just pushing back as a desperate sound gets caught against the hand round his throat and he's coming, hard and messy into his palm.]