Talking about it doesn't make Tim feel better. It doesn't lift some metaphorical weight off his shoulders. It's part of the reason he never bothered with any sort of therapy. Talking about it just makes him want to drink more, and that, usually, is something he wants to avoid.
Except for tonight. Tonight, he wants to drink well past the point of being too drunk, past the point where the nightmares should stay at bay, even though he knows that this time around, it's pointless to bother. The nightmares will come no matter how much alcohol he consumes or talking he does. It's inevitable.
He downs what's left of his glass and refills it. He wants to lean into Matt's side, but doesn't want to jar any of his injuries. So he settles for scooting a little bit closer and kissing him on the mouth, briefly, before leaning his shoulder against the back of the couch and talking. He doesn't discuss everything. He doesn't talk about his kill count, and there are some missions that involved such big name terrorists that, legally speaking, he can't talk about them. But he talks about what it's like to watch a man live his life for days before shooting him through the head. He talks about how, sometimes, there's a wife or kids around, and the people giving the orders don't care about that. He talks about how he hasn't ever missed, not once in his entire military and law enforcement career.
He talks about Mark, his friend with the shattered leg and the oxy addiction. He doesn't talk about Mark's death, or Colt, and he definitely doesn't talk about how he goaded Colt into drawing on him so he could put his friend's killer down.
There's a lot more he doesn't talk about. A lot of parts he's vague on. He talks until he's had too many glasses of bourbon, and it's late and all those days of sleepless working are catching up with him. He and Matt crawl into bed, and it's warm and comfortable and Tim closes his eyes, even though he's scared of falling asleep.
But he does. And the nightmares come. They're vivid and intense, a little more so than usual. He can taste smoke, but it tastes more like the smoke from the bombings a few nights ago than the smoke in Afghanistan. This dream is different. This dream is rooftops and New York City's nipping chill instead of dusty cliff sides and Afghanistan's hot sun. There's a terrorist still, but instead of it being the Taliban, it's the vigilante, right in the sight of his scope. And as Tim watches, the vigilante turns into Matt, and then his mother, then Raylan, Rachel, Art, Nelson, then Matt again. And it's Matt when he pulls the trigger and wakes up.
Waking up means sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath like he's broken water surface. The silk sheets around him are damp with sweat, and a gunshot echoes loudly in his head. He can smell gun powder and blood and the city air, and he can see crosshairs on everyone he loves when he closes his eyes.
He can't catch his breath. He can't even think straight as he pushes himself back against the headboard of the bed.
no subject
Except for tonight. Tonight, he wants to drink well past the point of being too drunk, past the point where the nightmares should stay at bay, even though he knows that this time around, it's pointless to bother. The nightmares will come no matter how much alcohol he consumes or talking he does. It's inevitable.
He downs what's left of his glass and refills it. He wants to lean into Matt's side, but doesn't want to jar any of his injuries. So he settles for scooting a little bit closer and kissing him on the mouth, briefly, before leaning his shoulder against the back of the couch and talking. He doesn't discuss everything. He doesn't talk about his kill count, and there are some missions that involved such big name terrorists that, legally speaking, he can't talk about them. But he talks about what it's like to watch a man live his life for days before shooting him through the head. He talks about how, sometimes, there's a wife or kids around, and the people giving the orders don't care about that. He talks about how he hasn't ever missed, not once in his entire military and law enforcement career.
He talks about Mark, his friend with the shattered leg and the oxy addiction. He doesn't talk about Mark's death, or Colt, and he definitely doesn't talk about how he goaded Colt into drawing on him so he could put his friend's killer down.
There's a lot more he doesn't talk about. A lot of parts he's vague on. He talks until he's had too many glasses of bourbon, and it's late and all those days of sleepless working are catching up with him. He and Matt crawl into bed, and it's warm and comfortable and Tim closes his eyes, even though he's scared of falling asleep.
But he does. And the nightmares come. They're vivid and intense, a little more so than usual. He can taste smoke, but it tastes more like the smoke from the bombings a few nights ago than the smoke in Afghanistan. This dream is different. This dream is rooftops and New York City's nipping chill instead of dusty cliff sides and Afghanistan's hot sun. There's a terrorist still, but instead of it being the Taliban, it's the vigilante, right in the sight of his scope. And as Tim watches, the vigilante turns into Matt, and then his mother, then Raylan, Rachel, Art, Nelson, then Matt again. And it's Matt when he pulls the trigger and wakes up.
Waking up means sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath like he's broken water surface. The silk sheets around him are damp with sweat, and a gunshot echoes loudly in his head. He can smell gun powder and blood and the city air, and he can see crosshairs on everyone he loves when he closes his eyes.
He can't catch his breath. He can't even think straight as he pushes himself back against the headboard of the bed.